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bellaveux · 6 months ago

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be my mistake | n. romanoff x reader

pairing: natasha romanoff x fem!reader

summary: three years have passed since the divorce, since natasha hurt you and over time, you found yourself reflecting on the struggles you both went through, both as a couple and apart from each other. revisiting memories with your family draw you and natasha closer than you’ve been in years.

content warnings: lots of angst, hurt/comfort??, cheating, insecure!reader, mentions of alcohol/drinking, implied smut, wanda being a good friend (pls let me know if i’m missing anything else i can’t tell)

word count: 19.8k

It had been three long years since everything fell apart between you and Natasha. Three years since the day you packed your bags, gathered your daughters, and walked away from the life you’d built together. The split wasn’t clean. It wasn’t one of those polite, quiet divorces that people talk about when they’ve simply grown apart. No, yours was loud, raw, and full of hurt. You could still remember the echo of your arguments, the way her voice would crack when she begged for forgiveness, and the silence that always followed afterward—heavy, suffocating. That silence weighed more than the words ever did.

Natasha had tried. She really had. For a while, after the it happened, she did everything to make amends, to erase what she had done. But it wasn’t something you could erase. It wasn’t something you could forgive right then, no matter how hard she tried to make things right. You’d given her so many chances to explain, so many opportunities to show you that the Natasha you fell in love with was still there.

But each time, all you could see was the betrayal, the moment she chose someone else over you.

For her, it was a mistake—something that happened once and never again. But for you, it was a scar, a wound that never healed. You couldn’t go back. You couldn’t let her back in. You didn’t know if you ever could again. And she knew it, even though she didn’t want to accept it. There were moments, though, when Natasha still looked at you with that same longing, the same desperation she had the night you left her. She wanted things to go back to the way they were, back to when you were her partner, her wife, her everything.

But you couldn’t. You wouldn’t.

No matter how much she tried to show you that she had changed, the past still lingered between you, like a shadow that refused to leave. Even now, after all this time, there was still a part of her that couldn’t accept that things would never be the same. You saw it in her eyes every time she picked up the girls, every time she lingered a little too long at the door, as if hoping you might invite her in, ask her to stay. But you never did. You couldn’t allow it, not after everything. It had been hard. Painful, even. Co-parenting with someone who had broken your heart, who had shattered the life you thought you’d have together, was an agony all its own. But you had to do it, for your girls, Nina and Lily. They needed you both, and you would never let your pain come between them and their mothers. Even if it meant seeing Natasha more often than you wanted. Even if it meant reopening old wounds every time her name appeared on your phone, or when your girls came home with stories about the time they’d spent with her.

And the first year after the divorce was hell for Natasha. She tried everything in her power to get you back—flowers, letters, showing up at the house at odd hours, always begging for another chance. She couldn’t accept that it was over. Every time she saw you, even in the briefest of moments, she could see the pain in your eyes, the devastation her betrayal had caused. It tore her apart. She had broken something precious, something she didn’t know how to fix, and yet she kept trying. She was relentless, desperate to rewind the clock, to undo what couldn’t be undone.

But the more she tried, the more tired you looked. The weight of it all was etched into your face, exhaustion hanging over you like a dark cloud. Your bright eyes, full of life and love, had dimmed. The smile that had once been hers was gone, replaced by a coldness that froze her out. And with every desperate plea, every attempt to reach you, she realized she was only making it worse. You weren’t healing. You couldn’t, not with her constantly in your space, constantly pulling at the wounds she’d caused.

By the second year, Natasha finally saw it. You needed space, needed time to mend, and she wasn’t helping at all. So, she stopped. Stopped the flowers, the late-night phone calls, the messages begging for you to forgive her, telling you she loved you. She stopped trying to push her way back into your life because it was only making things harder for you.

She watched from a distance instead, in silence.

But despite the distance she put between you both, she couldn’t stop loving you. She could never. It was something she couldn’t turn off, no matter how hard she tried. Even when she forced herself to stay away, her heart still ached for you in a way that nothing else could heal. You were everywhere—in the way her daughters smiled, in the moments when she was alone with her thoughts. She’d think of you when she’d go to the grocery store, remembering all the food you liked and didn’t like. She’d think of you at night when she’s in bed, always moving closer to your side of the bed, imagining you were still there with her. And even though she knew she had to let you go for your own sake, a part of her would always be tethered to you. It didn’t matter how much time passed. She could never stop loving you, no matter how much it hurt.

It’s been three years now. Three long, heavy years since the divorce. But in the wake of it, as the dust settled and the hurt slowly gave way to something manageable, a routine. One that neither of you ever explicitly discussed, maybe just briefly, but one that simply came to be, like a truce.

And Natasha hadn’t been with anyone since then. She hadn’t even entertained the idea. There were no late-night flings, no fleeting attempts to fill the void. Because how could she? How could anyone compare to the life she had built with you, even though it had crumbled? It had been such a stupid mistake on her part when it happened, and she promised herself she wouldn’t let that happen again, even if you didn’t want her anymore. She couldn’t bring herself to be with anyone else, and deep down, she knew it was because part of her was still yours.

Nina and Lily, your two little girls, were the threads that still tied you and Natasha together. Nina, with her wild curls and mischievous grin, only four but already full of curiosity and energy, was in preschool. Lily, more thoughtful, quieter but with an infectious laugh, had just started first grade. They were young, their lives filled with playdates, scribbled drawings, and the occasional scraped knee. They didn’t fully understand why Mommy and Mama lived in different houses now, why they didn’t all sit together at the table for dinner anymore. But they adjusted in their own way.

Natasha would pick them up from school most afternoons when she can. You’d drop them off in the mornings, coffee in hand, always on the way to work. You were working now. You didn’t really work that much when you were pregnant with the girls and Natasha always insisted on taking care of you. On weekends when Natasha didn’t have a mission or some urgent task pulling her away, she’d have them over at her place. They’d spend Saturday nights watching movies or baking cookies, or playing games until they were all too tired to continue. And then Sunday morning, she would make them pancakes, the same way you used to. It was a rhythm that worked, one that kept things steady for Nina and Lily, even when things between you and Natasha remained unresolved.

Every time Natasha saw them, it tugged at her heart. The way Lily looked at her with those wide, innocent eyes, so full of trust. The way Nina giggled when Natasha spun her around, her tiny hands reaching up to her mother like nothing had ever changed. They were growing so fast, right in front of her, and yet Natasha couldn’t help but feel like time was slipping through her fingers. Three years had gone by in the blink of an eye, and even though things were better—smoother—between the two of you now, that gnawing regret never fully left her.

But for the girls, she stayed strong. She showed up, she stuck to the routine. It was the least she could do, even if, when the weekends were over and she dropped them back at your place, she found herself lingering just a second too long, watching as you took their small hands and guided them back inside. Wondering if, somehow, it could have all been different.

The sun hung low in the sky as Natasha drove through familiar streets, the scent of fast food wafting through the car, mingling with the laughter of her daughters in the backseat. The afternoon light cast a golden glow on the girls’ faces, illuminating Nina’s bright eyes and Lily’s gentle smile as they excitedly talked about their day.

But as the laughter filled the car, Nina’s innocent question pierced through the cheerful atmosphere, shattering the fragile bubble they had created.

“Mama, why don’t you sleep at home with us anymore?”

The question hung in the air and Natasha’s heart dropped, the warmth evaporating in an instant. She gripped the steering wheel tighter, forcing a smile that felt painfully strained. Silence enveloped them, thick with heavy emotions and memories she wished she could shield her daughters from. She glanced in the rearview mirror, catching a glimpse of Nina’s expectant gaze, a small frown tugging at her lips as she awaited an answer.

“Um, well…” Natasha began, her voice faltering. “You know, Mama has… a lot of work to do. Sometimes it’s just easier for me to sleep at my own place.”

Even as she spoke, the lie twisted in her stomach, sharp and uncomfortable. She could see the flicker of disappointment in Nina’s eyes, a reflection of the confusion and sadness that still lingered between the lines of their new normal.

Lily, sensing the shift in the mood, chimed in, “We can share a bed, Mama!”

Natasha smiled softly, fighting back the flood of emotions threatening to overwhelm her. “Thank you, baby, but… this is how things are for now.”

Her heart clenched at Lily’s innocent declaration, each word a dagger piercing deeper into her already heavy heart. The car felt suddenly suffocating, filled with the echoes of memories and unresolved feelings. The gentle hum of the car faded into the background, and all she could hear was the soft thrum of her daughters’ voices and the relentless reminder of the pain they were all carrying.

“My bed is big enough!” Lily insisted again, her eyes wide with hope. ��And I think Mommy misses you, too. Sometimes, I see her crying at night.”

Natasha’s breath caught in her throat. The image of you, alone in the dark, tears glistening on your cheeks, tore through her defenses, a reminder of the consequences of her choices. Guilt washed over her, crashing down with a force that made it hard to breathe.

“Sweetheart,” Natasha said softly, her voice trembling slightly as she fought to maintain her composure, “It’s okay for Mommy to be sad sometimes, you know? We all feel sad sometimes.”

“But I don’t want her to be sad,” Lily replied, her voice small and earnest. “We could go to Auntie Wanda’s cabin and have ice cream parties and movie nights like before!”

The wistfulness in Lily’s tone echoed Natasha’s own desires, the aching wish to turn back the clock and reclaim the happiness they had once shared. But Natasha knew that life was never that simple.

“I know, baby,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “And I want that too. We just… have to be patient.”

Lily frowned, her small brows knitting together in confusion. “Do you still love mommy?”

The question hung in the air. Her heart raced, and she glanced at her daughters in the rearview mirror, the truth of her feelings spilling over like an unguarded secret.

“Of course I do,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper, but she didn’t hesitate.

Nina chimed in, her conviction unwavering. “Maybe if we all hug and give her lots of kisses, she won’t be sad anymore!”

She wanted to laugh at the sheer innocence of their logic, but it only deepened the ache in her chest. “I don’t think it’s that simple, baby.”

Lily tilted her head, her expression earnest and unwavering. “But, we’re a family, and families love each other.”

Natasha only smiled.

As they continued down the road, the fading sunlight cast warm shadows in the car, but the weight of their words settled heavily in Natasha’s chest. Lily fell silent soon after, her small face pensive as she stared out the window, the world outside a blur of colors. Natasha’s heart ached for her, wishing desperately that she could turn back time, wishing that the nights spent apart didn’t feel like an insurmountable distance.

As she pulled up to your house, the familiar flutter of anxiety danced in her stomach. She could hear the muffled giggles of her girls in the backseat, their excitement palpable as they chattered more about their day. But as she stepped out of the car and approached the front door, her heart began to race for a different reason entirely.

When you opened the door, Natasha felt the air shift around her. There you stood, framed in the soft glow of the entryway light, and her breath caught in her throat. You were breathtaking, wearing an elegant black dress that hugged your figure in all the right places. The fabric glimmered subtly as you moved, catching the light with each breath. Your hair was fixed neatly by your shoulders, and your makeup was flawlessly applied.

For a moment, Natasha was transported back to the nights when the two of you would dress up for special occasions, the thrill of anticipation sparking between you. But now, that thrill was laced with an ache that felt as sharp as it was familiar.

“Hi, mommy!” Lily squealed, bursting with energy as she darted past you into the house, closely followed by Nina, who gave you a quick hug before joining her sister.

“Hey, girls,” you greeted them softly, your voice warm but tinged with an undercurrent of something unspoken. You stepped back to allow them inside, your gaze flickering to Natasha, who stood momentarily rooted to the spot, taking in the sight of you.

Without breaking eye contact, you rushed over to the mirror that hung just inside the entryway, your movements quick and graceful as you fumbled with your earrings. Natasha’s heart ached at the sight, realizing how beautifully you carried yourself, even through the chaos of their past. She walked inside hesitantly, closing the front door behind her, swallowing the lump in her throat as she slowly walked further in.

“Wow, Mommy! You look so pretty!” Nina beamed.

“Thank you, honey,” you replied with a soft smile, your voice brightening as you turned your attention to the girls.

Natasha lingered by the wall, unsure of what to do with her hands as the girls raced off into the living room, their laughter filling the house with warmth. She listened when you asked the girls quick questions about their day at school, but all she could focus on was you. She stood there, still as a statue, her fingers brushing nervously over the seam of her jacket, as her eyes found you again.

You moved gracefully through the hallway, your dress shimmering faintly with each step. She felt a pang in her chest, something akin to longing but deeper, more raw. She hadn’t seen you like this in so long—dressed up, glowing, completely at ease in your skin. Her breath hitched slightly, catching on the memories that rose unbidden in her mind, of nights when she’d watch you just like this, mesmerized by the smallest of movements. You never failed to amaze her every time.

But now, it feels different. There was a distance between you that wasn’t just physical, and Natasha could feel it more sharply than ever. Yet, despite the distance, she found herself rooted in place, unable to tear her gaze away. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, feeling awkward and out of place, like a visitor in what was once her home.

You hadn’t said much since opening the door, offering a quiet greeting before slipping back into the rhythm of your routine. But it didn’t matter. Natasha’s thoughts were too loud to be drowned out by small talk anyway. All she could think about was how beautiful you looked, how effortless you made everything seem. The curve of your neck as you bent slightly to adjust your earring, the way your lips pressed together in concentration—it all made her feel like a stranger witnessing something intimate, something she no longer had the right to witness. For a moment, her fingers twitched with the impulse to reach out, to touch you, to feel the warmth of your skin under her palm. But she held herself back, knowing that her place in your life now was nothing like it used to be. Instead, she remained where she was, standing awkwardly by the wall, her heart heavy with unspoken words and feelings she didn’t know how to express anymore.

You must have felt her staring, because you glanced up at her briefly from where you stood by the mirror. The moment your eyes met, Natasha felt a surge of emotion that almost knocked the wind out of her—regret, longing, admiration—all tangled together. She swallowed hard, but couldn’t find the words to say anything. What could she say, anyway? Nothing would change the fact that she was the reason things were the way they were.

And yet, she couldn’t help but think of how beautiful you were. How beautiful you’d always been. How you’d managed to slip right out of her fingers.

Natasha’s hands twitched at her sides, the yearning almost unbearable as she watched you. The way your dress hugged your frame, the soft curve of your neck as you finished adjusting your earrings—it stirred something deep inside her, a longing so fierce it nearly took her breath away. She wanted to reach out, to close the distance between you and wrap you in her arms. She wanted to hold you like she used to, when everything was easier, when you were hers and there was no wall of hurt between you.

But now, it feels impossible. Every time she considered moving closer, something stopped her—the guilt, the regret, the knowledge that she no longer had the right to that kind of intimacy with you. Not after everything. Not after the way things had ended, fractured by her own mistakes.

Still, the desire was overwhelming, almost painful. She couldn’t help it—her eyes followed the way your fingers brushed against your collarbone as you fixed a stray hair, and her heart ached with the thought of reaching out, of pulling you against her, of whispering that she was sorry, that she had never stopped loving you. God, she wanted to hold you so badly. Just for a moment. Just to feel that connection again, to remind herself that once, not too long ago, you had been hers.

But instead, then she saw you struggling with the clasp of your necklace.

Her hesitation was palpable as she took a small step forward, closing the gap between you. Her heart pounded in her chest, every movement deliberate and slow, like she was afraid that even the air between you was fragile. She saw you fumble with the clasp of your necklace, your fingers shaking ever so slightly in your rush. Her own hands twitched, the need to help overwhelming her, but she hesitated for a beat longer. She wasn’t sure she had the right to step into your space, to touch you again, even for something as simple as this.

But when you let out a frustrated huff, she took a breath and moved closer, her presence soft but undeniable as she stood just behind you. Gently, her fingers brushed against your skin, so light you might not have even felt it at first. Carefully, she took the delicate chain from your hands and closed the clasp at the back of your neck.

Her touch lingered just a second too long. She couldn’t help it. The warmth of your skin under her fingers, the proximity, the way your scent filled her senses—it was all too much and not enough at the same time. The faint scent of your perfume washed over her, and it hit her all at once. You smelled exactly the way she remembered, like something warm and comforting, but with an edge that made her dizzy. It was intoxicating. She glanced up for just a moment, catching your reflection in the mirror, but her eyes dropped quickly, too scared to meet yours. She didn’t trust herself to look into your eyes and not say everything she was feeling. It felt like a betrayal of her own heart to be this close to you, yet still so far away. Her hands fell back to her sides, clenched into soft fists, fighting the urge to keep touching you. She stepped back, quietly swallowing the ache that seemed to settle in her chest.

“You look beautiful,” Natasha breathes, almost afraid to say the words, but it came out before she could even think about it.

“Thank you,” you said quickly, your voice barely more than a whisper, the quiet words hanging in the air.

She froze for a split second, the simple phrase sending an unexpected ripple through her. It was such a small thing—a polite acknowledgement, nothing more—but to her, it felt loaded with everything that had been left unsaid for years. Then, she forced a small smile, though you couldn’t see it, her eyes still fixed downward as she stepped back from you.

“You’re welcome,” she murmured, her voice just as soft, though it felt like a lie. She wasn’t welcome. Not anymore.

She watched as you turned back to the mirror, adjusting your hair slightly and smoothing the fabric of your dress. You looked beautiful—breathtaking, really—but all she could focus on was the sadness in your quiet thank you. She opened her mouth as if to say something more, but no words came. Instead, Natasha let the silence speak for her, the tension between you heavy and unresolved, much like everything that had been left behind.

“Who’s the lucky guy?” Natasha asked, trying to keep her voice light, though it came out more strained than she intended.

The words had been on the tip of her tongue the moment she saw you in that dress, but she hated herself for asking, for making it sound so casual when the question felt like it was burning her from the inside.

You released a small huff, something resembling a smile flickering at the corners of your mouth, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. You could see the way her jaw clenched in the mirror.

“It’s just a work thing,” you muttered, turning slightly in the mirror as if to busy yourself with something else, but Natasha could tell it was an attempt to deflect the conversation. You had always done that—shrugged things off when they felt too heavy, too personal.

But Natasha wasn’t stupid. She knew it wasn’t just a work thing. She could feel it in her gut, the way you said it so softly, so dismissively. And yet, she didn’t push. Couldn’t. Instead, she let out a quiet laugh, though there was no humor in it.

“Well, you look really nice,” she added, her voice a bit more gentle now, her eyes softening as they roamed over you once more. She hated how small her words felt, like she was grasping for something, anything, to make sense of the distance between you.

You didn’t say anything at first, just nodded, almost absentmindedly, still adjusting the clasp of your earrings. Natasha stood there, helpless, her hands twitching at her sides as she watched you prepare to leave for an evening that didn’t involve her anymore. It wasn’t supposed to feel like this—this ache of wanting you, this regret that sat like a stone in her chest.

You glanced at her, your eyes flickering with indecision before they darted to the clock on the wall.

“Shit, I forgot to text the babysitter,” you muttered, already pulling out your phone. You were halfway through typing the message when Natasha’s voice cut through the quiet tension of the room.

“I can watch them,” she offered quickly, almost too quickly, like she had been waiting for the opportunity. There was a soft urgency in her tone, something that made your fingers pause over the screen.

You hesitated, looking at her fully now, your gaze searching her face. She stood there, trying to appear nonchalant, but you could see the slight tension in her shoulders, the way her eyes flickered between you and the door, as if bracing herself for your response. It wasn’t the first time she had offered, but something about tonight—about her standing there, in your home, so close yet feeling so far away—made you hesitate.

“Natasha, it’s so last minute, and you’re probably busy—“

“I’m not busy.”

There was silence.

“Are you sure?” you said, your voice trailing off. It wasn’t that you didn’t trust her with the kids, in fact, you trusted her with the girls more than anyone.

“Of course. I promise, I’ll make sure they’re asleep by the time you get back,” Natasha said softly, taking a small step closer, as if to bridge the gap between you.

You lingered for a moment longer, the phone still in your hand, thumb hovering over the screen. Natasha stood there, waiting, her gaze steady but gentle, almost like she was afraid to breathe too loudly in case you changed your mind. There was a hesitation in the air, thick with all the memories and tension that seemed to live between the two of you now.

Finally, you sighed, the tension in your shoulders easing just slightly. “Okay,” you murmured, the word coming out soft but resigned. “But only if you’re sure.”

Natasha nodded immediately, as if there had never been a question. “I’m sure.”

You watched her for a moment, still not quite as sure as she was, but there was something about the way she looked at you that made you relent. Maybe it was the familiarity of her presence, or the way she always seemed so certain when it came to the girls. You wanted to believe it would be fine, that it wouldn’t hurt to let her help, just this once.

“Alright,” you said again, this time a little firmer. You tucked your phone away, glancing toward the living room where the girls’ voices echoed softly in the distance. “I might be back late, though.”

“I can handle it,” Natasha reassured you with a small smile, though there was a flicker of something in her eyes. Relief, maybe. “You go have fun.”

You nodded, still hesitant but knowing that you had little choice now. With one last glance at her, you grabbed your purse from the table and walked toward the door, feeling Natasha’s eyes on you the whole way. Just before you left, you stopped, hand on the doorknob, and turned to look at her one more time.

“Okay,” you said quietly. Natasha didn’t respond right away, just gave you a small nod, her eyes soft, watching you like she was still trying to figure out if this was real.

Your phone buzzed with a sudden chime, the noise breaking through the quiet air between you and Natasha. You flinched just slightly, caught off guard, but Natasha’s eyes never left you. That unwavering stare, intense and full of something you couldn’t quite place—regret, longing, maybe both—lingered as you glanced down at your phone.

“Oh, that’s… my coworker. She’s here to pick me up…” you said softly, reading the message on the screen.

You didn’t look up immediately, feeling the weight of Natasha’s gaze settle over you like a thick blanket, almost suffocating. There was another beat of silence, her expression barely changing, though something flickered in her eyes at the word “she.” It was so subtle, you almost missed it. Her lips pressed together in a thin line, but she didn’t say anything. Instead, she just nodded once, stiffly, her face carefully neutral, though you could feel the tension in the air shift.

You turned toward the door again, suddenly aware of how small the space between the two of you felt. The air was heavy, like it held all the words neither of you had said over the years. You hesitated, hand on the knob, the weight of the moment pressing down on you, making it hard to breathe.

Natasha’s voice, soft but strained, reached you before you could turn the handle. “Be safe tonight.”

You froze, the words hitting you in a way you hadn’t expected. They were simple, but coming from her, you knew they meant so much more.

As you stepped out of the house and closed the door behind you, the cool evening air hit your skin, and for a moment, you paused on the front steps. You could hear the muffled sounds of the girls laughing inside, and the thought of leaving them for some work party made your heart twist.

Truth be told, you didn’t even want to go. The idea of mingling, making small talk, pretending everything was fine—it felt exhausting before it even started. But your coworkers had been persistent, insisting you needed to get out more, that it would be good for you. They meant well, of course. They saw the toll the divorce had taken on you, how the weight of it had settled into your bones, leaving you quieter, more withdrawn. And though you tried to hide it, the loneliness was written all over your face. They probably thought this was what you needed—a night of distraction, a chance to be someone other than the person who had been left shattered after everything fell apart. But standing there, under the dim glow of the porch light, you felt a tug in your chest, a sense of dread thinking about the night ahead.

Natasha lingered in your thoughts as always, the way she had silently helped you with your necklace, the soft brush of her fingers against your skin sending shivers down your spine. You hated to admit it, but you missed her soft touches, her gentle smile, the way she would look at you like you held her world in your hands. The more you thought about it, you realized that it never really went away. And that look in her eyes, the one she always tried to hide but never quite could—it haunted you now as you made your way toward the car waiting at the curb.

With a sigh, you slipped into the passenger seat, greeting your friend with a faint smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. As the car pulled away, you found yourself staring out the window, thinking not about the party or the people waiting for you there, but about the house you had just left—the home you used to share with Natasha, the life you once had before everything fell apart. Maybe tonight would be a distraction, or maybe it would just be another reminder of everything you’d lost. Either way, it felt like one more step away from her, and that hurt more than you wanted to admit.

You were grateful for your friends—those who always wanted to help you after what happened.

Wanda was the one who helped you through most of it.

In the beginning, when everything felt like it was crumbling beneath you, Wanda had been there. She’d been the first to know what had happened with Natasha—the first to see the hurt blooming in your eyes, the way your voice cracked when you spoke, even when you tried so hard to sound strong. When she’d found out, Wanda was so angry, her fury simmering just beneath her skin. Word traveled quickly at the compound; someone must’ve overheard. But you’d heard, too, about how she’d cornered Natasha, her voice cold and sharp, her words unforgiving.

“Why did you do it?” Wanda had demanded of Natasha, her tone somewhere between outrage and heartbreak, and the confrontation left Natasha speechless, stripped of the practiced poise that she carried like armor. You never wanted to know all of what was said, but the rumors filled in the gaps; Wanda’s words were scathing, a fierce defense of the person Natasha had hurt most. She was protective, fiercely loyal, and in that moment, you felt the strength of a bond you hadn’t fully appreciated until you needed it most.

And it wasn’t just the initial shock, either—Wanda stayed. She kept you afloat on the days when the hurt felt too deep, kept you from slipping further into the void of your own heartbreak. She had this way of knowing when the silence was too heavy, when you needed to be pulled from the edge of your own emotions. She never let you wallow, and yet she didn’t rush you to move on either; she’d bring you back, her voice gentle, but firm, reminding you that you were stronger than this pain, that you’d heal, that you still had so much left to give to the world.

When the decision for a divorce finally weighed heavy on you, Wanda was the first person you told. The words had come out choked, but clear, and though she didn’t say much at first, her hand had reached for yours, holding it tightly as you tried to steady yourself. She kept asking if you were sure, her eyes steady, searching yours for any trace of doubt or hesitation. She knew you loved Natasha. And she knew Natasha was madly in love with you. But she wanted you to be certain, not out of judgment, but out of a desire to protect you, to make sure you weren’t making a decision you’d regret. She knew the depths of your love for Natasha and how much this was costing you; she wanted you to find peace in your choice, even if that peace felt miles away.

She had always been quietly supportive, even when things between you and Natasha fell apart. She never pried, never asked too many questions, but she had a way of knowing when you needed someone. You knew it was hard being your friend and Natasha’s friend.

But a few weeks ago, when she helped you pick out the dress you were wearing tonight, you could tell she was trying to lift your spirits, offering a distraction with her usual good-natured humor. She had pulled you into a few boutiques, tossing dresses over the fitting room door while she waited for your approval. When you finally stepped out in the sleek black dress you were wearing now, Wanda gave you that look—her eyes bright with approval, a grin spreading across her face.

“You’re going to knock them dead,” she had said with a playful wink, her tone light, but there was something else in her voice too, something softer.

You hadn’t said much in response then, brushing off the compliment with a smile. You hadn’t really felt like going to the party, but Wanda was insistent that it would be good for you, to dress up, to get out.

And despite your silence on the matter, you knew she supported you and Natasha—always had. She never quite explained why, but you could sense it. Maybe she believed in second chances, or maybe she saw something in the two of you that you couldn’t see anymore. Even though she hadn’t talked about it much, you could feel her quiet faith in your relationship, like she was holding onto a hope you’d long since let go of. It was comforting, in a way, knowing that someone still believed in you and Natasha, even when you weren’t sure if you believed in it yourself anymore.

And from time to time, Wanda had a gentle way of bringing up her old cabin in the countryside, each suggestion delivered so casually that you might’ve let it slip past if it hadn’t been for the significance lingering just underneath her words.

She didn’t live there anymore, now that her and Vision moved to New Jersey a lot recently with the twins. But every Thanksgiving, with her permission, the cabin had been your haven—a place where the world’s noise faded, replaced by the simple sounds of fire crackling, the murmur of conversations that stretched late into the night, and the delighted laughter of the girls as they played under the trees. It was as if the cabin held its own magic, a place suspended in time, where warmth radiated from more than just the fireplace, and you could almost believe in the simplicity of those happy moments lasting forever.

The girls loved it there especially—they loved the air, the trees, the comfort of a cozy cabin, playing music on Wanda’s old record player, or drinking hot chocolate Natasha loved to make for them. One winter, you spent the weekend there with them and Lily had just learned how to build a snowman with Natasha. Nina was still a little too young, but she found joy in trying to run around, catching the falling snowflakes with her tongue. You got nothing but good memories from going there.

The first time Wanda mentioned going back, it felt impossible to picture without Natasha. Even imagining it brought a sense of loss so heavy it threatened to shatter the memory entirely. The cabin without her was like watching the film reel of your life with half the scenes missing—disjointed, fractured, unable to find the comfort it once held. When you’d tried to explain, Wanda had only nodded, a knowing look softening her face as if she understood the unspoken things that weighed down your words. But over the months, she kept mentioning it, in small ways, like a quiet refrain.

“Then bring Natasha,” she’d said last, her voice so gentle it almost blended with the room. Her gaze, steady and unwavering, had landed on you with a quiet faith that made you feel exposed.

You’d wanted to respond, to give voice to the reasons why it felt impossible, to explain the ache that lingered too deeply to ignore. But the words had caught in your throat, your thoughts tangled in memories that had once been warm but now held the sting of something fractured. So you’d only managed a soft smile, allowing the silence to stretch between you as you turned the conversation away, knowing Wanda would understand.

And yet, her words stayed with you, lingering long after, wrapped in a fragile hope that you hadn’t dared to touch. Wanda believed in something you weren’t sure you could reach for, a belief that the cabin could be a bridge, a place where memories could be revisited, reconnected—maybe even healed.

The idea stayed with you, filling your mind, daring you to wonder if, perhaps, she was right.

It was late by the time you finally unlocked the front door, the echo of the party still buzzing faintly in your head, softened by a light haze from the few drinks you’d had. The house was dark and still as you slipped inside.

As you moved further in, adjusting your eyes to the dim light, you saw them.

Natasha was stretched out on the couch, her body softened in the shadows, and there, tangled in her arms, lay your two little girls. Nina and Lily were nestled close, their small bodies curled and sprawled across her, their hands loosely gripping her shirt, their faces pressed into her chest as if she were their entire world. Natasha’s head was tilted back, her breathing deep and steady, the sort of calm that only came when everything around her was right, if only for that fleeting moment.

You paused there in the doorway, just watching them, a warmth settling in your chest, bittersweet and familiar. This was the woman you’d once called home. And maybe she’d made mistakes—mistakes that fractured everything between you, mistakes that left bruises you weren’t sure would ever fade. But seeing her now, surrounded by the soft rise and fall of the girls’ breathing, you were reminded that she’d never once faltered as their mother.

For a long moment, you just stood there, absorbing the scene, the beauty of it, the softness that was so rare in Natasha, brought out only by the girls resting so peacefully against her. A part of you ached, the part that remembered when that was your world, too—the intimacy, the trust, the feeling that this was where you belonged. But now, standing alone in front of her, you knew it was different.

“Natasha…”

The name leaves your lips in a choked whisper, so quiet you barely hear it yourself. It’s both a word and a breath, carrying years of ache, of longing, of memories buried beneath the hurt. She stirs softly at the sound, her eyes blinking open, unfocused in the dimness, but immediately careful, instinctively cradling Nina and Lily closer to her, her instincts as a mother overriding everything else. She lifts her head, and in the low light, her eyes meet yours—surprised, still a bit hazy with sleep, yet touched by something tender, something deeply aware.

A faint smile tugs at your lips, almost without your permission. You nod toward the girls, your voice so soft it hardly disturbs the quiet of the room.

“We should get them to bed,” you murmur, the words gentle, careful, as though you’re trying not to disrupt a delicate peace.

Natasha gives a barely perceptible nod, her eyes lingering on you for a moment longer than necessary, as though she’s searching for something. Then, she looks down at the girls, her features softening into something achingly vulnerable. She shifts, moving slowly so as not to disturb Lily, her hands moving with the practiced care of someone who’s done this a hundred times over but who never takes it for granted.

You step forward, slipping your arms beneath Nina, feeling the gentle weight of her small body settle against you as you carefully lift her, your heart swelling with that instinctive protectiveness you’d felt since the day she was born. Natasha mirrors you, tenderly sliding her arms under Lily, her movements so gentle it’s as though she’s afraid to wake her from whatever dream she’s lost in. Together, you make your way down the hallway, your footsteps muffled on floor.

Natasha trails a few steps behind you, her gaze lingering on the small bundle in your arms. There’s something undeniably tender in the way she holds Lily close, quiet in every step as if even her footfalls could shatter the peace that’s settled over the house. She watches as you cradle Nina with the same delicate care, and she can’t help but feel a pang of something—nostalgia, perhaps, or maybe it’s something deeper, something achingly familiar and distant at the same time.

You reach the doorway to their shared bedroom, and you both instinctively pause, a silent agreement hanging between you as you ease open the door just enough to slip inside. The room is softly lit by a nightlight in the corner casting a warm, gentle glow. You move first, bending to lay Nina down into her bed, brushing a stray lock of hair from her forehead as she settles into her pillow, the smallest smile flickering across her sleeping face.

Natasha steps forward, carrying Lily with the same care, lowering her slowly, as if she was releasing something precious. She smooths the blankets over Lily’s small form, her hand lingering on her daughter’s shoulder for a brief moment, her thumb brushing in a gentle, protective arc.

You both stand back, side by side, your eyes on the two little figures in the bed, their steady breaths filling the silence between you.

You turn first, giving the room one last look before stepping into the hallway, leaving the door just a crack open. Natasha lingers, her gaze falling on the spot where you had stood only moments before. She doesn’t follow immediately, instead letting herself absorb of the room, the weight of it pressing on her chest.

Then, Natasha’s feet shuffle lightly on the carpet, her shoulders tight, her movements more careful than usual. She takes a breath, then steps into the hallway, spotting you just ahead, walking back down the dimly lit corridor, your shoulders softly sloped in a way she recognizes well. Her pulse stutters, a swell of unvoiced words caught in her throat as she trails behind, her eyes fixed on your silhouette.

You pause, turning slowly, the faintest glint of something heavy in your eyes. Natasha freezes, almost holding her breath as you look up at her, gaze wavering, like you’re fighting with words you’re not sure you should say. She knows this look well enough to brace herself, the feeling of dread curling in her stomach. Her shoulders stiffen, instinctively preparing for the worst as the silence stretches, each second laced with something unspeakable.

“I… wanted to talk to you about something,” you say gently, almost catching her by surprise.

Natasha’s shoulders drop a fraction, her breath catching at your words. She hadn’t expected that, not tonight. Her gaze flickers, uncertain but hopeful, as she steps closer, nodding her head eagerly.

“Okay,” Natasha murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. She’s trying to appear calm, but there’s a tension in her eyes, a cautious vulnerability that betrays her. She searches your face for any hint, any sign of what you’re about to say.

“Lily’s birthday is coming up,” you say softly, your gaze finally lifting to meet Natasha’s, even if just for a moment.

Natasha nods slowly, trying to read between the lines, unsure of what you’re really thinking. She remembers every birthday, every milestone, how you used to plan together, side by side, laughing over cake designs and decorations.

“Lily keeps asking…” you start, your voice so quiet Natasha has to strain to hear. She watches you, noting the way you hesitate, choosing your words with care. “If we could go back to Wanda’s cabin. You know the girls like it there…”

The suggestion hangs heavy between you. Her mind floods with memories of those trips—Wanda’s warm cabin, the girls’ laughter, the four of you bundled in sweaters, sharing cozy meals and evening walks in the crisp, autumn air. Those times felt like forever in the best way possible, like nothing could disturb the harmony you’d built together.

“Yeah… yeah, they love it,” Natasha murmurs, her voice catching. Her eyes are distant, clouded with thoughts she isn’t sure she’s allowed to express. The idea of returning feels almost like opening a door she thought you’d closed for good. Still, the prospect brings a bittersweet hope, like maybe a piece of the life she lost could be revived, if only for several days.

You shift uncomfortably, glancing away as though admitting this feels too vulnerable, as if voicing it aloud might betray too much of what you’re holding back.

Your words come out soft, almost as if they’d slipped through a crack in your resolve. “It’d be weird to go without you… For them, I mean.”

The admission lingers, tentative, like an echo that neither of you expected. Natasha stands there, motionless, her gaze locked on you, and you can feel the weight of her eyes on you. She doesn’t respond, perhaps because she doesn’t know how to, or maybe because there’s nothing she could say that would sound right after everything that happened.

You keep your eyes on the floor—this reluctant honesty shared after years of trying to keep a cautious distance. There’s a tenderness in the air, one that feels unfamiliar now, something you haven’t allowed yourself to acknowledge since the divorce. Natasha doesn’t move, and for a moment, you wonder if she’ll reach for you, break the wall of silence. But she just stays there, rooted, like she’s afraid that any movement might shatter the understanding you’ve found yourselves in.

“Maybe, we could… all go,” Natasha offers finally, her voice hushed. “If that’s what you want.”

You glance up, catching her eyes for the first time in what feels like ages. There’s a weight there, a heaviness she carries, lingering regret woven into her eyes. You break the gaze quickly, focusing on a spot on the wall behind her, holding onto the barrier you’ve had to build to keep yourself steady.

“It’s what Lily wants.”

Natasha’s lips press into a thin line, nodding slowly, her fingers fidgeting by her sides. The truth is plain between you: this isn’t really about what either of you want. It’s about the tiny person who’s still dreaming down the hall, in her own perfect, unbroken world where her family feels whole. And somehow, even after everything, you both want to keep it that way for her. The idea of doing this trip together feels as precarious as it does bittersweet. But the image of Lily’s face when she sees you all together, the way she lights up at the mention of Wanda’s cabin, that’s enough to ease the ache.

Natasha leaves late that night, a soft click of the door echoing in the house after she’s gone. You’re left in the quiet, the weight of the decision settling slowly over you. You’d both agreed—two nights, maybe three—just enough time for the girls to enjoy their favorite place, to breathe in the crisp air and marvel at the autumn leaves.

You exhale, leaning against the counter, the thought of those days stirring up a mix of emotions you’ve worked so hard to bury. There’s excitement for the girls, the way their faces will light up at seeing Wanda’s cabin again. You can almost picture Nina and Lily scrambling around the place, giggling and squealing, thrilled at the rare chance to have both their parents there together, even if things have changed.

As you glance down the hall where they’re still sleeping, you wonder what it will feel like to play at something close to normal, if only for a few days. For Lily, for Nina—you would try to make it work.

A few weeks later, Natasha arrives in her old grey Lada Niva. You could hear the familiar rumble of the engine before you even see the car pull up. You’d almost forgotten the way it sounds—the low, steady hum that used to fill the spaces between you two, back when things were simpler. The car, a relic from another time, was a piece of Natasha that never changed, a constant that the girls had grown to love just as much as she did. It had been years since you’d last ridden in it, since those family road trips that now felt like distant memories you barely dared to touch.

Nina and Lily don’t hold back, rushing to the door as Natasha parks, their excited squeals echoing as they shout, “Mama!” and clamber down the front steps.

You watch as she steps out, smiling with that familiar, easy warmth that once felt like home. She crouches to their level, her arms opening as they run to her, and you can’t help but feel the smallest tug at your heart as she lifts them both in a swift, effortless motion, twirling them around like old times. Her laughter, soft and genuine, floats over to you as you linger in the doorway, a faint, bittersweet ache stirring within you.

She looks up from the girls, her gaze meeting yours, and you catch the flicker of something in her eyes—maybe nostalgia, maybe uncertainty, or maybe something else entirely. You clear your throat, trying to shake off the unease, then grab the bags by the door. You brace yourself for the weight of them, but as you take a step forward, Natasha’s shadow moves alongside you, close enough that you feel her presence before you hear her voice.

“Hey, let me,” she murmurs, her voice soft and warm.

Before you can protest, her hands reach for the bags, fingers grazing yours for the briefest second. It’s a touch so light that it leaves a ghostly warmth lingering on your skin, but it’s enough to catch you off guard, your breath hitching as she gently eases the bags out of your hands.

You watch as she walks over to the car, her movements steady and familiar, the ease with which she lifts the weight somehow comforting and unsettling all at once. Her shoulders are relaxed, yet there’s a focus in the way she sets the bags in the trunk. She turns back to you, a faint smile pulling at her lips, and for a fleeting second, the past seems to slip into the present.

You tear your gaze away to walk over and open the passenger door and slide in, the scent of old leather and faint traces of Natasha’s cologne unmistakable. It’s strange, slipping back into this space, sitting beside her again like this, feeling the past brushing close but staying just out of reach.

The drive was quiet for the most part, other than the sound of the girls’ favorite songs playing on the car radio. Natasha’s hands grip the steering wheel with ease, and her driving is as steady as it always was. Outside the window, the trees blur by, softened by late autumn light, and you lose yourself in the landscape.

Every now and then, Natasha’s gaze strays from the road to linger on you. She catches herself, tries to refocus, but her eyes drift back almost instinctively, drawn to the way you sit, wrapped in your own thoughts. Her hand hovers just slightly above her thigh, muscles tensing with the urge to reach out and place it on yours, an instinct that feels so ingrained it’s almost muscle memory. But she pulls back, fingers flexing as they return to the wheel. She remembers all the times she’d reach over without thinking, her palm resting against your thigh.

And as she glances at you once more, her chest tightens, that feeling of missing you growing stronger each and every day.

“There’s more trees now,” Natasha mutters, driving along the dirt path, getting closer towards the destination.

The cabin sits quietly in the woods, nestled under a canopy of tall pines. It’s quiet and private—the next house probably miles away. The air is cool and crisp, smelling faintly of woodsmoke, and when you text Wanda to let her know you’ve arrived, her reply is short, almost comforting in a way, telling you to enjoy yourselves with a tiny smiley face at the end. She doesn’t need to say much; she knows what this place means. She knows it has its own kind of healing, as subtle as the wind rustling through the trees.

When you get out of the car, you unload your things, the girls’ things, and settle in to the cabin.

The girls are thrilled to be here. They take to the cabin with the kind of joy only children can muster, filling the space with giggles that spill out through open windows. They chase each other around the clearing, calling for Natasha to play along, and she does, jumping into their games with an ease that’s somehow both comforting and bittersweet. She’s gentle with them, her patience surprising in moments when the girls demand more and more of her. She spins them in her arms, laughs with them, gets them to try new tricks—whatever they ask, she does. She’s always been a good mother. You’ve never doubted that.

You find yourself watching from the porch, hands wrapped around a mug that’s gone cold, rooted in place by the weight of memories. Sometimes you slip inside, needing the familiar rhythm of chopping and stirring, needing to focus on something simple, something that grounds you. The scents of rosemary and garlic fill the kitchen, and it’s strange, but this simple act of cooking feels like a kind of armor. It’s something you can control, even if you feel like everything else is slipping from your grasp.

Natasha catches your eye sometimes, her glance lingering in a way that almost feels hesitant, as if she’s waiting for you to join them. But you stay back, listening to the sounds of their laughter from a distance. You’ve built walls around yourself, fragile as they are, and the thought of letting them down, even for a moment, feels terrifying. You want to be a part of this, to let yourself fall into the warmth of your family again, but something holds you back. So you stay where you are, like an outsider in your own life.

The first night the girls are already settled into their beds, sleeping peacefully and Natasha is in the living room, moving quietly, tugging a thin sheet over the lumpy couch cushions and fluffing a pillow that barely holds its shape. Her movements are careful, almost too careful. From the shadowed hallway, you watch her in silence. You know how stiff her back gets, how this couch does her no favors, and how, come morning, the sun will stream straight through the window to warm her face uncomfortably awake. You sigh, a little louder than you mean to, and Natasha glances up but doesn’t see you there, just lingering in the shadows, uncertain.

Finally, you take a breath and step into the dim light of the living room, your voice quiet as you say, “The bed is big enough for both of us, you know. You could sleep there. If you want.” You try to keep your tone casual, as if you haven’t thought this over a hundred times, and shrug lightly. “But you don’t have to. It’s just… an option.”

She stands still, her hand pausing over the pillow, eyes glancing to the floor. Of course she wanted to. But she looks at you, hesitant, as if searching for any hint that this offer is anything more than what you said it was. There’s a flicker of uncertainty in her gaze, something softened by a yearning she’s trying too hard to hide from you.

Without waiting for her response, you turn and walk away, not looking back, not wanting to see the indecision flickering across her face.

For a moment, the silence stretches and fills the empty room behind you. You hear the softest rustle as she stands there, still unsure, before her footsteps follow yours into the bedroom, cautious and quiet. The bed creaks as she settles on her side, keeping a respectful distance, her breaths slow and steady. She doesn’t say a word, but you feel her presence, steady and comforting, like a familiar warmth close enough to touch yet lingering just out of reach.

Natasha lies stiffly on the edge of the bed, her back turned but senses tuned to every breath you take beside her. The proximity—it feels like an exquisite kind of torture, and she’s aware that it’s probably worse than any discomfort the couch could have offered. But somehow, she welcomes it, aches for it, even as she tells herself to keep her distance, to keep her composure.

She can feel the warmth radiating from you, close enough that the tiniest shift would bring her shoulder against yours, but she keeps herself still, staring into the dark, wide awake. Her mind refuses to settle; memories tumble through her thoughts, fragments of laughter, the easy warmth you used to share. She finds herself painfully aware of the rise and fall of your breathing, the gentle way your face looks when you’re asleep, and she almost can’t contain herself.

She knows she won’t sleep tonight. How could she, lying here in the same bed, close enough to touch you, yet worlds apart?

But eventually, as the night wears on, she does.

It’s your breathing that does it, she realizes, grounding her, washing over her like a lullaby. The sound is soft but constant, and she closes her eyes, letting it surround her, allowing herself, just this once, to be comforted by it. Her hand twitches, wanting to reach out, to rest beside yours on the sheets, but she holds backinstead.

And, in time, Natasha drifts off, lulled by the gentle rhythm of you beside her, more at ease than she’s been in years.

The next night, you help Lily and Nina bake a cake.

The kitchen is a mess. Flour dusts the countertops, the floor, even speckles across your cheeks and Lily’s small hands. Nina stands on her tiptoes on a kitchen stool, eyeing the mixing bowl with such intense concentration that you can’t help but smile. It’s chaotic and loud, with squeals of laughter whenever a dollop of batter splatters onto someone’s arm. Lily is at the helm, her little hands wielding a wooden spoon as if it’s a magic wand.

“Mommy, I want the sprinkles!” she exclaims, reaching for a bright container of them before you even have a chance to measure them out.

But you don’t stop her; it’s her night, and this mess is hers to make. Every year she insists on making her own birthday cake, decorating it however she pleases, and every year it’s as beautifully haphazard as she is. You watch her, feeling the warmth of her enthusiasm, her innocence.

Natasha watches from the doorway, leaning against the frame, a soft smile on her lips. She takes in the scene quietly, hoping that it’d never go away—the joy, the laughter, the way Nina’s eyes light up as she carefully mixes ingredients, the concentration on Lily’s face as she decorates her cake, and then, you… God, you looked so beautiful. The mother of her children. The person she once called her wife. When you glance over, you catch Natasha’s gaze, and there’s a tenderness there as she smiles lightly at you, knowing exactly where her place is. So, she doesn’t move. She watches.

Eventually, the cake is baked, golden and imperfect, with sprinkles scattered unevenly over thick layers of frosting. It’s more of an abstract work of art than anything, but Lily beams with pride, her little hands sticky with icing as she admires her creation.

When it’s finally time to sing, she stands on a chair, practically glowing as everyone joins in, voices soft and full of love. Everybody sings. The light of the candle flickers across the girls’ faces as Natasha’s voice blends in with yours, and for a moment, everything feels… whole. You catch her eye again, and she looks at you with something unreadable—hope, maybe.

But you look away and her smile falls.

Then, Wanda visits on the last day.

Her visit catches you off guard, appearing just as you’re gathering up the last odds and ends in the cabin. She breezes in with that familiar smile, warmth radiating from her as if she’d been here all along, making herself at home in the easy way she always does. It’s been a couple weeks since you last saw her, yet here she is, greeting the girls with the kind of affection that only Wanda has, her laugh bright and contagious as she swoops them up one by one. You can’t help but smile as they cling to her, their giggles filling the cabin as they chatter on about every little detail of the weekend, as if they hadn’t seen her in ages.

Then, somewhere between the hugs and the laughter, Wanda’s eyes meet yours, a glimmer of something mischievous sparking in them.

Before you know it, she’s suggested ice cream, casually slipping the offer into the air, barely giving you a moment to consider before Nina and Lily’s eyes light up with excitement, their voices blending into one constant, pleading hum of “Please, Mommy, please!”

You hesitate, glancing around at the half-packed bags and open suitcases scattered on the floor. There’s still so much to do, and the sky outside has that heavy look to it, the kind that promises to come down hard if given the chance. You shoot Wanda a skeptical look, but she just waves it off, her voice light and certain.

“Oh, I’ll just take them real quick,” she says, already holding out her hands as Nina grabs one, Lily the other.

You glance once more at the ominous clouds hanging low in the sky. They should wait, you think, but you’ve already seen the way their faces light up at the mention of ice cream, and you can’t bring yourself to say no, not when they’re this happy.

So you sigh, pulling each of them close for a quick hug, whispering your usual cautions, “Be careful, okay? And Wanda, please… it looks like it’s about to rain.”

With a final nod, you watch as they pile out the door, their voices fading into the thick silence left in their wake. And suddenly, it’s just you and Natasha, an entire cabin somehow feeling smaller without the girls. She clears her throat softly, moving to help with a stray pile of blankets, and you follow.

The silence between you stretches on and you find yourself too aware of every sound she makes, the soft rustling of fabric, the soft padding of her steps across the creaky wooden floor. You don’t dare look at her, not directly, focusing instead on the small tasks in front of you: folding the blankets with slow, methodical care, stacking up dishes in silence, packing up the girls’ scattered toys one by one. But out of the corner of your eye, you can see Natasha’s glances, her fingers moving with a touch too gentle, as if each item in her hands were something precious, something irreplaceable.

When she reaches over, her hand brushing yours as she passes a blanket, you freeze for the briefest second, your heart pounding in a way you wish you could ignore. It’s strange, this small gesture—nothing more than a graze of skin, but it feels heavy.

After a moment, Natasha clears her throat, shifting her gaze to the window where the sky darkens further.

“Looks like a storm’s coming,” she murmurs, more to herself than to you, but her voice is close, familiar in a way that aches, that reminds you of nights spent together, whispering in the dark.

And you want to say something, to fill the silence with something else, but the words won’t come out.

Instead, you both go back to packing in silence, And as you reach for another item, you catch her eyes on you again, lingering a second longer than necessary, something soft and unreadable passing through them before she looks away.

When the last bag is zipped and the blankets are folded neatly on the couch, the sky finally breaks open with a relentless downpour. Raindrops hammer against the cabin roof. You glance out the window, watching as the world outside the cabin turns hazy and blurred, colors melting together in streaks. It’s coming down harder than you expected, the kind of rain that turns roads to rivers, and any hope of a quick drive to meet Wanda and the girls seems to vanish.

Natasha stands beside you, her gaze following yours out the window. There’s something calming in the way she stands there, shoulders relaxed, as if she were rooted to the spot, waiting without a rush. She doesn’t offer any suggestion about the rain or attempt to fill the silence, and somehow, that makes it harder to ignore her presence.

Thunder rumbles somewhere in the distance, low and resonant, like a warning. You watch as Natasha crosses her arms, her fingers tapping lightly against her sleeve as if in thought, and you can tell she’s trying to gauge the storm, trying to calculate how long you’ll be stuck here together.

Natasha looks over at you, an almost apologetic look flickering across her face. “I’ll go check on the car real quick,” she murmurs, her voice low enough to blend with the rain. “I know we probably shouldn’t go anywhere right now, but it’s old, and it never does well sitting in rain like this.”

You only nod, saying nothing, watching her pull on a jacket and tug the hood over her head before slipping out the front door. The rain swallows her figure instantly, and you see her trudge through the mud, her boots sinking slightly with every step.

Through the window, you can just barely make out the shape of Natasha as she reaches the car, her hand brushing over its rain-streaked surface with a soft touch, like she’s apologizing to it for what she’s about to ask of it. The headlights flicker as she tries to turn it over, but the engine groans before settling into silence again. Another turn of the key yields the same result, the rumble followed by a spluttering cough as the car refuses to cooperate, sinking ever deeper into the mud.

You watch as Natasha leans back in the driver’s seat, her shoulders slumping in quiet resignation. She presses her forehead against the steering wheel for a moment, as if gathering herself, then takes a deep breath and steps out. She gives the car a gentle, almost defeated pat on the hood, the look of someone who knows they’ve tried all they can. When she glances back toward the cabin, her gaze lifts to find you through the window.

She walks back, her steps slow, head slightly bowed against the storm. When she reaches the porch, Natasha shakes out her hood, droplets splashing across the wooden boards, and stands for a moment, hesitating as if she doesn’t want to be the bearer of more bad news. But there’s a strange, almost gentle softness in her gaze as she finally meets your eyes.

“It’s stuck,” she says quietly, tugging the hood down. “The mud’s got it pretty good, and… I don’t think we’re going anywhere tonight.”

You nod, trying to ignore the small part of you that almost feels relief at her words. You watch the rainwater drip down from her jacket, forming a small puddle at her feet, and the cabin’s warmth surrounds you both, soft and heavy. Natasha only watches you as you pull your phone out to text Wanda. You fumble with your phone, tapping the screen to try and coax a single bar of signal to life. Nothing. The little icon taunts you with its emptiness, a dead end in the storm.

“Damn it,” you mutter under your breath, low enough that it almost feels like an afterthought, something you wish would disappear into the sounds of the rain.

Natasha’s voice, gentle and steady, breaks through. “I’m sure the girls are fine with Wanda…”

You look at her. Her gaze is fixed on you, softened by a faint worry lingering at the corners of her eyes. There’s a sincerity you see in her irises. You look away, down to your phone as though it might somehow find a way to work.

The silence settles in again, heavier this time. Natasha shifts on her feet, uncertain, as if waiting for something from you—a response, an assurance, anything to break the tension she can feel thickening in the air. But instead, you simply pocket your phone, shoulders tense as you press your lips together in thought, a part of you unwilling to trust that everything is okay. You don’t respond, your mind too wrapped up in worry, feeling that gnawing pit in your stomach that refuses to ease, the sense that something is just… out of reach, outside of your control.

The rain comes down in sheets, a constant drumming against the windows and the roof, filling the air with a steady hum. But inside, the silence between you and Natasha is deafening, thicker than the rain, pressing down on you in a way that makes it hard to breathe. Each passing second feels heavier, and you can feel yourself starting to unravel under the weight of it. It’s suffocating, somehow.

You glance down, trying to keep your breathing steady, but there’s something clawing at you from the inside, a mix of panic and… something else. The feeling of being here alone with her, the person you loved so much and lost so painfully, is almost too much to bear. You press your lips together, trying to ignore the way your chest tightens, the way your hands start to tremble just a little. It’s as if everything’s closing in on you, the walls, the quiet, the memories. You sense Natasha watching you, catching the small signs you’re trying to hide. Her gaze is warm, careful, as if she’s afraid that one wrong move could make everything fall apart. She shifts, almost reaching out, her hand hesitating in the space between you, as if she’s weighing whether she has the right to offer any comfort.

A shaky breath escapes you, breaking the silence, and you almost regret it instantly. It’s like you’ve let down a barrier, and Natasha’s expression softens, her eyes filled with something that’s so familiar it hurts. The ache inside you grows stronger, and you find yourself wanting to say something, anything, but the words stick in your throat. You can feel the weight of all that’s unsaid between you—the hurt, the love, the quiet grief of two people who once had everything and lost it.

For a second, you catch her eye, and you’re pulled right back to those moments when it was just the two of you, when you didn’t need words to understand each other. You have to look away, not ready to face the full force of it.

You take a shaky step backward, feeling your chest tighten as you distance yourself from Natasha, as though putting even a few inches between you could somehow ease the ache clawing inside you.

“I… I can’t be here,” you murmur, barely recognizing the sound of your own voice, raw and low.

You glance toward the rain-soaked windows, almost desperate for escape, the downpour outside strangely inviting, anything to cut through the weight of this moment. You’re one step from turning toward the door when you feel Natasha’s fingers close gently around your wrist, her hold soft but unyielding.

“I won’t let you go out in this rain,” she says, her voice steady, a quiet determination threading through her tone. She’s close now, closer than she’s been in so long, and the warmth of her hand against your skin, even through the fabric of your sleeve, sends a shiver down your spine.

You look down at her hand, your eyes tracing the lines of her fingers where they touch you, and for a moment, you feel yourself waver, caught between the urge to pull away and the desire to stay. It’s almost as if her touch could melt away everything you’re carrying, all the years, the heartbreak, the carefully rebuilt walls. But you don’t move, and she doesn’t let go.

“Please,” she whispers, her thumb brushing gently along your wrist. It’s the barest touch, but it’s enough to keep you grounded, to make you feel like maybe, just maybe, you don’t have to face this alone.

There’s a beat of silence, and then Natasha’s hand falls away from your wrist, fingers slipping into emptiness as if she’s retreating into herself. Her gaze drops, the slightest flinch crossing her face, a flash of something broken that she quickly tries to bury.

“I can go make you some tea,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper, gentler than you’ve heard in a long time. It’s a soft offering that she knows has always brought you comfort.

But you turn away, steeling yourself. “I don’t need it,” you reply, sharper than you mean to, the words laced with bitterness you can’t hide.

Natasha hesitates, her hand hovering in the air like she wants to reach for you, to do something, anything, to take the pain from your eyes. “It’ll help—” she begins softly.

“I don’t need anything from you,” you cut her off, voice splintering, more forceful this time, a fierce edge to the words that lands heavy in the space between you.

Natasha stares, caught off guard, and her expression shifts, something fragile crossing her face that she can’t quite hide. She opens her mouth, but no words come, her voice lodged somewhere too deep to reach. She doesn’t fight back, doesn’t press you. Instead, she just watches, taking in every tremor, every piece of you she’s shattered.

And that’s when you feel it—everything inside you begins to unravel, as if a dam has broken. Your voice drops to a whisper, your gaze falling to the floor, and your hands start to shake as you choke out, “I don’t… I don’t need you.”

The words come softer, barely audible, and you realize it’s as much for yourself as it is for her.

But then your voice cracks, your resolve slipping, and the truth of it cuts into you like glass. The tears come, quiet at first, slipping down your cheeks as you try to hold it together, but the pain is too much. You can’t stop the sobs that rise, each one sharper than the last, as the weight of it all threatens to swallow you whole.

Natasha’s heart twists painfully as she watches you, each quiet sob striking her deeper than any wound she’s ever endured. She hates seeing you like this, hates that she’s the reason for it. Every tear, every tremor, is a reminder of the ways she’s failed you. There’s a pain that fills her, clawing at her chest as she stands there, watching you break in front of her, knowing there’s nothing she can do to piece you back together.

Her hands itch to reach out, to pull you close, to soothe you the way she used to. But the distance between you feels unbridgeable. She can only stand there, fists clenching at her sides as she tries to steady herself, feeling utterly powerless. Regret presses down on her, heavy and unrelenting, mingling with a love she never stopped feeling and a longing that never seems to fade.

Every part of her wants to close the gap, to say something that might ease the pain she’s caused, but all she can manage is a quiet, broken whisper.

“I’m so sorry,” she murmurs, her voice cracking, barely audible over the sound of your quiet sobs.

It’s the same apology she’s given a hundred times, one that feels worn out, hoping it will somehow be enough to mend what’s been broken. But even as the words leave her lips, she knows they don’t carry the weight they used to.

Your hands reach up to push her weakly. It only takes three pushes until Natasha feels the cool wall of the cabin press against her back as your hands meet her chest, each shove more desperate than the last. She doesn’t resist, doesn’t move to stop you, just lets you push her—lets you release everything that’s been simmering inside. The look in her eyes is pained but unwavering, as if she knows she deserves every bit of anger, every ounce of resentment, that you hurl at her.

When your voice breaks on those words, “I hate you. I hate you. I hate you,” it feels like something inside her is splintering.

She’s faced countless enemies, stared down dangers most people couldn’t imagine, but nothing has ever gutted her like hearing you say those words. Her chest aches in a way she can’t describe; it’s a hollow, consuming pain that only comes from hurting someone you love.

“I hate you,” you say again.

Natasha swallows, her own eyes shining with unshed tears as she reaches out instinctively, hesitantly, as if she might still be able to comfort you, though she knows it’s selfish. Her fingers brush your arms, just barely, but she stops, feeling unworthy to touch you, even if every fiber of her being wants to hold you.

“I know,” she whispers, her voice low, raw. “I know. I hate myself too.” Her words come out fractured, like she’s fighting to keep them steady.

You press against Natasha with the last bit of strength you have left, hands shoving her even as your body begins to crumble under the weight of all you’ve been holding back. Your knees weaken, unsteady as a wave of exhaustion overtakes you, and you feel yourself start to slip. And Natasha, still pressed against the wall, doesn’t hesitate. She reaches for you, arms encircling you in one swift, instinctive movement, pulling you close against her as though she’s been waiting for this—for any chance to hold you again.

You struggle at first, fists pressing weakly against her chest as you try to push her away, to break free from the comfort that only stings in its familiarity. But Natasha’s grip is firm, and steady, that doesn’t falter as you fight against her. She doesn’t say a word, doesn’t loosen her hold; she just holds you close, pressing you to her, heart hammering beneath your cheek.

Eventually, the exhaustion wins. All of your fight slips away. A ragged sob escapes your lips, and then another, and before you know it, you’re crying fully, the sound muffled against the warmth of Natasha’s neck. She lets her cheek rest against the top of your head, her hand moving to stroke your back in small, soothing circles, each touch tender and careful, as if she’s afraid of breaking what little is left of you.

“I’m here,” she whispers into your hair, her voice barely a breath, soft and unwavering. “I’m right here.”

She repeats it, holding you even closer, feeling each of your sobs shake through her. For the first time in a long time, Natasha feels you, feels you surrender in her arms, and it breaks her as much as it mends her.

Eventually, your sobs subside, fading into shallow, uneven breaths. You can feel Natasha’s steady heartbeat beneath your palm, and the room settles into a stillness as heavy as the rain outside. Slowly, hesitantly, you lift your head, pulling back just enough to see her face. And in that close space between you, you realize she’s been crying too. Silent tears slip down her cheeks, glistening under the dim light, eyes raw and vulnerable in a way that you’ve almost forgotten.

You take her in, every detail of her face, so familiar yet somehow achingly new. Her lips part, a trembling breath barely filling the space between you, and there’s something almost fragile in her gaze, like she’s as uncertain of this as you are.

Neither of you speaks.

And before you can second-guess it, before you can pull yourself back, your lips meet hers. The touch is gentle, neither of you moving too quickly, afraid to shatter whatever understanding has settled between you. Natasha’s hand moves slowly, coming up to cradle the side of your face, her thumb grazing your cheek so that nearly undoes you.

The kiss deepens, the two of you leaning into each other, guiding each other towards the couch just behind you. You straddle her, settling yourself on her lap, feeling the heat radiating from her body, and it’s intoxicating. Your hands tangle in her hair, drawing her closer, as your lips press against each other. You feel her tongue in your mouth, moaning against your lips and for the first time in years, she remembers the taste of you. She wanted more. More. More. More—

And Natasha snaps back to reality.

“I can’t do this,” she gasps, pulling away, her breath uneven, a pained look etched across her face.

You freeze, disbelief washing over you like a cold tide. “What?” you whisper, the weight of her words crashing into you.

It’s as if the ground has fallen out beneath your feet. The warmth you felt disappeared, replaced by an uncomfortable chill that seeps into your bones. You feel it all over again. You feel unwanted. And you wanted to get away from her, as fast as you could.

But Natasha’s grip tightens around your hips, anchoring you in place. “No, no, please,” she pleads. “Please don’t go.”

Her voice breaks and stops your movements. Instead of pushing away, you find yourself drawn back into her orbit. Natasha pulls you closer, resting her forehead against your shoulder, and you feel the warmth of her tears soak into the fabric of your shirt. You sit there in silence, letting Natasha cry against you.

You remember the warmth of her laughter, the way her eyes would light up when she saw you, how her touch used to feel like home. You sigh, feeling the ache in your chest as Natasha clings to you. It feels strange, foreign even, to see her like this, to feel her emotions pouring out when she’s usually so guarded, so composed. You gently run your fingers through her red hair, each stroke an attempt to calm her down just as it always did. It’s rare to see Natasha like this, and the sight of her tears pulls at something deep within you, something that refuses to let go of the memories you once shared.

Her breath is warm against your neck as she whispers, “It’s not that I don’t want you…” Her voice trembles, soft and almost hesitant. “I always want you… but I want you to be sure. I want you to want me too… not now… not when we’re still fighting like this.”

The words settle heavily between you. Her confession is raw and earnest, a glimpse into the heart she so rarely lets anyone see. The warmth of her touch and the depth of her gaze make you feel as though you’re standing on the edge of something vast and uncertain. You could so easily fall back into her arms but the walls that the two of you have built—brick by painful brick—are still there.

“I know,” you murmur, your voice barely more than a breath, trying to find the right words to bridge the space between you.

You want to tell her that you’re here, that part of you has always been here, waiting. But you’re afraid too, afraid of what wanting her again could mean, afraid of the heartbreak that might be waiting if things were to fall apart once more. You pause, resting your cheek against her head, feeling the soft tickle of her hair against your skin.

“I know,” you say again, softer this time, as if to convince yourself as much as her.

Natasha’s eyes drift shut, and she lets out a long, unsteady sigh as she pulls you closer, absorbing the feeling of your warmth, the familiar weight of you against her. It’s been years since she’s held you like this, years since she’s felt your skin. Every inch of her aches with the realization of how much she’s missed this—missed you.

She lets her fingers trace gentle circles on your back, each touch cautious, as if she’s afraid you’ll slip away the second she lets go. Memories flood her mind of the times when the two of you were unbreakable, your worlds wrapped around each other. All of it feels so close, so painfully real, like she could reach out and grasp it, yet impossibly far away. She’s overwhelmed, but she doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want to let go.

She listens to the rain, feels you underneath her fingertips, the scent of your skin filling her nose. She dreamed of holding you like this everyday for the past three years. And now that she had it, she wanted it forever.

“Where did we go wrong?” you whispered, almost too quiet for her to hear.

The question catches Natasha off-guard, lingers in the air between you, and she can barely bring herself to breathe, almost afraid that any movement might shatter this moment. She holds you a little tighter, as if she could somehow shield you from the pain in your voice.

She feels the weight of all the memories, the years you’ve shared, pressing down on her. She nuzzles closer, her face tucked into the curve of your neck, feeling the warmth of your skin against hers, a feeling she’d almost forgotten. She’s surprised you haven’t pulled away yet, as if the tenderness still feels too familiar, too natural.

“It’s my fault,” Natasha whispers, barely louder than the rain outside, her voice breaking around the edges. Her heart races, and she doesn’t dare to look at you, afraid of the hurt she knows she’ll see in your eyes.

You let out a heavy sigh, your gaze drifting somewhere past her, lost in thought. “You don’t think… I gave you a reason to… to find someone else?”

She’s stunned into silence, the realization settling over her that maybe, somehow, you’ve been carrying this blame, wondering if you were part of the reason she’d broken the life you built together. She blinks, swallowing hard as she tries to find the words, a flicker of panic rising in her chest.

“No,” she says firmly, her voice steady yet soft, almost pleading. She shifts, pulling back just enough to look at you, her hand gently brushing your cheek. “No, it was never because of you.”

But you’re still looking at her, and your voice trembles, barely holding back the pain.

“Don’t lie to me, Natasha.”

“I can’t,” she says.

Your eyes harden and you pull back slightly to look at her face, “The truth. You owe me that.”

She didn’t want to say it. Her heart twists, and she hesitates, closing her eyes as she forces herself to say the words she’s been too afraid to admit—even to herself.

“I thought… I thought you didn’t love me anymore.” Her voice wavers, her fingers tightening their hold on you as if afraid that letting go would mean losing you all over again.

The silence between you is thick and heavy, your breaths filling the quiet space as you absorb her words. She feels the guilt clawing at her, as if she’s baring every part of herself, hoping that you can see the truth buried within her confession. She never wanted to hurt you. She never wanted to push you away. But somewhere along the way, she’d lost sight of what mattered most, and she’d convinced herself it was too late, that the love you’d once shared had slipped through her fingers.

The word slips out, barely audible, cracked and raw. “Why?”

The question hangs in the air. Natasha feels it wrap around her heart. She forces herself to look at you, even though the sight of that single tear tracing its way down your cheek makes her want to look away. She knows this answer; she’s carried it silently, wordlessly, and now it seems so inevitable that you’d finally ask her.

She tries to swallow, her voice almost too thick to form the words. “You… you stopped touching me.”

It’s such a small statement, so simple, yet it feels too big, too complicated, as if it holds every untold truth between you.

She falters, looking down at her hands, gathering herself before she tries to explain.

“I don’t mean… just sex,” she says softly, her head shaking almost in shame, as if she doesn’t trust you to believe her. “It was all the little things. We used to be close, you know? I liked touching you, even if it was just brushing my hand against yours… feeling you next to me in bed. I liked—”

She pauses, her voice catching as she tries to summon the tenderness that’s still tucked away somewhere in the past.

“I liked holding you at night. I liked standing close to you when you cook. I liked that you liked holding my hands no matter how rough they were. And I loved how you’d kiss me before I left the house, or the way you’d kiss me again as soon as I came back…”

She trails off, the words fading into the silence. The silence presses down between you. It’s all so achingly clear at this moment. You sit there, absorbing her words, the hurt spreading through you in waves as she continues.

“And then… somewhere along the line, we just stopped,” she breathes into your neck. “We barely talked anymore. And when I tried to initiate anything… you’d pull away from me.”

Natasha’s voice is quiet, barely more than a whisper. But the way she says it hits you with a kind of clarity that feels like a wound reopening. She’s talking about something ordinary, something so small and routine that you can hardly believe it could be the reason for so much hurt. Yet now, hearing her say it, you realize how much those tiny moments meant. The gentle touches, the kisses, the reassurances you’d once given each other like breathing… how you pulled away from her… it was all fading even before you saw it happening.

She sits there, barely daring to breathe, looking at you with eyes that hold more regret than she’s ever known how to express. There’s a subtle twitch in her fingers, as if she wants to pull you even closer, to bridge that space between you that now feels so painfully wide.

The words spill out hesitantly, each one trembling with the weight of something you’ve kept hidden, maybe even from yourself. “I think… things changed for us after Nina was born.”

The realization feels sharp, pressing against you. You’re not blaming Nina—she’s so innocent, so undeserving of even a hint of this pain—but it’s like tracing back a long path through a dark wood, seeing the moments where you veered off course, where insecurities took root without you realizing it.

Natasha’s gaze is soft as she looks at you, her thumb grazing over your waist in small, comforting circles, coaxing you to keep talking.

“Why?” she asks gently, like she’s holding space for you.

You hesitate, feeling the words catch in your throat, but you force yourself to continue. “I don’t know… I… I’m the one who pulled away first.”

Natasha’s fingers pause on your waist, her focus fully on you, willing you to keep going. Her voice is a low murmur, soft but insistent, “Why did you pull away?”

The question cracks something open inside you, and you feel your lips start to quiver, your chest tightening with the ache of it all. You’re on the edge of sobbing again, but you push forward, knowing you can’t stop now. “Because I changed after Nina was born.”

Natasha’s brows knit together as she searches your face. “What do you mean?”

You take a shaky breath, looking down for a moment, as if saying it out loud will finally make it real, and will confirm what you’ve been so afraid to confront.

“My… my body changed.” Your voice is barely a whisper, fragile and almost embarrassed, but it’s there, raw and painfully honest.

A light bulb flickers on in Natasha’s mind as she processes your words.

“Did you think I had an issue with your body after Nina was born?” she asks quietly, her voice laced with both offense and confusion. She wants to understand, to dig deeper into your emotions. “Did you think I wouldn’t want you if your body changed?”

You shake your head, tears slipping down your cheeks like the rain outside, each drop echoing the chaos inside.

“No, I…” You struggle for the right words, each syllable weighed down with shame. “I don’t know. It was so stupid… Y-You’re always in shape, Natasha. Everyone you know and work with… they’re all perfect and strong and beautiful. And you’d come home and I’d be struggling to lose the weight I gained when I was pregnant. I’d have baby food in my hair. The times I didn’t get to shower early enough because taking care of the girls could get so hectic sometimes… and you would come home to that… and I thought…”

Your voice trails off, the weight of your thoughts pressing heavily on your chest. Natasha’s expression shifts as she absorbs your words, her brows furrowing in a way that reveals how deeply your pain affects her. She shakes her head, protesting against the image you’ve painted of yourself.

“You’ve always been beautiful to me, (Y/n). Always,” she says softly, wiping away your tears with her thumbs, her touch gentle yet firm, as if she could erase the hurt with the warmth of her hands. “I don’t look at you and think anything else other than how breathtaking you are. You carried and gave birth to both of our beautiful girls. That alone means everything to me. You didn’t have to pull away from me.”

“I… I pulled away… because I thought you wouldn’t want me anymore…” you confess, each word punctuated by the quiet sobs that escape you, an avalanche of emotions finally breaking free.

“I always want you,” Natasha sighs, a tear slipping down her cheek, mirroring your own pain. She murmurs, her voice thick with regret. “I wish I knew… I should’ve asked. I should’ve…”

Her words tumbled out in a rush. You see the depth of her sorrow, the realization that she could have made a difference if only she had reached out, if only she had known. As you cry silently, Natasha takes your hands in hers, cradling them like fragile treasures.

“I should’ve told you,” you say, watching as she soothed her fingers gently over your hands.

“No,” she interjects, her tone firm but gentle. “I should’ve known. I should’ve clued in on what was going on a long time ago.”

Natasha looks at you softly, memories flood her mind—images of that one night, a night she’d tried to forget but couldn’t escape. The feeling of abandonment gnawed at her as she replayed the moments leading up to her decision to leave. She remembers the heavy weight of despair that had settled in her chest, suffocating and relentless, making it impossible to breathe. She had convinced herself that if she went out, if she got drunk enough, maybe the pain of feeling unwanted would fade away.

But it only deepened.

In her haze, she had followed a woman into bed, desperately trying to imagine the warmth of your body in place of hers, the softness of your laughter, your gentle voice reassuring her that everything was okay, that you loved her. Natasha had thought that perhaps, just for a moment, she could replace the feeling of loneliness with something that resembled closeness. But the alcohol only made her feel more lost, more empty. And when the fog of the night began to lift, reality crashed down on her like a tidal wave.

Then, the devastation that followed was unbearable, the realization that she was lying next to someone who wasn’t you was a betrayal of its own. She had stumbled back to her car, tears streaming down her face as she cried against the steering wheel, the home you shared just miles away, reminding her of everything she had thrown away in that one moment of weakness.

“I wish I didn’t leave that night. I should’ve stayed with you,” Natasha murmurs, the regret thick in her voice.

She looks down, fingers fidgeting restlessly against your waist. The memory of that night, the night she let her pain turn her into someone she didn’t recognize, stings like an open wound.

In her mind, it replays over and over with cruel clarity: the empty bed she left behind, the bitter taste of jealousy and self-doubt that drove her out the door, and the alcohol she turned to, hoping it would numb the ache. But it only made things worse.

She remembers how her vision blurred, and in the hazy, dimly lit room, she’d let herself believe she was somewhere else—back home, with you, as if she could trick herself into feeling loved. She imagined your skin. She imagined your lips. She imagined your hands. She imagined your voice. She imagined it all to be you. She wanted it so badly to be you. That the woman she was with became an illusion that she’d desperately wanted to be real.

But it wasn’t. It was a lie she told herself, a lie that shattered the instant she sobered up. And when she told you the truth, when she saw the pain in your eyes, she knew the weight of what she’d done.

Her voice breaks as she continues, “I thought… that if I could just close my eyes and pretend, I’d feel close to you again.”

She risks a glance up, searching your face for something—understanding, forgiveness, anything to soften the truth of what she’s saying.

“All I could think about was you,” she whispers, her gaze dropping to where your hands rest between you. “Even when I was trying so hard to forget. It was only you. It’s always only been you.”

There’s a silence, a moment where her words settle, and she braces herself, unsure if her honesty will bring you closer or push you further away.

“I’m so sorry, (Y/n),” Natasha’s voice is barely above a whisper as she leans forward, resting her forehead against your shoulder, her hands slipping down to your hips, holding you gently but firmly against her lap. “I hate myself for hurting you as much as I did. And if I could go back and undo everything, I would do it in a heartbeat.”

There’s a tremor in her voice, a rawness in her apology that cuts through the walls you’d built, walls that once felt impenetrable, necessary. Now, they softened, melting under her words, her touches.

You sit there, not moving, not quite sure where to go with the ache that’s lodged itself in your chest. Natasha’s breath is warm against your neck, steady yet trembling with the emotion she can no longer contain. Her arms wrap tighter, as if she’s afraid you’ll slip away if she lets go. She presses her lips to your shoulder, a hesitant kiss, soft and laden with the weight of every unsaid apology, every moment she should’ve been there instead of elsewhere.

You feel your own heart twisting, caught between confusion and forgiveness, between the impulse to push her away and the urge to hold her closer, to let yourself be vulnerable just one more time. Natasha’s fingers flex against your hips, grounding herself in the reality of you here, with her, despite everything.

“I think… we were both lost, Natasha,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper, fingers threading gently through her red hair. Her hair is soft between your fingers, and somehow that simple act—the feel of her—grounds you both in the present.

Natasha tilts her head slightly, resting into your touch, as though she was seeking forgiveness in every gentle movement of your hand. Her eyes are closed, and you watch as her face softens, a flicker of relief and remorse still etched deep in her features.

“I was just… struggling… trying to hold everything together and forgetting… forgetting we were supposed to hold each other up.” Your voice cracks, but you push on, feeling Natasha’s grip on your waist tighten. “And you were hurting too. I didn’t even see it.”

Her eyes open then, green and full of something you can’t quite name. “I wish I had been stronger for the both of us… for you,” she murmurs, her hand lifting to brush a stray tear from your cheek. Her touch is warm, delicate, as if she’s afraid to break you any more than she already has.

You shake your head, your hand still buried in her hair. Your thumb strokes softly against her scalp, and her hand comes to cover yours, pressing it gently against her. Natasha opens her eyes to meet yours, and in that gaze, a flicker of hope ignites, mingled with uncertainty.

“What do you want us to do?” she asks softly and you hesitate, the words catching in your throat.

“I don’t know how to forgive you yet,” you admit, and the honesty feels fragile. The confession hangs in the air, but it’s not a rejection. It’s an acknowledgment of the hurt that has settled deep in both of you.

“I don’t think I’ll ever forgive myself for it,” Natasha replies, nodding her head in agreement, her voice thick with regret.

“But I… maybe we could try. It won’t be easy,” you say, a spark of resolve rising within you. “But I want us to try. Not just for you and me… but for the girls too.”

The thought of Lily and Nina grounds you, their innocent laughter echoing in your mind, reminding you of the love between you and Natasha not only affects the two of you, but the lives of your beautiful little girls as well. And they motivate you to be better, to be stronger in a lot of ways, no matter how scary something could be.

Natasha blinks, taken aback by your words. She searches your eyes, searching for some sign of betrayal, some hint that this is just another cruel twist of fate, but all she finds is sincerity—a desperate wish for something more. To move forward. A possibility.

You take a shaky breath. The anger and bitterness that had clouded your heart for so long begin to dissipate, and you realize that the facade you had built to protect yourself was crumbling. You had pretended to hate her kb because it felt easier than confronting the truth—that all you wanted was her love, her touch, her presence beside you.

“You said you hate me,” Natasha murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper, as her gaze drifts to your lips.

You take a moment to gather your thoughts. “I always told myself that I did. I thought I did.”

A silence stretches between you, thick with unsaid feelings and the echoes of past grievances. Natasha watches you intently, her emerald eyes searching for understanding, desperate to catch every part of your emotions.

“And even though I felt like I wanted to,” you continue, your voice trembling as the truth rises to the surface, “I don’t think I’ll ever stop loving you, Natasha.”

Her breath catches in her throat. She tilts her head slightly, allowing a small smile to break through the sorrow etched on her features.

“You love me,” she repeats, her voice barely more than a murmur, eyes searching yours.

You take a steadying breath, feeling the weight of her gaze, the way it’s unraveling parts of you that you thought you’d locked away.

“Don’t act surprised,” you reply, sighing softly, almost chastising her for even doubting it. But there’s a hint of resignation in your voice, as if loving her has become an undeniable part of you, something you’ve both fought against and clung to.

Natasha’s expression shifts, and you see something like both relief and remorse in her eyes. She reaches up, her fingers brushing lightly against your cheek, lingering there as if grounding herself in this moment, in the truth of it.

“I didn’t know if you still did… if you still could.” Her voice is low, raw, carrying the weight of all her insecurities, the missteps and miscommunications that led you both here.

You hold her gaze, letting her see the depth of what you feel, all the love and pain tangled together, and you shake your head slightly.

“Loving you was never the problem, Natasha. I just… I didn’t know if I could keep doing it when I was… so angry with you.”

The admission aches as it leaves your lips, but it’s the truth. For all the love you feel, there’s been just as much pain, and it’s taken its toll on both of you.

Natasha nods, her thumb brushing against your cheek as if she’s memorizing every detail of it.

“Are you sure you still want to try with me?” she asks quietly. She’s looking at you with those green eyes that have seen so much, eyes that hold both love and a flicker of fear, as if she’s afraid of the answer.

You take a moment, feeling the gravity of her question settle in your chest. You nod slowly, your heart pounding against the silence that envelops you.

“I… I don’t know if I’m ready for us to be together soon…” The words feel thick on your tongue, but they’re the truth. You can’t rush this—too much has happened for that. “But, I still want to try.”

Natasha’s expression shifts slightly, the blink of pain that crosses her face making your heart ache in response. She nods, processing your words with the understanding that comes from a deep love.

“I just need time,” you add, hoping to offer her some reassurance amidst the uncertainty. “Maybe, we can take it slow?”

A small smile breaks through the tension, and in that moment, it feels like the world around you lights up just a bit. It’s not much, but it’s everything Natasha needs right now.

“However slow you want to go,” she replies, her voice softer and her hands gentle against your waist. “Whenever you’re ready. I’ll wait however long you need me to.”

The sincerity in her voice wraps around you like a warm blanket, easing some of the tightness in your chest. You can see the depth of her commitment in her eyes, a willingness to do whatever it takes to bridge the distance that formed between the two of you.

You lean into her slightly and whisper, “Thank you.”

Natasha looks at you, her gaze filled with a depth of emotion that makes your heart flutter. It’s as if she’s seeing you for the first time, not just as the woman she loves but as the most beautiful woman she has ever laid eyes on. The way her eyes soften, the way her lips curl into a smile—it’s overwhelming. There’s a longing there, an undeniable desire that urges her to close the distance, to lean in and kiss you. She wanted to kiss you so badly.

But she holds herself back, restraint crossing her features as she fights against it. Instead, she smiles gently, looking up at you. It’s a smile that says she’ll wait for you, no matter how long it takes. The warmth of her touch spreads. You feel a surge of gratitude. Her fingers press softly into your sides, holding you there without demanding anything more than what you’re ready to give.

Her gaze softens as she watches you, studying your face like it’s something she’s memorizing all over again, tracing every detail with her eyes. A small, almost hesitant smile plays at her lips, just the faintest upward curve, afraid to let the moment slip away.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

You watch as Natasha turns her head towards the window, her eyes shifting away from you.

“Where did the rain go?” she murmurs, almost to herself, her voice low.

You follow her gaze to the window, watching as raindrops cling to the glass in silent, scattered trails.

“The sun’s out,” you murmur, shifting off Natasha’s lap. Her hands linger for a second longer than they should, fingers brushing against you as you slip away and rise to your feet.

Natasha watches you cross the room, her gaze following each step, each small movement. You move towards the window, your hand brushing against the glass as you peer outside. The world looks untouched, as if the storm never even happened, with the sun spilling over the trees and grass, drying the last remnants of raindrops clinging to the leaves. In the distance, you catch sight of Wanda’s car pulling into the drive, her headlights cutting through the last threads of mist hanging low over the ground.

“It’s like it didn’t even rain,” you say softly, almost to yourself, the words carrying an odd, quiet wonder.

Natasha moves closely behind you. She’s close enough that you feel her there but she doesn’t reach out.

The car door clicks open, and you watch as your daughters jump out, their laughter filling the morning air as they spot you and Natasha in the window. They wave eagerly, little hands in the air, faces bright with excitement. You walk over to the front door and push the screen door open, stepping out onto the porch and watching Wanda step out of the car with a knowing look. Her expression is unreadable, that sly, familiar grin playing at her lips as she lingers by the driver’s side, watching the scene with a certain satisfaction.

Natasha’s smile widens as she looks at the girls, softening into something that feels almost like relief, her eyes lighting up as Nina comes running, arms wide, straight toward her.

“How’d you guys survive the rain?” you call out, a trace of teasing in your voice as the girls run up to you and Natasha, their laughter still bubbling over.

Nina giggles, wrapping herself around Natasha’s leg, as though she’s missed her all these hours.

“It didn’t rain, Mommy!” she laughs, her head tilting back, eyes sparkling with innocence.

The words take a moment to sink in. It didn’t rain. You exchange a look with Natasha, and suddenly it all starts to fall into place. Wanda’s magic. The quiet, unexpected downpour. The way the time seemed to disappear for hours, leaving you and Natasha stranded in the cabin with nothing but your hurt and your words to fill the silence. You feel the realization settle in, glancing between Natasha and Wanda.

You step closer, crossing your arms with a faint smirk and meeting Wanda’s eyes directly.

“Really?” you say, raising an eyebrow.

Wanda only shrugs, her mouth quirking in that mischievous, all-too-familiar smile. “Seemed like you two could use a little time to talk.”

She says it lightly, like a friend with good intentions, and yet there’s something so deliberate in her tone that you know she planned this from the start.

You let out a quiet sigh, shaking your head as you turn away, slipping back through the doorway to collect the bags still waiting by the cabin’s door. You can feel Natasha’s gaze on you as you move inside, her eyes following you like she’s afraid you’ll disappear if she looks away. But there’s a softness in her eyes now, a sort of peace that hadn’t been there before, like the air between you both is just a little lighter after the night you shared.

Behind you, Natasha stands on the porch, her hands resting loosely by her sides. She watches as the girls eagerly chatter, running toward her before she crouches down with a smile.

“Hey, girls,” she says gently, smoothing back a stray curl from Lily’s forehead. “Why don’t you go help Mommy with your things?”

Nina and Lily grin, nodding excitedly before they dart inside, their footsteps echoing across the cabin floor as they rush to your side, each one eagerly grabbing a piece of luggage and heading toward the car.

Wanda steps up to Natasha’s side, her heels crunching softly on the gravel as she gives a knowing smile. She glances at Natasha, eyes curious, then leans in close enough that her voice falls to a gentle whisper. “So… how did it go?”

Natasha takes a slow, steady breath, her eyes lingering on the doorway where you disappeared moments ago.

“We talked…” she says softly, the words holding a weight Wanda understands without needing more.

“That’s something,” she murmurs, glancing back toward the cabin as though she can see the space between you both healing, bit by bit.

Natasha looks down, a small, hopeful smile tugging at the corners of her lips. Her voice is soft, barely more than a whisper, but the weight of those words lingers in the air between them.

“She said she wants to try,” she murmurs, closing her eyes as a heavy, relieved sigh slips past her lips. Her shoulders relax, and for the first time in what feels like forever, there’s a spark of hope flickering inside her—a chance to start over, a chance to make things right.

Wanda watches her closely, her expression warm and understanding as she nods. She knows the journey won’t be easy, that there are pieces to pick up and trust to rebuild, but seeing Natasha standing here, her face softened with hope, Wanda knows it’s a start.

Natasha opens her eyes slowly, her gaze distant as if she’s looking past the porch, past the quiet woods stretching around them. Her mind is with you, picturing the way you held let her hold you, the way you’d let her in, even if only a little. It had been so long since she felt that closeness, and the thought alone fills her with a warmth she hadn’t dared let herself feel.

“She wants to try…” Natasha repeats softly, as though saying it aloud might make it more real, solid, something she can hold onto. A soft smile pulls at the corners of her mouth, and she looks over at Wanda, her green eyes shining.

Wanda gives her shoulder a gentle squeeze.

“It’s a start,” she says gently, her voice steady but tinged with that familiar note of caution. She meets her gaze, her eyes filled with both support and a warning Natasha knows is true. “You know it won’t be easy.”

Natasha nods, her lips pressing together in a thin line. She knows. Every cell in her body knows. Her mistakes, the distance she let grow between you, the ache that took root in the spaces where love and trust used to be—but knowing it won’t be easy hasn’t made her want it any less.

She stares out toward the driveway, where you’re helping the girls settle in, the sunlight glinting in your hair as you laugh at something Nina says. It’s a sound she’s missed so deeply, it aches, and yet here it is, real and alive, a reminder of what’s still here, what’s still possible.

“I know,” Natasha murmurs, her gaze locked on you, as if watching you can give her strength. “I know it’ll take time, and… there’s a lot to make up for. But, I want it more than anything.”

“That’s all that matters, Natasha,” Wanda says. “But if you break her heart again, I don’t think I’ll be willing to help with that next time around.”

She smiles and nods in response, the determination in her eyes stronger now. She glances back toward the car just as you emerge, the girls trotting behind you, chattering happily as they throw their bags in, their laughter floating across the grass.

Natasha’s heart swells as she watches you, watches her family together, a sense of purpose settling over her as she realizes just how much she wants to make this right. She knows it won’t be easy, knows that there will be days filled with doubt and pain, but for now, for this moment, she has a sliver of hope.

And for Natasha, that’s more than enough.

note: would you forgive her ?

navigation | n.r masterlist

#bellaveux writes!#natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff x fem!reader #natasha romanoff fanfic #natasha romanoff #marvel x reader #mcu x reader #avengers x reader #black widow x reader #fanfiction

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auspicioustidings · 8 months ago

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Based on this. You are in Finland full of self-loathing and the 141 needs a fat wife if they want to win some beer.

You aren't exactly on holiday in Finland. It should be your honeymoon but since you caught your groom balls deep in your maid of honour you instead have used it as an escape from the country. You just cannot be around the people you love right now, can't have them all look at you with all that pity. Even worse is that some of them probably don't even blame him. Your former best friend is a size 8, perfect hourglass figure. Your former partner is trim and decently fit. They look like they belong together more than you and him ever did.

You hate yourself. You hate looking in the mirror. You hate how clothes fit you. You deserved it you think.

"Not a chance MacTavish, that's my wife!"

"Away and biel yer heid, I saw her first!"

"Actually I saw her first!"

"I outrank all of you muppets so I think you'll find that is my wife!"

It's a racket in the little cafe but you don't pay much mind, still just staring out the window and wondering if you could ever deserve anything. One of the servers comes to take your empty cup and grins at you, telling you in her heavy accent that she would personally go for the one with the mask since he's the biggest. You don't understand when you look around and there are a lot of locals smiling happily over at you while four Greek Gods of men are having a scuffle, moving slowly in your direction. More people chip in, arguing about who you should pick, some lamenting that they would claim you themselves if they thought they could.

One big man does try, basically some Viking God, but he's playfully (you hope it's playful) spear tackled by the man with the mohawk before he laughs and backs off.

When Gaz with warmed cheeks and excitement in his eyes gets to you while Soap is busy with the viking and Ghost and Price are wrestling one another he asks if you'd do him the honour of being his wife. You nearly choke, but he explains that the wife carrying competition is today. You look around, bewildered, ask him why he wouldn't pick any of the other women in here given that they are all gorgeous slim things.

"Fuck all use to us, need a nice soft bird with lots of fat" says the man in the mask.

Price scowls and whacks his lieutenant upside the head because he sees how you look a second away from crying.

"You're gorgeous sweetheart, he didn't mean anything by it. The prize is the wife's weight in beer though, so he's right about a little lady not being much use."

You don't know what to say. You don't know if this is mortifying or not given that everyone around you seems to not be looking at you with sneers or laughing at you, but instead looking with soft smiles that convey fondness. They think this is adorable.

"Dinnae listen tae their nice soft birds and sweethearts! I'll be a better husband bonnie. I'm shorter aye bit look at the power in these legs, naw going tae drop ye. And I'll split that beer 50/50!"

And then they're arguing. The four of them are arguing and trying to put forward a case to you about why they would be the best husband. When it starts to get raunchy, you fluster and stop them. But fluster is something. It's not self loathing. It's been weeks since you felt anything but self loathing. So even though you are sure everyone can feel the heat rolling off of you in waves at how bashful you are under so much attention from such attractive men, you pick one (the others are devastated but vow that you're only a wife for the competition, that after they should get another shot at convincing you that they're the best option).

And they do. Even though the man you picked doesn't win (gets DQ'd actually since you are heavy and he decided that you were getting over that damn finish line so the four of them took turns) they take you out for drinks after. You think you feel humiliated that they couldn't carry you a long distance, but you don't have time to sit with the feeling because they drown it out with how warm and giddy they make you feel.

They insist that they will compete next year, so you have 365 days to pick a husband. When you make a quiet comment about how you'll lose weight by then so they can carry you the whole way, they nearly riot as they assure you that they would be a shit pick for husband if they didn't spent the year getting stronger so they can carry you just how you are. Plus they'll not be losing any beer thank you very much.

By the time the next wife carrying competition rolls around you are a different person. You're wearing clothes that fit instead of trying to hide your body. You laugh and flirt back with the barista instead of assuming they are making fun of you by flirting. And you don't care if your husband makes it over the finish line, just that you have fun and laugh and joke about the attempt. Of course it's not entirely certain who that husband is yet, got to keep them on their toes after all.

#mhairidrabbles #your annual trip to Finland just becomes you lounging while many big beefy men beg for you to be their wife for the day #if you saw the earlier version shh it was annoying me that there was no context for what was under the read more because of the screenshot #mhairiwrites

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lisired · 1 year ago

Text

who needs cupid’s bow?

pairing: bff!haechan x (f) reader

genre/warnings: bff2l, suggestive, lots of sexual innuedos but no smut, fluff, a teaspoon of angst, mc & hc are oblivious to each other’s feelings and jaemin calls them out on their bullshit, mutual pining

summary: Cupid is not on your side, it seems. He’s made you fall in love with the worst possible person ever, AKA your best friend, AKA the man who still eats tootsie-pops—willingly. And frankly, it feels like the damn candy has a better chance of dating him than you ever will.

word count: 11.1k

a/n: inspired by down for you by kehlani, boyfriend by ariana grande, and serial lover by kehlani. another oldie but i kinda like it… kinda. as always, feedback is appreciated!

It’s safe to say that Cupid is your mortal enemy (Or immortal—whatever. Nonetheless, you aren’t the biggest fan of him.)

You don’t know why, but for some inexplicable reason, he always makes you fall in love with the wrong people. Such as Lee Taeyong from eighth grade, or your failed relationship with Kim Jisoo from your biology class in high school — a pretty girl, but you were as compatible as Mentos and Coca-Cola. Hell, there was even Jung Sungchan from senior year, who you naturally drifted away from during an exam period. They’re all chapters in your book now, but you’re currently stuck on the one about your best friend, Lee Haechan.

It seems like you’re Cupid’s mortal enemy, too. You and Haechan are always side by side, down one another’s throats, there’s no way his arrow could have hit you and missed Haechan.

Perhaps, it’s a hole you dug yourself in. Via mutual friends, when you were seventeen, you met Lee Haechan — jock, senior, and the most beautiful boy you’ve ever seen. There was an instant connection between you two, all it took was a convo at a party about coincidentally both failing the same math exam, and you quickly became friends and close enough to pour out your heart into little rants whenever there was something personal bothering either of you, and you needed an outlet. You liked him because he understood you. He was patient witth you. You see, you aren’t the best at communicating how you feel, and he never makes you feel bad about it.

You remember breaking up with your then-boyfriend, Jung Sungchan, and while you weren’t heartbroken since you saw it coming and all the love had evaporated by then, you were devastated that you no longer had someone to kiss. That being your main concern made Haechan laugh. He thought it was the most you thing ever.

“Can I kiss you, then?” you asked, a little grin on your face, although you were very serious. It wouldn’t be the end of the world, kissing your best friend. He has pretty lips, and it isn’t like it’ll mean anything, you think. It’s just one kiss.

Haechan scoffed, biting off the last remaining piece of his Tootsie Pop off the stick. You’re kidding, he thinks. Why would you seriously want to kiss him? And after breaking up with your now ex-boyfriend? The wound’s still fresh. “You wouldn’t dare.”

To Haechan’s surprise, you dared.

He tasted like chocolate, exactly like a Tootsie Pop, as expected of him. You didn’t mind, though. You never do. It was fun, you liked the way Haechan held you in his lap and kissed you back with fierceness, and he still kisses you with that same passion, like there’s no tomorrow.

And that’s the problem.

Fast-forward four years later, you’re still best friends with Lee Haechan, only this time you’re in college, and have the fattest, most gigantic crush on him. Somewhere along the way, those lines between love and friendship were blurred. It’s impossible to pinpoint when, but you fell deep and hard for your best friend.

And the worst part? You doubt he’ll ever reciprocate those feelings.

One kiss turned into more than you can count on your fingers and toes.

Should you continue making out with your best friend who doesn’t reciprocate your romantic interest in him? Probably not.

Are you still going to, though? Absolutely.

“Y/n, I’m going to kill you,” Haechan states as he stumps inside the dining room. His hair is tussled since he’s just waken up from a nap, but you like this raw side of him. He looks gorgeous, and despite him basically threatening to murder you you still want to kiss him.

“Romantic,” you deadpan, training your eyes back on your laptop. It takes everything in you not to stare, but if you want to keep your feelings low-key, you need to follow a couple of rules.

“I know you took my Tootsie Pop. Where is it?”

You smirk a little, but it quickly fades into a line. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Okay, so maybe that’s a lie, and you both know it. You aren’t the only other person in the house, but Jungwoo, Haechan’s stepbrother, is asleep and wouldn’t cut his nap time short to do something as stupid as stealing the last of his brother’s favorite candy. That leaves you. As his best friend, you’re the first person to know Haechan turns murderous over those stupid lollipops, and that he’s the last person to know how many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie-Pop. In your personal opinion, they’re not even that good. But he’s loved them ever since you’ve known him.

“We’re best friends, y/n. I know when you’re lying,” he remarks, and doesn’t give you the chance to answer before he persists, “where is it?”

There’s only one way out of this.

Run.

Haechan follows almost automatically, and in spite of being barely awake he obviously has the upper hand because he’s always leaned more towards the sport-y side. This doesn’t deter you though, because you have a getaway plan.

In your attempt to somehow outrun a man that used to do track and field, you make a beeline for the backyard door. He’s not going to outrun you in the grass in slippers, you think as you turn to see if he’s caught up on you. You’re in the lead, albeit barely, with your body almost being in arms reach. You try to pick up your speed, and once you reach the door you hurry to turn the knob. Except, there’s one, itty-bitty problem.

The door is fucking locked.

And you already know you won’t have time to open it, so you cave in to defeat, whirling around with your hands up in a surrendering pose. Your plan’s backfired; you’ve been caught.

“Oh, I’ve got you now,” Haechan says cockily. He has you—hook, line, and sinker, and at this point you aren’t even upset. You can’t be upset. His eyes are on you, and his body is close to yours, dangerously so.

“Okay, you win. Happy?” You mumur.

“Not until I get my Tootsie Pop back,” he shakes his head, “now where is it?”

Smiling, you shrug. Of course, you know where the candy is, but he’s either going to have to win or pry the answer out of you.

Then, he steps even closer, and your heart starts pounding in your chest twenty times faster than your feet were against the hardwood. This isn’t your first rodeo, you’ve made out with your best friend countless times, yet the anticipation gives you a rush, like you’ve never done this before. It makes you feel like a teenager in love all over again — seventeen, young and head over heels in love with the man closest to you.

He’s back you into the door, and you can’t keep your eyes off his lips. Beautiful, plush, soft, and your eyes flutter shut as you prepare to feel the same skilled pair against your own, closer, and closer, and closer—

Crunch.

“I fucking knew it!” Haechan yells, jolting your eyes open. You aren’t even given the opportunity to register the situation before his hands are digging into your back pocket, retrieving his fortunately unharmed Tootsie Pop.

It feels like he’s gone before you can even blink, and realizing he’s slipped back into the hall, you begin to follow him into his room. “Hey!” you yell, and he doesn’t say anything, just looking up at you from his gaming chair with that damn candy hanging from his mouth, “why didn’t you kiss me?”

“Why’d you steal my Tootsie Pop?”

Okay, that was stupid, yes, but there was a particular goal in mind which was reached, even if for a short-lived moment.

You frown, “I wanted your attention.”

Haechan shakes his head, laughing. “C’mere.”

Somehow, those words never fail, making you melt and slip into his lap effortlessly every time. You’re like Jell-O to his voice, to his touch, to his whole. You’re a goner, some would say, and a part of you is alright with never coming back if it means you get to feel all the weird, Cupid-y emotions he makes you feel.

At this point, you don’t think you’ll ever stop kissing Haechan. In the time that you’ve been together, you’ve both been in relationships, hence putting the make out sessions on hiatus. They were never really long though, because you’d break up with them and inevitably find your way back to one another in the end.

His fingers guide your chin up, and once more your eyes flutter shut as his lips unite with yours. Haechan kisses in a manner that contrasts with the soft feeling of his lips. He always starts off gentle, but there’s a hunger that overcomes him as he stands up and pushes you against his desk, rough yet graceful and holding you so firmly, like you’re glass, but he wants to break you. And when he shatters you into all those tiny pieces, you don’t care. You want him to glue you back together and do it all over again. He’s intoxicating, he’s an addictive drug, but he tastes like candy, and you can’t stop coming back to him. He feels like home, the place where you belong. The place where you can be one-hundred percent, authentically you, safe and whole, more than the general perception than you. And fuck, does he kiss like the damn devil himself.

You were silly for ever believing it would only be one kiss.

Jungwoo thinks that for people who are trying to keep their not-so relationship-y relationship under wraps, you two are very loud.

Speaking of which, and despite the nature of your relationship, you and Haechan haven’t even discussed your label. You know that you aren’t friends with benefits—you haven’t crossed that line, but to be honest, those lines have been starting to look blurry for a while—but you also aren’t in a relationship. You see other people, you fuck other people, and when other people ask if you’re dating, you both deny it immediately. You’re just best friends, you both say each time like some rehearsed line, even if it breaks your heart to hear him friendzone you.

Karina and Mark even have an ongoing bet about you two. Karina is one-hundred positive there’s something going on, whereas Mark is probably the only person in the world that wants to give you guys the benefit of the doubt.

“For heaven’s sake, I can’t get any type of sleep around here,” Jungwoo rasps, leaning against the doorframe, “I really hope you guys don’t do this shit when Dohwan’s here.”

His judgmental eyes practically bore into your soul, and you thank heaven that you don’t have to worry about keeping this secret from Jungwoo, even if he would probably appreciate it more if you did. He finds you in a rather interesting position, straddling Haechan’s lap as you press kisses into his collarbone.

It’s all Haechan’s fault, really. Three years ago, Jungwoo made the mistake of walking inside Haechan’s bedroom without knocking, accidentally finding you two making out in a very touchy way on his bed because a certain someone didn’t think to lock the door. Not only did you ruin his quote-unquote innocence, but his perception of you forever, and ever since that ordeal, Jungwoo has never opened his stepbrother’s door without knocking. This time, it just so happened to be wide-open.

You bite your lip, feeling bad. Kim Dohwan is Haechan’s halfbrother of whom he babysits whenever available (and you like to tag on, because dealing with children is stressful and Haechan’s already stressed enough), and on weekdays Jungwoo has to wake up from his nap earlier to pick up the kid from school and bring him back home, then leave for work. You were too loud and disrupted the poor guy’s nap time.

“Oh,” Haechan says the syllable blankly, not too sympathetic, “did we wake you?”

“Of course not, I usually wake up at 2pm and take extra longs showers to start my day,” Jungwoo deadpans, “but whatever. I’m heading out. Don’t forget to go grocery shopping today.”

“Noted,” you and Haechan say simultaneously, gazing at one another and stifling giggles when you catch each other’s gaze. Jungwoo smiles at you, then flicks off his brother before parting.

When you’re both all alone again, a few seconds pass before Haechan’s eyes do that thing where they twinkle every time something catches his interest (or perhaps that’s the in love side of your brain making you see things.)

“Hey, you coming to Chenle’s Valentines Day party Monday?” You don’t know why he’s even asking, you follow Haechan everywhere he goes like a lost puppy. Maybe he’s discreetly asking you out. “Unless you’re actually busy, by the way, I hope you know you’re going. And maybe you’ll find some single pringle interested in a relationship. You can’t just kiss me forever, you know.” Oh. Well that eliminates that thought.

A part of you is yelling at you to decline, to lie and say that you actually have a dick or pussy appointment scheduled for the 14th, yet another is weak, in spite of you being aware of how this works. First of all, Valentine’s Day parties are mainly for single people who don’t have anything better to do, and each time one of you go to one, you end up meeting some stranger and hooking up with them. You know that’s more than likely what he’s going to do, and you aren’t strong enough to watch him flirt with other people.

You know how to put up a good front, though, so you’ll fake it until you make it.

“We can do a lot more than kiss,” you suggest with a wink.

Haechan grimaces, “No thanks. Now get off my lap.”

You frown, but climb off his lap nonetheless. “Wow,” you drag dramatically, “You’ll make out with me for what feels like hours, but sticking your dick in me is where you draw the line?”

“Precisely.”

You gasp in faux offense. “Oh, come on. Sex doesn’t seem so bad. Like, think of it as my pussy giving your dick a nice warm hug.”

Haechan’s at a lost for words, his face bright red. How do you even come up with this stuff? “Oh my god, are you coming or not?”

You joke, “I thought you said sticking your dick in me was where you draw the line?”

He shoots you a glare so sharp you’re sure that if you were still on his lap, he’d be barely resisting the urge to shove you off. You don’t miss the way his cheeks heat up, though.

Haechan groans exasperatedly, leaning back his gaming chair, “Y/n, seriously!”

“Fine!” resisting your best friend is literally impossible, you conclude, because you have officially caved in to his request—or, more or less, demand, rather, “fine, fine! I’ll go!”

“Great,” he grins with satisfaction, beaming with his thirty-two teeth, and you even see little gleams of smiles in his eyes, “anyway, Dohwan’s gonna be here soon, so let’s get ready to go shopping.”

You furrow your brows. You have a solid twenty minutes left, and all you really need to do is slip on your shoes.

“I need more Tootsie Pops,” Haechan adds, and suddenly everything makes a lot more sense.

And you roll your eyes. “We’ll get you some more Tootsie Pops, but you better not ditch us for the candy aisle!”

“Of course, not,” he smiles, not even trying to sound or appear convincing. “I’d never leave you guys.”

That’s exactly what he does.

You aren’t even remotely surprised, though heavily disappointed when he announces in the middle of the thankfully empty cereal aisle that he’s going to find Tootsie Pops, managing to run off before you can even protest.

Gripping the shopping cart, you avert your gaze from the Cinnamon Toast Cruch boxes to his figure, almost missing him jog onto the following aisle. You shake your head, a small smile tugging your lips. If it were the end of the world, Haechan would stock up on those candies before he would even think to consider water.

“Auntie Y/N,” you aren’t quite adjusted to being addressed as an aunt, but you aren’t against it either. You have the image all put together—rich, thriving, and the kids adore you, “do you love my brother?”

That was perhaps the very last question you expected the six-year-old boy to ask you. Your eyes are a little wide, but it’s a kid, you remind yourself, so you shouldn’t be worried. But shit, then again, if a first-grader can figure it out, you’re fresh out of luck.

“Why do you think that?” You crouch down to be eye-level with him, having a feeling there’s some misunderstanding here. Dohwan’s bright for his age and doesn’t let anyone forget it, but you’ll be damned if he’s sniffed you out.

He makes a face. “I saw you kiss him, just like mommy and daddy do. And my mommy and daddy love each other very—” he stretches the vowel, and you can’t but giggle, “—much! That’s why they made me!” then he gasps, and you fear what it means, praying he doesn’t ask what you think he will. “Will you and my brother have a baby, too? I wan’ a new friend!”

On second thought, you think you’d rather he would’ve asked you what you thought he was. You nearly have a heart attack in the middle of the aisle, yet still, Dohwan gazes up at you with his innocent, sparkly eyes. You assume it’s in the blood; Jungwoo doesn’t have them, and he isn’t blood-related to Haechan, but Dohwan partially is, and the twinkle is promiment.

Calmly, you reply, “Don’t you already have a lot friends?”

He does, you both know it. You vaguely remember pulling up to his sixth birthday bash and being in shock of all the little kids jumping and flipping on the Spider-Man bouncy house. You haven’t been surrounded by that many children since, hell, probably since kindergarten.

“Yeah, but I wanna be a big brother,” he folds his tiny arms and pouts, “It’s not fair Hyuck and Woo get to be big, but I don’t!”

With minimum success, you manage to stifle your laugh, stretching out your arms to bring the little boy in for a hug, “You’ll be big one day. Trust me, you don’t wanna rush it.”

“And strong like Superman?”

“And strong like Superman,” you reassure, all smiley and convincing. “Now let’s go check up on your big brother, he’s taking too long.”

Dohwan rocks from side to side as he walks, murmuring some Nickelodeon TV show theme song, and you push the cart until you’ve reached your designation.

Quickly, you regret acting on your impatience. The scene taking place at the back of the aisle is anything but comforting—Haechan’s talking to some girl, whom of which is literally throwing herself onto him, and you can’t help but notice the way he wallows in the attention. For fucks sake, all the attention you give him and he doesn’t even give a fraction of it back! Then here comes this random girl from your campus.

Sometimes, you think about how you could do everything she’s doing right now—twirl your hair around your finger, be touchy with him, giggling girlishly at everything he says, funny or not—and yet he wouldn’t bat an eye, because you’re best friends and nothing more. Kissing each other breathless is already normalized between the two of you, what’s a little flirting.

Sometimes, you wish you hadn’t kissed your best friend that day. You’re both too comfortable, everything is too weightless. I love you, Haechan says it back without a thought. C’mere, he calls and pulls you onto his lap or cuddles you to death. Fuck, he—on very rare occasions when making out goes a little too far—groans into your ear, groping you a little. Scratch that. It may be weightless on his end, but it isn’t on yours, and everything has an everlasting effect on you.

“Auntie?”

When you look down at Dohwan, your gaze is so, so tired. Your eyes do the talking; you can’t move your lips.

He hugs your leg. “I love you.”

His face is pure, innocent, but he reads you so perfectly. The corners of your lips turn up, and you ruffle his hair, “Love ya, too. Let’s go get your brother, alright?”

He bounces eagerly, and you both begin to stroll down the aisle until you’re beside Haechan. You’re in a selfish mood today, so you think of some remark to make in the process.

“Nice Tootsie Pops, Bowlcut,” you mask your tiny emotional breakdown with a joke, “Hi, Faith.”

“Hope,” she corrects, evidently annoyed by your presence, though she doesn’t state it outright. “My name is Hope. And… bowl cut?”

“Interchangeable,” you dismiss her correction carelessly. In all honesty, you already knew her name, but you’re feeling like a bitter bitch currently, “and yeah, in high school Haechan had this hideous bowl cut that he—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Haechan grumbles, “that was four years ago!”

“And I’ll never forget,” you’re smiling blissfully, nostalgic. “Anyways, what’cha two doing?”

“We were catching up, it’s been a minute since I’ve seen Hope here,” you hear Hope snicker at this, and something about it is extremely off-putting. He turns to her, “So, I’m in a bit of a time crunch. Could I have your number?”

Ouch. Right in your face, literally.

She giggles some more, typing her number in his phone, and you try to focus on Dohwan so that you don’t cave into your desire to knock her upside the head. There’s already so much on your plate, you don’t need an assault charge.

She smiles, all bubbly and giddy. You know jealousy isn’t a good look, but it’s still pissing you off. “See you around?”

“See you around,” Haechan replies. She hugs him, not forgetting to shoot you a look from across his shoulder as she does, and only once satisfied does she turns on her heel, sashaying away.

“Didn’t know pussy was on the shopping list,” you sneer, relieved once she’s finally gone. Her presence was suffocating.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” he rolls his eyes, “at least I’m actually trying, I don’t know what you’re going to do when I’m cuffed down and—holy sh—I mean crap! You’re so quiet, I forgot you were here,” Haechan jumps, only noticing Dohwan when he pokes at his leg. “And don’t you dare make a cuff joke, y/n. Not in front of the kid.”

You yell in that defensive tone which is a tell-tale sign you’re lying, “I wasn’t gonna!”

Haechan gives you the look.

The we’re-best-friends, I-know-when-you’re-lying look.

And that look is utterly withering, so you decide you’re accepting defeat. “Okay fine, maybe I was thinking about it, but I wasn’t actually gonna say it. Not with him around.”

Haechan snorts, like you said something funny, but in reality he just doesn’t believe you. “Yeah, alright. Let’s finish shopping.”

You don’t argue, but there’s a lingering thought in your mind as you push the cart, rattling around in your brain still.

When he’s cuffed. Hmm. You can’t speak for him completely, but you both know how that one goes. When you get into a relationship, you think the person is great and they serve as a nice temporary distraction—that is, until you’re bored and realize no one will ever compare to Haechan, and especially not in the kissing department. So you break up, and then you go back to making out with Haechan, solidifying your suspicion that no one will ever replace your best friend. It’s the reason you don’t do relationships anymore, you feel bad for using people when you know it isn’t going to change a thing. It never does.

As far as your knowledge extends, things aren’t too different with Haechan. You and him don’t push things, you don’t pry too deep. There’s some unspoken boundary, and you know when to drop things. That’s why you both say the same thing each time you ask one another why you and whoever it was that you were previously seeing broke up—it wasn’t working out.

Like a moth to a flame, Haechan always finds his way back to you too, because apparently you’re the only person that can keep him tied down. You don’t think that’s the case, though. Your problem is you’re in love with your best friend, no matter how hard you try to suppress the feelings. His problem? You can’t be sure, but you’d guess commitment issues.

Whatever it is, and as selfish as it may sound, you want it to stay. He isn’t yours, but you like the comfort of knowing that he isn’t anyone else’s, either.

If Cupid had a human counterpart, it would be Na Jaemin in reincarnated form. He may not have wings nor a bow and arrow, but he does have dedication and a gigantic mouth.

“I can’t believe you called me over here for this,” you stand in an effort to leave, but Jaemin pulls you back down by your wrist, so you sigh, accepting that you’re stuck in the cafe and in the middle of a Jaem-terrogation.

“Not so fast, Sonic. You still haven’t answered my question. I don’t have all day, you know, I have other people’s business to be in,” he admits unabashedly, and you snort at his honesty.

Jaemin is an extremely shameless, extremely straightforward individual. He knows what he wants, how to get it, and the only time he’s afraid of letting someone know what he’s chasing for is when it interferes with his goal of obtaining said desire. He loves all things drama and gossip, and these are the lengths he’ll go to squeeze information out of you. No wonder he’s one of the writers for the campus newspaper.

“I don’t have feelings for Haechan,” you fiddle with your fork. “And even if I did, why would it matter? Haechan doesn’t have feelings for me, either.”

“Forgive me, but you’re a fucking dumbass,” Jaemin concludes, and you gasp in dramatic offense. “Why would I be here if he didn’t like you back, y/n? You know that he hasn’t had anyone over in two weeks? There’s like, three things at the top of Haechan’s list of shit he needs to survive, and that’s you, Tootsie Pops, and sex. Yet he’s gone two entire weeks without it. He likes you, really fucking bad.”

“Golly gee, Haechan hasn’t fucked anyone in two entire weeks. He must be head over heels in love with me,” you deadpan, ignoring how Jaemin rolls his eyes in response. “Be serious, Jaem. He literally got this girl’s number the other day. The man said himself that he doesn’t want to stick his dick in me. There’s nothing going on.”

Okay, so maybe Haechan is a raging sexaholic. Maybe he’s been a little horny recently. And maybe contact-full makeout sessions have been a reoccurrence in the past two weeks, but none of that matters, and he typically has extreme self control. Fresh as yesterday, he was definitely trying to get into Hope’s pants. It’s weightless, everything between you. It means absolutely nothing, and you’re trying to come to terms with the possibility that it never will. You wish your friends would accept the fact, too.

At least they don’t know you and Haechan make out, and have been for the past four years. They’d be insufferable, and you two would absolutely never hear the end of it.

“Y/n, please. Your biggest competition is those damn Tootsie Pops.”

“And if you told him that he had to live without me or the candy, he’d choose them over me any day.”

“Actually, he’d tell me to fuck off—and stop asking him stupid questions. You can’t tell me I’m wrong because I’m speaking from experience,” Jaemin grins, “I pushed the question until he gave me a proper answer. He chose you, by the way.”

You groan into your hands, “Unless you have some other evidence to provide besides this stupid question and him not getting laid in two weeks, you’re wasting my time here, Cupid.”

Jaemin sighs, “I thought I could pressure you into admitting your feelings—”

“I don’t have feelings for Haechan!”

“—that you deny having, but I guess taking the high road doesn’t work. Don’t worry, I still have plan B. I mean, you should be worried, but it’s whatever.”

You blink. “Plan B?”

He ignores you, standing up and preparing to take his leave. You’re still curious about whatever his alternative, backup plan is however, and he doesn’t look like he’s going to tell you.

“Jaemin!” You shriek. “What are you talking about?”

“February 14th, Chenle’s party,” he answers vaguely, swinging his bag over his shoulders. “Be there, or be square. Whatever that means.”

He exits without another word, leaving you dumbfounded and with a sudden dread in your chest. They don’t… know, do they? No, of course not. How could they? You’ve been keeping this secret for nearly four years, and the only people that know are Jungwoo and Dohwan.

Great. Another reason to dread the fourteenth, and despise Cupid—and his human counterpart, your actual mortal enemy.

“I know you like Regina George, but the dress code is Cady Heron.”

Bummer. You didn’t exactly plan on attending as a sexy bunny in fishnets and knee-high boots, but you don’t intend on wearing a Party City outfit, neither. It’s only the 6th though, so you still have a week and some change to outfit plan.

You frown, “Why the change? None of his past parties have had much of a dress code.”

“Because Chenle is also stuck babysitting his baby brother on Valentine’s day while his parents are having a date night,” Haechan answers. “I’m not saying you have to dress like a prude, but don’t dress like a slut, either.”

Ignoring the insinuation behind his words, you don’t miss the fact he said also. “What do you mean also? Don’t tell me…”

“Exactly what you think. Dad is whisking my stepmom away on a romantic evening date to only God knows where, and Jungwoo is busy with his girlfriend, so me being the sole single-pringle in the family gave him the bright idea to have me baby sit,” he explains, though he doesn’t seem burdened by the task. “I don’t really mind, though. It’d be one thing if I planned on getting some pussy that night, but no one’s smashing at a party where there’s children. I hope not, at least.”

You wince at that. You hope not, too. It’s a setback that you have to re-plan your outfit, but on the plus side, Haechan can and will help you decide this time, even if you have to force him.

So that’s where you find yourself a couple hours later, your bedroom a mess as the aftermath of the meticulous care you’ve put into your self-styling. You’ve narrowed it down to two outfit selections; option A, the white crop-top with the cute pink pants; or option B, the pretty and red mini-dress with stilettos. It’s a little embarrassing that hours of your indecisiveness have led you to this conclusion, but you want to choose the perfect outfit that’s also not overbearing.

“And I have to help you why?”

“Because you’re my best friend, and that’s what best friends are for, duh.”

Haechan’s favorite thing about your place is you have all his utmost favorite games—and that literally everything there is like a piece of you, from the decoration to the smell of your perfume bottles you keep in your bathroom. He’d never tell you that, though—so he wasn’t too enthusiastic about being interrupted from his video-gaming session. But then, he realized he gets a special preview of your Valentine’s day outfit, and Haechan loves the way you dress, probably an abnormal amount. Slutty or prude-y.

“Then what’cha waiting for? Strip for me, princess,” he demands jokingly. It isn’t normal for you to feel bashful by anything a guy says, but everything is so different with Haechan. It’s the littlest, simplist things that drive you over the edge, that make you want him in ways you probably, scratch that, definitely shouldn’t.

And all the questions, assumptions, and rumors regarding your nonexistent relationship with Haechan aren’t exactly unwarranted. You two flirt and touch an abnormal amount, and while it’s common knowledge that Haechan is a touchy person, and you’re a natural flirt, people say it’s extreme between you two.

That makes you laugh. When it comes to the tension between you both that people speak of, you wish you could see what they see.

“You want to watch me strip?” You’re genuinely surprised, only the other day he seemed repulsed by the thought of you naked. “That’s new. I’m guessing you haven’t gotten laid in a hot minute.”

Haechan rolls his eyes, silently confirming what Jaemin told you at the cafe, but you shake the thought away, refusing to let it spur you on. It doesn’t mean anything. “Anyways. You’ve got nothing I haven’t seen before, baby girl. Now, you gonna strip or what?”

“I’m stripping, I’m stripping! Relax, Liam Payne!” It’s really nothing he hasn’t seen before, because Haechan’s seen naked girls, and he’s seen you half-naked before, so neither of you actually care. You peel off your top, slowly and in a strip tease sort of way and look him in the eye, giggling once you catch him shaking his head. You don’t repeat the movement with your shorts though, simply taking them off and picking up your new shirt to slip it off the hanger.

Successfully discreet, Haechan wallows in the sight of you half-naked for as long as he can before you’re slipping on the crop top and the pink pants. Now that he thinks about it, he bought you those pants, and darn do they make your ass look good. Then he realizes he’s thinking about your ass and taking not as discreet looks at it, and shakes the thought away.

“So?” Your voice cuts through the silence. “What do you think?”

He needs a moment to gather himself and recollect his thoughts, because he feels like turning on Destiny’s Child’s Bootylicious and if spoke his mind he would definitely say something he’d regret. Like, I could fuck the shit out of you. He doesn’t think he should say that.

“What do you mean, what do I think? I bought you those pants, I’d be damned if I thought you didn’t look good in them,” Haechan supplies, making you roll your eyes in response.

“Very underwhelming reaction. I wanted you to fall out on the floor and pass out for a few seconds with your hand on your chest,” you pout.

“Definitely not doing all that,” he chuckles. “But you do look good enough for… somebody to do it. Anyways, it’s stripping time again. Get in that dress for me, princess.”

If he doesn’t stop with the pet names you’re going to combust. You hide it though, taking off outfit option A and putting on option B. You feel confident in your appearance, with or without him, but the way Haechan’s practically gawking at you does boost said confidence.

“What about this one?”

Okay, so Haechan’s one-hundred percent biased in his decision—or maybe he isn’t, since he didn’t buy this outfit—though nonetheless, he loves this dress on you. In his personal opinion, you’ll look good in anything you wear, but the way this particular dress hugs your figure perfectly is a bonus. He knows all eyes are going to be on you the moment you step inside Chenle’s house, and maybe he’s going to have to keep you and Dohwan close to his side.

Rather than replying verbally, Haechan walks forward and pulls you into a kiss. His hands dip around your waist, skirting the area until he’s gripping you like he’s afraid of letting go.

And as always, you melt into his lips. Like ice to the sun, or wax to a flame. It’s the umpteenth kiss in your whole lifetime, but Haechan always makes it feel like the first time. Like two love-struck highschoolers, except with a lot more experience. Haechan kisses you like he loves you, and you hate it. You might even loathe it.

His fingers slip down your hips, to your revealed thighs, like he just so happens to know that’s one of your weak spots. Luckily you’ve learned some of his weak spots too, and not really thinking, you don’t hesitate to aim for his most sensitive one - his neck. You can’t get used to how beautiful he sounds as he moans, your lips pressing into his sweet spot and leaving undoubtedly a mark.

“Fuck,” Haechan moans, “you’re my kryptonite, you know that?”

“A kiss is all it takes for you to fold?” You gasp out with a smirk.

“Shut up.”

Your grin widens. “Make me.”

Just as he leans in, about to pin you down to your duvet and kiss the life out of you while you’re thinking that maybe this is the tension people speak of, his phone rings in his back pocket. It feels like snapping out some trance or spell, like a reverse Cupid’s arrow, and he instantly backs off of you.

He takes a look at his phone screen. “I um, I gotta take this.”

Biting your lip, you nod. “Okay.”

“You look great though,” he comments, and you smile thinly at him as he slips from between your fingertips yet again.

It seems that you’re left all alone, pathetically wet, and wondering if that person on the other line is Hope - but you try to shake that thought off.

Sighing, you flop against your sheets. Love is some extremely cruel, extremely rigged game that only lucky people win, and it seems that Luck has sided with the evil that is Cupid. You’ve been dealt cards, and Haechan refuses to show you his hand. All you can do is watch it play out.

Haechan knew that something was dangerously off when Jaemin bought him a brand-new bag of Tootsie Pops without being asked, and invited you over for a movie night with the guys, offering to open up with you and Haechan’s all-time favorite movie, Mean Girls. He even offered to play The Kissing Booth next! Everyone else instantly protested of course, but the fact he offered in the first place is borderline suspicious.

Sure, Jaemin’s not the devil or anything, depending on who you ask. He’s… kind, and he can be a sweetheart. But Jaemin does nothing for free, and Haechan can’t shake the thought that this is planned bribery. And it isn’t hush-money. Jaemin doesn’t buy silence, he buys words.

By the time Jaemin asks Haechan to help him with the popcorn, he’s ninety-nine point nine percent sure that something is definitely wrong here. Yet still, he follows him into the kitchen.

“Alright, what’s up man?” Haechan wastes zero time, wanting to get to the bottom of all this. “I know you want something out of me. There’s no other reason you would offer to play The Kissing Booth, or buy me Tootsie Pops for free.”

Jaemin scoffs, but he doesn’t try to front, “Glad you know. Since we’re on the same page, let’s address this thing with you and y/n.”

“That’s what this is about?” Haechan grumbles. “I’ve told you, I don’t have feelings for her!” He whisper-yells.

Jaemin has heard that far too many times for it to be convincing. He’s positive that even Helen Keller herself could tell you two are hopelessly in love. Takes one to know one, he thinks. It seems the three of you must be blind, because you and Haechan are oblivious to your feelings for one another, and it’s painfully obvious.

“And Mary wasn’t a virgin,” Jaemin says ironically, making Haechan roll his eyes. “If you’re not in love with her, then explain what the hell is going on between you two. I know that she’s your best friend or whatever, but you don’t act like it at all. From a fresh perspective, someone would totally think you’re in love.”

Haechan hates that he’s right. It doesn’t make sense the amount of times you’ve gone to public places and had cashiers refer to you as a couple, or elderly people ask you if you’re together. Because you’re not. You’re best friends, and even if Haechan wants to be more than that, that’s his label. And he’s sure he’s stuck with it for life.

“You’re fucking Hope to distract yourself from your feelings for y/n,” Jaemin adds, and it’s a statement, not a question.

“I’m not—”

“You are,” Jaemin interjects. “Head over heels, in love with a girl you think doesn’t reciprocate your feelings, and you’re also being an ass to her, whether you know it or not.”

If Haechan was in a situation where he needed to simplify the reason you two click so well, he’d say chalk it up to compatibility and say it’s because you’re like a mirror of one another. Which also means he knows you, better than anyone else even, and he knows neither of you do the whole catching feelings things anymore. You like to fuck and flirt, and fuck some more, to avoid the fact that you love too hard. If you fuck people whose names you don’t even remember, it doesn’t mean a darn thing that you two make out.

No one really knows about that part yet. But they do know that you like to fuck, and that’s why Haechan thinks that if he’s an ass, then that means so are you. What the fuck is he doing that you aren’t?

Even if he is an ass, what is he supposed to do? He’s only recently realized that damn, he actually does have feelings for you, which is where Hope comes along and yes, he is fucking her to distract himself from you. So what? It’s not like it’s working, he’s still stuck on you, obsessed with the thought of you, craving your touch and the sound of your voice. He still loves you, and it’s so scary because no matter what his friends say, he thinks they don’t know you or your relationship like he does. They think they do, but they don’t.

“I’m not in love,” Haechan lies through his teeth, “maybe I’m in like.”

Jaemin snorts. In like? That’s the stupidest thing he’s ever heard. Not in love his fucking ass. “You’re in denial, that’s what you are.”

Haechan grumbles, trying desperately not to raise his voice so that the others don’t hear him from the living room, “Even if I did like her—and I’m telling you, I don’t—it wouldn’t change anything because she doesn’t like me.”

“You two are the same breed of oblivious and stupid,” Jaemin takes the popcorn out of the microwave, pouring it all into a bowl. He’s even laughing, much to Haechan’s confusion, but he’s apparently unbothered by Haechan’s lack of confession, “but fine. Lie to my face. I still have a backup plan.”

“A back-up plan?” Haechan repeats, lost.

“I just thought it would be nice of me to try and get you to confess before I have to work a Valentine’s day miracle, but unfortunately you two are a match made in heaven—both terribly stubborn,” Jaemin says vaguely, not really answering Haechan’s question, “so I guess we’ll all know the truth at Chenle’s party.”

Jaemin exits with the popcorn bowls before Haechan can even part his lips to ask another question, and he stands there, shocked and unsure of how to react. He’s concerned, though. Jaemin has something cooking (besides the popcorn), and he isn’t sure what, but it’s Na fucking gossiping blabbermouth Jaemin. That means it can’t be anything good.

So apparently when you and Haechan had that heated makeout session the other day, you left a trail - or in other words, you marked his neck the fuck up.

You hadn’t noticed because he covered it up with concealer, but you’re in the middle of another one of those when he stops you, preventing you from repeating your mistake.

“You can’t do that. People will see,” Haechan frowns. You wonder what’s the problem with hickeys. Is he embarrassed? No way. Haechan? Embarrassed? About hickeys? He has much bigger fish to fry.

In contrast, you’re over the moon. Even if he isn’t yours, marking him up makes you feel like he belongs to you. Plus, other people will see, and they’ll know that he isn’t theirs, either. Haechan also has a beautiful neck, you realize as you stare at his skin. It makes you wonder if there’s anything about him that isn’t beautiful.

“Would that be so bad?” You ask. “You’d look sexy all marked up by me.”

Haechan groans, “Do you ever think with your head and not your pussy?”

“I wish my pussy was my head. My head’s just so full of you,” you sigh dramatically.

It’s rare for Haechan to blush, but you somehow manage to make him full-on flush sometimes and you take that as an achievement. It’s partially the reason you love flirting with him so much, he’s so reactive. His reactions are cute sometimes.

“Be serious for 5 seconds,” he whines, and you giggle.

“I was serious,” you insist, “but fine, I’ll think with my head since yours is clearly not working. No one’s gonna assume they’re from me, Hyuck. Just tell them they’re from one of your hoes.”

“I know, but it’s not them I’m worried about. It’s, um…” he trails off.

You’re confused, blinking. If not your friends, then who on earth—oh, for fucks sake.

“It’s Hope,” you utter tonelessly.

“Yeah, uh, yeah,” he wonders why you suddenly sound so dry, and then the whole grocery shopping thing seeps back into his mind. You obviously don’t like Hope, and it’s not just you, really. Lots of people don’t like her. But Haechan needs a pretty face to compete with the image of yours in his head, even if it isn’t winning. “She kinda likes me, and—”

“Do you like her?” You don’t mean to ask so fast. It slips, like your mouth has a mind of its own.

Haechan shrugs. No, he doesn’t like her. He likes you, but he thinks that maybe he can somehow convince himself it’s the other way around. So he replies, “Maybe.”

Fuck. You try not to appear suddenly devoid of life, forcing a cheery smile. “That’s… nice,” you lie through your teeth. “Let me take this opportunity to have one last kiss before I possibly never will again?”

Haechan snickers, to silently say as if. He isn’t wrong for it, either. One kiss is never one kiss with him — never has been, never will be. There’s a reason you both bonded over bombing a math exam.

D-day rolls around, and you’re eyeing your frame in your full-length mirror, smoothing your palms over your dress as you give yourself a quick once-over before the clock strikes 7PM. You look like that bitch, and everyone in that party is going to fucking know it because you’re going to walk in there like that bitch. Fuck Cupid. You don’t need his stupid bow. And fuck Haechan, too. He’s your ride, but he’s gonna ditch you at some point in the party like he always does. It’ll be no different now, and this time, you’ll be the first one to leave.

The chime of the doorbell jolts you from your mental slumber, and you quickly reach for your purse then head towards the door with a heavy heartbeat. You know he’s already seen you in this dress, he chose it for fucks sake, but there’s something else that gets your heart racing—no. You can’t think about him. Fuck Haechan, remember? He’s no good for you.

“Here goes nothing,” you mutter to yourself, palm on the doorknob, “you can do this.”

Haechan’s sucks in a breath the moment you open the door. You look gorgeous. You always do, but in this particular moment, you look better than you ever have before. Those corny romance sayings usually make him laugh with mirth, but he’s genuinely convinced you look better everyday that he sees you. All dressed up like this, or not.

“You look so pretty, Auntie!” Dohwan beats him to a compliment.

You bend down to ruffle the boy’s hair, “Thank you, Dohwan. You look very handsome.” And then you look at Haechan.

He looks handsome as well, unfortunately. Jet black hair, exposed forehead, and his outfit is black with red hearts in the center of the shirt. You try not to pay him too much mind, but your heart and the place between your thighs don’t seem to agree with your mind. He catches you looking at him, and feels a twinge of anxiousness in his heart. Get it together, man, he tells himself. Lee Donghyuck doesn’t get nervous looking at pretty girls. Lee Donghyuck doesn’t hesitate about his actions, either, wondering if he should hold your hand, he doesn’t rethink what he should say. It all comes to him naturally.

“Yeah, you look beautiful,” he settles, mentally cursing himself for being unable to think of anything else. He blames you. Ever since you first snuck in his mind, you’ve been living rent-free there, and make it hard to think about anything else sometimes. That’s why he thought that needed distractions.

If you could relay the message to your heart, you’d tell it stop beating. Instead, you mask your emotion, smiling. “Thank you, likewise. Now c’mon, we gotta get there by 7:30!”

Haechan’s saddened by the dismissal, but you don’t catch his face as you walk to his car.

If you ignore him, you can do this.

Haechan cannot do this.

Something isn’t right. It wasn’t right the second he noticed you gave him a simple, rushed compliment, not bothering to make some sexual remark that usually makes Haechan’s cheeks feel like fire. You didn’t even kiss him before you got in the car. And Haechan’s sure you’ve been avoiding him like the plague, scurrying off and getting lost in the red and pink sea before he could even ask you if you wanted to check out the drink menu.

He doesn’t know where you are, and that haunts him. Turns out Chenle is paying Yangyang, Ten and Jisung to keep the kids entertained on one end of the house, whilst the adults do adult-y things on the other. You could be with someone else for all he knows, hell, you probably are. He was practically fuming when he saw some people staring at you as you walked in.

“Uh oh, I think y/n divorced Haechan,” Chenle jokes, and a choir of laughs follows suit.

Haechan grumbles, “A guy can’t miss his girl best friend?”

“Of course, you can,” Chenle drawls, “but everyone knows she’s more than just a friend to you. Like even if you aren’t together, there’s no way you guys don’t have feelings for each other.”

“Right? And they’re so cute together, too. A literal match made in heaven by angel Cupid,” Jaemin agrees, speaking as though Haechan isn’t right there.

“You’re dating y/n?” gasps Karina, overhearing Jaemin much to Haechan’s dismay. Oh, great, she’s as much as a blabbermouth as he is. The whole world’s going to think Haechan’s dating you in five minutes or less.

“No!”

“Yes, he is, spread the word,” Jaemin says, already knowing he doesn’t have to tell her. Karina’s mumbling I knew it under her breath before jogging somewhere.

“You know,” Haechan starts, downing a shot because if he’s not at least tipsy he’s going to die at this party, “she’s been making me watch murder documentaries with her and I’ve definitely picked up a thing or two. I’d be careful.”

Jaemin scoffs, “Please. You’re going to be kissing my ass and the ground that I walk on by the time this party’s over.”

There it goes. Haechan wonders what’s so special about tonight that Jaemin’s been hinting at vaguely. It’s been keeping him on his toes, but he doesn’t ask because he knows Jaemin, and he isn’t going to tell him a thing. The one time this guy wants to keep something secret.

An hour flies by, and Haechan still hasn’t seen you. He’s looked for you, and refuses to believe his eyes are somehow missing you, even though you’re in a crowd. He literally went up the stars and gazed over the railing for a better view, and you were no where to be found. You’ve refused to answer your phone, too, and Haechan doesn’t know what to do. He would just start talking to some random chick, but that’s not what Haechan wants. He doesn’t want some random chick. He wants to be with you. Hold you. Touch you. Kiss you, with no shame, no fear, in front of everyone, and he isn’t in denial about it. He wants you.

And Jaemin is fed up.

“Alright, I’m tired of you moping around drinking like a divorced man. Let’s go to the kitchen,” Jaemin suggests. Or commands, but still.

Haechan quirks a brow. “Where there’s nothing but more drinks?”

“Trust me, I’m not letting you drink anymore tonight. You have a wife and a kid to drive home,” Jaemin jokes. Usually he’d deny any sort of relationship with you that isn’t best-friendship, but Haechan simply shakes his head, following his friend and roommate into the kitchen.

Then he sees you, and his jaw doesn’t just drop, but it falls flat on the ground, bounces a little, and comes back down. You’re clinging to Chenle’s side with a confused face, equally as surprised to see him, though not very delighted.

“What’s going on?”

You stare at one another.

“Stop copying me!”

Jaemin and Chenle stare at one another, then stare at you two staring at one another, and stare at one another again.

“I hate to interrupt your… stare-off, but there’s a reason we brought you two here,” Jaemin interjects, making you two finally split gazes as you stare at him, confused.

“Which is?”

You glare at him. Jaemin’s success was short-lived, it seems.

“Drum roll, please,” he says, and Chenle begins tapping against the counter, “Dohwan!”

Suddenly, Dohwan pops up from around the corner. He’s on the completely wrong side of the house, and while he’s under adult supervision, you still wonder why he’s here.

You blink. “What’s he doing here?”

Jaemin smirks. “I’m glad you asked. Dohwan tells me he’s witnessing some very interesting sights of the two of you. Go ahead and tell us what you saw, kiddo.”

“I saw Haechan and Auntie y/n kissing, like mommy and daddy do!” Dohwan shares, grimacing in disgust. If you weren’t practically fearing for your life right now, you’d probably laugh at his reaction.

“And how often do you see this?” Chenle adds.

“Um…” the kid ponders, “every time Auntie y/n comes over. I heard them say they wanted to keep it a secret from me, but they’re not very good at it.”

Haechan shoots you a panicked look, and you’re wearing the exact same one. By the time you realize that this is what Jaemin’s been hinting at this whole time, it’s much too late. Your secret has been exposed to the worst people ever, and now they’re definitely going to think you’re dating.

“Thank you for your input, Dohwan,” Jaemin smiles, then turns to look at you and Haechan. You’re both frozen and stiff, unsure of how to respond. “So, anything to say about this?”

“It doesn’t mean anything,” Haechan’s quick to say. You hope no one catches the way your face falters with hurt for a split second. “If you want me to be honest, then fine, I will. Yeah, we kiss. We’ve been kissing since high school, but it didn’t mean anything then and it doesn’t mean anything now. We just, I don’t know, do it for fun.”

Chenle deadpans, “So you just kiss for pure, innocent fun.”

“Exactly,” Haechan nods. “It means nothing.”

It means something to me, you think to yourself, and when you notice the silence in the room, you gaze up to see everyone’s eyes on you, Haechan’s a little wide. Oh, fuck.

“I said that aloud, didn’t I?”

“Yep,” Jaemin grins. He was right. “Is there something you want to share with the class?”

Stupidly, you decide to look at Haechan, and he’s re-lost his composure, frozen up and stiff all over again. Your heart is pounding harder than it has been all night. It’s partially the alcohol, but you can feel it in your veins and all around you. It won’t leave you alone, and looking at Haechan, it’s faster, as if to say he’s the one I want.

So you choose to make another decision that you might possibly regret, but you have to get this off your chest. It isn’t news to anyone but Haechan anyways.

“Donghyuck,” you start, and he knows it’s getting serious because you just said his government name. You literally never call him by his government name. “I know we agreed to keep things platonic, and for it to mean nothing, but I want you. Like really, really bad. I think I—no, everyone’s right, I really am, extremely in love with you. If you don’t feel the same I understand, I just had to get this off my che—”

You aren’t given the chance to finish before Haechan swoops you in his arms, reaching for your waist as he pulls you into a kiss. There’s a chorus of cheers from Chenle and Jaemin, followed by a shriek of disgust from Dohwan as he covers his eyes, but you two aren’t trying to hide anymore, you want to scream from the rooftops that you’re in love. Yes, the infamous Lee Donghyuck and y/n know more than flirting and fucking. You’re in love, drunk off of a sip of it and the taste of Haechan’s lips, and god, has kissing your best friend never felt better.

“Let’s give the newlywed couple some privacy now,” Jaemin says with a grin. Gosh, he really is the spawn of Cupid, but you have to thank him. This wouldn’t be happening if it wasn’t for his stupid ‘gotcha!’ plan. “You two work this out.”

The three of them pile out, and you and Haechan part from one another to breathe. You stay in comfortable silence for a moment, his hands slipping into yours.

“Your hands are sweating,” you comment after a while.

“It’s hot.”

“It’s the middle of February.”

“So? Global warming is real, you know,” Haechan shrugs, refusing to acknowledge the fact that his hand is sweating because he’s nervous. He’s accepted that you make him feel all warm inside and his heart feel like mush, but he still isn’t used to not hiding the way you make him feel.

You laugh but don’t press things. “Newlywed couple, huh. Can’t be, you still haven’t popped the question.”

“Yeah?” He laughs, too. “Then will you take my hand in marriage and take me as your illegally wedded husband?”

You hum, pretending to contemplate, “Hmm, I don’t know. You sure you don’t wanna marry a giant cardboard Tootsie Pop cutout? Or what about that girl? What happened to her, by the way, I thought you said you liked her.”

Haechan groans, not really wanting to think about her right now, “No more Hope. Ironically, she’s a lost cause. I had to cut shit with her because she can’t comprehend what a fling is. She wanted a relationship, and you know, I lied to you when I said that I might want her. I didn’t know you liked me back until, like, now, so I was just saying shit in hopes of convincing myself I could stop liking you. That planned failed, though.”

His words lift a massive weight off of your shoulders, and you finally feel like you can breathe now. Take that, bitch, you think with a smirk. She was giggling in your face so hard at the grocery store, but you’re having the last laugh.

You tilt your head. “What about the Tootsie Pops?”

“Yeah, sorry but I can’t give them up as easily. Would you mind a Tootsie Pop bouquet?”

Gosh, this is the man you love. You roll your eyes, but smile as you reply, “You know, you’re like a Tootsie Pop.”

If Haechan were a dog, his ears would perk up right now. “How come?”

“I’ll never know how long I’ll be able to kiss you without wanting to fuck you,” you lean in his ear to purr, voice tickling his neck. You eye it and his lips, and lord knows you can’t wait to finally be able to mark him up again.

“Yeah? Wanna go home, put Dohwan to sleep, and let me take this dress off you?” He grips at your waist, his hand resting there with the burning urge to dip lower. He bites his lip.

“Thought you drew the line at sticking your dick in me,” you joke.

“That was when I was in denial about wanting you,” Haechan whispers, “but now I can admit to myself that even though you amazing in this dress, I wanna take it off of you. Your body’s perfect.”

“I kinda hate the scar on my thigh.”

“Don’t. It provides depth to your character. It makes someone wonder how you got it, the story of how it happened,” he answers, ever so deeply.

“Poetic,” you snort, “can’t tell if you’re giving me Bruno Mars or John Legend vibes more right now.”

Haechan rolls his eyes, smiling. “You said you’d never know how long you’d be able to kiss me without dying to fuck me, right?”

“I never said dying.”

He ignores you, “Then let’s put it to the test, shall we?”

Your lips wind up pressed firmly to his, with your hands on his cheek and his palms on your hips yet again. It’s fiercer than ever, Haechan’s kissing you like he doesn’t want to let you breathe, like he wants to stay in this moment with you forever. He kisses you with love and lust, with passion and desire, with emotion and no more fear in his chocolate-y eyes. You don’t regret kissing Haechan that day. It took a while, but it brought you to this moment where you can finally call him yours. And that one more kiss stuff is bullshit. His lips are yours and vice versa, and as you’re by each other’s side, you’ll never stop kissing him. And he’ll never stop kissing you.

“They’re here!” Karina suddenly bursts into the kitchen, pointing at you and Haechan. “Look! I told you they were dating!”

Oh, god. You totally forgot about Karina’s stupid bet with Mark. Mark looks entirely devastated and surprised, devastated because that’s twenty-five bucks gone from his wallet, and surprised because he genuinely believed you and Haechan have been best friends this whole time. Technically, he isn’t wrong, but you’re not sure if you want to interrupt to tell them that.

Mark whines, “Oh, c’mon! I really thought you guys were just friends.”

“Pay up, loser,” Karina smirks, and with a pout, Mark pulls cash from his pockets.

Haechan looks at you, and while you don’t say anything, you can tell you’re both thinking the exact same thing. The whole campus is about to know you two are dating. Karina’s for sure going to tell everyone she knows, hell, probably even people she doesn’t know, and there’s a ninety-nine point nine percent chance of Jaemin raining your business on everyone in his latest report for the school newspaper.

You can’t say that you care, though. This is what you wanted, to unashamedly love Haechan, to be able to state it proudly in front of everyone, to let everyone know, to claim him as yours and yours only. So fuck Cupid. Fuck his bow, fuck his arrow, because this relationship is all a product of you and Haechan’s hard work and dedication.

Who needs Cupid’s bow when you have tasty lips and Tootsie-Pops?

“You’re telling me you’ve been in love with me for the past four years? Oh, you’re a soldier. I would have given up in the first month.”

You snort. Part of becoming Haechan’s girlfriend is the process of telling one another the secrets you’ve been keeping, such as how long you can been in love. Haechan’s been in love with you for a solid year, he thinks, maybe two, but it’s been almost four years for you, on the other hand.

“If only it were that easy,” you sigh. “Trust me, I tried getting over you by getting under other people—how Jessie Reyez of me—but that didn’t work out, obviously.”

“You are too much like me,” Haechan shakes his head. “What made you think we should anyways?”

“You mean, four years ago, or now?”

Haechan shrugs. “Either. Give me three reasons.”

“Oh, brace yourself. I could do a presentation on this. One, we know each other’s McDonald’s orders. Two, like you said, we’re very alike. When have we ever argued over pizza toppings?” You reason. “Three, I can’t imagine kissing anybody else. I mean, we’ve basically been practicing on each other for the past four years. I’m the reason you can kiss so good, it would insane for you make out with other people. Four, I have a fat ass and sometimes I catch you staring at—”

“I said three reasons!” Haechan cries, face blooming red as a rose.

“I could go for a fifth,” you grin, “we’re both terrible at math.”

“Damn right we are,” he mutters. “But that’s what makes us… us, isn’t it? The only reason we’re dating right now is because we couldn’t resist kissing each other after one time.”

He’s right. It practically only took one kiss to fall in love with Haechan. He’s giving you major Dua Lipa vibes right now.

“I know you’re thinking about that Dua Lipa song right now.”

You smirk. “You know me very well.”

He tilts his head. “And what else are you thinking about?”

“That you look like all I need,” you say in tune, making Haechan laugh. “And I just want to feel your skin on mine.”

“Then we should do something about that, right?” Haechan smirks back.

You’re kissing the smirk right off his lips seconds later, and this is where you decide that you just can’t get enough of him. Even if one kiss is all it takes, you’re greedy for more, and more, and more, until both your lips are swollen and you’re both gasping for air.

#haechan smut #nct 127 smut #nct dream smut #nct smut #haechan x reader #nct imagines #haechan imagines #lee haechan smut #nct x reader #nct #nct scenarios

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chimcess · 3 months ago

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❆ Chapter One: Homecoming Pairing: Jungkook x Reader Other Tags: Hockey Player!Jungkook, Figure Skater!Reader, Hockey Player!Taehyung, Hockey Player!Jimin, Hockey Player!Namjoon, Hockey Player!Hoseok, Figure Skater!Jin, Coach!Yoongi Genre: Hockey!AU, Figure Skating!AU, Olympic!AU, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Self-Discovery, Fluff, Angst, Eventual Smut, Slow Burn Word Count: 24.1k+ Summary: Y/N Y/L/N has always been destined for greatness as a competitive figure skater, her dreams of the Olympics sparkling like the ice beneath her blades. But when a devastating injury sidelines her, those dreams seem to melt away. Just when she feels lost, she unexpectedly meets Jeon Jungkook, a talented NHL hockey player. Warnings: Reader is injured and still using crutches, meet-cute reference to an unhealthy relationship with mom, absent father, parental issues, pining, low self-esteem, reader has anxiety, reader is very stressed out, honestly my girl is just exhausted, very pushy neighbors (but we love them for it), Taehyung is adopted, this is really just an introduction to everyone so not many warnings here... A/N: Happy New Year! Let's kick things off with a new massive series. This one will touch on very heavy topics such as toxic parents, mental health issues, and non-consensual touching. Please proceed with caution. New Chapters every month!

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I never used to think about what came next.

Why would I? Back then, the future felt like a far-off, shapeless thing—something for other people to worry about. I was too tangled in the middle of my story to even consider its ending. Life moved fast, like pages riffling under a restless thumb, each chapter running into the next before I had time to catch my breath. There was no pausing, no foreshadowing. Just motion. Just noise.

And sometimes—if the stars aligned, if the right song played through the speakers and your body remembered everything it had trained for—sometimes, it felt like you were brushing up against something holy. Like a dream you hadn’t dared say out loud. It sat there on the edge of your reach, glowing with possibility. But just when your fingers grazed it—when you let yourself believe it might be real—life had a way of snapping its fingers. Books closed. Lights cut out. And you were right back where you started, blinking in the dark.

I don’t think I ever really knew what “normal” meant.

Normal was something other people lived. People who wore buttoned-up shirts and had reliable morning routines, who drank coffee in break rooms and complained about meetings. My days started before the sun—slipping out of bed in the pitch black, lacing up my skates while the cold gnawed at my skin. Stretch until it hurts. Practice until the movements melt into muscle memory. The rink always smelled like frost, metal, and sweat. And underneath that, something sharper—hunger. Not the kind that fades with a snack, but the kind that lodges in your ribs and won’t let go.

That was my rhythm. That was my religion. Until it wasn’t.

I don’t remember the first time I stepped onto the ice. I just know I never wanted to step off. It was the one place that made sense. My body knew what to do there. My brain went quiet, finally. The chaos in me stilled, every time. That’s what made it home.

My mom, Emily, was the first to see it in me. That spark. That thing you can’t quite name but can’t ignore, either. And once she saw it, she refused to let it go. Her love didn’t come in soft words or warm embraces. It came in early alarms, packed bags, and a pressure so constant it eventually felt like air.

Some people called her obsessive. They said she was chasing ghosts, trying to reclaim something she’d lost. And maybe they were right. Maybe I was her second chance, her do-over. But I never resented her for it. Not really. Her ambition burned hot—too hot, sometimes—but it kept me warm. Even when it singed the edges of us.

She’d been a skater, too. Once. Before everything changed. Before the pregnancy, the marriage, the slow surrender of all the things she used to dream about. Her life narrowed, like a funnel, until all that remained was me and the rink. That was the shape her love took—sharp-edged and relentless, but real.

She met my dad when she was still trying to outrun her own shadow. He was in town for police training. They fell hard and fast—or maybe just fast enough to not question it. I came along not long after. A courthouse wedding. A move to Olympia. A life that never quite settled into the one they’d imagined. Eventually, we left. Colorado was calling. Or maybe just the ice.

Jim—my dad—stayed behind, burying himself in his routine, in a house that still smelled like old coffee and missed chances. I became the in-between. Tugged between two versions of love: his quiet, distant steadiness and my mother’s blinding storm.

And now here I was. Back in Michigan.

The intercom snapped me out of my head.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain. We’ve begun our descent into Detroit, where the local time is 5:18 p.m., and the temperature is a brisk fifteen degrees Fahrenheit. Please make sure your seat belts are fastened and tray tables are locked.”

Fifteen degrees. Michigan always did have a flair for the dramatic.

I pressed my forehead to the window, watching the clouds give way to gray city lights below. My knee ached, a deep, pulsing throb. The kind that doesn’t fade. I was supposed to see Dr. Jeon on Monday. Everyone said he was the best, that if anyone could fix it, it was him. But I wasn’t waiting on a verdict—I already knew.

The moment it happened, I knew.

The rink had been quiet that day, sun slanting in through high windows, music drifting through the speakers—Swan Lake, soft and haunting. I wasn’t competing. Just skating for myself. My mother sat in the stands beside my coach, their heads bowed in conversation. I picked up speed, moving into a fan spiral.

Then—nothing. Just the wrong angle. The wrong second.

The blade caught. My body twisted. My world flipped sideways.

When I hit the ice, it wasn’t the pain I noticed first. It was the sound. The dull, sickening crack, and then silence. My breath caught somewhere in my chest.

The plane touched down with a jolt, the wheels screaming against the runway. I flinched, the memory scattering like glass.

Around me, seatbelts clicked and passengers jostled for overhead bags, their conversations humming back to life. I stayed seated. My crutches were wedged beneath the seat in front of me, cold metal pressing against my legs.

A few months ago, I moved like wind. I was weightless. Now, every step felt like a negotiation. Every breath like a debt I didn’t remember agreeing to.

At baggage claim, I stood off to the side, crutches tucked beneath my arms, watching the carousel churn. Suitcases slid by in slow, looping circles like planets on a lazy orbit. My hands were full. My leg, stiff and aching, was practically dead weight. I had no idea how I was going to get them off the belt.

“You need a hand?”

The voice was sudden, close, and I turned too quickly. My balance shifted. One crutch slipped from my grip and clattered to the ground with a metallic thud.

“Shit—sorry,” I muttered, trying to grab for something—anything—to hold onto, but he was already there.

He caught me. Hands on my arms, steady and instinctive, like this wasn’t the first time he’d stopped someone from hitting the floor. His touch was firm but careful. Measured. And somehow, without a word, he anchored me.

Everything else—the hum of the baggage belt, the rolling wheels of suitcases, the overlapping voices echoing through the terminal—blurred around the edges. Like we were in a brief pause. A pocket of quiet inside the chaos.

“You okay?” he asked. His voice was warm, level. Unrushed.

I nodded before I even knew what I was saying. “Yeah. Fine.” A lie, of course. But a reflexive one. The kind you tell a stranger who just caught you in more ways than one.

He didn’t let go right away. Just lingered a second longer, maybe making sure I was stable. Then he crouched down to retrieve the crutch, his movements easy, unfazed. When he handed it back, his gaze didn’t carry pity—just something thoughtful. Attentive.

“Thanks,” I said, too quietly. I took the crutch and gripped it tighter than necessary.

He smiled a little, the kind of smile that didn’t ask for anything. “No problem.”

Around us, the terminal snapped back into focus. Suitcases banged onto the carousel. A family argued about car seats. A baby cried somewhere in the distance. But for a few seconds more, he stayed beside me, his presence quiet but undeniably solid.

His eyes flicked toward my luggage—still waiting, still unclaimed. “Need help with your bags?”

My first instinct was pride. “I’ve got it,” I said, automatically.

He raised an eyebrow, not judging, just mildly amused. “You sure?”

My knee pulsed in answer, sending a sharp signal up my thigh. I sighed. “Okay, maybe not totally.”

“No shame in that,” he said easily. He stepped forward, grabbed my suitcase like it weighed nothing, balanced my carry-on on top without breaking stride.

We started walking together, or rather, I hobbled while he adjusted his pace to mine without comment. His steps were smooth, unrushed. Like he wasn’t trying to be anywhere else.

“Someone picking you up?” he asked, guiding us toward the exit.

“Nope. Just grabbing a cab.” I didn’t look at him when I said it, but I was aware of him next to me—his quiet presence, the low warmth of his voice, the way he carried my bags without making it feel like a favor.

“I’ve got my car in the overnight lot,” he said, voice casual. “Could give you a ride, if you want.”

I hesitated—too long. “That’s okay,” I said quickly. Too quickly.

His face didn’t change much, but something subtle shifted. Not disappointment exactly. Just... a beat skipped.

We pushed through the sliding doors and were hit with a blast of cold so sharp it stole my breath. I hissed through my teeth, pulling my coat tighter.

He glanced over. “Forgot what Michigan feels like in January?”

“Yeah,” I muttered. “Something like that.”

The air felt cruel. Not just cold, but personal. The kind of cold that didn’t just bite—it burrowed.

“So,” he said, voice soft and clouding in the air, “where were you before this?”

“Nevada,” I said. “Before that, Colorado. We moved around a lot.”

“We?” he echoed, like he already knew the answer.

“My mom and me,” I said. “She never liked staying in one place too long.”

He nodded like that made perfect sense. “Sounds like it kept things interesting.”

“It did,” I said, laughing softly. “And exhausting.”

He smiled at that, and it reached his eyes.

The conversation, somehow, didn’t feel forced. It flowed the way snow falls—quiet, natural, layering into something without you realizing it.

“You staying in town a while?”

“For the foreseeable future,” I said. I hadn’t said it out loud until now. It sounded strange. Final.

“Good,” he said simply. And the way he said it—low, certain—made my stomach flip for reasons I couldn’t explain.

I looked at him then. Really looked. He had that quiet kind of good looks—the kind that crept up on you. Tall, broad-shouldered, a little scruffy, like he hadn’t shaved in a couple days. His eyes were dark, warm. Like they’d seen things and still knew how to look gently.

“Maybe I’ll see you around,” he added, running a hand through his hair. It flopped back into place like it belonged that way—messy but deliberate.

“Yeah,” I said. “Maybe.”

“Where are you staying?” he asked, the question light but laced with something... expectant.

“Royal Oak,” I said. “Just moved in. The old houses there are so old and beautiful. I like that.”

He smiled. “Me too.”

The space between us felt thinner suddenly, like a thread pulled taut. His gaze flicked down to my hands, and without warning, he reached for them.

His fingers wrapped around mine—bare, stiff from the cold. His hands were warm. Startlingly so. The kind of warmth you notice because it feels like it doesn’t belong in a place like this.

I froze. Not physically—at least not entirely—but inside. Some part of me flinched without moving, unsure what to do with that kind of contact.

It wasn’t just the touch. It was the way it spread. Quick. Quiet. Everywhere.

“We should get you a cab,” he said after a beat, his voice softer now. “You’re gonna lose a finger if you stay out here much longer.”

“Probably,” I murmured, managing a half-smile, though I didn’t pull away right away. He was just so warm, and his skin was so soft.

But eventually I did. I stepped back, and the cold rushed in like punishment.

He didn’t seem to notice the shift. Or if he did, he didn’t say anything. He flagged down a cab like it was second nature, raised one hand, and the car pulled over within seconds. Everything about him felt smooth, capable—like someone who knew how to move through the world.

He opened the door for me, then grabbed my suitcase and hoisted it into the trunk like it weighed nothing. I watched, rooted to the sidewalk, arms wrapped tight around myself as the wind bit harder.

He turned back around and looked at me—his expression open, calm. Like maybe this was all normal. Like I wasn’t just standing there, blinking through what felt like the end of something before it even had a chance to start.

“Thanks,” I said, finally. My voice was small. Not shy, exactly. Just unsure. Of him. Of myself.

He hesitated, just slightly. Then: “Jungkook.”

It took me a second to realize he was telling me his name. Offering it, like a kindness. Or a beginning. Maybe both.

“Y/N,” I said, a little too quickly. It came out sounding strange in my ears. Like I was saying it for the first time.

He smiled, like he liked the way it sounded. “Y/N,” he repeated, quietly. Testing it. Letting it sit on his tongue for a second longer than it needed to.

There was a shift then—a lean, not quite forward, but enough to make my heart catch. He looked like he was about to tell me something else. Something private.

“My friends and I go to this bar on Grand, on Tuesdays. It’s called Bronx,” he said. Like it was nothing. Just a casual thought. “You should come by sometime.”

I felt the flicker. That sharp, involuntary flutter in my chest.

But I shut it down fast.

Because guys like him—tall, kind-eyed, warm-handed guys who looked like they belonged in glossy photos and movie trailers—didn’t mean anything by that. They didn’t say you should come by because they wanted you, specifically. They said it because they were polite. Friendly. Because that’s the kind of person he probably was—someone who didn’t leave people hanging out in the cold without an invitation somewhere.

I forced a smile. “Yeah, maybe.”

My voice betrayed nothing. Not the pulse in my neck. Not the creeping question that had already started unraveling in the back of my mind: *Did he mean it like that?*

He brightened a little. “Great,” he said. Simple. Genuine.

And then that was it. He stepped back, shut the cab door behind me, and just like that, it was over.

The cab started rolling forward, and I twisted in my seat, looking back through the window. He was still there. Hands in his coat pockets, watching me go. When he noticed me looking, he lifted a hand in a wave—casual, easy.

I raised mine back, but it felt stiff, awkward. Like I was pretending I knew what I was doing.

I sat back and let the silence fill the cab around me. Pressed my forehead against the icy window and closed my eyes. The cold helped. It grounded me.

And still, I could feel the moment pulsing behind my ribs. Like it had already dug itself in.

But I pushed it down.

He probably wasn’t even flirting.

He was just being nice. Helpful. Friendly in that way extroverts often are to the damaged and weirdly quiet.

It didn’t mean anything.

I didn’t do this. I didn’t flirt. I didn’t meet strangers and imagine possibilities. I didn’t let myself believe that someone like him could look at someone like me and see anything worth lingering for.

Still…

That smile.

The way he said my name, like it had a shape he wanted to memorize.

I told myself not to read into it. I told myself to be smart.

But even as the cab turned away from the curb, my thoughts refused to listen. For the first time in a long time, they wanted to drift somewhere else.

And against all logic, I let them whisper the one thing I’d trained myself never to ask.

What if he meant it?

It was a little past seven when the cab pulled up in front of my new apartment building. The sky had already slipped into that deep, smudged purple that comes right before full darkness—like the city had been bruised by the cold. Streetlights flickered on one by one, casting soft, yellow halos on the sidewalk. My breath clouded the window as I leaned forward, squinting at the building like seeing it from the inside of the cab might make it feel less... foreign.

The driver popped the trunk without a word. I climbed out carefully, my crutches clacking against the frozen pavement, the wind slicing straight through my coat like it didn’t care I was already exhausted. That specific kind of tired had taken over—the kind that didn’t just live in your muscles, but somewhere deeper. Bone-tired. Soul-tired. I felt like I could lie down on the sidewalk and not move for a week.

The doorman was waiting. Late fifties, maybe older. Graying beard, wool gloves, an expression that said he’d seen this a million times before. He seemed almost bored with me, but I had never claimed to know much about faces. Emily usually had two or three and all of them usually meant roughly the same thing.

“New tenant?” he asked gently, taking in the crutches, the suitcase, the half-zipped coat.

“Yeah. 311.”

He didn’t smile, but there was something kind in his face—steady, nonjudgmental. “Elevator’s this way. I’ll get the bags.”

He moved with a quiet kind of efficiency, hoisting my luggage without fanfare and leading me through the glass doors. Warm air hit me the second we stepped inside, but it didn’t do much. The chill had already settled too deep.

The ride to the third floor was silent, except for the elevator’s low mechanical hum and the quiet squeak of my crutches on tile.

The apartment door opened with a stiff creak.

It smelled faintly of fresh paint and wood shavings—like the place had been redone recently, maybe just enough to feel new. But it was empty. No trace of a previous life. No leftover energy or forgotten curtain rod brackets. Just a blank, echoing box.

My footsteps bounced off the hardwood. There was no couch, no bed, not even a lamp. The walls were bright white and clean, but they felt more like placeholders than personality. It was like walking into the first draft of a home—raw, unfinished, waiting.

I stood in the middle of the living room and exhaled slowly. The air inside was still, untouched. A different kind of cold.

The silence pressed in. I reached for my phone and ordered pizza—not because I was hungry, but because I didn’t know what else to do. Pepperoni and mushrooms. Breadsticks. Something easy. Something normal. If I could just do one ordinary thing, maybe I could trick myself into believing this wasn’t so strange—being here, being alone, being... untethered.

The moment I hit "order," the silence rushed back in. I looked around, trying to imagine the space with actual furniture. A couch against the far wall. A coffee table. Maybe a bookshelf or two, even though I didn’t technically own any books that weren’t dog-eared paperbacks from airport terminals. Still—it would be something.

I’d never lived alone before. Not even for a week. My whole life had been spent sharing space—with my mom, with coaches, with other skaters during training seasons. I didn’t even know what someone needed to live by themselves. Like, did people just... know what to buy? Dish soap? Lamps? Rugs?

I turned slowly in place, studying the layout. The kitchen was a compact galley tucked into the left corner—sleek gray cabinets, bare countertops, a fridge that still had the protective film on the handle. No dishes, no groceries, not even a roll of paper towels. A kitchen that looked like a display model in a catalog—neat, untouched, uninviting.

The bedroom was small, but bright. Big window. Narrow closet. Enough space for a bed and maybe a nightstand if I got creative. And the bathroom was all clean lines and white tile—cold and clinical but functional. At least the water pressure seemed good.

But the best part, the one thing that made me pause, was the little alcove near the entrance. A window seat built into the wall, framed by two narrow bookcases on either side. It was unexpected—this soft, quiet space in an otherwise utilitarian apartment. I could picture myself there on some future night, curled up with a blanket and tea, snow falling outside. I didn’t even drink tea. But maybe I would. Maybe I’d become the kind of person who did.

For a few seconds, that vision held. A glimpse of what this place could be.

I sat down carefully on the window seat, resting my crutches against the wall. Outside, people moved along the street below, bundled in coats, heads ducked against the wind. They looked like they knew where they were going. Like they had homes to return to. Dogs to walk. Rooms that felt lived in.

I had a suitcase, a half-eaten past, and a blank canvas I wasn’t sure how to fill.

I tried not to think about it too hard. I’d figure it out. Eventually. Probably.

My phone buzzed in my jacket pocket, and I answered without thinking.

“Hey,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Did you make it?” My mother’s voice came through flat and sharp, like she was trying not to sound annoyed but failing anyway.

I knew that tone. Tight, clipped—meant to sound like concern, but edged with something else. Resentment maybe. Or disappointment.

“Yeah,” I said. “Just got here.”

There was a pause, but not the kind that invited conversation. Just the kind that preceded more instructions.

“You need to eat something. Something with protein. And make sure you stretch tonight. Five reps of the ankle series. And don’t forget the quad hold—it’s been long enough. You can’t let the muscle atrophy. The longer you wait to get back into a routine, the worse it’s going to be.”

Her voice didn’t rise, but it built. A rolling list of reminders and critiques I’d heard so many times they might as well have been tattooed on the inside of my skull.

“You’re slipping into bad habits,” she continued. “I get that you’re upset, but taking a break from discipline isn’t going to solve anything. You have to stay sharp, even now.”

Even now. As if everything hadn’t already fallen apart.

I didn’t say anything. I just held the phone to my ear and let her talk. She didn’t ask how the flight was. Didn’t ask how I was feeling. Didn’t ask what the apartment looked like, or if I’d managed to bring the bags in by myself, or if I was scared. She never did. And part of me hated how unsurprised I was by that.

Eventually, after a solid five minutes of talking at me—not to me—I cut in. Gently.

“I’ll call you in the morning,” I said. “I need to unpack.”

There was a beat of silence, like maybe she heard something in my voice she wasn’t sure what to do with. But it passed.

“Alright. Night.”

The call ended. And with it, the noise in my head stopped—abruptly and completely. The silence filled the space around me like water in a tank. Heavy. Quiet. Cold.

I stood in the middle of the apartment and looked around again. Still just walls and windows. Still too bright, too clean. Not a single thing to suggest a life had ever been lived here—or was about to be.

I wandered a little, dragging my fingers along the blank drywall. I couldn’t tell if it felt like a beginning or an ending. Maybe both.

Jungkook’s face surfaced in my mind, uninvited. His voice, the way it wrapped around my name like it was something rare. The way he’d looked at me—really looked.

But that was probably just him being nice. He seemed like the type who was nice to everyone. The type who smiled at baristas and helped old ladies carry their groceries. That kind of warmth wasn’t about me, personally. I just happened to be the one standing in front of him at the time.

Still... part of me wished I had asked him more. Or said yes, just to see what it felt like to say yes to something I didn’t overthink to death. But instead, I was here. Alone. In an apartment with no furniture, no food, and not even a mug for water.

I didn’t know how people did this—built homes out of spaces like this. What did you even buy? A rug? A lamp? A plant? I didn’t own any of those things. I didn’t even know how to *want* them yet. My whole life had been about function. Goals. Time splits. Physical therapy. Not... candles and color schemes.

I didn’t know what kind of person I was supposed to be without someone else dictating the shape of my day. But maybe that was the point.

Just as I started to sink into that thought, a knock at the door pulled me upright. I glanced at my phone. The pizza.

Finally.

I moved toward the door, my crutches tapping across the hardwood. But when I pulled it open, it wasn’t a delivery guy standing there.

It was a girl.

Tiny but sharp, like a spark wrapped in velvet. She wore a black knit sweater dress that clung just right and a sequined mini that caught the hallway light with every small movement. Her boots were scuffed in a cool-on-purpose kind of way, and her hair was buzzed close to her scalp—soft and dark, like velvet. She was beautiful in that specific, intimidating way that made you wonder if you should already know her name.

Her eyes were the thing that caught my eye the most. Deep brown and wide, with this gentle openness that made it impossible to look away. The reminded me of him.

“Hey!” she said, bright and familiar, like I was someone she already liked. “I’m Mina. I live next door. The pizza guy knocked on our door by accident—rookie mistake. Figured I’d deliver it myself and say hi.”

I blinked, caught off guard. My stomach grumbled loudly enough for both of us.

“Thanks,” I managed. “Would you mind putting it in the kitchen? I’m kind of...” I glanced down at the crutches.

“Oh, totally!” she said, stepping inside like it was already her second time visiting. She walked with the confidence of someone who’d never questioned whether she belonged.

She set the box down on the bare countertop and turned back toward me.

“So... what happened?” she asked, tipping her head toward my crutches.

“Sports injury,” I said. It was short, vague, and mostly true.

Mina nodded like that was good enough. “Bummer. You doing okay?”

I hesitated. Then nodded.

“Yeah. Getting there.”

“Well,” she said, hands on her hips, “moving sucks enough when you’re healthy. Doing it like this? Brutal.”

I laughed, surprised. “Yeah. It’s... a lot.”

She grinned. “No kidding. So, what’s the plan? Sleeping bag on the floor tonight?”

“I’ve got a suitcase and a yoga mat,” I said, a little defensively. “I’ll survive.”

Mina’s expression shifted like I’d just told her I was planning to spend the night on a sidewalk.

“God, that’s so depressing,” she said, but not unkindly. “You don’t even have, like, a chair?”

“I said I’ll survive.”

She squinted at me, like she was deciding something. Then, without another word, she picked up the pizza box and marched back to the door.

I blinked. “Wait—are you taking that with you?”

She looked over her shoulder with a mischievous grin. “Relax. You’re coming with me. You can eat at my place.”

“I—what?” I gestured helplessly to my clothes, to the emptiness around me. “I just changed into sweatpants. I don’t even have a plate.”

“Perfect. My kind of dinner party.”

Then she was gone. Just like that. Down the hall, pizza in hand.

I stared after her, stunned. Did she really just steal my dinner?

I stared at my reflection in the hallway mirror across the entry, still wearing my old track jacket and fleece pants, socks mismatched, hair shoved under a beanie.

She wanted me to come over?

I stood in the hallway for a moment longer than I needed to, crutches tucked beneath my arms, heart racing for no good reason. It wasn’t far—ten steps, maybe twelve. It wouldn't hurt to try. I grabbed my keys, my phone, and whatever was left of my courage, then made my way to 312.

I knocked, light at first, then louder when there wasn’t an answer right away.

The door creaked open.

But it wasn’t Mina.

A tall blonde woman stood in the doorway, her posture relaxed but somehow elegant. She had this understated confidence, the kind you couldn't fake. Her long hair hung smooth and straight over her shoulders, catching the hallway light like silk. Sharp, dark brows. Almond-shaped brown eyes so deep they were nearly black.

Where Mina had this kinetic, almost manic energy, this woman felt still—centered. Like nothing could rattle her.

“Hey,” she said, her voice low and a little husky. “You must be the girl from 311. Mina said you’d be joining us tonight.”

Her tone was warm but matter-of-fact, like my presence was expected. Mina was very quick. She'd only left my apartment less than thirty minutes ago.

“Yeah. Uh, thanks,” I said, suddenly aware of how I looked—sweatpants, old track jacket, socks that didn’t match. “I don’t want to impose or anything, I just—”

She cut me off with a wave of her hand. “Don’t bother with that. Mina’s made up her mind. There’s no use resisting. You might as well come in and let it happen.”

Before I could think of a response, Mina appeared in the hallway behind her, now in yoga pants and a faded concert t-shirt that looked like it had survived a dozen years and maybe even a festival or two.

“I knew you’d come,” she said, triumphant.

“You left me no choice,” I replied, trying for dry humor, though my voice still felt small in my throat. “You literally stole my dinner.”

Mina beamed like I’d just complimented her. “Exactly. Look how well it worked out! Way better than eating alone in your echo-chamber of an apartment.”

She stepped aside to let me in, then made a dramatic gesture toward the kitchen. “Oh my God, wait. I just realized—I didn’t even ask your name. I get so excited about people sometimes I forget basic manners.”

“Y/N,” I said. “Y/N Y/L/N.”

“Y/N,” Mina repeated, like she was adding it to a mental guest list. “Perfect.”

The blonde woman smiled from where she was leaning against the counter. “I’m Leera,” she said. “But everyone calls me Lucy.”

“Only because I care,” Mina said, opening the pizza box like she was unveiling treasure.

The apartment felt like the polar opposite of mine—warm, mismatched in the best way. The walls were painted a dusty green, and string lights wound their way lazily across the ceiling beams. Plants sat in mismatched ceramic pots on nearly every available surface. The furniture didn’t match, but it didn’t matter—it worked. A soft, oversized armchair in the corner. A chipped wooden bookshelf filled with actual books. Framed photos on the wall that didn’t try too hard to impress. It felt lived in. Loved.

And it smelled amazing.

“Wait,” I said, eyeing the counter. “Why are there four pizzas?”

Mina shrugged, already opening another box. “We ordered ours before your guy showed up with yours. Honestly, we probably would’ve ordered four anyway. This way it just feels fated.”

Lucy opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of Diet Coke—mine. She held it up with a raised eyebrow. “Want a glass? Ice?”

“Sure,” I said, my shoulders relaxing without my permission.

We gathered around the island, and before I knew it, I had a plate of food in front of me and a drink in my hand. Mina talked fast, hopping from subject to subject like her thoughts didn’t have brakes, and Lucy chimed in occasionally, always measured, always with that quietly amused tone like she was used to this routine and liked it more than she let on.

Mina was an event planner, which made perfect sense—she had that sort of wildly creative energy. Her life, she told me, was a mess of spreadsheets and glitter, and she wouldn't have it any other way. Her family was originally from Wisconsin, though her grandparents had emigrated from Korea. She had two brothers, both overprotective in different, exhausting ways, and one fiancé—Jimin—who she described as “obnoxiously supportive, like it’s his full-time job.”

Lucy, on the other hand, rebuilt classic cars for a living. I actually laughed when she said it, not because it was funny, but because I didn’t believe her at first. She had this sleek, polished air that made me assume she worked in design or luxury retail or something that involved perfectly tailored coats and clean fingernails.

But no. She spent her days under the hoods of aging Corvettes and vintage Mustangs, smelling like motor oil and coffee.

“People are always surprised,” she said with a faint smirk. “But it’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted to do. My dad started teaching me when I was twelve.”

As they talked, I found myself nodding, laughing in places I didn’t expect. It didn’t feel forced. It didn’t feel like I had to earn my seat. They weren’t waiting for me to prove anything.

They were just... letting me be there.

It wasn’t until I glanced at the clock that I realized it was almost midnight.

Somehow, a night that had started with stolen pizza had turned into something else. Something warmer. Easier. Something that felt dangerously close to *belonging*.

“Get used to late nights,” Lucy said, bumping her shoulder against mine gently. “Being friends with Mina means you’re on her time zone.”

Friends.

The word hit differently than I expected. Like something I wasn’t sure I was allowed to claim.

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d used that word about myself—friend. Maybe never. There hadn’t been room for it growing up. My life was airports, hotel rooms, ice rinks. Mornings that started in the dark and ended long after the sun went down. Everything was measured in routines and results. Emily made sure of that. Friends, she said, were distractions. Noise. And eventually, I believed her.

So I learned how to keep my distance. I got good at it—stepping back before anyone could step away first. It was easier that way. Safer.

But Mina and Lucy weren’t trying to fit me into a box. They weren’t asking what I could do for them or weighing my worth. They just made space. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And that scared me more than being alone ever had.

“So, Y/N,” Mina said suddenly, her voice cutting through the quiet hum of late-night stillness, “what’s the plan for tomorrow?”

I blinked, pulling myself back into the room. The warmth of the apartment, the soft light overhead, the smell of garlic still lingering in the air—it all felt too good, too easy.

“Big day,” I admitted, stretching slightly. “Furniture’s supposed to be delivered in the morning. Then all my stuff from Nevada should arrive by mid-afternoon. I need groceries. And I thought about picking out paint colors, but... that might be pushing it.”

Mina’s face lit up like I’d just suggested a road trip to Disneyland. “Need help? I’m free tomorrow. I thrive on chaos. We’ll have you fully moved in and halfway redecorated by dinner.”

She gave me a playful glance, eyes flicking toward my crutches. “You know, considering your... limited mobility.”

I hesitated, instinct pulling me toward the automatic no. But Mina didn’t wait for invitations. She made herself part of the plan before you even knew you had one. And somehow, saying no to her felt more exhausting than just letting her bulldoze her way through my life.

“That’d actually be great,” I said. “Thanks.”

Lucy looked over from the sink, where she was drying a mug with practiced ease. “Just don’t let her bully you into a theme,” she warned, smirking. “She’ll have your place looking like a Pinterest board before you can blink.”

Mina gasped in mock offense. “Excuse me, I have taste. I’m just trying to help her create a home. Is that such a crime?”

Lucy tossed the towel onto the counter. “I’m just giving her fair warning. Once the throw pillows come out, there’s no going back.”

I laughed, a real one this time. The kind that rose without effort, uncoiling something tight in my chest.

A yawn crept up before I could stop it.

“Go freshen up,” Mina said, waving me toward the bathroom. “I’ll set up the couch. It’s not a luxury suite, but it’s better than sleeping on the floor.”

Gratefully, I slipped down the hall, ducking into the small guest bath. I splashed cold water on my face, brushed my teeth with the travel toothbrush I kept in my purse, and stared at my reflection under the soft bathroom light. I looked tired—really tired—but there was a softness to it now. Less like unraveling, more like unwinding.

When I came back out, the couch had been transformed. A mountain of blankets, layered pillows, even a folded throw at the foot. It looked lived-in, warm—inviting in a way that my entire apartment hadn’t managed to be.

“Thanks,” I said, lowering myself onto the cushions. “This is a serious upgrade from what I had planned. You’ve both officially saved me from a night of regretting every decision I’ve ever made.”

Lucy raised her eyebrows. “We aim to please.”

“I’ll stop by around four tomorrow,” she added. “Just in time to pull you out from under Mina’s pile of fabric swatches.”

“Much appreciated,” I said, flashing Mina a grin.

Mina feigned indignation. “Rude. You’re going to love every second of it.”

Then her eyes brightened again. “Actually, I’ll see if the guys are around this weekend. They can help with the heavier stuff. They’ve got a game in Anaheim Friday, but they should be free after that.”

I froze mid-sip of my Diet Coke. “Game?”

Mina blinked like she’d forgotten the detail. “Oh—yeah. Jimin, Taehyung, and my other brother, Jungkook? They play for the Michigan Red Wings.”

I stared at her.

“That’s... hockey, right?”

Lucy snorted into her sparkling water.

Mina nodded slowly. “Yeah. NHL. You know... National Hockey League? Ice, sticks, fighting?”

I shook my head, slightly embarrassed. “Sorry. Hockey wasn’t really on my radar.”

“Shocking, coming from someone who lived on a rink,” Lucy teased, eyes amused.

“Emily used to complain about hockey guys hogging ice time. That’s about all I know.”

Mina’s face lit up again. “We’re taking you to a game. No discussion. The energy, the speed—plus, we sit in the family section, so you get snacks.”

Lucy rolled her eyes. “Mina thinks snacks are a recruiting tool.”

“They are,” Mina said. “And you’ll love it. Even if you don’t know what’s happening, it’s fun. And loud. And stressful. In a good way.”

I laughed. But inside, I was still stuck on the name.

I hadn’t said it aloud, but it echoed in my chest like a dropped pin in an empty room. Could it be... him? No. That was ridiculous. My Jungkook—if I could even call him that after a fifteen-minute conversation—had been a stranger with soft eyes and too-warm hands and a smile that had made something shift inside me.

This Jungkook played professional hockey.

I felt ridiculous for even making the connection.

But then Lucy, as if reading my mind, added casually, “He hasn’t dated anyone since Sky last year. It’s honestly kind of tragic. A guy like that shouldn’t stay single for long.”

Mina’s playful energy dimmed slightly. She gave Lucy a look, then turned to me. “Jungkook’s not like that. He’s not into flings or drama. He’s waiting for the right person."

Lucy lifted her sparkling water in a mock toast. “Not that it’s stopping every woman in Detroit. Pretty sure the entire city knows he’s single.”

Mina groaned. “Don’t even get me started on the girls who hang around the rink. I swear, some of them think it’s a dating service.”

I smiled, curling deeper into the couch, the blankets pulling up around my shoulders like armor.

“Duly noted,” I said. “I’ll be sure to stay on your good side.”

Mina pointed at me with mock severity. “Wise.”

But then she softened again, her voice quieter. “I just hate when people use them. They’re my family.”

And in that moment, I saw something deeper in her—a fierce kind of loyalty that burned hotter than all her jokes. It wasn’t about hockey. It was about the people she loved.

“Well,” I said honestly, “they’re lucky to have you.”

Mina blinked, like the words caught her off guard. But instead of responding, she just smiled, murmured, “Goodnight, Y/N,” and padded down the hallway, her socks sliding slightly on the hardwood.

Lucy lingered a little longer, eyeing me with that calm, assessing gaze of hers.

“You good?”

“Yeah,” I said. And I meant it. “Thanks again. I didn’t realize how much I needed this.”

She nodded. “We get it. Starting over’s rough. You don’t have to do it alone.”

Then she disappeared down the hall, leaving me alone in the quiet.

Only I didn’t feel alone.

I sank further into the couch, the smell of lavender detergent in the blankets, the low hum of the fridge in the kitchen. My body felt heavy in a way that wasn’t painful for once—just... tired. In a good way.

My eyes closed without permission. My last conscious thought was of a crooked smile and dark eyes that had somehow felt like a beginning.

And that night, I dreamed of snow falling quietly and the warmth of someone reaching for my hand.

I woke up the same way I had every day for the past eight weeks—my knee throbbing like it had something to prove.

The ache was dull at first, the kind that makes you think maybe, just maybe, this morning would be different. But then I shifted slightly and a sharper, more insistent pain flared behind my kneecap, reminding me that hope was a luxury I couldn’t quite afford yet. I winced, pulling my leg toward my chest, stretching it carefully, slowly. The stiffness resisted. Then surrendered. Barely.

Moving furniture today was going to be a blast.

I stayed there a moment longer, curled on Mina’s absurdly comfortable couch, tangled in blankets that smelled faintly like fabric softener and lavender. The apartment was quiet, the kind of deep quiet that only exists early in the morning—when everything and everyone is still. The radiator hissed softly from the corner, fighting a losing battle against the Michigan winter pressing in from the windows.

I didn’t have to check the time to know it was early, but I did anyway. 5:48 A.M.

Typical.

Sleep and I had never been on great terms, but these days it felt more like a breakup. I closed my eyes again, not to fall back asleep—just to rest. Just to delay the day starting for a few more minutes.

Yesterday flickered back in fragments. The flight. The cold. The quiet, empty apartment. Then Mina. Then Lucy. Then... Jungkook.

Even just thinking his name made something shift in my chest. Not painful. Not entirely pleasant, either. Like a muscle tightening that didn’t know it was still sore.

Which was ridiculous.

He was just a guy. A good-looking one, sure—but not in the way people are in magazines. In the way that made you forget your next sentence. In the way that felt *unfair*. The way that made you certain people like him didn’t cross paths with people like you.

We’d talked for what—fifteen minutes? Maybe twenty? Long enough for me to catalog the exact shape of his smile, but not long enough for it to mean anything.

And yet... here I was. Thinking about him before six in the morning like some walking cliché.

I sighed, scrubbing a hand over my face. This wasn’t high school. This wasn’t a crush. This was just a kind moment from a stranger who happened to look like a movie star and carried himself like he didn’t know it.

Still, the memory of his voice saying my name was lodged somewhere beneath my ribs.

But none of it mattered. Even if he *had* meant something by it—and I wasn’t convinced he had—what was I supposed to do with that? I barely knew how to talk to people, let alone date one. Affection had always felt like someone else’s native language. My version of love was performance-based, transactional. Achieve, and you were worthy. Fall short, and the silence grew colder.

So no, I didn’t have a roadmap for this.

I shifted again, and my knee screamed in protest. Right. Focus.

I hauled myself upright with a groan, planting both crutches beside me, letting them take most of my weight. I needed coffee, but that required bravery—or at least caffeine-fueled motivation. Neither of which I had yet.

Instead, I wandered into the kitchen and finished off the warm, half-flat Diet Coke from the night before. Desperate times. The fizz scratched at my throat just enough to wake me up a little. I didn’t open any cabinets. It felt too intimate to rummage through someone else’s kitchen before sunrise.

The microwave clock blinked: 6:04 A.M.

Mina definitely wasn’t up. Lucy probably wouldn’t be either. I stood there for a moment longer before deciding to head back to my place. Shower, stretch, take my meds. Try to feel like someone capable of handling a full day of adulting.

By 8:30, I had managed it. Mostly. My hair was damp, my knee was taped and braced, and I’d done the stretches Dr. Thompson insisted on, even though they still felt pointless. The painkillers had kicked in, and I had just enough energy to start a to-do list:

Groceries. Unpack. Figure out where the hell a couch goes. Try not to cry about how bad I was at interior design.

I was halfway through scribbling down Find real food (no more pizza) when there was a knock at the door.

Mina stood there in a puffer vest, hair spiked every which way, holding out a steaming travel mug like it was an offering. “Morning. You live.”

I took the coffee with both hands. “Bless you.”

She pushed her way inside like she belonged there—and honestly, she sort of did now. “Ready for some chaos?”

“You’re a morning person,” I said, not quite accusing, but close.

“I’m an anytime person,” she said cheerfully. “You’ll learn to adapt. So. What’s the plan?”

I handed her the list.

“Furniture delivery at nine. Then unboxing. Then... Target?”

Mina studied the list with the focus of someone preparing for battle. “This is light work. You’ll be fully settled by sundown.”

She dropped onto the floor and whipped a notebook from her bag. Before I could blink, she was sketching out a floor plan, complete with boxes labeled “COUCH” and “TV?” and arrows noting things like natural light flow and ideal throw blanket zones.

I stood above her, blinking. “Is this normal behavior?”

“For me? Absolutely,” she said without looking up. “Trust the process.”

The furniture guys arrived just before nine. Mina sprang into action, directing traffic like she was born to manage chaos. She didn’t even glance at her phone, just pointed and ordered and thanked them all with charm turned up to eleven. The movers didn’t stand a chance.

For once, something in my life was going... weirdly well.

Boxes had arrived on time. The movers had only dinged the wall once. And now, for the first time since I left Nevada, I had furniture that wasn’t a yoga mat or a borrowed couch. It felt surreal. Like maybe, just maybe, things were finally starting to settle.

Mina, however, looked personally offended by the number of boxes stacked in my living room.

“That’s it?” she asked, one eyebrow raised as she scanned the pile like she was waiting for a second shipment to roll in.

“Yep,” I said, leaning against the counter and sipping the lukewarm coffee she’d brought me. “That’s the grand total.”

She stared at the labels like they’d betrayed her. “‘Books,’ ‘Books,’ ‘Books,’ ‘Kitchen,’ ‘Miscellaneous,’ and—oh look—‘More Books.’ Y/N, I’m gonna say something radical: you don’t own enough crap.”

I shrugged. “Less stuff, less mess.”

She blinked. “That is objectively false, but okay.”

“I travel light.”

“You travel like a monk,” she muttered, crossing her arms. “Even Taehyung’s freshman dorm room had more personality, and that boy decorated with thumbtacks and gas station signs.”

I snorted. “I can literally see the gears turning in your head. Just... please. Let’s focus on the basics before you start planning a ‘vision’ for the apartment.”

Mina lifted both hands in mock surrender. “Fine. But we will be revisiting this. I refuse to let you live in a space that screams ‘mid-2000s divorcee who owns a futon and a single pan.’”

“You’ve known me for fifteen hours,” I pointed out.

“And in fifteen more, I’ll have completely restructured your life,” she said, beaming. “This is just the soft launch.”

“This is you holding back?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Isn’t it terrifying?” she said sweetly. “Now grab your list—we’re going shopping.”

I moved toward the entry table and grabbed the notebook I’d scribbled on that morning. “Just a heads-up, I don’t have my car yet. It’s still at the dealership getting the tires replaced.”

Mina didn’t even blink. “No problem. I’ll be your chauffeur. I insist, actually.”

“You’re really committing to this whole sidekick role.”

“Oh no,” she said, unlocking her phone with a flourish. “You’re the sidekick. I’m the eccentric lead with a heart of gold.”

She fired off a text, then made a call so fast I didn’t even catch who she was dialing until I heard her say, “Jimin? Babe, question—can we borrow your truck for the afternoon? Y/N has the cargo capacity of a shoebox and we’re going to Super Target.”

A pause.

“Thank you! Love you. I’ll wash it before we return it.”

Another pause.

“Okay, you wash it then. Delegation is a skill.”

She hung up and turned to me like nothing had happened. “We’re good. He left the keys under the flowerpot.”

Fifteen minutes later, I was clinging to the door handle of Mina’s blindingly yellow Porsche as she maneuvered through downtown traffic like she was being chased in an action movie. She drove like someone who thought stop signs were optional and speed limits were more of a friendly suggestion.

“Do you... drive like this with everyone?” I asked, voice tight.

She flashed a grin. “Sometimes. There's a reason Jimin doesn't let me hold the keys most of the time.”

By the time we screeched into Jimin’s driveway, I’d made at least three desperate mental promises to become a better person if I lived to see the afternoon.

We swapped cars—Mina took the driver’s seat of Jimin’s much more reasonable pickup like she owned it, adjusting the mirrors and setting her phone to Bluetooth before I even closed the passenger door.

“You know,” I said, finally exhaling, “this already feels like a full day.”

“Oh honey,” she replied, glancing over her shoulder as she backed out, “we haven’t even begun.”

Two hours and three shopping carts later, I came to two very solid conclusions:

One—Mina was a force of nature and should never be allowed in a Super Target unsupervised.

Two—I actually kind of adored her.

She wasn’t just energetic. She was unstoppable. She flitted from aisle to aisle like a whirlwind, throwing things into the cart with the confidence of someone who truly believed in her choices—an area in which I had very little experience. A full-length mirror. Bath towels that were “the perfect neutral.” A utensil drawer organizer, which she insisted was non-negotiable.

“You’ll thank me when you’re not stabbing yourself with a rogue whisk,” she said, tossing it into the cart.

I, on the other hand, moved slower. I hesitated over cereal brands and stared too long at trash cans. I felt the need to justify every purchase—do I need this? will I use it? is it too much?

Mina didn’t ask. She just filled the space with warmth and commentary and the occasional unsolicited recommendation for scented candles.

“This one smells like baked apples. It’s cozy but not try-hard.”

“I’ve literally never bought a candle,” I said, and she stared at me like I’d just confessed to murder.

“Okay, you’re lucky you’re cute because that’s criminal.”

By the time we made it to the checkout, I was leaning heavily on the cart like it was the only thing keeping me upright.

We wheeled our loot through the parking lot, the cold air a slap after the warmth of the store. Mina popped the truck bed and we started loading everything in, box by box.

“You know,” I said, pulling my jacket tighter, “I really didn’t think I’d end up doing any of this today.”

She glanced at me over the tailgate, her breath puffing into the air. “What’d you think you’d be doing?”

“I don’t know. Sitting on the floor. Feeling overwhelmed. Ordering another pizza. Crying, maybe.”

She smirked. “That was the original plan, huh?”

“More or less.”

“Well,” she said, tossing in the last bag, “you still might cry, but now your apartment will have paper towels and a decent shower curtain. Progress.”

As we climbed back into the truck, my phone buzzed with a new text. I didn’t check it right away. I just sat there for a second, watching Mina fiddle with the heat and turn the radio down to a low hum.

It was past noon. I was sore. My knee was aching. And I was completely, utterly exhausted.

“I’m telling you, Y/N,” Mina said, tossing shopping bags into the bed of Jimin’s truck like she was confetti-bombing the neighborhood, “those shirts were a necessity. When something fits that well, you don’t overthink it. You buy it in every color. It’s science.”

I raised an eyebrow, arms crossed, leaning awkwardly against the side of the truck while balancing on my good leg. “I’m pretty sure science has nothing to do with impulse-buying three identical button-ups.”

“They’re not identical,” she said, tossing the last bag in with a flourish. “One’s black. One’s navy. One is... I don’t know, ‘stormy sage’? Fashion is nuanced.”

I looked down at the shirts she was now proudly referring to as if they were designer pieces. Converse button-ups. Cropped. Surprisingly flattering. Cute, yeah. But three of them?

“I don’t even know how you did it,” I said, shaking my head. “I blinked and suddenly we were checking out with thirty more things than I planned, including three shirts I definitely don’t need.”

Mina grinned, hands on her hips. “I’m persuasive. You’ll thank me when those shirts become your entire personality.”

I laughed under my breath. She was impossible. And probably right.

“Fine,” I muttered, cracking the passenger door open. “The shirts are great. But now the gimp requires sustenance.”

“The gimp?” she said, snorting as she walked around to the driver’s side. “You really know how to sell the sympathy angle.”

“I’m just saying, if you don’t feed me soon, I will collapse in the parking lot and you’ll have to explain it to your fiancé.”

She started the engine, still grinning. “How do you feel about Korean food? There’s a spot on the way back that does bibimbap so good it might actually heal you.”

“Perfect,” I said, already daydreaming about something hot and homemade and not packaged in plastic wrap. “Just promise me there’ll be rice. And something spicy. I need to feel alive again.”

“You got it. Spicy, salty, and life-giving. Just like me.”

“Debatable,” I muttered, and she stuck her tongue out as she peeled out of the lot.

The drive back to my place was slower this time—probably because she’d burned off her daily need for chaos at the store. The truck was full to the brim with our haul: paper towels, dish soap, cleaning supplies, a shower curtain Mina swore would "tie the whole bathroom together," and of course, the trio of button-ups that I was already regretting less than I wanted to admit.

Halfway there, Mina launched into an enthusiastic pitch about why Jimin needed to help paint my apartment this weekend.

“The walls are so beige,” she said, one hand gesturing wildly while the other stayed loosely on the wheel. “It’s giving rental. It’s giving dentist’s office. We need warmth. Color. Maybe an accent wall.”

I shot her a look. “I just moved in. I haven’t even figured out where the forks go yet.”

“That’s why you need me,” she said, smiling smugly. “And Jimin. And maybe Taehyung. Although he’s more of a ‘music and snacks’ helper than a ‘holds the ladder’ type.”

“No painting,” I said firmly.

“But—”

“No.”

She sighed, long and dramatic. “Fine. But I’m bringing swatches over. Just so you can think about it.”

“Compromise,” I said, holding up a hand. “I’ll look at swatches. No promises beyond that.”

“Deal. For now.”

By the time we got back to the apartment, the adrenaline had worn off, and we both looked like we’d survived a war. We unloaded the truck one bag at a time, neither of us speaking much, just working in sync. The wind had picked up, slicing through our jackets, numbing our fingers.

The second we got inside, we dumped the grocery bags on the kitchen counters in a completely chaotic pile—frozen pizzas leaning against laundry detergent, cleaning sponges nestled beside a head of lettuce. No one was winning any organizational awards.

We shoved the cold stuff into the fridge in a way that would haunt any dietitian—boba cans, leftover takeout, half a dozen condiments, and nothing resembling a proper meal plan. Then we collapsed on the couch with steaming takeout containers and the kind of hunger that bordered on desperation.

I hobbled over with my box of rice and kimchi stew, trying to navigate the living room without tripping over the legs of the coffee table. My crutch caught on the edge once—then again. And then a third time, jerking my arm forward so hard the lid nearly popped off the container.

“Jesus,” I muttered.

Mina watched from the couch, chopsticks in hand, expression somewhere between entertained and alarmed.

“You okay there, Y/N?”

“I’m about this close to burning these crutches in the parking lot,” I said, gesturing with my free hand and nearly dropping my food in the process. “I swear they’ve gained sentience and are actively working against me.”

Mina bit back a laugh. “You’re over it, huh?”

“So over it.”

I sank onto the couch next to her, balancing the container in my lap, my knee throbbing in protest. “Walking used to be hard enough without props. This is like trying to tightrope across a canyon with ski poles.”

“Well, the good news is: you only have to survive a few more weeks.”

“Three weeks and four days,” I corrected. “Not that I’m counting.”

“Of course not.”

She passed me a can of sparkling water, then flipped on the TV, scrolling past half a dozen crime dramas before settling on something soft and slow—a cooking competition where everyone was too nice to be entertaining but too charming to turn off.

After lunch, Mina disappeared into the glossy pages of a wedding magazine she’d snagged from the mail pile, her fingers flipping through dresses and flower arrangements with laser focus. It was the first real lull in hours. No furniture to move. No errands to run. No decorating debates to lose.

I curled up on the far end of the couch, stretching out slowly, carefully—testing how far my knee would let me go without complaint. I exhaled, head leaning back against the cushion, and let the silence settle around me like warm water.

And of course, the second my brain had the space, it wandered right back to Jungkook.

I barely knew anything about him. Not his last name, not what he did, not whether he liked cats or had siblings or believed in fate. All I really had was a twenty-minute interaction at baggage claim and the way his name had sounded when he said it—low, warm, almost shy.

Still, I kept replaying it. The way he looked at me. The way he said my name like it was something he wanted to remember. It wasn’t dramatic, and yet... it stuck.

Ridiculous. But also kind of undeniable.

He was impossibly good-looking, yeah. The kind of good-looking that made you glance twice without meaning to. But it wasn’t just that. It was how he moved, how he listened. How he’d reached for my hand like it wasn’t even a decision, just instinct. There was something about him that had made the world feel quieter for a moment. Lighter. Less sharp around the edges.

And now, here I was, replaying it like some girl in a coming-of-age novel. Like I didn’t have more pressing things to worry about. Groceries. Doctor’s appointments. Building a life from scratch.

Bronx. Tuesday nights.

He’d said it like a suggestion. Easy. Offhand. But it hadn’t felt offhand. Not to me.

Could I actually go?

Part of me wanted to. Just to see if that strange, electric hum would still be there. To see if I’d imagined it. To see him again and maybe say something smarter this time.

But then there was the other part—the louder, older part of me that had spent years learning how to protect itself. That part was already rehearsing the excuses. Maybe he was just being friendly. Maybe he said that to everyone. Maybe it wasn’t an invitation at all, just a casual, polite mention of a bar he happened to like.

But then again... why mention Tuesday? People don’t give you days unless they want you to show up.

I sighed, tilting my head back and staring at the ceiling like it might hold some answers. If this were a song—some cheesy country track—you’d just check a box. Yes or no. Done. Simple.

But life wasn’t simple. Not for me. Not for anyone, probably, but especially not for someone who’d spent most of their teenage years building routines instead of relationships. Who’d been taught that attention had to be earned. That being wanted came with strings.

Even now, the idea of someone like him being interested in someone like me felt... farfetched. I couldn’t even picture it without flinching a little. Not because I didn’t want it. But because I didn’t know what I’d do if it was real.

Before I could sink deeper into my overthinking, Mina’s phone exploded with a series of high-pitched tones that could only mean one thing: bridal emergency.

She groaned, already reaching for it as she stood up, balancing her plate in one hand and pressing the phone to her ear with the other. “What now?” she muttered, then rolled her eyes. “Okay, okay. I’m coming.”

She turned to me as she shoved her feet back into her boots. “Promise me you won’t touch anything while I’m gone. That includes trying to alphabetize your books or reorganize the pantry. Lucy and I will help you tackle the mess later.”

I raised my hands like a suspect in a crime show. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

She pointed at me like she wasn’t entirely convinced, then turned toward the door. “Back soon. Don’t burn the place down.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Then she was gone, already halfway through a conversation before the door even clicked shut behind her.

The quiet that followed was different than before—thicker, somehow. Not empty, just... still. The only sounds were the hum of the heater and the occasional creak of the building settling around me.

I looked around the room, at the shopping bags still stacked near the kitchen, the unopened boxes lined up against the wall. The place was technically furnished now, but it didn’t feel lived in yet. It still felt like a set waiting for someone to walk onstage and make it real.

I didn’t have the energy to try.

Instead, I let myself sink deeper into the couch, pulled my phone from my pocket, and scrolled to a playlist that always helped me think—instrumentals, soft indie stuff, a few moody movie scores that reminded me of long drives and late-night practices.

I popped in my earbuds and hit shuffle. The music slipped into my ears like a sigh, wrapping around my tired thoughts and pulling me under.

And then, somewhere between the second and third song, I closed my eyes.

I managed to avoid Mina for two full days—an impressive feat, considering she lived across the hall and had the persistence of a golden retriever with a tennis ball. Jet lag and my still-aching knee made the perfect excuse. I leaned hard into both.

But Saturday morning came, and so did Mina—arms full of coffee, muffins, and what she proudly announced as a “battle plan.”

“Today,” she declared, kicking my door open like she owned the place, “is Divine Design Day.”

I blinked at her from the couch, where I’d been trying to read through a headache and ignore the existence of daylight. “Is that a real thing, or are you just making up reasons to rearrange my life again?”

“Both,” she chirped, setting down the coffee with the precision of someone used to delivering caffeine with urgency. “And don’t even try to wiggle out of it. The reinforcements are already on their way. Jimin and Taehyung will be here by ten sharp. Painting, organizing, general transformation of your sad little loft—consider it handled.”

I groaned, flopping my head back against the cushion. “Can’t we just live in the mess for a few more days? I haven't even decided if you could paint, yet.”

“Nope. Inspiration waits for no one. Plus, you’re lucky. If you’d given me one more day, I would’ve started mood-boarding your whole apartment.”

There was a part of me that wanted to protest, but... another part that was curious. She and Lucy had been hyping these guys up for days, and I hadn’t exactly met many people since moving in. Still, the thought of spending a whole day with strangers—loud, close-knit, apparently good-looking ones—made me wish I had more than half a muffin’s worth of energy.

“Wasn’t Jungkook supposed to be part of this decorating army?” I asked casually. I would like to meet both of her bothers. She talks about them so much it felt like I knew them personally.

Mina made a face. “Took a hit last night during the game. Spent the morning with the team doctor. He’s fine, but they’re keeping him out of practice for a few days.”

I’d heard the game through the walls—cheers, shouting, cursing, more cheering. Mina and Lucy had invited me to watch with them, but I’d passed. Something about crowds, even just two people shouting at a TV, still made me feel uneasy. I’d curled up with a book instead, but the next morning’s dramatic play-by-play had made me regret it a little. It had sounded... fun. Loud, chaotic, communal. The kind of thing I’d never had much of.

“Alright,” Mina clapped, snapping me back to the present. “Let’s hit Home Depot before the guys show up.”

I glanced down at my knee, already aching from the mild activity of existing. “Can’t Lucy come with us? She’s the one who probably cares whether my walls are ‘cool gray’ or ‘ash cloud.’”

Mina rolled her eyes. “She threatened to spike my coffee if I woke her before nine. So, no. You’re stuck with me. And you just said paint is fine, so I can assure you grey is out of the question.”

I sighed and started gathering my things—wallet, phone, crutches. “Just promise me you won’t go overboard. I don’t want this place ending up looking like an HGTV fever dream.”

“You wound me.” Mina held a hand to her chest in mock offense. Then, smiling mischievously, added, “But okay, compromise: you get veto power. Use it wisely.”

We took Lucy’s BMW since Mina’s Porsche could barely fit two people and a purse. As I awkwardly hoisted myself into the passenger seat, I muttered, “I still need to pick up my car. It’s just sitting at the dealership.”

“Hard pass,” Mina said, already pulling out of the lot. “You’re not driving until you’re off those crutches. And possibly not even then.”

“I’ve got a new doctor. Appointment’s Monday. Dr. Jeon.”

Mina nearly swerved. “My dad? You’re seeing my dad?”

I blinked. “...Did you not think to mention your last name?”

“I guess not?” she laughed, shaking her head. “Oh my god. This is perfect. You’re in good hands. He’s basically the unofficial Red Wings physician. He’s fixed more joints than a mechanic.”

“That’s comforting,” I muttered, feeling strangely reassured.

Home Depot was a blur of color swatches, paint samples, and Mina flitting between aisles like a woman on a mission. She had a clipboard. She was terrifying and weirdly efficient and somehow made it through the whole trip without spilling coffee on her all-white outfit.

I couldn’t lie—by the time we checked out, some part of me was genuinely excited. The thought of my walls not looking like the inside of a beige envelope had its appeal.

When we pulled up to the building, Jimin’s truck was already there, parked next to a rugged Jeep that looked like it had seen actual mountains.

“Right on time,” Mina said, sliding her sunglasses into her hair. She pulled out her phone. “I’ll call the guys. And no, Y/N, you’re not allowed to feel guilty. You’re not lifting a finger.”

“I wasn’t going to,” I said, holding up my hands.

“You weren’t,” she said sweetly, “but I know you. You hate asking for help. Tough. Today, you get to sit there and be adorable while other people carry your heavy stuff.”

“Your dad’s my doctor, not you,” I shot back, and she just winked as she dialed.

“We’re here. Come get the stuff,” she barked into the phone, then ended the call without waiting for a reply.

A few minutes later, Lucy came strolling down the front steps, looking completely put together despite just waking up. Behind her were two guys. I recognized Jimin from Mina's lockscreen—dark hair, lean and strong, with easy confidence and a smile that lit up his whole face. The other was taller, leaner, but still broad. He moved with this lazy grace, like the world would move around him if he waited long enough.

Mina launched herself at Jimin before he made it halfway up the sidewalk, and he caught her like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The taller guy—Taehyung, I assumed—was already slinging bags of paint out of the backseat like they weighed nothing. His arm was around Lucy’s shoulders, and he had a grin that looked both infuriating and charming.

He gave me a once-over as Lucy led him over.

“So, you’re the new recruit, huh?” he said, voice warm and teasing.

“That’s me,” I said, returning his smile. “Fresh out of basic training.”

“I like her,” he said to Lucy. “She’s got good banter. Can we keep her?”

“Only if you behave,” Lucy muttered, elbowing him.

He noticed the crutches next, his brow lifting.

“What’s with the wingmen?” he asked, nodding toward them.

I blinked. “The what?”

“The crutches,” he grinned. “Your wingmen. Not very discreet, but I respect the commitment.”

“Oh. Sports injury,” I said, half-laughing.

“Ah,” he said, then mock-whispered to Lucy, “I don’t know. She doesn’t look like she can keep up.”

Lucy rolled her eyes. “Keep pushing it and I’ll replace you.”

Taehyung turned back to me, grinning like a kid with a secret. “Tell you what—I’ll carry you, and Jimin can handle the actual work.”

And before I could respond, he bent and scooped me up like it was nothing. My crutches clattered to the sidewalk, and I let out a yelp somewhere between startled and outraged.

“Taehyung!” Mina shrieked, rushing over. “She’s injured! You can’t just scoop people like produce!”

“She’s tiny,” he said, unbothered. “And I’m gentle.” He looked down at me, still holding me like a rom-com cover. “You don’t mind, right?”

Still processing the fact that I was somehow four feet off the ground in the arms of a complete stranger, I blinked at Taehyung, unsure whether I should laugh, scream, or demand a refund from the universe. But instead—because apparently my brain had no interest in logic—I nodded.

“Uh... sure, Taehyung,” I muttered, my voice wobbling somewhere between confusion and reluctant amusement.

He grinned like I’d just handed him a gold medal. “See? Knew I liked you.” Then, louder, over his shoulder, “Y/N’s my homegirl now. No take-backs.”

Lucy snorted. “Oh, you know it, G,” she said, like this all made perfect sense. Like a guy carrying a semi-stranger across a parking lot was completely standard behavior.

Still on Taehyung’s back—because why not—I caught sight of Jimin approaching, a lazy smile playing at the corners of his mouth like he’d seen this happen before. Which, honestly, he probably had.

He reached out a hand to me, his voice warm and soft. “Pleasure to meet you, Y/N,” he said, and it wasn’t just politeness. There was something about the way he looked at people—steady, kind—that made you feel like you could take a full breath around him.

I adjusted my arm and leaned forward just enough to shake his hand, my own awkwardness bubbling at the edges. But there was something about him—maybe the calm in his eyes, maybe the way he didn’t flinch or rush—that made it easier than I expected.

“Thanks,” I said, managing a smile. “You must be the sane one.”

“God, I hope not,” he replied with a soft laugh. “But I *am* the quiet one. You’ll get used to these lunatics. Eventually.”

“I’m starting to think I don’t have a choice,” I said.

Before I could say anything else, Mina’s voice cracked through the moment like a starter pistol.

“Alright, enough with the welcome parade!” she barked, clapping her hands. “We’re not here to flirt—we’re here to work.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jimin said with a mock salute before peeling off toward the truck to start grabbing paint supplies.

I shifted awkwardly on Taehyung’s back. “Okay. Time to put me down now.”

“Nope,” he said, the word sharp and final, like we’d made a legally binding agreement. “I said I’m carrying you in, and I meant it.”

“I have legs,” I pointed out. “At least, technically.”

“And I have arms,” he replied cheerfully. “So really, this works out for both of us.”

“You’re seriously carrying me and the paint?” I asked as he reached for a box without a hint of effort.

Taehyung didn’t even look at me. “Multitasking is a lifestyle.”

I sighed. “Can someone at least grab my crutches?”

“Lucy!” he called. “Get Goose and Maverick, will you?”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t ask for clarification. Just bent down to collect them with a kind of long-suffering patience that told me this wasn’t the first time she’d played interpreter for him.

“Goose and Maverick?” I asked, giving him a sidelong glance. “Really?”

He looked at me like I was the one missing something. “They’re your wingmen. You literally can’t take off without them.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’ve been told,” he said, grinning. “Repeatedly. But people still keep me around, so I must be doing something right.”

By the time we made it up to my apartment—me, Taehyung, the paint, and my dignity all jostling for space—I had stopped trying to argue. It wasn’t worth it. And, if I was honest with myself, there was something kind of... nice about it. Not being in control. Being carried, even if it was chaotic and borderline absurd. It was the kind of closeness I wasn’t used to, the kind I usually deflected with a joke or a polite smile.

Inside, the rest of the crew filed in behind us, arms full of supplies. Mina immediately took over like she was hosting her own HGTV show, issuing orders about where tarps should go and what walls needed taping. Jimin unpacked the brushes with surgical precision. Lucy cued up a playlist. Taehyung, still carrying me like some kind of absurd prince, finally set me down gently on the couch.

“There,” he said, dusting off his hands dramatically. “Safe delivery. No scratches.”

I adjusted my brace and flexed my knee. “Do I get to rate you on the app?”

He grinned. “Only if I get five stars.”

“You get four,” I said, deadpan. “Docked a point for dramatics.”

Taehyung gasped. “Rude.”

Mina leaned over, handed me a muffin from the tray she'd brought earlier. “Don’t feed the monster. He thrives on attention.”

“He thrives on being carried in song,” Lucy said, tossing him a paintbrush. “Start with the baseboards, Prince Charming.”

The room hummed with laughter and easy movement, brushes unwrapped, music starting low in the background. It didn’t feel like a decorating day—it felt like some strange, spontaneous little family had formed inside my apartment. No one was looking at me like I was fragile. No one was asking for anything. And I hadn’t laughed this much in... I didn’t even know how long.

Somewhere between the paint fumes and the dance breaks, something inside me softened. My body still hurt, sure, but my chest didn’t feel quite as tight. The anxiety that usually sat behind my ribs had, at least for now, gone quiet. And I realized that I was smiling.

As the afternoon wore on, it became increasingly clear that this wasn’t just about paint and furniture. It was something else entirely.

It was friendship. It was kindness.

They didn’t say it aloud, but I could feel it in the way they handed me brushes without hesitation, the way Lucy made sure there was music playing that I might like, the way Jimin quietly rearranged a chair so I could get through on my crutches without asking. This was how they welcomed people in—not with big gestures or declarations, but through movement. Through presence. Through effort.

And they didn’t seem to need anything in return.

By lunchtime, I’d made Taehyung laugh so hard he nearly dropped his roller. I’d tossed out a sarcastic one-liner that had Lucy wheezing. Mina had crowned me “queen of passive-aggressive commentary,” and I didn’t even flinch when Jimin tried to nickname my crutches again. The air was warm with paint fumes and music and the kind of easy conversation that comes when no one’s trying too hard.

For the first time in a while, I wasn’t just reacting. I was participating. I was letting people in.

By late afternoon, the loft had started to change—walls no longer blank, corners no longer empty. It wasn’t just a space anymore; it was starting to look like a home. One I could actually picture living in. Unpacking didn’t feel like a task to avoid now—it felt like a step forward.

So I started with what I knew: books.

Jimin carried the boxes over, stacking them carefully by the shelves. “These yours?” he asked with a crooked smile, already knowing the answer.

I nodded. “My version of comfort food.”

He grinned. “Respect.”

I opened the first box, and the scent hit me instantly—familiar, musty in a good way. The smell of ink and paper, of nights spent in bed with a flashlight and early mornings tucked into the corner of rinks. These books had followed me everywhere—Nevada, Colorado, hotel rooms, off-seasons, injuries, airports. They were mine. And in a way, they were the only thing that had ever really stayed.

I sat on the floor, carefully stacking them by genre and alphabetically—because of course I did—and let myself get lost in the quiet comfort of order.

Until Mina’s voice rang out from the living room.

“Hey, Y/N,” she called, tone casual. “Do you want us to start unpacking these other boxes? The paint’s dry in here.”

I glanced up from the shelf. “Yeah, go ahead. They should just be boring essentials.”

“One’s labeled ‘Miscellaneous,’” she said, “and the other... has no label.”

I frowned. “That’s weird. I thought I got everything.”

“You want me to open the mystery box?” she asked, and I could already hear the curiosity revving like an engine.

“Sure,” I said, distracted as I slid a copy of The Secret History into place. “It’s probably just chargers or socks or something.”

Then came the sound of tape being torn back—followed by a sharp, high-pitched squeal that nearly knocked me sideways.

“Mina,” I groaned, setting down the next book, “are you trying to communicate with bats?”

No answer. Instead, a second later, her head popped around the corner, eyes wide, smile even wider. That look she got when she was seconds away from chaos.

“What?” I asked, already bracing myself.

She strutted into the room like a cat who’d just dragged in a very shiny mouse. In her hands was something rectangular and gleaming.

And the second I saw it, my stomach dropped.

The plaque.

The one with my name on it, etched in gold under the words Olympic Silver Medalist – 2020.

It glinted in the late afternoon light like it had been waiting for its cue.

“Oh my god,” I muttered, the back of my neck prickling. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Mina beamed. “Explain.”

“I—where did you even find that?”

She held it up like it was an award she’d won. “In the unmarked box. Along with a lot of other sparkly surprises.”

Of course. Thanks, Emily, I thought bitterly. Who else would’ve made sure that box made the journey, whether I wanted it to or not?

Mina looked like a detective who had just cracked a very personal case. She wasn’t smug, exactly—more amused. Intrigued. Like she’d found the missing puzzle piece to a picture she didn’t know was incomplete.

“So, care to tell me why you’ve been living in my building for days without mentioning that you, I don’t know, competed in the freaking Olympics?”

I sighed, rubbing a hand over my face. I could feel the heat crawling up my throat. I wasn’t embarrassed, exactly—but I wasn’t ready either. Not for this. Not yet.

“I was going to tell you,” I muttered. “Eventually. It just... didn’t come up.”

“Didn’t come up?” she echoed, laughing. “Y/N, this isn’t like forgetting to mention you’ve been to Italy. You were on a cereal box.”

I flinched. “Only once.”

She waved the plaque again. “You medaled. At the Olympics. And I’m your friend. Friends share things like this.”

“I know,” I said, my voice quieter now. “I know. I just... liked that you didn’t know. That for once, I wasn’t the skater or the medalist or Emily’s daughter. I was just... me.”

Mina’s face softened. She lowered the plaque.

“Okay,” she said gently. “That I get.”

I exhaled slowly. “It’s not that I’m ashamed. I’m not. It’s just—when people find out, everything shifts. They treat you different. They expect something. Or they think they know who you are. I didn’t want to start off like that.”

She nodded, sitting beside me on the floor. “And now that the cat’s out of the box?”

I gave her a sideways look. “Thanks for that, by the way.”

She grinned. “Anytime.”

I hesitated. “Does it... change anything?”

Mina nudged me with her shoulder. “You think a medal’s gonna scare me off? Please. If anything, it just makes you more interesting. Besides, Jimin and Taehyung probably don’t even know how figure skating works. You’re safe.”

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

She reached back into the box and pulled out more relics—photos, laminated programs, a couple of medals, and even a few old costumes, sequins still clinging to the fabric.

One had a note pinned to it. My mother’s handwriting, Just in case. I stared at it for a beat.

“Subtle, Emily. Real subtle.”

“Who’s Emily?” Mina asked, peering over my shoulder.

“My mom.”

Mina picked up one of the magazines from the box, the glossy cover catching the light, my teenage face frozen in mid-spin, smiling in a way I barely remembered. She turned it over in her hands like it might explain something if she looked long enough.

“So...” she said slowly, almost gently. “I’m guessing you didn’t pack all this yourself?”

I shook my head. “Not even close.”

She looked up, eyebrows raised.

“I left all my skating stuff back in Vegas,” I said, trying to keep my voice light, like it wasn’t a topic I still hadn’t fully figured out how to talk about. “But Emily has her own ideas. She thought I might need a little ‘reminder’ of who I am.”

“Or, like... a museum exhibit’s worth of reminders,” Mina muttered, holding up one of my old costumes. It shimmered in the afternoon light, all rhinestones and careful stitching.

I reached for it instinctively, my fingers brushing the fabric like it might sting. “I didn’t want this here. Any of it, really. I’m not even sure if I’ll ever skate again, so... why surround myself with sequins and medals and expectations, you know?”

Mina’s smile faded. She set the costume down and placed a warm hand on my knee, her touch gentle. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” I said quickly, even though it wasn’t. “I just didn’t expect to see all of this again. Not now.”

We sat there quietly for a moment. Not awkward—just still. Her hand stayed on my knee, grounding me while my thoughts spun. I looked around the room, suddenly aware of how surreal it felt to be surrounded by my past in the middle of what was supposed to be my fresh start.

“She thinks I’m being dramatic,” I added after a beat, voice quieter. “That this injury is just a bump. That I should already be back on the ice, training. That I’m wasting time.”

Mina frowned. “But you’re recovering from surgery. Doesn’t she know what the doctors said?”

“Emily only hears what fits the version of reality she wants,” I said, with a dry laugh. “And her version doesn’t include me being uncertain or scared or... done.”

“She’s insane,” Mina said flatly. “You don’t just bounce back from something like this because someone else decides you should.”

“Yeah, well... she’s been pushing since I was little. It’s what she does. I think she believes if she just shoves enough glitter at me, I’ll snap out of whatever this is and turn back into the girl she remembers.”

Mina leaned back, still watching me like she was trying to figure out how to carry some of the weight I’d just handed her. “Well, screw that. Whatever version of you is here now? That’s the one we’re rooting for.”

I smiled, feeling something in my chest ease. “Thanks. I’m not really great at this whole... emotional honesty thing.”

“Please,” she said, scoffing playfully. “I grew up with three brothers and a father who thinks hugs are a form of weakness. This is practically therapy compared to that.”

I laughed, a real one this time. “I’m really glad I met you.”

Mina grinned and bumped her knee against mine. “Same. And just so we’re clear, we’re not just friends, Y/N. We’re best friends. You’re stuck with me.”

I bumped her back. “Best friends it is.”

We sat like that for a while, surrounded by old photos, forgotten trophies, and glittering ghosts of the life I’d been trying to leave behind. And for the first time, it didn’t feel suffocating. It just felt... like part of the story. One I didn’t have to erase to move forward.

Just then, Lucy’s voice called out from the back room.

“Hey, lazy bums! Are you two just gonna lie around while we do all the work?”

“Yep, that was the plan,” Mina called back immediately, not missing a beat.

“Sounds good to me,” I added, smirking.

Lucy appeared in the doorway a second later, a paint roller in hand and a grin on her face. She flopped onto the floor beside us, stretching out like she hadn’t just spent the last hour painting trim.

“Well, if you’re being lazy, I might as well join you,” she said, wiping her hands on her jeans.

Mina turned toward her with a sly look. “So, Lucy. Did you know Y/N here is a certified Olympic figure skater?”

Lucy’s brows shot up for half a second before she shrugged like someone had just told her I was good at baking.

“No shit? I knew your name sounded familiar.” She looked me over with a nod, like it all made sense now. “That’s pretty badass.”

I blinked. “You’re really not fazed by this, are you?”

“Nah,” she said, lying back on her elbows. “You kinda give off badass energy even without the medal. The glitter just confirms it.”

“Seriously,” Mina added, rolling onto her stomach, chin in her hand. “The things you can do with your legs—I’m just saying, if I had that kind of flexibility, Jimin wouldn’t let me out of the bedroom.”

I groaned, covering my face. “Mina.”

“What?” she said, unrepentant. “It’s true.”

Lucy smirked. “She’s not wrong. I mean, flexibility like that? You could probably win gold medals in other areas.”

“Wow, thanks for the visual,” I muttered, face burning as I tried to redirect my attention to literally anything else.

“Not for me, you dork. For guys. The one's you'd want to attract in this scenario.”

I forced a laugh, trying not to let the heat rising in my chest show. “Well, I wouldn’t really know.”

There was a pause.

Mina blinked. “Wait. Are you saying... like wouldn’t know, wouldn’t know?”

I stared at her, then stood abruptly, heart thudding. “Okay! That’s definitely enough over-sharing for one afternoon.”

“No way,” Mina said, sitting upright, eyes wide with disbelief. “Are you—Y/N. Are you a virgin?”

The word hit the air like a firework, and I froze, eyes darting toward the window like I might escape through it.

“Mina,” I hissed, “could we not announce it to the world?”

She looked more shocked than judgmental, which helped, but only slightly.

Lucy didn’t say anything at first. She just looked at me—really looked—her expression softening into something that felt neither surprised nor judgmental. Just... curious. Thoughtful. Then she shrugged.

“Honestly?” she said, voice even. “Kind of refreshing.”

I blinked. “Sorry—what?”

She leaned back onto her elbows like this was the most casual conversation in the world. “It took me a while, too. I didn’t have sex until I was twenty-one. And even then, I felt behind. Like everyone else was speaking some language I hadn’t learned yet.” She paused, her mouth quirking up at the edges. “But it turns out most of them were just faking fluency.”

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. “Huh.”

“Seriously,” she added. “You’re not weird. And it doesn’t say anything about who you are or what you’ve done or how together your life is. It just... is.”

That’s the thing about Lucy. She said what she meant, then gave you room to sit with it. I wasn’t used to that. Most people either tried to fix things or pretended they didn’t matter. But she just let it hang there, uncomplicated.

Mina, on the other hand, was already recovering from her shock with the energy of someone who’d just discovered a juicy plot twist. She grinned and grabbed the nearest throw pillow, launching it in my direction. “Okay, okay, we’ll drop it—for now. But just so you know, this is absolutely going on the future girl's night conversation list.”

I ducked the pillow with half a laugh. “Do you guys always interrogate your friends like this?”

“Only the ones we like,” Mina said sweetly.

“Pillow fights optional,” I muttered as I stood and made my way toward the kitchen, mostly for an excuse to breathe.

“No secrets between best friends, Y/N!” Mina called after me, her voice lilting with dramatic flair. “We’re basically emotional archaeologists. We will uncover every layer.”

I opened the fridge door just to have something between us, gripping a bottle of water like it might offer emotional protection. The cool air hit my face, and for a second, I just stood there, letting it settle my thoughts.

The truth was, I hadn’t meant to say anything. Not really. The words had just come out—too fast, too raw. But instead of judgment or awkwardness, I’d been met with honesty. Warmth. A kind of acceptance that didn’t require explanations or apologies. And maybe I wasn’t used to that. But standing there, with their voices still drifting in from the living room and laughter bubbling up again like nothing had shifted—I realized I didn’t really want to hide anymore.

Monday morning arrived dark and quiet, the kind of morning where the sky barely bothered to shift from night. I woke up before my alarm, as I usually did, but this time I didn’t rush to the kitchen or swing into a stretching routine. I stayed exactly where I was—wrapped in a cocoon of downy pillows Mina had sworn were “life-changing.”

I wasn’t sure they’d changed my life, but for once, staying in bed didn’t feel like avoidance. It just felt... necessary. Today mattered. More than I wanted to admit out loud.

It was the kind of day that split a timeline. Before. After. The day everything might shift—one way or another. My first appointment with Dr. Jeon. A new specialist. A new city. A new shot at figuring out what came next. Or maybe just confirmation of what I was afraid to say out loud. I wasn't sure if I was ready for this to be over or not.

Back in Vegas, Dr. Banerjee had tried to be gentle, but his words had still landed like punches. He’d told me not to count on a full recovery. Not to get my hopes up. Emily, of course, had immediately decided he was being negative. She was convinced I was dragging things out. Playing the victim. Acting fragile for attention.

And the worst part? Some days, I almost believed her. Was I being dramatic? Was I just afraid of the truth?

I threw off the covers and sat up slowly, stretching my arms over my head before bending into my usual warm-up—first the good leg, then the bad. My knee felt tight, but not terrible. There was a faint ache, sure, but I’d woken up to worse. It wasn’t a sharp pain, at least, and I could still move with control. That was something.

I stood carefully and tested my balance. No major complaints from my joints. A small flicker of hope lit up in my chest, tentative and trembling. It had been so long since I let myself hope. Too long.

I moved into deeper stretches, more out of habit than optimism, and felt a twinge of pride when I realized I was still flexible. Still strong. The months off the ice hadn’t erased all of it. The grace was still in me somewhere, buried under layers of doubt and bruised confidence.

For a second, I let myself imagine it—spinning again, arms lifted, back arched. Spirals on clean, untouched ice. The moment where the world went quiet and I felt like I could breathe. I missed that feeling more than I knew how to say.

The first couple of weeks after the surgery had been a strange kind of relief. I wasn’t training, I wasn’t performing, I wasn’t pushing. It was the first time in years that no one expected anything from me. I sank into it like a vacation I hadn’t realized I needed—reading entire novels in one sitting, binge-watching trashy reality shows, eating grilled cheese at two in the morning just because I could. But it didn’t last.

By the time mid-December rolled around, the stillness stopped feeling restful and started to feel like a weight I couldn’t shake. Emily noticed before I did and took it as an excuse to “intervene.” She hauled me back to the rink, under the pretense of helping me “reconnect” with my roots. What she meant was: prove you’re still useful. Prove you’re still capable. Prove this wasn’t a waste.

She stood at the edge of the boards like a judge with a stopwatch. I hadn’t even taken five steps before my knee buckled and I fell. Flat. In front of Yoongi. In front of the kids who used to look up to me. That was the last time I let her drag me there.

It didn’t stop her from trying, of course. Emily didn’t believe in stillness. She believed in productivity, in motion, in proving people wrong—even if those people were her own daughter.

She had me “consult” with Yoongi for weeks after, pretending it was useful. But all I did was sit at the rink, freezing and frustrated, trying to pretend I wasn’t quietly unraveling. That’s when the idea of leaving started to feel like more than a fantasy.

Dr. Banerjee had mentioned specialists in Michigan who had worked with athletes recovering from similar injuries. I clung to the idea like a lifeline. If I was going to make a decision—if I was going to have any chance at figuring out whether skating was still possible—I needed space. I needed air. Emily wouldn’t give it to me, so I had to take it.

She hadn’t liked the idea of me leaving Vegas. Said it was impulsive. Said it was a waste. But when she realized I wasn’t going to budge, she pivoted to control in the way she always did—organizing everything from five hundred miles away.

She found the apartment, bought the car, booked the appointment. She made the calls, set the schedule, tried to package my new life like it was her idea. I let her. I didn’t care who pulled the strings as long as it got me on a plane and out of that house. And now... here I was. In a new city. In a quiet apartment with half-painted walls and friends I hadn’t known I needed until I found them. I still didn’t know exactly what I was doing.

I got ready slowly, moving through the motions with mechanical care—shower, dry my hair, jeans, a soft navy sweater. Something neutral. Something that wouldn’t make me feel like I was trying too hard. The familiar rhythm of routine helped. A little.

I ate a lemon poppy seed muffin while standing at the counter, brushing the crumbs away absently. My mind kept drifting ahead, to the waiting room, to the questions Dr. Jeon might ask. To what he might see when he looked at my scans. Would he see potential? Would he see damage beyond repair?

Would he see me? Was I still Y/N Y/L/N, elite figure skater? Or had I already become someone else—and just hadn’t admitted it yet?

A knock at the door pulled me out of my thoughts.

“Morning!” Mina’s voice rang out cheerfully before I even made it halfway across the room. The lock clicked, and a moment later, she strolled in like she owned the place—radiant, caffeinated, and entirely too awake for how early it was.

I’d given her a spare key yesterday. Or more accurately, she’d insisted, and I hadn’t come up with a good enough reason to say no.

“Good morning,” I said, my voice lighter than I felt. She floated into the kitchen, grabbing a banana from the counter like it had always belonged to her.

“Happy Lose-the-Crutches Day!” she said, throwing her arms in the air like we were celebrating a national holiday.

“You’re so weird,” I said, shaking my head, but I couldn’t help the small smile tugging at my lips.

“Oh, come on. You can't tell me you're not excited to ditch your flyboys.” She nodded toward the crutches leaning against the wall. “I’m just saying, maybe with fewer metal limbs, you’ll stop knocking over every piece of furniture in your path.”

“I make no promises,” I said. “I’ve been tripping over thin air since before I could walk.”

“Not your fault,” Mina said breezily, now halfway through the banana. “You were born to glide. Gravity doesn’t apply to you unless you're off the ice.”

I raised an eyebrow at her, skeptical.

She met my gaze without flinching. “I’ve seen you skate. It’s like watching something—” she paused, searching for the word, “—weightless. Like you’re built for it.”

I’d heard things like that before, mostly from articles or overzealous fans, but coming from Mina, it felt different. She wasn’t trying to flatter me. She just meant it.

“Thanks,” I said quietly, my throat tightening in that annoying way it did when someone was kind and I didn’t know how to receive it.

Mina grinned again, apparently satisfied. “Come on, babe. Grab Goose and Maverick and let’s roll.”

I rolled my eyes at the names she’d assigned to my crutches—her Top Gun obsession had resurfaced with alarming enthusiasm—but I grabbed them anyway. The sooner this appointment happened, the sooner I’d know if I could finally start moving forward, or if I’d have to figure out how to live with where I was.

We made our way outside, the cold morning air biting at our faces as we slid into her car. She cranked the heat, and the vents roared to life.

“Thanks for driving me,” I said, trying to sound casual, even though my stomach was twisting itself into knots.

“How many times do I have to tell you?” she said, pulling out of the lot. “I don’t mind. Besides, it gives me a reason to stop by the hospital and bug my dad. Makes me look like the responsible child.”

“I’m guessing that’s not a hard title to hold onto.”

“Okay, true,” she said with a laugh. “But I like going there. Seeing him in his element. We’re all so different, my brothers and me. Taehyung’s like this human tank on skates, and Jungkook moves like he was born doing crossovers. But they’ve always had my back. Being the youngest with two protective hockey-playing brothers definitely has its perks.”

I smiled, glad for the distraction. “How’d they end up on the same team? That doesn’t seem like something that just happens.”

“It doesn’t,” she admitted. “Taehyung wasn’t a huge name going into the draft. Scouts overlooked him for years. But then the Red Wings saw him in one showcase game, and that was it. They picked him up late, and it turned out to be one of the smartest moves they ever made. Jungkook came up a year later—he was already on their radar, but I think having Tae here made the decision easier. Plus, hometown brothers? The media eats that up.”

“Guess I’ll need to start brushing up on hockey,” I said, trying to sound more relaxed than I felt. “You know, now that I’m basically related to the Red Wings through you.”

“It’s practically required in Michigan,” she said, flicking her turn signal on. “We don’t mess around about two things here: winter and hockey.”

As we pulled into the hospital parking lot, the familiar knot of anxiety settled lower in my stomach, tight and insistent. This was it. The appointment. The one that might tell me if I had a future in skating—or if I had to start imagining something else entirely.

But the fear wasn’t quite as sharp as it had been in Vegas. Maybe it was the distance from Emily. Maybe it was Mina’s steady presence. Or maybe it was just the quiet sense of possibility that came from being somewhere new.

“You okay?” Mina asked, cutting the engine and turning to me.

“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “But I think I’m ready to find out.”

She nodded. “That’s all you can do.”

We sat there for a beat, the car ticking softly as it cooled. Then Mina, never one to let a moment sit too long, launched into a new story—this time about the Jeons’ childhood road trips to Canada for tournaments, how Jungkook used to get carsick but refused to admit it, and how Taehyung once brought a lizard in his hoodie and didn’t tell anyone until it crawled across Mina’s lap at a border checkpoint.

I laughed, really laughed, and felt something settle in my chest. Not peace, exactly, but something close to it.

Mina’s stories were full of color and warmth, and the more she talked, the more I could picture it—their house full of noise and teasing, her dad coming home in scrubs, her mom in the kitchen, Taehyung trying to sneak snacks upstairs, Jungkook glued to a pair of rollerblades in the driveway. A family that made room for each other. Who didn’t just push, but protected. Who loved out loud. For the first time, I realized how much I’d missed that. Or maybe just never really had it. Not like that, anyway.

I looked out the window at the hospital entrance. Whatever Dr. Jeon had to say, I wasn’t alone walking into it. That mattered more than I ever would’ve guessed.

The front desk was all clean lines and hushed conversations between the receptionists. Signing in felt oddly ceremonial, like I was handing over the last of my denial with the click of a pen. Five minutes later, when the nurse called my name, the nerves that had been quietly simmering suddenly surged to the surface—tight and sharp, crawling up my spine and gripping my chest like a vice.

The exam room was exactly what you’d expect: bland, sterile, steeped in the sharp tang of antiseptic. The cold linoleum sent a chill straight through my sneakers, and I felt it settle in my bones. The nurse was quick and impersonal—height, weight, blood pressure—before she disappeared behind the door with a soft “Doctor will be in shortly.”

I climbed up onto the edge of the exam table, its paper crinkling beneath me, and folded my hands so tightly my fingers went pale. Mina sat in the chair beside me, swinging her foot gently, her presence steady and grounding, but even that couldn’t slow the drumbeat of anxiety pounding through me.

It was ridiculous how fast my heart was racing. I’d stood in the center of Olympic arenas, lights blinding, crowds watching, expectations weighing heavy on every jump and spin. But this was different. This wasn’t about a medal or a score—it was about who I was without all of that. About what I’d have left if the ice was no longer mine.

My foot tapped an anxious rhythm against the cabinet. I barely noticed until Mina reached out and rested a hand gently on it. The pressure was light, but it was enough to still me.

“You okay?” she asked, her voice soft.

I nodded, but it felt hollow.

The door opened with a soft click.

The man who stepped in looked more like someone you’d want to sit next to at a backyard cookout than a doctor about to deliver a verdict on your future. He was tall, lean, probably in his early fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair combed back in a way that said he’d either put zero effort into it or had perfected the art of making it look that way. His suit was understated—charcoal slacks, a navy sweater under a white coat—and the warmth in his brown eyes contrasted the clinical chill of the room.

He glanced at the clipboard in his hands, then looked up. “Y/N Y/L/N?” His tone was even, pleasant.

Then his eyes landed on Mina, and everything about him softened. A genuine smile cracked across his face, crow’s feet appearing at the corners of his eyes.

“Well hey der, Mina! Didn’t see ya there!”

I blinked. Did he really just say ‘hey der’? The accent was unmistakable—Midwest, probably northern Michigan or somewhere not far from the Wisconsin border. Mina had said he'd grown up in Green Bay. It was so gentle and earnest, I had to bite my lip to keep from smiling.

Mina jumped up and threw her arms around him. “Hi, Dad.”

She stepped back and gestured toward me. “This is Y/N. She just moved in next door, and I thought I’d tag along to introduce her.”

Dr. Jeon—or Suho, apparently—turned toward me, his smile still warm, still easy. “Nice to meet you, Y/N. Hope she’s not driving you too crazy already.”

“She’s been great,” I said, forcing my voice to sound steadier than I felt. I was still trying to untangle the ball of nerves sitting like stone in my stomach.

He nodded. “Good to hear. And call me Suho—everyone does. Any friend of Mina’s is a friend of mine. I’ve got a feeling you’ll be around more than a little.”

Before I could say anything else, Mina piped up, practically bouncing where she stood. “Oh! Are you and Mom still going to the Red Wings game Friday?”

“You know it. Wouldn’t miss it.”

She turned to me, eyes gleaming with excitement. “You should come with us. Lucy and I always go, and after the game, we meet up with some of the players—it’s actually a blast. Please come?”

I shook my head with a small laugh. “You’re doing the puppy eyes again.”

“They work, and you know it. C’mon, please?”

I looked at her—hopeful, grinning, her hands clasped in mock prayer—and felt the last of my resistance crumble.

“Alright. I’ll go.”

“Yes!” she cheered, clapping her hands. “Can I pick your outfit?”

Suho held up a hand, chuckling. “Okay, let’s maybe not plan her wardrobe while I’m trying to be a doctor here.”

“Oops,” Mina said, kissing his cheek before heading toward the door. “See you Friday!” She waved at me before slipping out, the door closing softly behind her.

The air shifted almost immediately—less playful now, quieter. Not uncomfortable, just... different. Like we’d all remembered why I was here.

I looked at Suho, who was already pulling up a stool and flipping open my file.

“She always been like that?” I asked, my voice still light, but something in it cracked slightly.

He smiled without looking up. “Since she learned how to talk. She hasn’t stopped since.” He turned a page, scanned it, then glanced at me. “But she’s got a good heart. And she’s stubborn—runs in the family.”

I let out a soft, distracted laugh, but the nerves were already crawling back in.

Suho adjusted the file in his lap. “Your orthopedic in Nevada sent over everything. November, right? ACL tear, surgery a week later, concussion from the fall?”

I nodded slowly. My throat felt tight again. “Yeah.”

The memory was sharper than I expected, cutting through the surface like ice cracking underfoot. One second I was mid-jump, body precise and controlled, and the next, everything was wrong—air, noise, then the sound of the impact, the searing pain that came before the lights even fully faded.

Suho didn’t rush. He flipped another page. “Looks like you’ve been doing your post-op rehab consistently. That’s good. Really good.” He looked at me again. “How’s the knee feeling now?”

“Sore,” I admitted. “Mostly at night. And if I’m on my feet too long, it kind of... throbs.”

He nodded. “That’s normal. Ligaments take time to recondition. It’s not just the muscle you’re rebuilding—it’s trust. Between your body and your brain.”

He moved closer, gently lifting my leg and rotating it with practiced care. “Range of motion looks decent,” he murmured. “And you’re not wincing—that’s a good sign.”

He set my leg down gently and looked at me fully. “I think you can start weaning off the crutches. Short walks at first. Around the house. No hills, no stairs yet.”

A small breath escaped me, part relief, part fear. “So... does that mean skating’s on the table?”

He didn’t answer right away. He leaned back slightly, rested his hands on his knees, and studied me for a beat. I could see the gears turning behind his eyes—professional caution, tempered by experience.

“If you’re diligent—if you give this the time it needs—then yes. I think it’s a real possibility. But don’t rush it. Your knee isn’t ready for jumps or spins. We’ll start small—treadmill by the end of the week. Gentle walking, just to get it used to bearing weight again. If that goes well, we’ll try light skating. Easy glides, no tricks.”

It wasn’t a promise. But it was hope. And right now, that was more than I thought I’d get.

“Thank you,” I said, and my voice wavered just enough that I had to look down.

“One step at a time,” he said quietly. “You don’t have to do it all at once.”

I nodded, swallowing hard.

He flipped through the last of the pages in my file. “Let’s get you scheduled for a follow-up in early April. That’ll give us time to reassess—see where you’re at in terms of strength and mobility.”

I hesitated. The real question was still there, sitting in the back of my throat, bitter and impossible to swallow. I stared at the floor, then forced myself to look up.

“Will I be able to compete again?” My voice barely made it out.

Suho looked at me for a long moment. Then he leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, and his tone shifted—gentle, but unflinchingly honest.

“It’s possible. But I won’t lie to you—there are no guarantees. Some athletes make a full comeback after an ACL tear. Others plateau. It depends on how well your body responds to the rehab. And how patient you’re willing to be.”

I nodded slowly, even though part of me was still frozen. Still scared.

“The hardest part,” he added, “comes when it starts to feel like you’re better. That’s when you’re most vulnerable to reinjury—when the confidence comes back faster than the strength. So take it slow. Let your body lead. We’ll reassess in April and see what’s next.”

He met my eyes, steady and kind. “Can you promise me that? That you won’t rush this?”

I nodded, but my mind was still spinning. Everything Suho had told me was looping back on itself, piling up before I could properly sort it out. ACL rehab. Crutches. No jumps. Maybe skating again. Maybe competing. There were so many maybes, and behind each one was a risk I wasn’t sure I was brave enough to take.

And underneath it all was the fear—quiet, patient, always waiting. It hadn’t left. It just shifted shape. I stared down at my hands, the knuckles still pale from how tightly I’d been wringing them, and tried to breathe through the weight in my chest.

Then Suho’s voice cut through the spiral. Not sharp, not rushed. Just steady.

“Y/N,” he said gently, “I know this isn’t easy to hear. And I know how hard it must be, having your future suddenly look different than you planned. But listen to me—don’t lose hope. You’re frustrated, sure. That’s normal. But recovery isn’t just physical. Mental strength is going to be just as important. Probably more.”

I looked up, caught off guard by how serious he looked. Not grim—just honest. Like he was telling me something he’d learned the hard way, something he really meant.

“If you stay patient, stay consistent, and keep showing up for yourself,” he continued, “you give yourself the best possible chance of getting back to where you were. And maybe even beyond that.”

A small, cautious warmth sparked somewhere inside me, like someone had lit a match in the dark. I swallowed hard. “You really think I can come back from this?”

His eyes didn’t waver. “I’ve seen a lot of athletes recover from worse. And I’ve seen some of the best give up—not because their bodies failed, but because they let fear win.” He leaned forward a little. “I can’t make any promises. But I wouldn’t be saying this if I didn’t believe you had it in you.”

I didn’t know what to say. The part of me that had braced for another clinical assessment—something cold and distant and definitive—didn’t quite know how to absorb this. It wasn’t a guarantee. But it was hope. Honest, measured hope. And after the months I’d spent waiting for the other shoe to drop, it felt like the first real breath I’d taken in a long time.

“Thank you,” I said quietly. Then, catching myself, “I mean—thank you, Suho.”

He grinned. “There you go. Getting the hang of the whole first-name thing.”

A faint laugh slipped out of me, and for the first time all day, it didn’t feel forced.

Suho stood and moved toward the counter to jot something in my chart, then turned back to me. “Just remember, you’re the one doing the work. I’ll guide you, sure. But this journey? It’s yours. Own it. Take your time. Don’t skip steps. There’s a time to push—and this isn’t it.”

“I hear you,” I said, managing a half-smile as I picked up my crutches. “No hero moves yet. Got it.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Yet.”

I nodded again, and this time it felt steadier. Not because I suddenly had all the answers, but because I had something to aim for. A thread to hold onto.

Suho opened the door for me, then gave me a last look as I passed through. “I’ll see you Friday. At the game.”

I blinked. “Right. I almost forgot.”

“Don’t worry,” he said with a wink. “Mina never lets anyone forget.”

I smiled—really smiled—and stepped into the hallway.

Outside, the January cold slapped against my skin the moment the sliding doors opened. The wind cut straight through my coat, and my breath came out in tight little clouds. But strangely, I didn’t mind.

After the appointment, Mina wouldn’t take no for an answer. She claimed we had to eat, and I didn’t have the energy to argue. So we ended up at the little café on Maple—the one with the scratched wooden tables and the chalkboard menu that hadn’t changed in three years. The kind of place where the barista already knows your order and slides it across the counter with a wink. Comfort food, warm light, good coffee. Safe.

We ate slowly, mostly in companionable silence, only breaking it to talk about the game Friday or how Minnesota had a “better winter” than Michigan, which, according to Mina, was a hill she was prepared to die on. Eventually, she checked the time, grabbed her keys, and gave me that look—the one that meant she had a plan I hadn’t agreed to.

“Come on. Emily said your car would be ready today, right?” she said as we slid into her car.

I nodded, suddenly queasy.

By the time we pulled into the dealership lot, my nerves had twisted into a tight knot at the base of my stomach. I spotted it right away—sleek, shining, sitting in the front row like it knew it was being shown off. A brand-new Mercedes-Benz SUV, polished to a mirror finish, reflecting the cloudy winter sky.

Of course it was a Mercedes. Emily didn’t do practical. She did statements. To her, this was a gift. To me, it felt like every moment of my life rolled into one big fucking joke on four wheels. She has no idea who I am.

I swallowed the knot of disappointment and climbed into the driver’s seat. The leather was buttery soft, the scent of new upholstery too strong, too sterile. Everything felt untouched, untouched by me at least. Like it belonged to a version of my life I hadn’t chosen.

I adjusted the seat, turned on the ignition, and rolled out of the lot with careful hands. A few seconds later, my phone buzzed. Emily. Right on cue. She’d probably been watching the time, waiting for the appointment to end so she could debrief like it was a business transaction.

I stared at the screen for a second before letting it ring out. She could go to voicemail. I’d blame driving later if she pressed. It wasn’t a lie—not completely.

We pulled up to the apartment just as Lucy’s BMW came around the corner. She practically leapt from it before the engine had even settled.

“There she is!” she called out, beaming, arms already wide like she was announcing me to a crowd.

Mina laughed, waving her over. “Perfect timing.”

Lucy jogged up, flushed from the cold, her scarf trailing behind her like a cape. She had that kind of contagious energy—bright, earnest, just a little chaotic—and it made it harder to hold onto a bad mood around her.

“You guys wanna do a lap around the block?” she asked, already bouncing in place like a wind-up toy. “Gotta break in your sea legs, Y/N.”

“It’s January,” I said flatly. “In Michigan.”

“So?” Mina shrugged, already pulling on gloves. “You’re a figure skater. Cold’s your natural habitat.”

“It’s twenty-two degrees out,” I reminded them.

Lucy grinned. “Exactly. Practically tropical.”

I stared at them for a moment—two overexcited lunatics in head-to-toe winter gear—before sighing and grabbing my coat. “Fine. But if I slip and die, I’m haunting you both.”

They whooped like I’d just agreed to join a flash mob.

The walk was slow but steady. The air was sharp, biting at my cheeks, but after the stuffy silence of the exam room and the hollow quiet of the dealership, it felt... clean. Real. Every step without the crutches was a small win, even if I could feel the strain creeping in by the second block.

About a minute in, my phone buzzed again. I didn’t need to look to know who it was. I thumbed it silent and slid it into my coat pocket before either of them noticed.

Mina noticed anyway. “Emily again?”

I nodded. “Yeah. I’ll call her later.”

“You were living with her up until... what? A week ago?” Lucy asked, not unkindly—just curious, like she was building a timeline in her head.

“Yeah,” I said, watching my breath cloud in the air. “My parents split when I was a kid. My dad moved to Washington, and my mom and I kind of... floated. Wherever the best training was, that’s where we ended up.”

“That sounds like an adventure,” Mina said, wide-eyed.

I gave her a smile, but it didn’t quite reach my eyes. “Mostly it was rinks and airports. Hotels that all looked the same. The places blur together after a while.”

“No sightseeing?” Lucy asked, her nose wrinkling.

I shook my head. “Not really. It’s a job, you know? Early mornings, late practices, physical therapy. You don’t get a lot of time to explore.”

“That kinda sucks,” Lucy said matter-of-factly.

I laughed, and this time it felt genuine. “Yeah, a little. I mean, I’m grateful, but it’s not exactly the glamorous life people think it is.”

“Not a lot of friends on the road?” Mina asked gently.

I looked up at the gray sky, thinking. “Mostly other skaters. But it’s competitive—cutthroat sometimes. You don’t always know who’s rooting for you and who’s waiting for you to fall.”

“Ever seen someone pull a Tanya Harding?” Lucy teased, grinning.

“Not exactly,” I said with a smirk. “But there’s definitely sabotage. Just... quieter. More backhanded.”

We all laughed, and for a second, the tension that had been riding my shoulders all day eased.

Then Mina’s voice softened. “That’s not how you got hurt though, right?”

I shook my head. “No. Just a dumb accident. My blade caught in a rut, and I went down hard. Concussion. Torn ACL. Game over.”

Lucy winced. “God, that sounds awful.”

“It was,” I admitted. “Still kind of is.”

“There wasn’t much about it in the news,” Lucy said, eyes narrowing in thought. “I didn’t even realize you were off the circuit.”

“That was on purpose,” I said. “She’s also my manager. She wanted to keep it quiet in case I bounced back fast. Didn’t want to spook the sponsors.”

“Is that... weird?” Mina asked. “Having her as your manager?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never known anything else.” I shrugged. “She took over after the divorce, when I was still competing in juniors. It just kind of became her job.”

“Do you miss her?” she asked softly.

The question caught me off guard. I looked ahead, watching the sidewalk stretch out in front of us. “It’s... complicated. I think we both needed space. She’s always been so focused on the next step—the next medal, the next competition. I don’t think she knows how to see me outside of that.”

“That would drive me nuts,” Mina said.

“It did,” I said quietly. “For a long time.”

There was a pause. Not awkward—just thoughtful. And then, just like that, the conversation drifted. Mina launched into a story about the latest drama with her cousin’s wedding—a florist who ghosted them mid-consultation—and Lucy added commentary so animated she nearly tripped over a crack in the sidewalk.

By the time we got back to the apartment, I was tired, but not drained. My knee ached, sure, but I’d made it. The elevator ride up was calmer than we had been outside. I leaned back against the wall and looked over at them.

“So,” Lucy said, dragging out the word like it held a secret, her grin widening with each syllable. “It’s Monday night. None of us have to be up early tomorrow. The guys are off doing whatever it is they do when they disappear for hours…”

Mina looked up from her phone, eyes lighting up like a switch had flipped. Their eyes met. And just like that, I could see it—the silent conversation, the plan forming between them before I even knew what was happening.

“You know what that means?” Lucy asked, already bouncing on the balls of her feet.

I blinked. “No clue.”

“Girls’ night!” Mina squealed, throwing her arms in the air like she’d just won the lottery.

“Girls’ night?” I echoed, my brow furrowing slightly, still trying to catch up.

“Oh, you have *no idea* what you’ve been missing,” Lucy said, sliding an arm around my shoulders like we were lifelong best friends instead of new neighbors. “It’s basically a sacred ritual. We eat junk food, drink ridiculous cocktails, wear the comfiest clothes known to mankind, and watch movies until we can’t keep our eyes open.”

“It's just a movie marathon where we get wasted and eat too much food,” Mina added helpfully.

I raised an eyebrow, not quite convinced. “And this is... fun?”

Lucy gasped, placing a hand over her heart like I’d just insulted her entire personality. “Y/N. It is everything.”

“I mean, I’m not really much of a drinker,” I said, hesitating, suddenly aware of how uncool that probably sounded.

“Lightweight or just not your thing?” Lucy asked, her voice genuinely curious, not judgmental.

“Neither, really. I just... never got around to it,” I said, and immediately felt the heat rising in my face. “Training and alcohol don’t mix, and I’ve basically been in bed by nine since I was twelve.”

Mina’s eyes went wide, her jaw dropping with mock horror. “Wait—you’ve never had a drink?”

“Not never,” I said quickly. “Just... not casually. Not like this. Not with friends.”

“No religious reasons? Family rule?” Lucy asked, gently.

“No, nothing like that,” I said, shrugging. “It just wasn’t part of the world I lived in. Between competition schedules, meal plans, and early flights, I didn't have time for parties or experimenting. And if I’m honest, it’s always made me a little nervous.”

“Well, tonight,” Mina said, taking a dramatic step forward and pointing a finger in the air like she was making a toast, “we right this injustice.”

I laughed. “What, no bedtime tonight?”

“Exactly. No curfews, no counting macros, no stress,” she said, linking her arm with mine. “Just sugar, salt, and emotionally irresponsible rom-coms.”

Before I could answer, Mina and Lucy were already halfway out the door, calling over their shoulders.

“We’re grabbing the essentials. Don’t go anywhere!”

Their front door swung shut, left half open in their wake. I stood there for a moment, dazed and smiling.

From inside, I could hear them already arguing about what to watch. “We are not watching ‘The Notebook’ again,” Mina insisted.

“Oh, come on! You cried harder than I did last time!” Lucy shot back.

I leaned against the doorframe, listening, letting their chaos fill the quiet spaces that had been echoing in me since the fall. For the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like I had to brace myself for anything.

A few minutes later, their door flew open again.

Mina emerged first, barefoot and already in sweats, carrying a stack of DVDs taller than her torso. Lucy followed behind her, using a laundry basket as a makeshift party kit—bottles of something pink and sparkling clinking against bags of chips, boxes of cookies, a jar of marshmallow fluff, and three mismatched wine glasses rattling with every step.

“What kind of movies do you like?” Lucy asked, not even looking up as she wrestled the basket onto the kitchen counter.

“I’m easy,” I said. “Whatever you guys are into.”

“Perfect,” Mina said, flipping through the stack. “We’re going for maximum serotonin: rom-coms, teen drama, and something slightly trashy just to round it out.”

Lucy held up a pack of rainbow-colored popcorn like she’d found the Holy Grail. “We’re starting with 10 Things I Hate About You. It’s non-negotiable.”

“I approve,” I said, laughing as I took a handful of snacks from the basket to help sort. “Do people actually eat this much during girls’ night?”

“This?” Lucy said, looking insulted. “This is restraint.”

“And sweats, Mina?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. “Do you even own sweats?”

She placed a hand on her chest. “Excuse me. I am making a sacrifice for the integrity of the night.”

I headed back to my apartment to change, pulling on a pair of fleece joggers and an old, oversized Team USA hoodie that still smelled faintly like eucalyptus from my gym bag. I didn’t spend long in the mirror—just tied my hair back and grabbed a pair of fuzzy socks.

The moment I stepped into Mina and Lucy’s apartment, I paused at the threshold, overwhelmed—in the best way—by the transformation that had taken place.

The lights were low, the soft yellow string lights overhead casting a cozy, almost magical glow across the living room. A mountain of blankets and pillows was already spread across the couch and floor like the aftermath of a slumber party tornado. In the kitchen, Lucy was mid-chaos—bottles, bowls, and bags scattered across the counter like she was preparing for a sugar-fueled siege. Mina was hunched over the DVD player, muttering about the remote being possessed.

It was warm, loud, alive. The exact opposite of how my life had felt lately.

A slow smile spread across my face. Emily would’ve fainted if she saw this—junk food, mismatched glassware, alcohol in cups that weren’t crystal. She had once made a comment about goldfish crackers being "what people without standards feed their children." But tonight wasn’t about control. Or image. Or what looked good in a press photo. Tonight was about firsts.

First girls’ night. First drink. First time letting go, even just a little.

“So, what’s the first movie of the night?” I asked, slipping off my slippers and stepping into the living room like I belonged there.

Lucy tossed a bag of Doritos toward Mina, who caught it one-handed and grinned.

“We’re saving the emotional wreckage for later,” Mina said with a smirk. “We’re starting light. How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days.”

Lucy gave an exaggerated sigh as she plopped onto the couch. “Ugh, McConaughey in his prime. That man could make me move back to Texas.”

“You lived there for two years,” Mina shot back.

“Details,” Lucy said, waving her hand dismissively. “Point is, he makes me nostalgic for accents and bad decisions.”

“You and Jimin both went to school in Texas, right?” I asked.

“Texas Tech,” Lucy nodded. “But Jimin actually paid attention in class. I was mostly there for the marching band and the tailgates.”

“And you still ended up with Taehyung,” Mina said, nudging her.

Lucy grinned. “I mean... not mad about it.”

Their easy back-and-forth made me smile, even though I still felt like I was learning how to exist in conversations like this—casual, intimate, no agenda.

“Speaking of accents,” I said, “your dad, Mina... his Wisconsin thing is strong.”

Mina burst into laughter before I even finished the sentence. “Oh my God, I should’ve warned you! I’m so used to it now, I forget how intense it can sound to normal people.”

“‘Hey der, Mina!’” I mimicked, and she doubled over, gasping.

“Stop, stop—I’m crying,” she wheezed. “Seriously though, it gets worse when he’s tired. Or if he’s talking to my grandma. It’s like full lumberjack mode.”

“Honestly?” Lucy chimed in, already halfway back to the kitchen. “Your dad is kind of... hot. Like, weirdly hot. Not for a dad. Just... in general.”

“Mmm, no comment,” I muttered, face flushing as I reached for a pillow to bury it.

Lucy reappeared with three glasses in one hand and a bottle of something in the other. “Don’t act like you didn’t notice, Y/N.”

“He’s... attractive,” I said carefully, trying to sound neutral.

Lucy raised her brows. “That’s it?”

“Isn’t he basically your future father-in-law?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.

Lucy raised her glass like it was a mic drop. “Exactly. Means I have good things to look forward to.”

“You guys are insane,” I mumbled.

“Oh, please,” Mina said casually. “I’m not blind. I know my dad’s good-looking. My mom jokes about it all the time. She says it’s why she puts up with his weird hobbies and the way he leaves coffee mugs in every room of the house.”

“I’m going to need to un-hear all of this,” I said, laughing into my hands.

“Welcome to girls’ night,” Lucy said, plopping down beside me and handing over a glass. “Where boundaries go to die.”

I took the glass warily. “What is it?”

“Just a little something light,” she said. “Promise. Fruity, barely any alcohol.”

I took a sip—and immediately choked. It tasted like fruit punch spiked with jet fuel. “*That* is not light,” I coughed.

Mina winced in sympathy. “Oof. Lucy, you always do this.”

“Fine, fine.” Lucy rolled her eyes and stood. “One ‘starter drink’ coming right up.”

She returned a moment later with something pink and frothy in a mason jar. “Try this. It’s basically a melted popsicle.”

I sniffed it cautiously, then took a sip. Sweet, fizzy, tangy—like raspberries and lemon sherbet. Still a little warmth on the back of my tongue, but nothing aggressive.

“Good, right?” Lucy asked, eyeing me over the rim of her glass, her grin twitching at the corners like she was holding back a celebratory cheer.

I nodded, a little more confidently this time, and took another sip. “Really good, actually.”

“Told you,” she said, clearly pleased with herself.

“Just... pace yourself,” Mina added from where she was curled up in a blanket on the floor. She raised a brow in my direction. “It tastes like juice, but there’s more vodka than fruit in that drink.”

“Duly noted,” I murmured, though I was already taking another sip.

The hours passed in a haze of warmth and movie quotes and laughter that felt like it belonged to another life—one that didn’t involve injuries or ice or expectations. We made it through Clueless and Legally Blonde before any of us realized how late it had gotten. I was sprawled out across the couch, my head resting against Lucy’s leg, Mina draped over the other end of the couch with her feet tucked under a pillow like a cat in hibernation.

It was the kind of comfort that felt rare—unguarded, unpretentious, easy.

“The night is young,” Lucy mumbled into a pillow, stretching out with a satisfied sigh. “What’s next?”

“Leo,” Mina declared, eyes lighting up as she reached for the next DVD. “It’s not a real girls’ night until Leo shows up in a tux.”

Lucy groaned playfully. “You and your Titanic obsession.”

“It’s a cinematic masterpiece,” Mina countered, already loading the disc.

“I mean, she’s not wrong,” I offered, earning a grin from both of them.

Lucy ambled into the kitchen to grab another drink. Her footsteps had a slight sway now, like the cocktails were finally catching up with her.

“Anyone else?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder.

“I probably shouldn’t...” I began.

“Nuh-uh,” Mina said, cutting me off without even turning around. “You’re still too coherent.”

I let out a breathy laugh as Mina pressed another glass into my hand. “If I end up passed out on this couch, I’m blaming you.”

“Deal,” she said, raising her own drink like she was making a toast.

By the time Jack started sketching Rose, we were full-on tipsy. The drinks had softened all the edges. Conversation got louder, the laughs longer. At some point, Lucy and Mina reenacted the "I'm flying" scene on the coffee table, arms stretched wide and teetering dangerously close to the bottle of wine Mina had insisted on opening. I laughed so hard my stomach hurt.

When the credits finally started rolling and the room settled into a comfortable hum of silence, Mina looked over at me, eyes gleaming with something between mischief and curiosity.

“Alright. Real talk, Y/N.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Why do I feel like I should be bracing myself?”

“You’ve really never?” Lucy cut in, more serious now, though the playful edge hadn’t entirely left her voice.

I groaned, letting my head fall back against the cushion. “Why are we circling back to this?”

“Because,” Mina said, poking at my leg with her toe, “you’re too mysterious. We need to know everything.”

“There’s not that much to know,” I muttered.

Lucy stared at me like I’d just told her I didn’t believe in birthdays. “Y/N, you’re twenty-four. You’ve never had sex? Not even once? I mean, I know I waited for a while, but I still fooled around a bit before that. You haven't done anything?”

I crossed my arms over my chest. “Nope.”

Mina gasped like I’d confessed to never having tried pizza. “Are you serious?”

“There are plenty of people who wait,” I said, more defensive than I meant to sound. “It’s not that weird.”

“Sure,” Mina said, leaning her chin on her knees. “But you’re gorgeous. You could probably have your pick.”

“I’d totally jump you,” she added casually, reaching over to flick a bit of lint off my pants.

I rolled my eyes, laughing. “Wow, thank you. That’s very touching.”

“You’re welcome,” she replied with a proud smile.

Lucy looked genuinely perplexed. “So... no one? Not even a hot skater guy during training camps or some European fling after a competition?”

I shrugged. “Never really had the opportunity. Or... I guess I just didn’t make one.”

Mina stared at me, incredulous. “You mean to tell me that with all those hours at the gym, there wasn’t one shirtless Russian worth risking it all for?”

“Some of us actually used the gym for training,” I said.

“Some of us used it for both,” Lucy said with a wink. “Multitasking is a skill.”

“Perv,” I muttered.

“Proudly,” Lucy said, tossing a popcorn kernel into her mouth like she’d just dropped a mic.

Mina sat up a little straighter, the gears in her head clearly turning. “Okay. We need to find you someone.”

“No,” I said instantly. “Absolutely not. I don’t need a setup.”

“But think about it!” Mina said, suddenly looking far too serious for someone wrapped in a blanket burrito. “Lucy, who do we know?”

I groaned and buried my face in my hands. “Please. Stop.”

“You can’t just tell us you’ve never and then not let us help,” Lucy insisted.

“I can and I will.”

Mina narrowed her eyes. “Unless... you have met someone.”

“No,” I said way too quickly.

Lucy sat up like she’d just heard a dog whistle. “You so have.”

“There’s nothing to tell!” I insisted, feeling heat crawl up my neck.

“Oh my God,” Mina gasped, eyes sparkling. “You met someone. Who is he? Is he cute? Is he here? Did you kiss?”

“You guys are relentless,” I muttered, laughing despite myself.

Lucy folded her arms, raising one perfectly shaped brow. “We’ve been in long-term relationships for years. We live for this stuff now. Spill.”

I sighed, realizing I wasn’t getting out of this. “Fine. I met a guy at the airport. He helped me with my bags. We talked for a few minutes. That’s it.”

“Was he hot?” Lucy asked, already leaning forward like this was the climax of the story.

I shrugged. “Yeah, I guess.”

“You guess?” Mina repeated, scandalized.

“I mean, he wasn’t just cute,” I admitted. “He was... kind of next-level.”

“Tall?” Lucy prompted.

“Yeah.”

“Dark?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Handsome?”

I exhaled. “Ridiculously.”

Both of them squealed so loudly I nearly dropped my drink.

“Did you get his number?” Mina asked.

“No.”

“Did he get yours?”

“No.”

“Y/N!” Lucy groaned. “What the hell?”

“I didn’t know if he was just being polite! I wasn’t going to throw my number at him in the middle of baggage claim like some rom-com extra.”

“But he said he wanted to see you again?” Mina asked, her voice softening.

I nodded slowly. “He mentioned grabbing coffee sometime. But that was it.”

“Girl,” Lucy said, shaking her head. “We need to manifest this man’s return into your life.”

“I’m not holding my breath,” I replied. “I’ll probably never see him again.”

Mina rested her head on my shoulder. “Maybe. But maybe not. You never know.”

I smiled faintly, grateful for their enthusiasm even if it made me feel more exposed than I’d planned. The movie was still playing in the background, the soft sounds of Celine Dion bleeding through the speakers. The room had gone quiet again, but this time it wasn’t awkward—it was comfortable. Safe.

Mina looked up at me, her expression suddenly serious. “Your butterflies are still out there, Y/N. You just have to be ready when they land.”

Taglist: @smartkookiee @knightofmidnight @mar-lo-pap @jjeonjjk7 @somewhatjungkook @lovingkoalaface @jimineepaboya @iswearimover5feetall @blissingtaehyung @futuristicenemychaos @kooloveys @jenniebyrubies @8thmuse @beattiestreet @tatzzz-25

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paracosmic-murdock · 1 year ago

Text

these colors fade for you only ; benedict bridgerton x reader (part i)

pairing: benedict bridgerton x fem!reader

summary: one thing worse than seeing your enemy often was living under the same roof, certainly, and you and benedict suffered from that unfortunate condition. not even the eleven years you've slept separated by a thin wall only helped you overcome that hatred, you would always hate each other. or not really, because it's too definite to say something as such when a few hours could change the meaning of until the end of time.

warnings/tags: enemies to lovers, sexual tension, very inappropriate behavior for the 1810s, colin bridgerton being a little shit, two people who hate each other locked in a room, what could possibly go wrong?, nude paintings, implied smut, song: sunlight (hozier)

word count: 3.2K

❁ part ii

❁ mila's anthology (main masterlist)

One thing about Benedict Bridgerton is how you could ruin even the best of days for him.

One thing about you is how much you loved to make him mad and see the frustration on his face.

Another thing about Benedict Bridgerton is how pathetically obsessed he was with insulting you in any chance he gets.

Another thing about you is how you were willing to do absolutely anything to bother him or tease him.

You acted like children: always arguing, always making fun of each other, always making everyone at Bridgerton House completely insane with your bickering the entire day.

One thing was having to see your enemy often. One way worse was living under the same roof.

Eleven years ago, your parents had an accident, and you have lived with the Bridgertons ever since, as your mother was Violet Bridgerton's best friend since childhood.

Devastated for years, you accompanied the Bridgertons in their grief for Edmund, which was what ultimately gave you strength to go on with your life. All of you.

But that was the very same thing that ignited your rivalry with the second Bridgerton: your enthusiasm would collide with his mourning and harsh words coming out of his mouth you had no will to tolerate.

It began with his insults to you, though you knew he didn't mean to be rude, and it was all his grief doing the talk. When you couldn't tolerate it anymore, you started insulting him back.

Then, Benedict would play pranks that went too far, and you would burn his sketches in the chimney.

Benedict started sabotaging any chance you could get to find a suitor and you would spread silly rumors about his performance in the bedroom with his friends from the Academy.

Thanks to his efforts, not even being named Diamond of the Season was enough for you to find a husband, which was already making you feel like a failure, not to mention a burden to the Bridgertons. Benedict's fault also.

“Anthony, has he come back?”

He gave you a pitiful look. “I am sorry, Y/N, but I spoke to Lord Raeken to ask him his intentions, and he said he was not interested in marrying you.”

“What?” You gasped. “But everything was going so well! He- he invited us for dinner last week! His mother and Aunt Violet befriended each other even!”

“You will not like what I am going to say.” Anthony anticipated, and you already knew whose fault it was.

“It was Benedict?! Again?!”

Anthony nodded. “I talked to him… It was a threat. He said he would fix it, and I promise you that Lord Raeken will propose to you. If not, he is not worthy of you, and that is all.”

“Nobody is worthy of me, then? He… ruined it with the Duke of Sussex, with Lord Leclerc, with the Count-, I… Why does he keep doing this, Anthony?” You whimpered. You didn't even notice when you started crying, but before anything happened, he hugged you tightly. “Has he not tormented me enough already?”

The eldest Bridgerton knew all too well of your inner motives to hate each other, but decided not to meddle in your war anymore unless it was a case as delicate as this.

“Promise me you will not ruin his latest painting, Y/N,” he begged. “I am trying to work on a peace accord between the two of you, so as long as you stop doing things to him, he will stop messing with you.”

You sighed. “If I do not marry this season, I will have no other choice but to find a job as a governess.”

“Why do you even say that?” He frowned.

“Because it has been eleven years of you sponsoring me, and I believe that it is too much time.”

“You think you are a burden for us?” Anthony asked, and your silence answered. “The day you leave us will be one of the saddest for us Bridgertons, Y/N. You are like our sister, and we love you and care about you as such. Perhaps it has not worked before, but do you really believe that a man that loves you will let none other than Benedict intimidate him?”

“Gregory is more threatening than him,” you noted. “And those dimples could melt the coldest of hearts!”

Anthony smiled. “Do not think too much of it. We shall find you a husband before the season ends.”

“Alright.”

“Now go, I believe Colin is expecting you, and I have many things to do.”

“Sure thing.” you replied.

Once you were out of his office, you gathered the baby blue skirt and ran to Benedict's studio. There, you saw the painting Anthony begged you not to ruin.

It was a woman's naked figure, quite a graceful one. And it was beautifully portrayed.

It would be a shame for it to be ruined. Thank God you did not promise Anthony a thing.

It was still wet, so it was not difficult to use other colors and mix them with the paint so it would look different. You also spilled droplets of red and signed your name on the painting where he had his.

Then, you cleaned your hands and ran to the door.

“Colin!” you exclaimed, and he turned around. “We are going to find Benedict right now.”

He frowned, annoyed. “What happened now?”

“Lord Raeken won't marry me for something Benedict did. Now I must speak to him.”

“It is getting late. We will not get to the tailor in time if we go to Benedict first.”

“Please?” You begged Colin. “I can get on my knees if you wish, but please…”

Colin rolled his eyes. “Alright, let's- oh, there he is!”

You looked in the same direction as him and noticed Benedict getting home. He seemed mad, and your face lost all its life when you thought of what could happen when he saw his painting ruined by you.

“Let's get out of here, Colin…” you muttered once Benedict passed you without even saying hello.

“Why? Benedict is here if you wish to talk to him.”

“It might not be a great time right now…”

“Why?”

“Y/N, I swear to God!”

“Because…” You gave Colin a sheepish look at Benedict's scream.

“What did you do?”

“He started it!”

Colin rolled his eyes. “Did you-”

“Come inside right now!” Benedict yelled once he reached the door. “I am dead serious.”

You sighed, walking next to Colin. “He is going to kill me, Colin.”

“You do not know that.”

“I did something bad.”

“So did he.”

You pursed your lips. “Tell Daphne that only Francesca is a good fit to replace me as Auggie's godmother once I die.”

“Do not say that.”

“What on Earth were you thinking?!”

“What on Earth were you thinking?!” You mimicked him, anger coming to surface again as you reached his studio.

“This was an assignment for tomorrow morning!”

“Well, Lord Raeken was my whole future, Benedict!” you yelled back.

“Look at it! It is ruined!”

Colin was annoyed enough of your fights, and seeing the keys was enough for him to know there was only one solution.

So he did it and thought that you would either kill each other or make amends.

The third Bridgerton exited the room quietly and thanked your bickering for being distracting enough so you did not notice when he closed the door and locked it from outside.

“What are you doing?” Anthony asked when he saw Colin lock the door.

“Forcing those two to reconcile.”

The eldest brother chuckled. “Best of luck with that.”

“I know they will get over it,” he said, sitting on the floor next to the door. “I shall stay here even if it takes me the whole night.”

Anthony joined him. “This should be fun.”

“I do not care if it is ruined, Benedict… you can ruin my future but you draw a line at ruined paintings?!”

“Do you not know how important my career is for me?! You can find another suitor anytime!”

You groaned. “This is my third season, and I have not found a husband! I was the Diamond of my first Season, Benedict! And you have been ruining all of them for me!”

“I have not ruined anything. They simply are not a good fit for the family!”

“I am done listening to you.” You walked away from him and tried, in vain, to open the door.

After looking around, you noticed Colin was supposed to be in the room with you but he wasn't.

“Colin Bridgerton, open this door right now!” You banged the door, making him flinch. “Someone, open the door! We are locked in here!”

Benedict believed you simply weren't strong enough to open it, so he joined you trying to open it but couldn't while his brothers hid their laughter. He looked for the keys but couldn't find them either.

“Colin must have taken the keys,” he noted.

You sighed tiredly. “Somebody open the door! Please, we are trapped!”

“Open the door! Colin!”

“They will not let us out.” you told him.

“Perhaps we should just say we made amends and they will open the door.”

“Do you think he is an idiot? Only a fool would believe you and I could reach an agreement overnight, let alone the ten minutes we have been here.”

He groaned, giving up on escaping the room and returning to the conflict. “How are you so blind, Y/N? How can you fail to see that they are not right for the family?”

“I beg your pardon?! You do not even know them!”

“Is that so?” he questioned, getting closer to you. “Lord Leclerc, a widower who had lovers left and right while his late wife was terribly ill, the Duke of Sussex is a dull rat, and the Count had three illegitimate children by the time he set foot on Mayfair. They are not good people for us.”

“If that is what worries you so, I can leave forever after I marry!”

“Do you truly think this family will survive a week without seeing you? Mother is devastated at Daphne's absence… yours would kill her.”

You rolled your eyes. “We are not even a real family, are we? I am not related to you, I am a mere burden, so why do you not take any of them as your chance to get rid of me?”

“I did not mean that. Stop bringing it to the table each time it suits your purpose to manipulate me.”

“I could seriously kill you with my bare hands right now, Benedict…” you spoke, outraged. “What is it that I did for you to hate me so much?!”

“It is not worth talking about that now.”

“Why are you like this with me, Benedict? At this point, I would marry just about any man who could take me away from you.”

His heart skipped a beat. “We can't just let you marry anyone, alright?”

“Why do you even care?!”

“Because I cannot let you go with someone I do not trust…”

“What will it even take for you to trust any of them?”

“I could never trust them, Y/N, because I can't trust in someone who does not love you devotedly and absolutely.”

Your lips formed a line of disdain at his words. “How would you even know they don't if you do not give them the chance to truly get to me?”

“Because no one does.”

“Wow,” you laughed bitterly. “Thanks for reminding me how unlovable I am.”

“You do not understand, Y/N.”

“Explain it to me, then!” You asked, you begged him.

“No one does it like I do, my goodness!” he screamed, and you were sure it echoed through the whole floor.

You choked on your own spit at his confession, and at the other side of the door, Colin and Anthony looked at each other completely flabbergasted.

“We should leave.” Anthony whispered. “Unlock the door.”

Colin nodded. “I agree, we should let them out.”

Anthony nodded and left, but Colin was determined.

He certainly did not unlock the door.

“What?” you asked in almost a whisper.

Benedict seemed surprised at his own words, as if he had spoken from ignorance because… it couldn't be real, could it? He couldn't be in love with you.

“I…”

“Benedict…”

“You are my family,” he ‘corrected’ himself. “Conflict in families is not uncommon. It is fine. I care about you, and I… we do not want you to be the wife of a man that does not deserve you, Y/N. You are sunlight, and they are nothing but a gray sky.”

You breathed out shakily, looking at his blue eyes deeply, feeling like you had never seen such blue in your entire life. “I am sorry about your painting.”

“It is alright, I will try to fix it; maybe if Colin lets us out, I can go back to the Academy before it is too late. Find a model-”

“Is that what you need? A model?”

Benedict cleared his throat, guessing where it was going, though scared of it. “Yes, but it should not be difficult to find one at the Academy.”

“We will not be let out,” you reminded him and gave it all a careful thought.

You were aware it wasn't right. He was a man, and you were a woman who was not married to him. He must not see you naked under any circumstances, but again… he saved you from those men who weren't worth it, and you paid him by ruining his artwork. It was not fair, so you owed him.

You could break the rules a little. After all, you were locked in a room for God only knows how long.

So you nodded and started undressing. “I could model for you if that is what you need.”

“What? Do not, I-”

“What is the difference between that woman and I?”

Benedict's brain told him to stop you. It was definitely not right for a lady like you to be seen naked before marriage. Worse than that, be painted.

“Y/N…”

“Am I not interesting enough to paint, Benedict?” you questioned as your dress reached the floor. “I just wish to make up for what I did.”

You started undoing your corset under his careful eyes.

“If what worries you is my identity, I believe you could use the other model's face,” you added once the corset was discarded and your bosom fully exposed to him. “It is intact in your painting.”

“I am afraid your grace cannot be compared.”

You exhaled nervously when your shaking hands reached the beginning of your underpants. “Then make justice to it.”

Finally, you stood completely naked before him and didn't dare to be modest about it.

“Paint me.”

You walked to the couch and laid in a similar position as the model in his painting.

“I cannot ask that of you.” He tried one last time, gathering all the strength in his body… You were a lady, and he was a gentleman; no matter how rare that would be of him to stop you. It was not right, but what a sight he had before him.

“Then it is good that I offered.” you refuted.

He doubted for longer than he is willing to admit, but ultimately approached you with hesitant steps.

“Allow me,” he whispered as he reached you. You nodded, and he accommodated your head so you would be looking up at the ceiling and your hands to cover what could be seen of your face to his art's convenience delicately. His touch, hot, caused goosebumps on your skin. A gasp left your lips. “You truly are beautiful.”

“Thank you.” you mumbled.

Benedict returned to the canvas, telling himself he could do this.

He shouldn't.

But if your face wouldn't be seen, it would do no harm. Only you and him would know it's you.

A few hours had passed and the night had fallen. It was difficult to paint with the growing darkness hiding your features, so he left his piece for a second to find some candles.

Before he returned to the canvas, you spoke. “Am I doing it well?”

“You certainly are,” he praised you. “A natural indeed.”

You had goosebumps once again.

What is wrong with me?, you asked yourself.

How could Benedict, of all people, make you feel like this? How could he control the speed of your heartbeat with mere words? How could he turn your skin into a burning mess that acted as if it was freezing? How could he make your hands sweat each time he got closer? How could he make you forget how much you despised him after he said he loved you?

How did he love you? He said you were family, but he did not dare to call you a sister like his siblings always do. No, this was a different kind of love: the kind of love you read about in the romance novels you have stolen from his library, because that is the way you were feeling near his presence, under his stare, at his touch.

“Come here,” you commanded long before you thought what you would say. He complied, flying to you like a moth to a flame, but you were sunlight: billions of times more powerful, and you could consume him long before he dared to reach you. He felt like a moth with wigs made of wax, melting with each step that brought him close to you. Gladly. “How do you love me, Benedict?”

“What?”

It was unbelievable that a man of words like him could act so clueless, but there he was. Oblivious to your passion, not to mention his.

“I have always been your Mama's daughter and your brothers and sisters' sister. But I have never been yours,” you mentioned. “Why, if you love me so?”

“Y/N…” His hand caressed your face, and you took the other to put it on your left breast where he could feel your heart beating.

“Kiss me if what my beating heart says about your love is true.” It was an order, and that heart of yours was certainly right.

And right then, he knew he was careless of his own insignificance. He would fly as high as the melting wax allowed him to and fall as deep into the ocean as his own weight imposed.

He could drown and disappear, live and die for this moment. For all the frustration that has haunted him all those years of loathing and yearning. For his sunlight, for you.

He kissed you, and you returned the kiss as if your lips had ever touched others before.

They haven't.

They shouldn't.

But they are now.

It was an angry kiss. Wet, carnal, breathless, hot, feral, everything.

His lips did not caress yours or danced with yours, no; they fought and devoured yours, and you gave in.

It was exquisite but depraved in a way you couldn't bring yourself to explain, and you absolutely loved it.

Once the kiss ended, you were the first to talk. “Take it all off.”

He breathed out, nerves he does not recall to have ever felt scared his determination away.

He felt as pathetic as those men he threatened to ruin if they were to set foot in the same room as you ever again, and he took off his clothes with the urgency of a task set by the scary educator of his childhood.

You looked at him, took it all in, and gave him space to lay beside you.

“It's just us, Benedict…” you let out, your breath blending with his. “You can love me now.”

His cue.

#benedict bridgerton #bridgerton fanfiction #benedict bridgerton x reader #bridgerton #benedict bridgerton fanfiction #benedict bridgerton x you #benedict bridgerton smut #benedict bridgerton imagine #bridgerton imagine

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mononijikayu · 9 months ago

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safe and sound — nanami kento.

“Who was that, Nanamin?” Yuuji asked hesitantly. “That was my wife.” Nanami explained to him, putting his phone away. “It’s better if we talk about it on the way there. Come on, let’s get going. I don’t want the store to close on us.” “Huh?” “Huh? Itadori–kun, are you okay?” The shock is now more evident than ever before in Itadori Yuuji’s face. He was hysterical, stunned and dumbfounded. “What? Nanamin, you’re married? You have a wife? Huh?” "Itadori–kun, please calm down." he began, his voice steady but tinged with an uncharacteristic gentleness. "Yes, I am married."

GENRE: Alternate Universe - Canon Convergence;

WARNING/s: Gen, Romance, Friends to Lovers, Husband and Wife, Friendship, Husband! Nanami, Reader! Wife, Fluff, Drama, Comfort, Falling In Love, Flirting, Fix-It, Humor, Domesticity, Family Life, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Idiots In Love, Light-Hearted, Slice of Life, Pining, Nanami Being A Great Husband;

WORDS: 6.9k words.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: im alive (hurray!!!); i've recovered a little bit, so i wrote this. hurray for the winning poll!!! i'm sorry it took this long to post. i hope you enjoy it as much i did writing it!!! i'll be writing pasilyo and seeing you in the upcoming days~ i love you all <3

main masterlist

what a wonderful world masterlist

polaroid love | safe and sound

next: just one day

IT WAS ALWAYS SOMETHING, THE AFTERMATH. Every mission felt different. Every mission left a different taste, a different texture, a different feeling. And this wasn’t something that Nanami Kento was unfamiliar with. If he was being honest, he’d experienced all the sorts of emotions that come with being a Jujutsu sorcerer. But it was new to Itadori Yuuji. And it was devastating to watch.

It was almost as though the blond had returned to those days, that misery when Haibara Yu had died. He could remember being just as lost, being just as disgruntled and grievous. Every bit of it returned in a flash as he stood there, watching Yuuji grapple with the fresh wound of loss.

Itadori-kun hasn’t spoken since yesterday, not since they talked. But Nanami Kento had expected it as much. What does one say after such a tragedy? The boy who had died, the one named Junpei—he was a comfort to Yuuji. He didn’t know Junpei as well as Yuuji did, but he knew that he was just a kid. A kid who was robbed of his life, of a chance.

Nanami’s heart ached with a familiar pain as he watched Itadori Yuuji, who was sitting on the ground with his knees drawn to his chest, staring blankly ahead. It was an all-too-familiar sight, one that he had seen reflected in his own mirror years ago. The silence between them was thick, filled with the unspoken sorrow that hung heavily in the air.

He sighed as he saw the boy still at the edge of the school’s steps. His shoulders slumped and eyes fixed on the ground. The battle with the curse Mahito had taken its toll on everyone, but it seemed to have hit Yuuji the hardest. With Gojo Satoru still away on his overseas mission and Gojo Genmei's whereabouts uncertain, Nanami Kento felt the weight of responsibility settling heavily on his own shoulders. He couldn’t leave the boy alone. Not like this. He could see it in the young boy’s eyes. He needs relief, peace of mind.

Ieiri Shoko and Kiyotaka Ijichi were good people, but Nanami knew they weren’t what Itadori-kun needed right now. Shoko was burdened with her own responsibilities, cleaning up the mess that curse left behind. Her duties as the school's medic were already overwhelming, and adding Yuuji's emotional turmoil to her plate would be unfair. Ijichi, on the other hand, was exhausted from going back and forth between missions, assisting wherever he was needed. He needed rest, not more stress.

Nanami sighed, racking his brain for a solution. No one else was to know that Itadori Yuuji was alive—that was what Gojo Satoru had insisted on. It was dangerous to reveal Yuuji's survival, especially with the higher-ups likely to come after him. They wouldn't hesitate to use Yuuji as a pawn in their political games, and Nanami couldn't allow that to happen.

The weight of responsibility pressed heavily on Nanami's shoulders. If he failed to ensure Yuuji's well-being, it would be his fault. He couldn’t bear the thought of failing another young sorcerer, not after what had happened to Haibara. The memory of his own anguish, his own failure, was still too vivid, too painful.

As Nanami watched Yuuji sitting despondently, he felt a surge of determination. This boy, who had been thrust into a world of curses and death, needed guidance and protection. It wasn’t a sin, to be a child who needs protection from the cruel world. He needed someone, something. To live, to breathe. To be relieved. And it was up to Nanami to provide that. He would not let Itadori Yuuji fall into despair or danger.

He approached Yuuji, who was still staring at the ground, lost in his own grief. "Itadori–kun." he said softly, trying to reach through the boy’s sorrow. "Are you alright?”

Yuuji looked up, his eyes empty and haunted. "O–oh, I’m fine, Nanamin. Please don’t worry about me—”

"I’d rather you be honest with me, Itadori–kun." Nanami replied. "I know you're hurting. And I know it feels like you’re alone. But you’re not. You should not burden yourself with this anymore than you should.”

Yuuji’s gaze dropped again, and Nanami felt a pang of sympathy. The boy had been through so much in such a short time. He needed someone to anchor him, to help him navigate the turbulent waters of his emotions and the dangerous world he now inhabited.

“But Nanamin…”

Haibara used to make that face too, Nanami thinks. That same expression of guilt and self-doubt, as if he hadn’t done enough, as if he should have been better. He could see it now, in Yuuji’s eyes. The weight of regret and the burden of what-ifs.

“I just…” Yuuji’s voice cracked, his words trailing off. The pain and uncertainty were clear, and Nanami’s heart ached with understanding.

"Gojo-san trusts you. And so do I," Nanami said, his eyes softening as he met Yuuji’s troubled gaze. "You’ve shown incredible strength and resilience, Itadori–kun. I told you that yesterday. It’s okay to feel what you’re feeling. It’s okay to grieve."

Yuuji’s lower lip trembled, and he bit down on it, trying to hold back the tears threatening to spill over. “But what if… what if I’m not strong enough? What if I fail again?”

Nanami shook his head slowly. “Strength isn’t about never failing, Itadori–kun. It’s about getting back up, even when you’ve fallen. It’s about continuing to fight, even when it seems impossible. You’re stronger than you think, and you don’t have to do this alone.”

The boy looked down, his hands gripping his knees tightly. “Junpei… he was my friend. And I couldn’t save him.”

Nanami’s grip on Yuuji’s shoulder tightened, offering a silent promise of support. “We can’t always save everyone. But we honor them by continuing to fight for others, by becoming better, stronger. Junpei–kun wouldn’t want you to give up. He’d want you to keep going, to keep trying.”

A tear slipped down Yuuji’s cheek, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand. “I just… I don’t know if I can.”

“You can,” Nanami assured him. “And you will. Little by little. You can do it, Itadori–kun.”

Itadori Yuuji didn’t respond immediately, but Nanami Kento could see a flicker of something—hope, maybe—in his eyes. It was a start. Little by little. He could feel the boy’s breathing become more even. He could see his features relax slightly, the tension he had vanishing. Nanami thinks that he’ll cry again, when Nanami isn’t there. But perhaps, this was enough. Seeing him be reassured once again, that it wasn’t his fault. Maybe one day, Nanami Kento would see him smile genuinely again.

WHENEVER HE SEES YOUR NAME ON SCREEN, HE SMILES.When he heard the familiar melody of his ringtone, Nanami Kento excused himself from Itadori–kun and walked off to a more private area. The buzzing seclusion of Tokyo Jujutsu High’s main stairwell faded as he found a quiet corner. He felt a pang of guilt for not replying to you much earlier. He can only think how much you were thinking about him, with a worried heart. He knew you understood, especially during times when he was on missions. But he thinks that understanding can only go so far. His job after all was something that was hard to grasp with relief.

But you knew the demands of his work as a sorcerer, when he told you about it years and years ago. He wouldn’t leave the work, you know that much. So you let it be. As long as he came home to you, that was fine. And so, it has always been fine when you don’t get a text between some days. All these years, you had never pressured him about not replying or calling. The same understanding applied when you were engrossed in your manuscripts during writing season.

At times, Nanami Kento wishes he could be a better husband for you. A husband that you deserve. A husband that’s always there to coddle you, to take care of you, to love you. He thinks about it sometimes, if he were a househusband. He could commit his life to taking care of you, the way you had always done for him. Maybe one day he’d get that chance. Maybe he’d finally be able to return your love for him in a way that was true to loving you.

“Hello, my love.” he greeted, trying to keep his tone cheerful. “I’m sorry for not replying to you sooner.

“Kento, baby! I’m so glad I caught you.” you replied, your voice warm and bright. He loves it. He adores it when he hears that excited pitch. He was happiest when he could hear your voice. “I haven’t heard from you all day. I hope everything’s been alright at work, baby.”

Nanami Kento hesitated for a moment. He didn’t have the heart to tell you that he had almost died yesterday, that the mission had been far more dangerous than anticipated. He didn’t want to worry you. He doesn’t like it when he stresses you out. You were in enough pressure for your deadlines, he didn’t want to add to that.

“Yes, everything’s fine, love.” he said, forcing a smile even though you couldn’t see it. “Just a bit busy, you know how it is.”

You sighed on the other end of the line, a sound filled with understanding and concern. “I know. I just worry about you sometimes. I’m a worry wart, you know?”

“I know you do, my love.” Nanami replied softly. “But I’m alright, really. I did well and survived. I’m okay. That’s all that matters.”

You sighed tenderly. ‘I suppose so. I think that’s always enough for me. Knowing that you’re well.”

“Exactly. So, my love. Enough about me. Tell me, how was your day? Did you finish your manuscript for the new book?” He thinks that he could see your smile, even from a phone call. If there’s anything that makes him feel warm inside, it’s your smile.

There was a brief pause, and you laughed. “Yes, I did! It was a lot of work, but I finally finished it well. Before the deadline! Which means, no editor coming into our house to take me away from you! I’m really happy with how it turned out. I spent most of the day taking in the words I wrote and making sure everything was perfect.”

Nanami listened as you shared the details of your day, his heart lifting with every word you spoke. Your voice was animated and full of excitement, a soothing balm to his weary soul. He could picture you in the kitchen, eyes sparkling as you talked about finishing your manuscript and experimenting with new recipes. He asked questions, genuinely interested in every detail, finding comfort in the normalcy of your conversation.

As he listened, he was struck by the stark contrast between the world you described and the chaos he had faced earlier. Your day, filled with the mundane but meaningful tasks of editing and cooking, felt like a distant haven from the danger and uncertainty that had engulfed him. It was in these moments, when he could hear the warmth and love in your voice, that he found his grounding.

Nanami Kento often marveled at how deeply he loved you. It was a love that had grown over time, a steady flame that had become an essential part of his existence. Despite the tumultuous nature of his work, you were his constant, his anchor in a sea of unpredictability. Your unwavering support and understanding were the bedrock of his strength, and he cherished every bit of it.

In a world where so much was uncertain, your love was a rare and precious constant. It was the reason he fought so hard, the reason he pulled through the darkest moments. Your voice was a reminder of why he endured the risks and dangers of his profession. It was the promise of coming home to a place where he was loved and valued, no matter how challenging the world outside might be.

As you continued to talk, Nanami Kento felt a profound sense of gratitude. He knew that he could face any challenge, knowing that you were waiting for him at home. Your support gave him the strength to confront the darkness and emerge stronger. And in that quiet, shared moment over the phone, he felt an overwhelming appreciation for you, his partner, his love, and his greatest source of comfort.

“And then I took a break and made that recipe we found a while back!” you continued, giggling at the end.

You were always like this, when you were excited about something that had turned out well. Nanami Kento thinks that he can only feel like his heart is going to burst whenever you talk like this, like you were sunshine itself in his cloudy days.

“I can’t wait for you to come home, baby. You would enjoy it well!”

He chuckled softly. “I’m looking forward to it. It sounds delicious.”

You laughed, the sound light and musical. “I’ll make it for you when you get home. Just promise me you’ll be safe until then, okay?”

“I promise, my love. “Kento said, his voice sincere. “I’ll be home soon, okay?”

“That’s great!” You cheered on the other line. “I can cook it right away. I’m sure it will be ready by the time you get home.”

Nanami was about to reply when Itadori Yuuji walked in. The boy with fuschia hair started to speak but quickly realized that Nanami was on a call and fell silent. His face started to turn red as he blubbered a weak apology, as he turned around and started to walk off. Nanami shakes his head and puts his hand on his shoulder. Yuuji looks as though he was going to explode from embarrassment, mouthing to Nanami to let him go. But since he was here, he might as well introduce you to the boy.

Nanami Kento was private about his life. He rarely talked about how he was a proud married man. But it wasn’t because he was embarrassed. If anything, he would like to brag about you to the world. How you had the loveliest singing voice. How your cooking was the best he had ever tasted. How your words were always the warmest to hear. But he didn’t think he needed to share you with the world. Your presence was his sanctuary, a secret haven where he could retreat from the chaos of his duties.

In the quiet moments at home, when the world outside seemed a distant memory, he would listen to you hum a tune as you prepared dinner, your melody weaving a tapestry of comfort and familiarity. The aroma of your cooking filled the air, a symphony of flavors that spoke of love and care in every bite. And when you spoke, your voice gentle and soothing, it was as if the weight of his burdens lifted, replaced by a warmth that radiated from your every word.

Nanami didn’t need to share these moments with anyone else. They were his to treasure in this life, this little life he’s built with you. In your eyes, he found a reflection of the man he aspired to be – strong, yet tender; stoic, yet deeply affectionate. And in your embrace, he found the peace he so often sought in a world that demanded so much of him.

To the world, he was Nanami Kento, a formidable sorcerer and a man of few words. But to you, he was simply Kento, your beloved husband who cherished every moment spent in your presence. And that, he believed, was more than enough.

But he supposed, at least today, you would get known to the world.

“Who was that, Kento, baby?” you asked, curiosity piqued.

Nanami smiled slightly. “This is Itadori Yuuji, a student at Jujutsu High. I’m looking after him right now, for Gojo and his wife.”

He could feel the pitch get higher. That excitement in your voice, it never gets old to him. “Oh, bring him over for dinner, baby. I’m sure there’s enough food for us to share. Maybe even more.”

Yuuji looked even more flustered, shaking his head slowly. “I don’t want to impose on you at all…”

“Nonsense, Yuu–chan! Can I call you that, Yuu–chan? I think it suits you well!”

“Y–yes, that’s fine.” The boy uttered back, his lips trembling. “I–I don’t mind at all.”

“My! He sounds like a darling, baby.” You gushed happily. “I’d love to have him over for dinner with us, baby. It would be more lively.”

“Hm, I think so too.” He hums as he looks at Itadori. “Itadori–kun, you are welcome at our house.”

“I….I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything, Yuu–chan. We’ll be glad to have you.” You cooed on the other line. “Oh, baby. I think it’s going to be chilly tonight, so you might as well grab some miso paste before you get back home. It would be nice.”

Nanami nodded. “Alright. Is there anything else that you want me to grab?”

“I think something for the soup! I’ll text you the details.” You say to him. “But, baby, I’ll start cooking in a bit, so I’ll hang up.”

“You should. Remember the last time when you were cooking on call?”

He could feel the heat from your cheeks miles away. That incident will never leave you, you think. “T–that was one time, you know! And it ended on a happier note. It wasn’t that bad.”

“Hm, I suppose so.” He smiles at the phone. “I’ll be home in a bit, with Itadori–kun. I love you.”

“I love you too. See you soon, Kento!” You blew a kiss through the phone, and Nanami felt a little flustered as he ended the call.

Clearing his throat, he turned to Yuuji, who looked both embarrassed and curious. There were few people who knew he was married, let alone how much softer and brighter he became when it came to his wife. And now, Itadori Yuuji seems to be one of them.

Nanami's stern facade cracked ever so slightly as he met the young sorcerer's gaze. Yuuji's eyes were wide with a mix of surprise and wonder, clearly grappling with the unexpected revelation. Nanami could almost see the gears turning in the boy's head, trying to reconcile the image of the strict, no-nonsense mentor with the man who evidently harbored a deep, abiding love for someone special.

Kento sighed, pursing his lips. This was bound to happen, he supposed. The gods would make it happen, one way or another. He had always been careful, keeping his personal life meticulously separate from his professional duties. But perhaps it was inevitable that, sooner or later, the two worlds would collide.

“Who was that, Nanamin?” Yuuji asked hesitantly.

“That was my wife.” Nanami explained to him, putting his phone away. “It’s better if we talk about it on the way there. Come on, let’s get going. I don’t want the store to close on us.”

“Huh?”

“Huh? Itadori–kun, are you okay?”

The shock is now more evident than ever before in Itadori Yuuji’s face. He was hysterical, stunned and dumbfounded. “What? Nanamin, you’re married? You have a wife? Huh?”

"Itadori–kun, please calm down." he began, his voice steady but tinged with an uncharacteristic gentleness. "Yes, I am married."

Yuuji blinked, processing the confirmation. He finds his composure and starts smiling. "Wow, Nanamin, I didn't know... I mean, you never mentioned it. But I should—Congratulations on your marriage!”

Nanami nodded, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He didn't know what to say as the young fuchsia-haired boy started clapping like it was a newly finished wedding reception. The sound of Yuuji's enthusiastic applause filled the air, an unexpected burst of joy that contrasted sharply with the usual solemnity of their conversations.

This kid has too much energy in him, now that he’s out of that dark headspace, Nanami thought, observing Yuuji's bright, expressive face. The transformation in the boy was remarkable; gone was the haunted look that had shadowed his eyes not so long ago. Instead, Yuuji was brimming with vitality, his spirit seemingly unbreakable despite the hardships he had faced.

But Kento thinks that it’s for the best. It’s hard to be in such a dark place. Levity should be welcomed. In a world where curses and battles often cast long shadows, moments of light-heartedness were precious. Nanami Kento had always believed in the importance of balance, of relief and seeing Itadory Yuuji so full of life reminded him of why he fought—to protect the innocence and joy that still existed in the world.

"I don't often talk about it.” Nanami says softly. “Not because I am ashamed or unwilling, but because...well, my wife is a part of my life that I prefer to keep private. Our moments together are precious to me."

Yuuji's curiosity seemed to override his embarrassment. "Your wife must be really amazing, Nanamin!" he ventured, his tone sincere and full of admiration. “Your wife seems to make you very happy!”

"My love certainly does." Nanami replied, his expression softening as he thought of you. "My wife is my sanctuary, my peace in a turbulent world. I’m lucky to be blessed.”

Yuuji smiled, clearly moved by the rare glimpse into Nanami's personal life. "That sounds incredible, Nanamin. I think it's great that you have someone like that."

Nanami gave a small nod, a silent acknowledgment of the truth in Yuuji's words. But he cleared his throat, feeling a bit of heat rise to his face as the young boy grinned at him. "Thank you, Itadori-kun." he said, his voice steady yet softer than usual. "Now, let’s make our way. It’ll be hard to find a store open late."

Yuuji’s grin widened, but he nodded obediently, falling into step beside Nanami. "Right, Nanamin! Let’s get moving."

As they walked through the dimly lit streets, Nanami couldn’t help but feel a sense of relief. Despite the vulnerability of revealing a part of his personal life, he found solace in Yuuji’s reaction. He thinks his reaction was endearing, too. Nanami Kento thinks that he realizes the extent of the boy’s unfiltered happiness. It was like a deep uncharted ocean. But it was nice, how warm it was, his genuine response.

Nanami Kento thinks that learning more about being an adult is because of Itadori Yuuji than anything else. And he thinks that’s lovely, and perhaps you will think the same. The children are the future, after all. And their joys will always be a reminder of the simple joys that still existed, even amidst their perilous world. Perhaps that’s why Gojo Satoru gave him the boy. Gojo’s always been astute about that sort of thing, but Nanami thinks that he doesn’t have the capability of saying it out loud.

"Say Nanamin," Yuuji began, his tone conversational, more casual than before. Comfortable. "What's your wife’s favorite thing to cook?"

Nanami glanced at Yuuji, a small smile playing on his lips. "Well, my wife has a knack for many dishes, but my wife’s favorite to cook is a traditional Japanese meal. My wife loves making it, and I must admit, it’s my favorite to eat. Perhaps more than Danish or Filipino dishes.”

Yuuji's eyes sparkled with interest. "That sounds amazing! Do you ever help out in the kitchen?"

Nanami releases a small laugh, the sound carrying a warmth that feels foreign yet welcome. Yuuji thinks that he feels like he is going to smile wider. Happiness looks good in Nanamin’s face. "I do, when I can. I take days off sometimes. But my wife likes doing most of the cooking. My wife says that I’m more of a hindrance than help, though. But it’s the effort that counts, or so my wife tells me."

Yuuji laughed, the sound bright and full of life. "I bet you’re better than you think, Nanamin. It sounds like you two have a lot of fun together."

Nanami’s expression softened, the memories of their shared moments filling him with a gentle warmth. "We do. I’m happy to say that." he admitted, his voice quiet but filled with affection. "In those moments, everything else fades away. It’s just us, and that’s more than enough."

THE SMELL OF GRILLED SALMON MADE NANAMI HAPPY. You were always a much better cook than him, he thinks. He always looked forward to coming home and having a nice hearty meal when you made it for him. The thought of your cooking brought a soft smile to his face as he and Yuuji navigated through the ryokan. He gently handed the young boy slippers, which was returned by a gentle smile and a whispered thanks.

The weight of the day seemed to melt away as he stepped further into the warm embrace of your shared home. The familiar, comforting aroma of your cooking wafted through the air, mingling with the soft, ambient sounds of home. It was a stark contrast to the chaos and danger he faced daily, a sanctuary that he cherished more than anything.

Loosening his tie, he took a moment to simply stand in the hallway, eyes closed, breathing in the scents and sounds that spoke of love and normalcy. Each time he returned, he was reminded of just how much these simple, everyday moments meant to him. It wasn’t just the meals or the comfort of the house—it was you. Your presence was the balm to his weary soul, the light that guided him through the darkest of times.

As he walked toward the kitchen, he could hear you humming softly to yourself, a tune that brought a smile to his face. He paused at the doorway. He was going to take in this moment. Itadori Yuuji was just behind him. Both of them take in the sound of your tender humming. Kento was sure that you were also gracefully dancing on the other side, expertly preparing dinner. There was something almost magical in the way you worked, turning ordinary ingredients into something extraordinary. It wasn’t just food; it was an expression of your love and care, a daily reminder of how much you meant to each other.

He walks and then stops for a moment, where a wall separates the dining room and the kitchen. Nanami Kento often marveled at how effortlessly you could turn simple ingredients into something extraordinary. The kitchen was your domain, where you wielded spices and herbs with the same precision he applied to exorcizing curses. He watches as your humming intensifies as you move around the kitchen, your movements lively and excited.

There was a particular comfort in the routine you had established together in these many years of marriage. He enjoyed it, every single time. After a long, arduous day, he would come home to the welcoming warmth of your embrace and the tantalizing aromas wafting from the kitchen. You had a way of making every meal special, infusing each dish with a warmth that spoke of your love and care. He knew he was lucky, every single day — to be in your loving arms, to be cared for and adored by you.

As he walked toward the kitchen, he could hear you humming softly to yourself, a tune that brought a smile to his face. He paused at the doorway, taking in the sight of you moving gracefully, expertly preparing dinner. There was something almost magical in the way you worked, turning ordinary ingredients into something extraordinary. It wasn’t just food; it was an expression of your love and care, a daily reminder of how much you meant to each other.

Clearing his throat, your Kento stepped into the kitchen. "It smells amazing, my love." he said, his voice warm with affection.

You turned around, startled, and your cheeks flushed as you saw him standing there. "Kento, baby! I didn’t hear you come in." you said, quickly setting down the spoon you were holding. Then you noticed Yuuji standing behind him, grinning widely, and your blush deepened. "Oh! Yuu–chan, welcome. I–I’m sorry you had to see me in that state! My humming must have been so loud!"

Yuuji gave you a cheerful wave. "Hello, Mrs. Nanami! I didn’t mean to intrude, but Nanamin invited me over."

You wiped your hands on a towel, trying to regain your composure. "It’s no trouble at all. And please, you don’t have to be formal with me. You’re always welcome here, Yuu–chan!"

Nanami watched as Yuuji smiled wider at your response. He stepped closer to you, his presence calming your flustered nerves. "Your humming was great." he said softly, his eyes filled with affection. “I’m home, my love.”

You smiled up at him, the embarrassment fading away in the warmth of his gaze. "I’m glad you’re home, Kento." you replied, reaching up to touch his cheek.

Yuuji watched the interaction with a happy grin. "You two are so cute, Nana–san!" he said, unable to hide his delight.

You laughed, the sound light and happy. Kento didn’t know how to feel with the nickname that Yuuji gave you, but if you were happy about it, then he doesn’t think it’s anything to be having a fuss over. "Thank you, Yuu–chan. Why don’t you take a seat? You must be so hungry! Oh, you should eat a lot. You seem to be getting thin! Come here and wash up. Dinner is almost ready.”

“Thank you, Nana–san!”

You grinned. “Oh, it’s my pleasure! Now go and wash up. Have a good warm one, okay? Ah, and the towels and some clothes are in a cabinet in front of the bathroom!”

Yuuji grinned and waved at you and Kento before he headed over to the direction you pointed and left. Kento crossed his arms and sighed. You were still smiling. “I’m glad you took that boy home. He seems to be such a lovely young man, Kento.”

“Hm. Itadori–kun’s a good kid.”

“Like Megumi–kun, hm?”

“Well, Fushiguro–kun’s a different sort of kid.”

As you turned back to the stove with an agreeable hum, your husband stepped closer, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind. You smile as he rests his chin on your shoulder. "Do you need any help?" he asked, his voice a low murmur in your ear.

You leaned back against him, savoring the feeling of his embrace. "Just keep me company," you said softly. "That’s all I need."

“How was your day?”

“It's really good.” You whisper to your husband, satisfied. “I finished my manuscript. I sent it to my editor. I’m just waiting for feedback.”

“What did you do for the rest of the day?” He asked softly, his eyes shifting to look at you tenderly. “I hope you rested. You must have worked through the manuscript without taking a break again, hm?”

It was quick for him to pick up on your ears turning red. He was right. “....I did sleep, you know. I rested a lot after. I knew you would be worried if I didn’t.”

“Ah, so that’s why you didn’t reply to my text.”

“Huh, what do you think I was doing?” You pouted as you looked at him.

He grins. “I thought you were crying about your 3D man on Twitter again.”

You blush even harder. “Ahhhh, Kento! I wasn’t, I was sleeping!”

“Hm, that’s a win for me then.”

“You tease, you!”

Itadori Yuuji had gotten out of the shower and stopped his tracks when he saw the two of you bantering. It was something interesting to see. So far, he’d only known the blond to be stern and stoic, perhaps serious and strict too. But he could not help but feel warmth when he saw how he is with you, his wife. He could only watch with a mix of admiration and amusement as Nanami Kento stayed close to you as you finished preparing the meal.

At times, Yuuji could not help wondering if his mother and father had ever done something like this. If he was being honest, he doesn’t remember much about his parents. And grandpa really didn’t talk much about them when he was growing up. But Yuuji still liked to imagine. He liked to imagine a warm, happy home. Where his parents were there, waiting for him. With a warm meal, a loving hug and a laughing face.

For a moment, he couldn’t help but imagine that this was home. That this was his own little happy home. With a mother and a father that loved each other, with a warm meal on the way for his belly and a tender greeting with that laughing face for him. Itadori Yuuji thinks that maybe just this once, even just tonight, he’d like to keep this moment as it was and carve it in his memory.

You were the first to notice that he had returned. You turned around as Kento moved away. You were still a bit flustered but smiled at him. “Did you have a good shower, Yuu–chan? Dinner’s almost ready, you can sit down!”

Yuuji smiled widely. “Yes, I did! Thank you for welcoming me again, Nana–san.”

You waved him off. “Oh, don’t even think about it, Yuu–chan. We’re glad to have you here!”

“Itadori–kun, come here.” Nanami calls to him, waving for him to come. “Help me set up the table for the meal.”

“Yes, of course, Nanamin!” He nodded, immediately coming over.

They settled the table as you began putting the dishes on the plates. You grinned as you turned to set the dishes on the table, your heart swelling with affection as you watched your husband indulge Yuuji in a conversation about how to properly plate a table. Yuuji, with his usual wide-eyed curiosity, listened intently as Nanami explained the intricacies of table setting—how the forks and knives should be arranged, the importance of the right glassware, and even the subtle art of folding napkins.

You could see the delight in Yuuji’s eyes as he absorbed every detail, and it warmed your chest to see Kenyto share his knowledge so patiently. It was clear that Kento was savoring this moment quietly, enjoying the chance to mentor and connect with Yuuji in this simple yet meaningful way. His usual reserved demeanor softened into something more tender and nurturing, and you couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of happiness.

The kitchen was alive with the sounds of your evening together—laughter, the clinking of utensils, and the occasional lighthearted banter. The atmosphere was warm and welcoming, a stark contrast to the challenges Nanami faced outside. You moved around the table, placing the final touches on the meal, while the two of them continued their engaging discussion.

"See, Itadori–kun." Nanami said, demonstrating the correct way to position a knife beside the plate. "The blade should always face inward, toward the plate. It’s a small detail, but it makes a big difference."

Yuuji nodded, his expression one of earnest concentration. "Got it! I’ll have to remember that. Thanks for the tips, Nanamin."

You couldn’t help but smile as you watched them. The sight of Kento imparting his knowledge with such care and Yuuji absorbing it with enthusiasm filled you with a profound sense of contentment. It was moments like these that reminded you of the beauty of simple connections, the joy of sharing everyday experiences, and the happiness that came from seeing the people you loved come together.

As you finished setting the table, you joined the conversation, your voice blending with theirs in easy harmony. The meal was ready, and the table was set with all the care Kento had described. The three of you chatted effortlessly, the conversation flowing naturally between you. Yuuji asked questions, Nanami answered with a mixture of expertise and humor, and you added your own touches to the discussion.

The kitchen was filled with laughter and the clinking of dishes, creating a symphony of warmth and joy. As you all sat down to enjoy the meal, you couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of fulfillment. The love and connection you shared with Nanami, now extended to Yuuji in these small, everyday moments, made you realize just how precious and meaningful these times were.

In the midst of the shared meal, as the conversation continued and the laughter echoed through the room, you felt incredibly grateful. The sight of Nanami treating Yuuji with such kindness, the ease of their interactions, and the warmth of your home created a beautiful tapestry of everyday joy. And as you looked around the table, surrounded by the people you loved, you knew that these were the moments you would cherish forever.

As the meal drew to a close, you noticed that Yuuji’s eyes were beginning to droop. The day's excitement and the hearty dinner had taken their toll. You glanced at your husband, who met your gaze with a knowing smile.

“Yuu–chan.” you said gently, placing a hand on his shoulder. “It’s getting late, and you must be tired. Why don’t you head to the guest room and get some rest? You’re welcome to stay the night if you’d like.”

Yuuji blinked, a little surprised but clearly pleased. “Oh, really? I didn’t mean to impose, Nana–san…”

“You’re not imposing at all, Yuu–chan.” you reassured him with a warm smile. “You’re always welcome here. Always. We’d be happy to have you stay.”

Yuuji’s face lit up with a genuine smile. “Thank you so much! I’d love to stay. It’s been a while since I had a home-cooked meal like this, and spending time with you both has been really nice.”

Kento nodded, his expression tender. “I’m glad you enjoyed it. The guest room is all set for you. Let me show you where it is.”

As your husband led Yuuji toward the guest room, you decided to go on ahead and tidy up the table and cleaned the remaining dishes before your husband came back. Your husband always insists on doing it, but he is already tired.It feels nice for you, you think — to make sure that the home is clean for your lovely husband to relax in. The sounds of their footsteps and quiet conversation in the hallway were a comforting backdrop to your evening chores. They still must be talking upstairs, if they were still walking about. A few minutes later, your husband returned, his demeanor still soft and content.

“You know you didn’t have to wash it up, my love.” He presses a kiss on your cheek as you dry your hands. “I would have wanted to do it.”

You smile at him. “I know, but I wanted to do it. You deserve some rest.”

“So do you.” He sighs, growing softer as he looks at you. “I’ll do it tomorrow, hm? The whole day.”

You playfully roll your eyes, smiling wider. “Fine, if you insist.”

He smiles. “Good.”

“So, how is Yuu–chan?” You asked as you started untying your apron. “He must be exhausted.”

“Hm. He’s about to get ready for bed. He didn’t sleep much yesterday, so he should start to fall asleep soon.”

You sighed. “Poor boy. Well, he can stay as much as he likes. I doubt Sato–chan would be home early to pick him up again. Let him stay with us until then.”

“That’s what I told Gojo.”

“Good.” You smiled at him. “Then I could continue to cook for him. Pamper him, even!”

“You really made Itadori–kun’s night, my love.” Nanami said, his voice filled with appreciation. “He looked genuinely happy.”

You smiled at your husband. “He’s a good kid. I’m glad we could make him feel at home. It’s nice to share our home with someone who means so much to you. And well, someone who is dear to me now too.”

Kento walked closer to you, pulling you into a gentle embrace. “Thank you for making him feel welcome. I know it means a lot to him. And to me.”

You rested your head against his chest, savoring the warmth of his hug. “It’s what family is all about. And you know, it’s nice to have another person to share our home with.”

As you both stood there, the tranquility of the evening enveloping you, Nanami kissed the top of your head. “Let’s go check on him before we head to bed. It’s always nice to say goodnight.”

You nodded, and together you walked down the hallway to the guest room. The door was slightly ajar, and you could see Yuuji already settling in, his face relaxed and content. The blacket was covering him well enough. It was a cold night, so you were at least glad for that. You smiled at him.

“Hi, Yuu–chan. We just wanted to come up and say goodnight.” you said softly, peeking into the room. “Sleep well, hm? As much as you like, it’s okay. Remember, you have a home here with Kento and I whenever you want.”

Yuuji looked up, his eyes bright with gratitude. “Thank you, Nana–san, really. I’ll definitely take you up on that whenever I can. Nanamin already said the same thing, but really….I’m grateful to both of you.”

You smiled at him warmly. For a moment, Yuuji thinks that it would be a smile that only loving mothers can pull off. “Of course, don’t worry. Good night, Yuu–chan. Get some rest.”

With a final wave and a warm smile, you and Kento quietly closed the door and made your way back to your own room. The house felt even more like a home with Yuuji’s presence. And you were glad for it. As you looked at your husband, you knew that he felt the same way. You leaned against him, satisfied, happily. This was a happy night.

epilogue

The warmth of the evening lingered, and you felt a happy contentment settle over you as you changed into your pajamas. Nanami Kento was already in bed, propped up against the pillows and reading a book. You slid under the covers next to him, resting your head on his shoulder.

"Kento, baby." you said, your tone light and playful. “I have thoughts I wanna say out loud.”

"Hmm?" He glanced down at you, his expression softening. “What are they about, my love?”

"I’ve been thinking, you know….I don’t think it’s crazy to think this, what I’m thinking." you began, a mischievous twinkle in your eye. "Maybe we should adopt Yuu–chan."

Nanami blinked, clearly taken aback. "Adopt Itadori–kun?"

You nodded, trying to keep a straight face. "Yes, he’s such a sweet boy, Kento. And he already seems like part of the family. Plus, he clearly adores you. And you clearly adore him. I’m sure it’s mutual between him and I. So, we might as well make it happen!”

Nanami chuckled, the sound deep and warm. "You do realize he’s already got Gojo as his current guardian, right? I doubt the higher–ups will allow us to take Itadori–kun.”

You pouted. "Yes, but think about it. I’m sure Sato–chan can convince everyone to make us Yuu–chan’s parents. He’d bring so much energy into the house. Imagine all the laughter and fun. And you’d get to give him more life advice about girls, well even boys. I’m sure we’ll love him no matter what, you know?”

Kento closed his book, setting it aside. "And what would you get out of this arrangement?"

"Oh, just the joy of seeing you two bond even more. Being his mother…." you said with a laugh. "And maybe some help with the cooking. I can think some more, I’m sure.”

Kento shook his head, a smile tugging at his lips. "You’re incorrigible, my love.”

"But you love me still, hm?" you said, leaning in to kiss his cheek.

"That I do, my love." he agreed, wrapping his arm around you. "But I think we should leave the adopting to those who don’t have to face curses every day."

You sighed dramatically, still pouting. "Fine, fine. But I still think it’s a good idea."

Kento laughed, pulling you closer. "Maybe we can settle for having him over for dinner more often. How does that sound?"

You snuggled into his embrace, your smile widening. "Perfect. And who knows, maybe he’ll start calling you his dad! And me, his mom!”

Kento groaned playfully. "Now that’s a terrifying thought."

You laughed, the sound mingled with his, and the two of you drifted off to sleep, the warmth of your love and the lightheartedness of your conversation wrapping around you like a cozy blanket.

“But maybe when you retire….”

“......I’ll think about it.”

“I love you so much!” You say, kissing his shoulder.

You hear him sigh, content. “I love you too.”

facts about nanami and his wife:

kento thinks that he fits being a house-husband. he likes the idea of taking care of his wife, so he thinks that he'd be great at it. he's thought about quitting sorcery to be a house-husband.

yuuji becomes a staple in your house. the guest room he used became his regular bedroom at the house. you buy clothes you think would suit him often and put it in his drawers. when he can't stay for the night, you indulge a long dinner.

these dinners lasting long into the night leads into yuuji not going home to the dorms at all and a long phone call between kento and yaga.

kento's mother and grandmother send your recipes to try almost daily. you guys maintain a group chat without the men in your lives. you enjoy it a lot, when you vent about your editor.

your editor always has a hard time with you keeping up with deadlines and because your editor's stric. sometimes, he brings out a picture of kento looking disappointed at you and you cry harder.

you still continue to ask kento to adopt yuuji because you really love him a lot. it would be easier if he was your son!!!

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