#calico bush
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faguscarolinensis · 7 months ago
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Kalmia latifolia / Mountain Laurel at the Sarah P. Duke Gardens at Duke University in Durham, NC
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yumiko-asakawa · 1 year ago
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赤いカルミア(アメリカシャクナゲ)♪
Kalmia, Calico bush.
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crplpunkklavier · 2 months ago
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im the masc version (i believe the term was gary stu) of that "my eyes change color depending on mood" shit where my body hair changes color depending on body part
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reddirttown · 1 year ago
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Language of Flowers: Mountain Laurel
In the language of flowers, there is a flower for every day of the year. The flower for today, November 16, is Mountain Laurel, which signifies ambition. Image above from Wikipedia. Kalmia latifolia, commonly called Mountain Laurel, calico-bush, or spoonwood (because Native Americans once made their spoons from it), is an evergreen shrub in the heather family, Ericaceae, that is native to the…
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stllmnstr · 4 months ago
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champagne problems: part two
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pairing: jake sim x f reader
genre: enemies to lovers, rich kids au, fake dating au, college au, angst, fluff
part two word count: 33.2k
part two warnings: swearing, alcohol consumption, jealousy, a kiss or two, my incessant need to make sunghoon a figure skater in everything I write, family drama, use of the american (usa) university system
soundtrack: boom - dpr live / bad idea! - girl in red / blood on the floor - kuiper / calico - dpr ian / comme de garçons (like the boys) - rina sawayama / lust - chase atlantic
part one can be found on my masterlist!
note: reuploaded from my old blog with the same name! welcome back if you've been here before, and enjoy the conclusion to part one if you're new. happy reading ♡
⋆。゚☁︎。⋆。 ゚☾ ゚。⋆ ⋆。゚☁︎。⋆。 ゚☾ ゚。⋆
The second son of a wealthy family, Jake Sim has gotten used to always standing in the shadow of his older brother. From grades to girls to talks of becoming future CEO of the Sim Corporation, he’s no stranger to coming in second place. So when an opportunity arises for Jake to finally have the one thing his brother can’t and best him once and for all, he knows he’d be a fool not to take it.
There are only two problems. The first is that the thing his brother wants so badly isn’t a thing at all. It’s you, semi-estranged daughter of the Sims’ closest and most long-standing business partner.
The second is that Jake Sim can’t fucking stand you.
⋆。゚☁︎。⋆。 ゚☾ ゚。⋆ ⋆。゚☁︎。⋆。 ゚☾ ゚。⋆
PART TWO
⋆。゚☁︎。⋆。 ゚☾ ゚。⋆ ⋆。゚☁︎。⋆。 ゚☾ ゚。⋆
Jake Sim has been staring at his philosophy homework for the last twenty minutes when a stack of pastel pink papers slides across the table towards him. 
“What is this?” Much like most interactions he’s had with you, your sudden presence at Jake's favorite coffee shop is entirely unexplained. Hell, he’s not even sure how you found him here. He’d ask, if he thought you’d give him a straightforward answer. 
But Jake knows better at this point. So with a grumble, he takes out his headphones instead and prepares for a conversion that will probably put him in a worse mood than he started it in. 
Sliding down into the seat across from him without an invitation or the courtesy of an explanation, the only thing you say is, “You know, I really am starting to get a bit worried about your future success.” Nodding at the stack of papers you’ve just put on the table in front of him, you add, “How are you a third-year business major that still can’t recognize a contract?”
“I know what a contract is.” Jake defends, eyeing the papers warily, reaching out to pick them up. “But usually they’re not printed out on pink paper.” Really, who do you think you are? Elle Woods? And where did you even get this stuff? Jake doubts that this shade of pink cardstock came from the shelves of your local office supply store. Bringing the paper up closer to his nose, he levels you with a disbelieving look. “Hold on, is this paper scented?”
“Don’t put your gross nose on it! That paper is custom ordered.”
Of course it is. “Why the fuck did you print out a contract on custom ordered lavender-scented paper?”
You have the audacity to look affronted. “You should be thanking me.” With half a mind to snatch it out of his hands, you instead tell him with a glare, “Lavender is a very calming scent and probably the only thing stopping me from strangling you right now, y’know, since this entire thing is your fault.” 
Setting the papers back on the table with a little more force than necessary, Jake isn’t in the mood to play your favorite game of beating around the bush.“What entire thing? What kind of contract is this?” 
“I’m so glad you asked.” Your tone says otherwise. “Since someone’s loser brother couldn’t keep his mouth shut, just like I predicted, and someone’s mother found out about someone’s unfortunate use of the B word–”
“Hold on,” Jake’s brow creases in confusion. “I never called anyone a bitch–”
“Boyfriend,” you clarify, cutting him off. “I figured we better lay out some ground rules. You know, if we’re really gonna go for this.”
“Go for what?” Jake is still lost. “It’s just a family dinner–”
Shaking your head, you paint a perfect picture of disappointment when you tell him, “Your lack of foresight is astounding. Truly. Forget econ, I’m surprised you managed to pass classes that involve basic logic or any kind of critical thinking skills.”
Across from you, Jake does his best to close his laptop screen inconspicuously, keeping his untouched philosophy homework hidden from view. 
Then he returns, “And you don’t think you’re overreacting? Like, at all? What do we need a contract for?” Not that the lavender-scented abomination looks particularly legally binding to begin with. “Like I said, it’s just dinner–”
“For now,” you interrupt. “It’s just dinner for now. But two days ago, it was just a fundraiser, and to the best of our families’ knowledge, you were just my plus-one.” Giving him your best fake smile, you add, “And like the person at this table who has an IQ higher than a goldfish predicted, things are already getting messy. This,” you nod to the contract, “will help us clean them up before James or my mother realize that everything about you and me is nothing but one big lie.”
Jake sighs. Tries to defend himself even though he knows it’s futile. “Look, how was I supposed to know that my brother would open his big mouth to my mom?” And it really is just terrible luck all around – that James couldn’t keep a secret, that he chose to divulge it to the one person that actually cares about Jake’s love life and not just its potential effects on the family business. 
In fact, in Jake's opinion, his mother cares a little too much. The messages that started Sunday morning haven’t stopped since then. It’s a big part of the reason why his phone is currently face-down on the table that separates the two of you. Jake is not about to let you see anything that could potentially inflate your ego any more. 
His mother, however, seems to have other ideas. Right now, his message thread with her looks more like a one-sided fan club.
Mom: I can’t wait to meet her! I remember her as a little kid. It’s been so long since I’ve seen her.
Mom: Does she have any dietary restrictions or allergies? I’m starting to put together the menu for this weekend.
Mom: Does she prefer white or red wine? 
Mom: Never mind the last message. I’ll just pull out some of both. 
Mom: I just stumbled across a recent picture of her. Wow, she’s even more beautiful than I remember! I hope you’re treating her well. 
Mom: Can you send me your apartment address again? I want to mail you something.
Mom: Oh, and what’s ___’s favorite kind of cookie?
Mom: Forget it. I’ll just give them to you this weekend to take with you. 
Suppressing a wince, Jake decides to put his mother’s incessant prying to the side for the time being. Right now, he needs to build the most bulletproof defense of his intelligence and common sense as possible before you keep shooting holes in it. But contrary to his beliefs, you’re not here to argue with him about where the blame for your unfortunate situation lies, at least not for the most part. 
You tell him as much. “I’m not here to yell at you about how this is all your fault.”
Jake raises an eyebrow, lips flat. “Could’ve fooled me.”
“Don’t worry,” you assure him. “I got my anger out already. Your picture’s right in the middle of my dartboard.” Across the table from him, you smile sweetly, imitate throwing a dart directly at the center of his forehead. 
Jake can’t tell if you’re kidding or not, and somehow that’s more unnerving. 
“So what, you don’t need to hear me say that everything’s my fault? You’d rather get it in writing instead?” Jake glances at the forgotten contract. Suddenly, a wave of panic crests in his mind. “If you’re trying to sue me–”
You roll your eyes before he can finish the empty threat. “Again, that’s not what this is for.” Looking at the papers, you tilt your head, considering. “Although it’s not too late for an amendment…”
Jake cuts that train of thought off as quickly as he can. “Okay, what exactly is it for then?”
You don’t miss a beat. “Like I said, just like someone with more than two functioning brain cells predicted, your little slip of the tongue made things messy. So if I’m gonna save your ass and pretend to be your girlfriend in front of your family this weekend, we’re gonna need some kind of written agreement about how this is going to play out. Think of it as an agreement, something to outline the…” you pause, weighing your words, “expectations on both of our ends.”
A contract. A fake dating contract. It’s all Jake can do not to burst out laughing. He’s trying to egg you on a little, piss you off and push your buttons like you’re so good at doing to him when he tells you, “Y’know, it’s kind of funny how seriously you’re taking this.”
You don’t understand how he can be so blase about it all. Sure, maybe the contract was a little overkill, but the two of you are about to start pretending to be dating, to be a couple, in front of your families. It’s not something that you’re willing to walk into blindly. 
“Really? I think it’s kind of funny the whole reason I’m in this mess is because of you.” Suddenly, there’s a reignited fire in your eyes. Jake almost regrets his taunting. “In fact, I think it’s absolutely hilarious–”
“Okay, okay,” He can sense a losing battle when he sees it. Not wanting to rehash your argument from earlier or put himself at the center of any more dartboard target practices, Jake surrenders. And then he frowns. Reaching for the stack of papers again, he scans the first page. Trying to make sense of all the legal jargon and stylized formatting, he’s hesitant when he glances at you and slow to admit, “To be completely honest with you, I’m actually not that good with contracts–”
“Oh my god.”
“So, do you think you could go over the highlights for me?”
“You are absolutely insufferable.”
“I’m sorry,” Jake intones flatly. “Are you talking to me or the mirror you spend five hours a day looking into?”
You kind of have to hand it to him. Ever since your run in with his brother, his insults have been landing a lot better. That one was actually pretty good. Not that you’d ever admit it. 
“Anyway,” you glare instead. “The highlights.” Nodding to the contract you spent most of last night writing up, you explain, “The first page is just basic contract language. The actual content of our proposed agreement starts on the second page.”
Following your explanation, Jake sets the first page aside, makes quick work of skimming the second. Or at least he tries to. It proves a difficult task, however, when he gets a little caught up on the very first line. 
“Really?” You’re not quite sure what kind of expression is on his face when he looks up at you. It’s an odd mix of shock, disbelief, and perhaps, if the sudden flush on his cheekbones is anything to go by, embarrassment. “Rule number one is no kissing?”
Across from him, you just rest your chin in your palm. “I know I’m crushing your dreams and all, but don’t be so surprised.”
Jake’s glare is easier to read this time. “That is not what I meant. It’s just… I don’t know.” It seems so obvious. He didn’t think you’d feel the need to actually write it out like he’s about to start trying to plant ones on you every hour of the day. “It’s not what I was expecting.”
“I mean, I don’t know how family dinners work at your house, but mine usually don’t involve makeout sessions between courses.”
“Exactly,” Jake returns. “It hardly seems like something we need in writing when it’s more than easy to avoid.”
Still, you don’t back down. “Don’t blame me for erring on the side of caution. We’re pretending to be a couple in front of your brother. And we both know that you don’t exactly make the most rational decisions when he starts  pushing your buttons, boyfriend.”
The use of the pet name is intentional. It’s a reminder that Jake can’t be trusted where his older brother is concerned. Not when in the heat of the moment, he would say or do just about anything to get under James’ skin in the same way James has been getting under his for the last twenty-one odd years.  
“Point taken.” Jake can’t exactly argue that one. 
And in all honesty, Jake kinda feels like he’s getting off easy, at least with you. Not that he would ever tell you that. 
He’s feeling apprehensive about this dinner, yes, and now about being legally bound to you, but he supposes things could be a lot worse. For starters, you’d been much easier to convince than he initially thought. He wasn’t sure what kind of bribes would work on you, how he was going to get you to keep up the facade he started for one more dinner. 
Maybe, he thought,  he would be able to leverage your phone number against you in a new way. He could promise not to pass it along to James, but only as long as you did him the solid of playing the part of his girlfriend, this time at a dinner with his family. 
But that felt a little too much like blackmail, even for him. So instead, he had told you the truth. 
Listening to the phone ring after clicking on your number, it was all Jake could do not to throw his phone across the room in anticipation of your rage. But then you answered, and it all came spilling out. 
He told you that James could not be trusted with secrets but could absolutely be trusted to do everything in his power to ruin Jake’s life, even if unintentionally. He explained how his mother was now unfortunately involved, that your initial plan to just mention each other occasionally and claim that things fizzled by the time the clock struck midnight on New Year’s was no longer viable. 
You had remained completely silent for a long pause. Too long. Jake was suddenly very grateful that he took the precaution of having this conversation over the phone. Mostly because he was pretty sure if he tried to tell you face-to-face, you would cause him actual bodily harm. But instead of threats or curses or even sarcasm, Jake had listened as a long sigh came through the other line and then–
“Yeah, my mom has been asking me about you too.” Much to his shock, you were resigned to the fact, not angry at the news. And you had told him, “I’ll come to your family dinner. Just let me… Let me think about the best way to go about this.”
Less than twenty-four hours have passed since that phone conversation, and Jake shouldn’t be as surprised as he is that your idea of the best way to go about this is printed out for him on custom pink lavender-scented paper.  
Deciding to leave the kissing debacle alone for the moment, he reads through the rest of your so-called rules. With more of an idea as to what to expect, nothing shocks him quite as much as the initial line. 
He reads the second section wordlessly: Both parties will do everything in their power, to a reasonable extent, to maintain the image of a false relationship in the presence of family members and those with immediate connections to them (including, but not limited to employees, business partners, etc).
The third section covers another base: Friends and other acquaintances of both parties are not to be informed of the arrangement. Neither party is under obligation to maintain the lie of relationship with friends or acquaintances unless deemed necessary to maintain secrecy of the relationship. 
Jake glances up with a furrow in his brow. You clarify before he has the chance to ask, “Basically it’s saying that you don’t have to lie to your friends and tell them that we’re dating, unless they get suspicious or start asking. Just don’t tell them we aren’t. And absolutely do not tell them about the contract.”  
Jake nods, moves to the next line. 
Neither party may involve themself in a romantic relationship of any nature with another individual for the duration of this contract. Both parties are to avoid to the best of their ability any situation in which it could be interpreted that they are in a romantic relationship of any nature with another individual for the duration of this contract. 
“So essentially just no dating other people?” Jake asks. 
“Right.” You nod. “And try to avoid getting into situations that make it look like you might be dating someone else. I’m not gonna make you agree to stop hooking up with people or anything.” You look mildly ill at the mere proximity of Jake and the term ‘hooking up.’ “Just, y’know, be discreet about it.”
Jake looks up at you. “I’m not hooking up with other people.”
You cringe. “Thanks, but I really don’t need the gory details of your sex life. Do you understand the rule or not?”
Jake nods. “Yeah, I get it.”
“Great,” you move the contract aside, setting a new stack of papers down on the table. Also printed on pink paper, this pile is considerably thicker. “That’s about it for the contract, then. This,” you gesture to the new set of papers, “is for you to memorize.”
Jake would be a little less wary if it didn't look as dense as an encyclopedia. “What is it?”
“A list of everything a real boyfriend should know about me.” Jake waits for you to finish the joke, to land a punchline, but you’re entirely serious when you add, “Think of it as your ___ cheat sheet. I’ll need one for you too, of course. Preferably in the next couple of days so that I can get it down before dinner this weekend.” 
Hesitantly, Jake picks up the first page. Scanning over yet another meticulously formatted document printed on – he sniffs again – yep, lavender-scented paper, Jake privately thinks that this may actually come in handy. If nothing else, he’s sure he could reference it for some of his mom’s questions instead of needing to guess at your responses. 
It’ll help with the basics, at least. Jake is pretty sure you wouldn’t have bothered to include things like your favorite kind of cookie in there. 
But then he glances again at the stack of papers, and more specifically, how how thick it is. He looks a little closer at the page in his hand. Single spaced. He flips it over. Double sided. 
Looking over the back of the page in his hand, he forces himself to actually read some of what you’ve written. He doesn’t get far before he’s leveling you with a disbelieving look.
“Is this a prank?”
You have the gall to look confused. “Not even a little bit.”
Jake wants to tear his hair out. Because what the actual fuck? “I really don’t think anyone is going to ask me about your third favorite shade of Dior lip oil–”
“They might. And think of how suspicious it would be if you got me one as a Christmas gift or something and the color washed me out.”
Across from you, Jake’s eyes just widen. And then he’s weighing your words. 
Despite the ridiculousness, your argument does raise a point. Albeit not the one you intended. 
“Christmas gift,” Jake repeats slowly. As of now, you’re already over halfway through fall semester, which means the holidays will be approaching in just a couple of short months. Suddenly, they seem a lifetime away. “Does this contract of yours have an end date?”
“Oh, right.” Reaching for the contract again, you turn to the final page, lay it on the table in front of Jake. “Feel free to propose something else,” you offer, “but I put the termination date as January first of next year. I figured that we could use this arrangement to get us through all of the inevitable holiday parties. My family always hosts a giant one on New Year’s Eve, so I thought we could go to that together and then call it off the next day. What do you think?” You turn to him. “Too long?”
Jake discards your insane list of personal preferences for the time being and picks up the last page of the contract. At the bottom, he locates the verbiage in the final section, just above the two blank signature lines neither of you have filled yet. 
This contract will be terminated as of January 1 of the coming year. 
Jakes stares at the date for a moment. It feels odd to see an expiration date on your relationship, regardless of the fact that it’s all a facade. Seems strange to be starting something with the sole intention of ending it. But he can hardly voice those feelings, so instead he taunts, “You wanna be stuck with me that long, huh? Just can’t get enough?”
Your lips flatten as you reach for your phone. “I will literally text your brother right now.”
“Nice try,” Jake calls your bluff. “You just told me that you didn’t want your mom knowing that you lied about dating me either.”
“No,” you correct, dangling your phone between your fingers. “What I said was that I want her off my back when it comes to my dating life and who I spend my time with. It wouldn’t matter even a little bit to her whether that’s you or James. In fact, she would probably actually like him bet–”
“Whatever.” If Jake is suddenly sulking, he figures that no one needs to be aware of it. “I know you like me more than him.”
“Incorrect. I hate him more than I hate you.”
Jake stares at you blankly. “Is there a difference?”
“Obviously,” you scoff. 
“Whatever. You’re still willing to tolerate me until New Year’s.”
“Is that actually high praise to you? Do we need to start working on your self-confidence too?”
Insult aside, Jake supposes that your deadline does make sense. Although family obligations are intermittent in nature, it would be nice to have a go-to plan for every event and dinner and interaction with his older brother that he’s forced into between now and the New Year. 
Honestly, the thought of having you at his upcoming family dinner has made Jake’s steps the last two days feel a little lighter. If anything, he thinks that you’ll be a great distraction for his father. Something to talk about besides the gory details of Jake’s many failures. 
It’s a chance to be impressive in the eyes of his family, even if only in some small capacity, even if only until New Year’s. 
A moment later, Jake warily eyes the pen you hand him. “Let me guess, pink ink?”
“Obviously not.” You roll your eyes. “How would that show up on pink paper?”
So Jake’s signature is written on the first dotted line of the contract with the matte black ink of your shockingly normal ballpoint pen. Moments later, your name joins on the second line, right next to his. 
And it’s as if something shifts in the air, as if something suddenly feels a little heavier, slightly more weighted. The following silence that passes between the two of you feels like a finale of sorts. The end of something and the beginning of another. 
Looking at the boy across from you, it feels strange to say that for all intents and purposes, even if they’re fabricated, you’ll be dating him until the New Year. Showing up on his arm and laughing at his jokes and filling in the quiet moments with little displays of affection, practiced bouts of intimacy. 
It’s weird. It’s daunting. It’s not something you have any clue how to navigate, even if the contract gives you a false sense of security, of control. 
You break the moment by glancing at the clock that hangs above the front door of the coffee shop. Suddenly, your mind is elsewhere. On the other part of your original agreement. “Your first tutoring session is tonight, right?” Jungwon mentioned it to you in passing. 
“Yeah,” Jake nods. If his voice has an odd sudden hoarseness to it, you’ll both ignore it for now. “Why?”
“What time are you supposed to meet him?”
“Six-thirty.”
A second glance at the clock confirms, “It’s six thirty-five.”
“Shit!” Jake is suddenly frantic, panicked as he rushes to repack his bag and salvage what’s left of a good first impression on his tutor. 
It hardly registers when you remind him, “Don’t forget to make me a cheat sheet of things I should know about you!” Already halfway out the door, the only acknowledgement you get is a half hearted nod. 
Frowning at the mess of papers in front of you, scattered from Jake’s hasty exit, you make quick work of rearranging your newly minted contract in the correct order. 
“Men,” you whisper, to no one in particular. Even though it doesn’t land on the ears you want it to. Even though Jake is too far gone to hear it. 
Instead, what Jake hears a handful of minutes later, is a less than friendly reminder from the librarian at the front desk that the university library is a quiet area and that running is strictly prohibited. Still out of breath from the way he just bolted across the entire campus, all Jake can offer her is an apologetic nod. 
He pulls out his phone to double-check the brief message thread between him and Jungwon, to confirm the exact location of their first tutoring session. 
Yang Jungwon (Econ Tutor) [3:02 pm]: Study room 103 on the first floor
After that, there are only two other messages – one being Jake’s hasty, misspelled apology for being nearly fifteen minutes late, to which he received:
Yang Jungwon (Econ Tutor) [6:41 pm]: No problem! I’m here
After navigating his way to the reservable first floor study rooms, Jake finds himself in front of Room 103. Suddenly, a wave of self-consciousness sweeps away any adrenaline fueled by his lateness. Any lingering annoyance brought on by a conversation with you. 
Should he knock? Is there a certain etiquette to this? How embarrassed should he be that the person waiting for him with both better punctuality and significantly better grades is two years his junior, according to the sparse information you gave him?
In the end, Jake decides it would be weird to knock and chokes down all his other uncertainty. Opening the door slowly, he nods at the boy already inside. 
“Hi, Jungwon?”
If his tutor is at all put off by Jake’s lateness, he does a great job of hiding it. Jungwon is all smiles when he says, “That’s me. You must be Jake.” Jake is still stuck halfway in the door like he wants to hold onto the opportunity to bolt, just in case he needs it. Jungwon picks up on some of his hesitation. “Come on in.”
Jake does so quietly, setting his stuff down as he slides into the seat across from Jungwon. As he pulls out his laptop, Jake glances at his tutor. All smiles and friendliness, the oversized hoodie he wears looks comfortable enough to fall asleep in. Altogether, he kind of reminds him of an overeager puppy. Or at least he would, if his features weren’t so distinctly feline. 
“Sorry again for being late,” Jake mumbles, opening a Word document. “I completely lost track of time.” More like his time was completely overtaken by someone that does a great job of consuming all his senses and sends his mind spinning sideways, but Jake can hardly say that. 
Just like he did over text, Jungwon doesn’t appear bothered in the slightest by his tardiness. “It really is no problem. I’m glad you found the room alright. It’s kind of like a maze back here.”
He’s being nice again. It’s a single hallway with a handful of clearly labeled doors. But Jake isn’t one to look kindness in the mouth, especially when he’s still sitting on a pile of discomfort. Instead, he figures it’s as good a time as any to express his gratitude. 
“Thanks again for doing this, and for keeping it on the down low. ___ mentioned that you’re great at econ.”
Across from him, Jungwon shrugs. “I’m good with numbers and data and stuff like that. And I had to get good at studying pretty quick, since I’ve been on academic scholarships since middle school.”
That tidbit swirls in the air for a moment, falls through the room like a bad premonition before settling uncomfortably in Jake’s gut. It makes him wonder, makes him question a lot of things. 
What would he be like, Jake wonders, if his family name wasn’t a safety net, a security blanket in its own right? If he had to fight to earn things like the university admission letter he took for granted?  Resented, even, since it was yet another choice made for him by his father. 
Would he be like Jungwon, tutoring older students for extra cash? Forgiving people when they’re late and convincing himself that years of staring at math problems until his eyes felt like sandpaper is the same as being ‘good with numbers and stuff like that’? 
And Jake is assuming, of course. Maybe Jungwon is just good with numbers, has a natural inclination for economics. 
But the only thing Jake has ever had a natural inclination for is doing what he’s told and then blaming the world around him when he hates himself a little for it. 
All at once, he feels like an observer in his own life. An external force that does nothing but shake the snowglobe and wait to see where the dust settles, where everything lands. 
But his self-prescribed identity crisis is not Jungwon’s problem, and Jake is at least self-aware enough to know that any hardships in his life likely pale in comparison to Jungwon’s. It’s not like measuring misery has ever done Jake any good, and it feels unfair for him to be jumping to conclusions and stacking their lives against each other when all Jungwon is doing is trying to make conversation. 
So Jake decides to save the psychoanalysis for a sleepless night and is nothing but neutral when he chooses to reply to the first part of Jungwon’s comment, “Well, I’m grateful that you’re willing to help me. I’m kind of a disaster when it comes to econ.”
“So I hear,” Jungwon smiles, and Jake thinks that maybe him and Jungwon will get along just fine, whether they have the common ground of economics or not.  “Don’t let ___ tease you too hard about it, though. I used to help her, too. Back in high school.”
And if Jake was trying to stop himself from feeling sorry for Jungwon, he doesn’t have to try for very long. He suddenly thinks friendship will be a very hard thing to form. Mostly because he has the distinct sense Jungwon is reflecting on your high school days together rather fondly. Maybe a little too fondly. “Really?”
“Yeah,” Jungwon nods. “I’m a freshman, so I’m a couple years younger than you guys,” he sighs like it’s a terrible thing to be and Jake has never been more appreciative of his own birth date, “but she’s been friends with my older sister for years now. ___ was always pretty good at most subjects, but physics gave her a run for her money, so I helped her a bit when I could.”
It makes sense, he supposes. Jungwon was your physics tutor, so you knew you could recommend him with confidence. With all your first hand experience. 
“You two are close, then?” Jake hates the way he sounds almost defensive. Hates the way he doesn’t recognize the odd feeling that’s beginning to swirl in his gut unpleasantly.
“We’ve definitely gotten closer,” Jungwon nods. Jake doesn’t think he’s imagining the sudden flush on the younger boy’s cheeks. “Especially since I started university here. My sister decided to get her degree abroad, but ___ and I have still stayed in touch even without her around as the middleman, y’know?”
“Right,” Jake agrees. To what, he’s not sure. He has no idea if you have the same feelings towards your relationship with Jungwon, if you’d corroborate the fact that the two of you are getting closer, if your cheeks would get a little color in them while you talked about it. 
It strikes Jake then that he really doesn't know anything about you. At least not anything substantial. And while the dictionary of personal details you’ve compiled is still sitting in his bag, he doubts it will divulge things related to relationships. Things he’s suddenly curious about. 
He can at least feel confident in the fact that you’re not currently dating anyone. He wouldn’t have just signed a contract if you were. But that still leaves a lot of gray area, a lot of questions. 
Are there any recent exes he should know about? Messy situationships that would be glad to land a few punches on him if word of your supposed relationship were to accidentally get out? 
Jake has no idea, and even less of a clue as to how to find out. But he doesn’t like the way those uncertainties settle in his gut. And he doesn’t like the way Jungwon says your name. 
Jungwon must mistake Jake’s sudden silence as passion for fixing his grades, because the next thing he says is, “Sorry, I kind of went on a tangent there.” His apologetic smile does nothing to quell the riot in Jake’s mind. “Anyway,” he opens his laptop. “Economics. I figured we could start by looking at the upcoming assignment to see which parts are trickiest for you and go from there.” Glancing at the older boy, he asks, “Or did you have a different idea?”
“No,” Jake shakes his head. “That sounds good to me.” And he shouldn't say it, but, “I’ve got plans this weekend, so I’m hoping to get as much of this done as I can before then.”
“Oh,” Jungwon asks. It’s more of an effort to be polite than genuine curiosity. “Anything fun?”
Jake shouldn’t. Not considering the conversation you just had. Not considering the contract he just signed. 
“I don’t know. I can’t decide if I’m more nervous or excited.”
He really, really, shouldn’t. But–
“I’m taking ___ to officially meet my parents.” 
The way Jungwon falters is barely perceptible. Jake only notices because he’s watching for it. 
Jungwon’s brow creases for a moment, putting the pieces together until he realizes that they definitely only fit one way. “You two are dating?”
Jake tries not to be offended at the shock in his voice. “Is it that surprising?”
“I mean, kind of.” Jungwon is still reeling a bit. “When she mentioned that you were looking for a tutor, she said you were just a friend.”
And now Jake has to think of how to play his cards here. He needs to tread carefully, choose his words wisely. There are too many ways he could back himself into a corner, accidentally tell a lie he can’t talk his way out of. That’s probably, definitely, why you made the point of saying the two of you should leave your friends out of the arrangement entirely. Should only divulge the details if they start poking around first. Which Jungwon was definitely not doing. 
Ultimately, Jake decides to leave his explanation as vague as possible, hoping that the less he reveals, the less Jungwon will be able to poke at it until his lie crumbles and leaves nothing but the truth in its wake. 
Shrugging, he says, “We’ve been keeping it pretty quiet. You know how rumors can be.” They can catch fire at the first sign of wind. Can spread before there’s any chance of controlling them. Kind of like the one he’s single handedly spreading right now.
“Oh,” is all Jungwon says. And despite himself, Jake does feel kind of bad for the kid. He feels even worse when Jungwon finds his smile again a moment later and adds, “Well, I hope it all goes good for you. ___’s a great girl.”
But all that guilt is pushed to the side when that odd, unpleasant feeling at the bottom of Jake’s gut releases a little bit of tension, heaves a giant sigh of relief. 
“Yeah,” Jake nods without thinking. In his mind, he sees a gold dress, a black marker, his name in your handwriting. There’s a sliver of truth there, albeit a small one, when he agrees, “She is.”
Saturday night puts you back in the passenger seat of Jake’s car, a sense of deja vu overcoming you as he navigates out of your apartment building’s parking lot and onto the highway. Although this time, he did manage to avoid an argument with your doorman. Mostly because Jake Sim is now a name on your list of approved visitors. 
And there are more differences to be found. Tonight, you’ve traded your evening gown for a pair of dark wash jeans and a sweater that Jake insists his mother will love. The aged bottle of red wine you brought as a gift for his parents has a bow wrapped around its neck where it sits on the back seat of Jake’s car. 
If nothing else, Jake has to applaud your insistence that you not show up as an empty-handed guest. Your commitment to the facade is truly admirable, even if it is motivated by the contract you keep safe and sound in the top drawer of your desk. 
And finally, as opposed to the drive to your family’s fundraiser, this commute is far from silent. 
“Good,” you nod, praising Jake’s most recent answer. Despite his initial protests, he did his studying. And if his string of correct responses is anything to go by, you seem to be a subject he has an easier time grasping than economics. Or perhaps one he simply has more vested interest in. “And my top three favorite colors are?”
“One,” Jake answers seamlessly. “Gold, but only if it’s 24 karat. Two, the exact red of the Hermès Satin Lipstick in shade Rouge H. Three is pink. But not hot pink. You like softer shades, like baby pink.” Like that damn contract. 
“Nicely done. My major is?”
“Pre-law,” Jake fills in. “But you’re still undecided on if you’ll attend law school after graduation.”
It’s a tidbit that he finds mildly interesting. He’s not surprised that like him, like James, you’re following in your parents’ footsteps. As the daughter of ridiculously successful lawyers, it’s a career path that makes perfect sense for you. 
And the compassion also has him thankful for the partnership between your families, which has undoubtedly done you both some favors. First, Jake suspects that a few under-the-table deals have likely funded more than one of his childhood family vacations. And second, it adds credibility, at least from an outsider’s perspective, to the relationship the two of you are faking. 
He does wonder why you’re undecided on law school, though. If law is your field of choice, it seems like a natural progression. Not to mention that as third-year university students, the two of you are running out of time for indecision. Jake is well-acquainted with this particular reality, but it strikes him as out of character that you are as well.  
From the outside, at least, you’ve always been an image of perfection to him. Someone who has it all together, who has a ten-year plan and the actual conviction to see it through to the end. Unlike him, who’s still grasping at straws where all matters of his future are concerned. 
A fact that he’s reminded of when you say, “You know, I didn’t exactly have high hopes, considering your academic track record, but that was perfect.” You shift in your seat, preparing for a challenge. “Okay, your turn. Quiz me.” 
Your work has been undeniably easier. As opposed to the multi-page, double sided, single spaced abomination you handed him a few days ago, the Jake Sim cheat sheet still sitting on your night stand was nothing but a small assortment of facts that fit on a single sheet of paper. 
But now, the subject of your major takes Jake from thinking about your future to thinking about the classes you’re currently taking. Which makes him think of something he hasn’t been able to let go of since his first tutoring session a few nights ago. Instead of cooperating, he hands the reins to what’s been weighing on his mind. “Are you taking any physics classes?”
“Ugh,” you groan. “You were doing so well. And you literally just answered that one. I’m a pre-law major, remember?”
But Jake needs to know. Doesn’t quite have the room to think about anything else right now. “Just answer the question.”
The glance you give him is scathing, but you can sense that he’s not going to let it go until he gets his answer. “No, I’m not taking physics.” Jake hates the way that odd feeling in his gut makes a sudden reappearance, hates the way it unclenches at your response. “I haven’t since high school. I hate that stupid subject.”
Still, he can’t stop himself from offering, “Well, if you ever do–”
“Did you listen to anything I just said?”
“I was pretty good at it in high school.” He’s only kind of lying. He was pretty decent at it, at least the times he bothered to finish his homework. 
“... Okay?” You still don’t see a point to this sudden detour in the conversation. 
“So I could, uh, I could help you out. If you ever have to take it for some reason, I could help with your homework and stuff.”
“Right, because the first person I would go to for homework help is definitely Mr. I Failed Economics Twice.” Jake can hear the sarcasm. He thinks to himself, a little miserably, that if you were actually picking someone to go to, it would probably be the same person tutoring Jake now. Your old physics tutor from high school. 
Jake will pretend that the way that makes his blood pressure rise is only because he’s worried Jungwon won’t have as much time for their sessions if he picks you back up as a client. 
“Don’t hold econ against me. They’re entirely different subjects–”
“Whatever.” You cut him off. “Who gives a shit about physics? Just quiz me.”
Jake wants to press it. He really does. Wants to ask his real questions, which have a lot less to do with physics and a lot more to do with a certain econ tutor, but it’s not like you’d entertain his curiosity there either. So he relents. “Fine.” Trying to remember what he even wrote on the sheet he gave you, he starts with, “My major is?”
“Business.” Slightly quieter, you mumble, “A questionable choice, if you ask me.”
“Hey!” Jake protests. “I didn’t add any commentary to your ridiculous answers.” And some of them had been ridiculous, indeed. “I mean, seriously. You made me memorize your five favorite necklines.”
“Clearly not, since you put sweetheart and off-the-shoulder in the wrong order.”
Jake just blinks. How are you a real person? “You are actually the most annoying person I have ever met.”
The dig rolls right off your shoulders as you return one of your own. “That’s hardly even an insult, considering the size of your social circle. It’s not my fault you don’t get out much.”
“It’s like you want me to kick you out on the side of the highway–”
“And show up to your family dinner without me? Yeah, sure.”
“Besides, you know that means you’re admitting to being more annoying than Heeseung–”
“On second thought, the side of the highway sounds nice. Feel free to drop me at the next mile marker.”
“Yeah?” Jake taunts, glancing down at your choice in footwear. Another pair of heels so tall he’s impressed you can walk at all. “You think those shoes would be comfortable to walk home in?” Taking one hand off the wheel, he leans over menacingly. “In fact, why don’t I break them in for you now–”
“Okay,” you push back at him in a way that’s probably unwise, considering the fact that he’s driving. “Okay. No extra comments from me.” You mime zipping your lips with your finger. “You’re a business major. End of answer.”
Jake doesn’t believe you for a second. But after pausing to send you a withering glare for good measure, he continues anyway. “Sport I played growing up?”
Much to his surprise, your answer is genuine, concise. “Soccer.” And correct. 
“Pets?”
“Just a dog. Layla.”
As the road stretches on in front of you, back and forth quizzing takes you all the way to his parents’ house. As he pulls into the long driveway, Jake spares a glance in your direction. You wear an expression he hasn’t seen on you before. 
It confuses him a little, worries him even, until he realizes–
“Hold on. Are you… nervous?”
“What about it?” Even visibly tense, your gut reaction is to deny, to make excuses. Finally, you admit, “It’s been a while since I’ve met anyone’s mom.”
Jake almost considers telling you that he’s pretty sure she’d redecorate one of the guest bedrooms and put your name on the door if she thought you’d like that, but decides against it. 
“Hey,” he reaches for your hand instead, interlaces your fingers. “My mom will love you.” In fact, she probably already does. “It will be just fine.”
Jake supposes that divulging just one of her many messages from this week couldn’t hurt. Besides, he’s half afraid you’ll actually run back down the street the two of you just drove up if he doesn’t give you some sort of confidence boost. “She’s really excited to meet you. That cheat sheet of yours actually came in handy, because she asked me what your favorite kind of cookie is. She’s sending us back with a box of homemade snickerdoodles tonight.” What Jake doesn’t mention is the fact that he’s never been big on cinnamon. 
“Really?”
“Mhm. So there’s no need to wor–”
“What about your dad?”
“My dad is…” Jake trails off, searching for the right words. “He’s a businessman. In a lot of ways, he’s difficult. And very set in his ways, which makes him particular. But on the outside, he’s easy to get along with. He wants to make a good impression on people. And even if he didn’t, you really don’t have anything to worry about there either. His biggest concern is always how things will reflect on the company, and you’re pretty much as perfect as it gets in that regard.” Pausing for a moment, he adds, “And we both know my brother’s kind of obsessed with you.”
And he really did set himself up for it, he realizes, the second you turn to him with a wink and say, “Must run in the family.” Jake won’t even argue with you on that one for now. His mission was to get you out of your head and back to your usual self. The version of you that he knows and occasionally tolerates. The version of you that could probably win an Oscar for playing the role of is fake girlfriend, if you really put your mind to it. 
So before you can start to linger on your worries again, Jake steps out of the car. Makes quick work of walking around the front to open the passenger side door for you. 
When he offers you, and outstretched hand, you take it. This time, it’s you that initiates the interlacing of your fingers. Glancing at the expanse of the home in front of you – although mansion may be a better word for it – you take a deep breath. 
“Ready?” Jake echoes your words from your family’s fundraiser just a week ago. 
You’re a little less confident this go around. “As I’ll ever be.”
Jake, too caught up in his attempts to soothe your frayed nerves, forgets to warn you that Layla can be a bit of a jumper, especially with new people. Sure enough, the first person to greet the two of you as spoon as he turns the doorknob is his favorite family pet. Honestly, Jake is a little more concerned about the bottle of wine in your hands than anything. 
Especially when, just as he remembered a little too late, Layla makes quick work of giving you an overexcited greeting. 
When he does finally manage to get her mostly off of you, he’s relieved to note that the alcohol is unharmed. With a bit more trepidation, he lets his eyes wander up to your face. It’s a safe bet, he thinks, that someone with five favorite necklines isn’t a fan of obnoxious furry greetings.
To his surprise, however, the only expression he reads is pleasant surprise. 
“This is Layla?” You ask. Jake nods, still a bit strained from the way he’s preventing Layla from trying to lick at your face and leave paw prints on your jeans. 
But that’s not what you’re thinking about. No, you’ve suddenly been transported to an unfortunate forty-five minutes wasted in a restaurant all on your own. The catalyst of all of this. 
Because Layla is the same dog you saw while doom scrolling James’ social media profile. You thought she was cute, back then, sandwiched between gym selfies and other photos more telling of James’ awful personality. 
But now, looking at the way she almost seems to smile while Jake scratches her behind the ears, wraps her up in a big, warm hug, you think you just might like her even more. 
You’ve never seen your fake boyfriend look at anything with so much… fondness. It’s palpable, all of his pent up love, as he lets some of it loose to shower Layla with it. Everything about him is a little easier, a little more relaxed. You can see it in the set of his shoulders, the absence of tension in his jaw. 
Most of all, you see it in his smile. Bright, warm, genuine. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him wear that expression before. It suits him, you think, as you reach down to give her a greeting of your own. 
“Hi, Layla,” you smile, reaching down to pat her on the head. 
And if that makes Jake turn to look at you with a little too much fondness, you’ll assume it’s just lingering remnants of his reunion with his favorite girl. Layla, that is. 
You’re pretty sure the two of them could spend hours just catching up, especially when Layla turns onto her back in a silent demand for tummy rubs, but a voice from a nearby room cuts it short. 
“Jake?” A distinctly feminine voice calls. “Is that you?”
“Well,” Jake gives Layla one final pat for good measure, turns his eyes to you as he stands. “Shall we?”
You don’t mean to be, but you’re nervous again. This is his family, his space, his mother. Not only are you a stranger here, but one that’s been invited under false pretenses. There are too many things to fuck up, too many ways you could send this evening spinning sideways by accident. 
Here in the entryway, with just you, Jake, and Layla, things feel peaceful, simple. You know that just a few steps in the direction of his mother’s voice will turn that calm in your chest upside the head. You’re not ready for it. You’re not. 
You don’t respond to Jake’s invitation, but he reads your hesitation all the same. 
“Hey,” he whispers, all the hard edges gone from his voice as he steps a little closer. “She’s gonna love you.” Again, his hand finds yours, slides his fingers through your own and finds little resistance on your end. 
She. You don’t know how he knows, when you haven’t told him, but it’s true. You don’t care all that much about pleasing his father and even less so about making a good impression on his brother, but his mom… 
You care. You don’t know why, but you care. 
And you don’t know how, but Jake knows. 
You hope his words aren’t empty reassurances as you let him tug at your hand, pull you a little further into his home, wrap you a little more inextricably into the threads of his life. 
His mother waits for you in the living room. A head or two shorter than her youngest son, she has nothing but a smile for him as she pulls him into a hug, reaching up to wrap her hand around the back of his shoulders. 
Your hand is still linked with his. The angle makes it somewhat awkward, but neither of you is quite ready to let go. 
Looking over his shoulder, her eyes settle on you. Breath suddenly stuttering in your chest, your knees feel a little wobbly underneath you. 
Jake won’t let you fall. As soon as his mother releases her embrace, he’s tugging you closer. He undoes the bind of your hands only to wrap his arm around your shoulder, pulling you into his side. 
“Mom,” he introduces, smiling. “This is ___,” eyes locking with yours, he adds , “my girlfriend.” If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was proud of the fact.
And then his mother is looking at you. Really looking at you. It’s hard not to wither under her stare, hard not to brace for the results of her inevitable appraisal. But where you expect to see scrutiny, judgment, disdain, you only see a smile. A warm one. A real one. 
“It’s lovely to meet you,” she says, and you almost have the feeling that she means it. 
Remembering yourself, your role for the evening, you give her a smile of your own. “It’s lovely to meet you too.” You hope your voice is more steady than it feels. “You have a beautiful home. Thank you for inviting me to it.” Remembering the bottle of wine still encased in your hold, you hold it out towards her. “And this is for you.”
“Oh,” she beams, accepting the gift. Reading the label, she admonishes lightly, “You shouldn’t have. How did you know this is my absolute favorite?”
Glancing at her son, you admit, “I may have had some help.”
“Well at least one of us got some guidance.” She leans towards you, pulling your arm into her own and leaving Jake behind the two of you. “Tell me, what do you prefer? White or red?”
“Usually white.” 
Jake rolls his eyes at your answer, or rather, the brevity of it. According to the stack of papers you made him memorize, your real answer is…
Chardonnay with poultry, sauvignon blanc with seafood, pinot grigio with dessert, pinot noir with red meat (unless it’s ribeye, then cabernet sauvignon)...
But it does make him smile, the way you fall into step at his mother’s side so naturally. The way she makes you flush when she gives you yet another compliment on your hair or your outfit or your beauty. 
Even the protest dies on his lips when he hears her whisper a little too loudly, “And how do you put up with him when he’s in one of his moods? You know, the one where he gets all cranky and can’t be reasoned with at all.”
At her side, you just giggle. Jake would be lying if he said he didn’t think it was kind of adorable. 
He likes it, watching you and his mom together. Watching her light up at the chance to finally have a pretty girl to fawn over. His mother loves her sons – Jake has never doubted this for a moment – but there’s a certain kind of connection that only comes with a daughter. 
It’s a shame, he thinks, that your own mother is in the habit of squandering it with criticism and shame and admonishment. 
Watching the two of you now, Jake isn’t sure if he’s ever seen his mom enjoy herself more. When the three of you reach the dining room, she insists that you take the seat directly across from her. Even in her excitement, she won’t let anyone fill the seat next to you except for your boyfriend. 
It’s sweet, the way she dotes on you. And Jake is content to just watch, for the time being, hoping you and her both enjoy it as long as you can. 
Until New Year’s, that voice in his head reminds him. And suddenly, even with the back half of a semester in front of him, the holidays don’t seem so far away. 
The conversation only dies down slightly when his father and brother enter the room. Even in the comfort of his own home, his father strikes an imposing presence. He’s not cold when he introduces himself to you, reaching out an arm for a firm handshake, but there is no extra warmth embedded in the action either. After sending his youngest son a nod, he takes his seat at the head of the table. 
James doesn’t bother with formalities. Sliding down next to his mother, he’s already a little smug when he says, “Hi Jake.” Pausing, he glances towards you. “___.”
“James,” you return, smile significantly faker than it was moments ago. 
Jake is debating how worth it it would be if he kicked his older brother under the table when the first course is brought out, interrupting that train of thought. 
After passing the first set of dishes around and filling your plates, his mother is the first to pose a question. To test your thorough preparation for the evening. 
“So,” she asks, taking a sip of wine. “How did you two meet?”
And it’s such an obvious question. Such a painfully straightforward inquiry and yet somehow, too wrapped up in getting a contract signed and memorizing each other’s fun facts, it’s something the two of you completely neglected to cover.  
You both freeze, absence of a mutually agreed-upon backstory making you look like twin deer in headlights where you sit next to each other. 
A beat passes. Two. 
You say, “a mutual friend” at the same exact moment he says, “a class.”
Passing each other panicked looks, you smooth things over with a shaky, “A mutual friend in our class.” After a steadying breath, you add, “We have a mutual friend in our class, and he introduced us.”
“Oh, how nice.” Jake’s mom smiles. Turning to her youngest son, she asks, “Which friend was it? Someone I know?”
“Heeseung,” Jake nods, just as you say, “Sunghoon.”
This time, Jake is the one to cover your tracks. 
“My friend Heeseung and her friend Sunghoon know each other,” he explains. “I guess it’s technically two mutual friends, since we met through them.”
“And all four of you are in the same class together,” Jake’s mom is still beaming. “That’s awfully lucky. What a coincidence.” 
“You could say that again,” James mumbles under his breath across the table, decidedly less enchanted by the false tale of your first meeting. And considerably more suspicious. His eyebrow is arched when he asks, “What class did you say it was, again?”
Your brain scrambles only for a second. “Econ,” you answer quickly. Jake’s struggles aside, you figure that it's your best bet, considering that at least two of the four people you’ve listed are actually in that class. 
The glare that strikes the side of your face from Jake’s seat is frigid enough to kill a houseplant. 
“Econ,” James echoes flatly. And then something a little sinister enters his eyes. His spine straightens, poised for offense, when he directs to you, “I hope Dr. Kang isn’t as much of a hardass as he was when I was in school.”
You open your mouth to reply, probably to bite back with something along the lines of the class actually being rather easy, or you having a stellar rapport with Dr. Kang.
But Jake spots the trap before you can fall into it and cuts you off just as quickly. “It’s Dr. Jeong, actually.” He’s not glaring at his brother, but there’s no extra kindness in his stare. “I’m sure you remember, since you always say that he was your favorite professor.”
“Oh.” James’ eyes slide to his little brother. “That’s right. My mistake.” But his words make you think the switch in names was intentional bait, not a lapse in memory. Bait you almost fell for. 
Before you can let the implications of that sink in, Jake’s father directs his attention towards you, speaking for the first time. “You’re a business major, too, then.” It’s not exactly a question, even though he doesn’t know for certain. Even though he’s wrong. But men like Jake’s father don’t get to where they are by asking questions. They get there by making assumptions and talking over everyone else in the room until wills bend to their whim and reality is what they’ve made it. 
Still, Jake’s voice is steady when he corrects, “No she’s a pre-law major.”
Something flashes in his father’s eyes, but he says nothing. 
His mother, on the other hand, passes her youngest son a look. “I think ___ can speak for herself.”
It’s under his breath, but just a little too audible for comfort when Jake argues, “Not after I just had to memorize–”
“The entire case with me!” The sudden volume of your outburst rings awkwardly in the air. Adjusting your voice, you add to your explanation, “We got a crazy complicated case assigned in criminal law a couple weeks ago.” If the elbow nudge you give Jake is a little too hard, no one bats an eye at the way he winces slightly. “I’ve been talking about it so much I’m sure Jake has practically memorized it.”
Jake’s father hears what he wants to. Picks through the pieces of what you say and paints his own picture. “It’s nice to see a young person so dedicated to their studies.” No one at the table misses the way his eyes slide over to his second son. “And the family business by extension. I’ve always liked your parents,” he nods to you. “And they’ve been excellent partners. You’re going to law school, then, I assume? After you graduate.”
Jake can practically see the answer you typed out for him, words stamped in his brain from the amount of times he forced himself to look over them. My major is pre-law, you’d written in a font that’s almost as high maintenance as you. I’m considering attending law school after finishing undergrad, but I’m still undecided. 
But then he hears you say, “That’s the plan.” 
Jake can’t quite help the way he glances over at you, a question on his face, written all over his features. The two responses can’t hold true at the same time. 
One of your answers, either the one you typed for him or the one you’ve just given his father, is a lie. If the way your shoulders round slightly is any indication, he thinks the packet you gave him must be the real one. 
But as his father nods at you approvingly across the table, you just smile at Jake. Then you shake your head slightly, almost imperceptibly. He reads it as you intend it – a silent signal to move on and act as if nothing’s amiss. A nonverbal request to just let it go. 
Across the table from the two of you, his mother is the one to speak next, to divert the conversation from one area of dangerous territory to another. “James tells me that you two were together at your family’s fundraiser event.” Like Jake considered earlier, it’s all you can do not to kick him under the table at the reminder. That gossipping little shit. “You’ll have to pass on my apology to your mother that we couldn’t make it. But I have to say, I’m surprised the two of you decided to announce your relationship by attending together.” She frowns, but there’s a lightness in her tone that tells you she’s not mad, not really. “And I still can’t believe you made me hear it from your brother!”
Jake, thankfully, handles that one with ease. “We’ve been keeping things pretty close to the chest these last few weeks.” He glances at you fondly, and you have to applaud him. From the outside, you think it must look quite genuine. “We just liked each other.” Under the table, he takes your hand back in his. You assume that he’s just caught in the moment, forgets the fact that there’s no way for his family to see the display of affection. “We wanted to see where things would go.” Turning back to his mother, he adds, somewhat apologetically, “It was never meant to be some big announcement. Of course, I would have told you, Mom, when we did actually announce our relationship.” Jake lets his eyes fall on his older brother. “If someone hadn’t beat me to it.”
You can see the way James’ hackles rise, and so can she. 
Sensing the potential for another argument to brew, his mother cuts in again, smoothing over the tension. “Well, what’s done is done.” Turning to you, she smiles. “And we’re very happy to have you here, ___. I hope my son is treating you well.”
Jake isn’t sure how you manage to do it without grimacing, without turning up your nose at the lie, but you assure his mother, “He is.” And your smile looks almost genuine. “The very best,” 
Jake isn’t the only one that seems to think that you mean it. Across the table, his mother swoons while James crumples a little. His father just looks mildly disinterested, if anything. 
And those expressions remain steady for the rest of the evening, more or less, as you and Jake take turns spinning tales of the early days of your romance. He divulges the details of the outfit you were wearing on your so-called first date (a top with a sweetheart neckline, not off-the-shoulder), and you supplement with a tall tale of the time Jake saved you from getting soaked to the bone when he showed up outside of your lecture hall with an umbrella after a torrential downpour began out of nowhere. 
After a while, even his beaming mother can only handle so much sappiness, and she begins the end of the evening by excusing herself, referencing an early morning tomorrow as her reason for leaving. After giving you both one final hug, she bids you both goodnight. His father follows soon after, sans hug, leaving the table to take an urgent business call. 
In an effort to escape James and his wandering eye, Jake is quick to excuse the two of you moments later, whispering some half hearted excuse about giving you a tour of the house. To his credit, he does actually lead you around a handful of rooms on the first floor, but the tour is cut short by the time the two of you go up the stairs and step out onto the outdoor balcony on the second floor. 
The cool autumn air is refreshing, washes away lingering anxieties from a few close calls, a handful of narrow escapes from certain fiascos. From keeping up your hastily constructed lies for an entire evening.
For long minutes, the two of you are content to say nothing at all. And Jake isn’t uncomfortable in the silence, but after a while, he still searches for something to fill it. Something to get a conversation going. Something to see where your head's at. He finally settles on, “I can’t believe we forgot to come up with a story of how we met.”
He half expects you to say something scathing. To use your wit to insult or blame him for the lack of foresight, but you don’t. Instead, you exhale. And then you agree, somewhat amused, “Me neither.”
“I think we did alright, though,” Jake reasons. He hates to admit it, but, “That cheat sheet idea of yours came in handy, after all.”
Again, he doesn’t get the sarcasm he expects. “No kidding.” And then you’re the one looking for ways to keep the interaction flowing. Something to fill the silence. “Your mom seems nice.”
“She is,” Jake nods. And he knew she would like you just as much. “She’s the person I’m closest to in my family.”
“Mm,” you hum. You can see why. She’s warm in a way that your own has never been. But it’s not like Jake exactly got dealt an easy hand when it comes to family members. You mean it when you tell him, “Your brother still sucks.”
Jake just laughs. “And I wouldn’t hold my breath for that to change anytime soon.”
A half smile pulls at your lips. It’s replaced by a small frown when you suppose it’s time to comment on the last guest of the evening. “You were right, in the car. Your dad is… intense.” It’s not like you exactly hit the jackpot of parental relationships, but you can’t imagine it’s easy for Jake to have a father like that, to have grown up with those expectations, those scrutinizing eyes, weighing on his shoulders. 
Instead of responding, Jake just looks at you for a moment. His eyes trace your profile, committing details to memory, as you look out at the night in front of you. And then he says, “Can I ask you something?”
You sigh. You’re still not looking at him, but you can sense the sudden sincerity in his voice. “Aren’t you going to anyway?”
Jake shakes his head even though you can’t see it. “I wouldn’t have asked for permission if I was going to anyway.”
A moment of silence rings in the air. And then, “Okay.”
Jake isn’t sure what you’re referring to. “Okay, you agree or okay, I can ask?”
At that, you turn to look at him. “Both, I guess.”
Jake meets your eye, considers the best way to ask what’s been weighing on his mind for the better part of the evening. “When my dad asked you about law school,” he starts, “why did you tell him that you’re planning to go? You wrote that you still aren’t sure on the paper you gave me.”
You only pause for a moment. “It’s what he wanted to hear.”
“What?” There’s no evasiveness in your words, but Jake is still looking for clarity.
Sighing, you elaborate, “Your dad didn’t want to hear about my indecisiveness when it comes to the future. He wanted to hear about the plan I have. One that would make sense to him. So I told him what he wanted to hear.” Breaking eye contact, you look back out at the stars. “Sometimes, it’s just easier that way.”
But Jake still has one other question. He might be pressing his luck, but he asks anyway, “Why haven’t you decided? About law school, I mean?”
Your gaze lands somewhere in the distance, somewhere it might take light years to reach. “What do you want to hear?”
For the second time, Jake asks,“What?”
It’s ironic, almost, how easily you’re able to rifle through his insecurities, his inner thoughts. “What do you want to hear? Something that will make you feel better about having questions about your future? Something that will make you believe you’ll have everything figured out soon?” The stars blink above you, and you ask him again, “What answer do you want to hear from me?”
Jake realizes it then, under the glow of fading moonlight, why you’ve always been an image of perfection to him. It’s not accidental, but it’s also not entirely honest. Perfection, he realizes, is your identity of choice – it’s what you think other people want from you. So you construct it, you practice it, you create it. And then you give it. You let people do what they want with it. 
But Jake isn’t asking about your future career plans because he’s trying to feel better about himself. He’s not trying to stack up your lives next to each other and see how his compares. He’s not trying to put cracks in the exterior you’ve worked so hard to maintain.
But he does want a glimpse of what’s underneath.  
So when he answers, he opts for a third option. “The truth.” Above you, the moon glows. “I want to hear the truth.”
If it catches you off guard, you recover quickly. You’re not sure what it is about this moment that has you wanting to spill your guts, but you can’t remember the last time someone asked. The last time someone cared.
So you tell him, with all your honesty, “I don’t want to go to law school. I never have. My mother has made it clear that that’s the expectation, though. So I can’t decide how willing I am to estrange myself completely. To potentially lose what’s left of our relationship.”
Jake listens. He hears you. He gets it. “What would you do?”
It’s another answer that comes easy, even though the question hasn’t been asked by anyone in a long, long time. “Architecture.” Your smile is small, but it’s real. “I had a great aunt who was an architect. And she always used to tell me, when I was kid, that the secret is to put a little love into everything you build. It doesn’t have to be actual buildings, of course. That was just her thing, y’know? The thing she could always put a little love into, even on the hard days.” You sigh. “Truth be told, I don’t hate law. It’s interesting, and I’m good at it. But it’s not something I’ve ever been able to put a little love into.”
You turn to him, words still ringing in the air. You ask, “What about you? Was business always your calling?”
If you can give him the truth, Jake supposes he ought to return the favor. “To be honest, I have no idea. It was never a question. It was always a given that I would study business and take on some kind of role in the company.” He turns over your great aunt’s words in his mind. “But I don’t think it’s something I have any love for. Not even a little.”
“So what would you do?” You echo his question back to him. “If you could do anything?”
Jake’s answer comes less easily. “I don’t know.” You raise an eyebrow. “I really don’t. To be honest, I don’t even think I could tell you most of the other majors that are offered at our university. It’s always been business. It’s what my whole family does. Even Jay, my closest friend, is a business major too.” Jake realizes how odd that must sound, but it’s true. “It’s all I really know.”
“Hm,” you muse. He can see the wheels spinning in your brain, the beginning of an idea. “Maybe it’s time for you to find your thing, then. Somewhere to put your love.”
“Yeah, right,” Jake scoffs. He doesn’t think that’s possible, and especially not at this point. “I may not ever be the CEO, but I still don’t want my dad to disown me. And besides, we’re in our third year. Not exactly the best time to change my major.”
“Yeah,” you agree, but Jake can tell you still haven’t quite let it go. “I suppose you’re right.”
This time, when the silence between you returns, you let it linger. With nothing but the pale glow of the night sky and quiet whispers of the wind, long moments bleed into each other. You take it all in, let it all wash over you – the stillness, the chill of an autumn breeze, the presence of the boy at your side.  
And it’s a long time before either of you moves again. 
At this point, Jake really should be used to ominous, slightly threatening messages from you. Still, he can’t help but stutter a bit when he checks his phone after another tutoring session with Jungwon the following week. 
Without any family events looming on the horizon, you and Jake have had a few days to yourselves without any fake dating facade to follow. Aside from the white lies Jake slips Jungwon every now and then, he hasn’t seen or mentioned you since e dropped you back off at your apartment after dinner at his parents’ house last weekend. 
His thoughts, however, are an entirely different matter. No matter where he is, what he’s doing, they have the very annoying habit of always straying back to the same scene. A moonlit balcony. A cool autumn breeze. The most scraps of truth he’s ever been given from you at once. A thousand misconceptions shattered and reconstructed all in a single moment. 
Still, Jake’ not quite sure how to interpret the message that greets him, other than as a very direct threat. 
You [7:48 pm]: Meet me at the far end of the quad next to the library tomorrow at 2:45 or I’m telling your brother we broke up and I have uncontrollable romantic feelings for him
Jake [8:02 pm]: Should I be scared?
He’s not reassured by your reply.
You [8:04 pm]: :)
So Jake is standing on the far end of the quad, beside the library, the next afternoon at 2:42 when he sees you approaching. 
The first thing you do when you finally reach him is swat at the baseball cap he’s wearing, knocking it askew. “What are you, a frat boy?”
“It’s sunny,” Jake defends, fixing his hat. Something you’re well aware of, if the obnoxiously large sunglasses balanced on the bridge of your nose are anything to go by.
“You know,” you tilt your head, giving it a second thought. “The hat might be kind of perfect, actually.” Deciding to divulge the reason for your message, you tell him, “I need you to come somewhere with me.”
“What?” Jake balks, suddenly thrown by the lack of details. He needs a little more warning than this, if he’s expected to play the role of your boyfriend convincingly. “Is this,” he leans in close, waits for a group of students to pass by before he whispers apprehensively, “a contract thing?”
“No,” you shake your head. “I mean, don’t like, start hitting on other girls in front of witnesses or anything, but we don’t have to act like a couple.”
Now, Jake is even more confused. “Then where are we going?”
Never one to give in easily, all you say is, “You’ll see.”
Jake crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m not going anywhere with you until you give me more information.”
“I literally have James’ phone number in my favorites.”
He holds his ground. “And I have the right to know where you’re taking me!”
“Ugh,” you roll your eyes. “Fine. We’re going to the Student Union Building.” A multipurpose building in the center of campus, it’s a typical place for events that are too large to be hosted anywhere else. Which really doesn’t give Jake much to work with.
“Why?” His question is slow, suspicious. 
“My god.” You throw your hands in annoyance. “I’m going to have to start paying Jungwon double if this is how annoying you are when you have a question about something. Just come with me,” you reiterate. “You’ll see what we’re doing soon enough.”
“But–”
It doesn’t matter, you’re already grabbing his hand in yours, more or less dragging him through the quad towards the Student Union Building before he can get his protest out. Jake’s eyebrows are still creased in confusion when you pull him through the front doors and he sees the unusually large crowd of people inside. 
Then, he sees the banner hanging from the ceiling. His lips flatten into a thin line. 
“Absolutely not.” But you’re already behind him, blocking his exit and pushing him towards the makeshift check-in counter. 
“Hi!” The student employee greets, far too cheerfully in Jake’s opinion. If she notices the way your knuckles are white around his arm, holding him in place, she doesn’t comment on it. Jake pulls his hat down further over his eyes. “Are you two here for the Explore Our Majors event?”
“Yep,” you beam. And Jake is actually going to kill you. “I’m in my third year here, but my friend Ja–”
“Jacob,” Jake intercedes. 
“Right.” You spare a glance at him. “My friend Jacob.” You’re still way too excited when you lie, “He’ll be a freshman soon, and he’s hoping to look around and see all the different programs that are offered here. Do we need to go in a certain order or anything? Or is there somewhere we need to sign in?” 
There better not be. Like hell is he putting the name Jake Sim on a sign-in sheet for a major exploration event for freshmen. It’s not like his father has time to poke around at things like this, but his claws and connections run deep where this school is concerned. And Jake imagines he would be less than pleased to find out his son is wasting his time doing something so frivolous. Or something that could signal any kind of disinterest in the future that’s been laid out for him, his eventual place at his father’s company.
“Nope,” she smiles. “Each major has its own table, and majors are grouped by college. So all the STEM tables are over there, for example,” she points over to where a group of high school seniors are flipping through pamphlets. “You can just wander around as you like and chat with the people at the tables. There’s a mix of students and faculty. Oh, and each major should have a pamphlet you can pick up too, if you’d like.”
“Great,” you grin back. “Thank you.”
Again, if she sees the way you practically have to yank Jake by the arm to get him to move, she doesn’t comment on it. But once you’re out of earshot, he does lean down to hiss in your ear, “Why the fuck are we at the Explore Our Majors event for incoming freshmen?”
“Why do you think?” Your voice is entirely too loud. He has half a mind to slap his palm over your mouth to prevent you from spilling his secrets here in the middle of the Student Union Building’s largest event hall. “We’re finding you somewhere to put your love.” The large group of girls that walks by do a double take and then proceed to take turns shooting him death glares. 
Jake panics. “Would you stop saying it like that?”
You roll your eyes, paying the group of girls and his worries no mind. “Don’t knock my great aunt. Anyway, where do you want to start? Should we go over to the STEM tables?” Pausing to consider, you ask, “Or is your performance in econ more indicative of your math and science skills in general? We could look for liberal ar–”
“I just told you this weekend that I was good at physics.” It may have been a white lie, but who’s keeping track? 
“Oh, right.” You nod, eyes already searching for the table in question. “Should we go there, then?”
“No,” Jake shakes his head immediately. “I was good at it.” Questionable. “But I didn’t really like it.” A lot more true. 
“Alright,” you agree. Spinning to look in the other direction, you take him with you “Humanities it is. Or we could always go the fine arts route.” You turn to look at him for a moment, assessing. “You know, I feel like you would actually be a great dancer. You have the face for it.”
“Has that ever made sense to anyone you’ve said it to?”
“Wouldn’t know.” You shrug. “You’re the first.” Trying not to read too much into that, Jake lets you pull him along until you’re standing in front of a table with a rather gaudy ‘Journalism’ banner hanging on the front. 
“Hi,” you smile at the students standing behind it. Jake pulls his hat down a little further. You don’t know a whole lot about journalism other than the basics, but you’re pretty sure they’re also in charge of student media on campus. “You guys run the student newspaper, right?” 
Picking up a pamphlet, you nod as the boy behind the table answers brightly, “Yeah, we do.” He’s proud when he adds, “Our last issue was one of our most read yet. We ran a really great article on the front page about the importance of understanding how economic trends affect our daily lives–”
Delicately setting the pamphlet back down on the table, you glance at Jake before apologizing to the overeager boy, “I’m sorry, but I think Jacob and I are gonna head to the next table.” 
ANd then you’re dragging him along again.
“Okay,” you turn to Jake once you’re out of earshot, “So that’s a veto for journalism. What about other kinds of writing? You point to a table a few rows away. There’s the creative writing table.”
Jake shakes his head. “Even discussion board posts are like pulling teeth.”
“Noted.” Your jaw sets with a little too much determination for his liking. “Minimal writing it is, then.” 
The two of you pass several more tables in the same fashion, Jake shutting each one down before you have a chance to so much as grab a pamphlet. 
There’s history, but who cares about dead people? English, but he’s seen the career outlook and he’d rather not study unemployment, thank you very much. Sociology, but he already lives in society. Why would he waste his time studying it?
Finally, you point out a major that he doesn't have anything scathing to say about within the first five seconds. “Graphic design,” you nod towards the table a few spots away. “That could be interesting.”
Jake hates to admit it, but he kind of thinks so too. He does think visual design is pretty interesting, and marketing and advertising have always been some of his favorite aspects of business. He’s about to say fuck it and fully embrace Jacob the incoming freshman when he notices one glaring problem. The graphic design table is set up right next to the business table. 
A nonissue, really, except for the fact that students are helping to run this event. And as you drag him closer, Jake realizes with mounting dread that he recognizes one of the faces spending an afternoon trying to convince high schoolers that choosing a business major will change their lives for the better. 
He turns to make a break for it before you can reinforce your grip on his arm and physically drag him with you, but it’s too late. 
“Jake?” he hears a horribly familiar voice call. “Is that you?” Turning around slowly, he knows he’ been caught. Jake kind of wishes the ground would open up and swallow him. The only thing he wants to do is melt into the floor. 
“It is you,” Jay says upon closer inspection. And because you seem so hellbent on making his life even more painful, you pull him with you until the two of you are right in front of his best friend. “What the hell are you doing here?” Jay asks him. “You said you had a date.”
Butting in on the conversation, your smile is entirely too smug when you turn to Jake. “You said what now?”
Glancing at you, Jay’s eyebrows furrow as he tries to connect the dots. “You were telling the truth? Dude, that’s even worse.” Jay looks at you almost like he’s trying to apologize on behalf of his friend. “You’re not exactly wine-ing and dining her, here.”
“Hi,” you introduce, extending a hand. Jay shakes it warily. “I’m ___. Jake’s…” you search for a good term to use, and finally, with a private smile, settle on, “plus-one.”
“To an Explore Our Majors event?” That clears up none of Jay’s confusion. He turns back to Jake. “What the hell? Are you going on dates with incoming freshmen–”
“This is my third year,” you interrupt again. “We’re just looking around.”
“Hold on,” Jay pauses, a flash of recognition crossing his features as he studies you for a moment. “You’re the ___ that Jake was trying to get a phone number from for his brother, right? Is that what’s going on? Are you making him do a bunch of stupid shit like this to get it?”
You shrug, glancing at Jake. “You could say that.”
Jake has to give it to you. You’re a lot better at beating around the bush, at avoiding giving straight answers about the nature of your relationship, than he is. Jay looks more confused than anything at your evasiveness. If James were to somehow hunt him down and inquire about the validity of your relationship, Jake is positive that his friend would have absolutely no idea how to answer. 
A reassuring idea, other than the fact that Jake is also sure Jay will be hunting him down after this to get the real story, since he couldn’t get it from you. Targeting the weaker prey, a classic strategy. 
“Anyway,” you build yourself an out. “We’re gonna go check out the graphic design table.”
You tug at Jake’s wrist, but he stands his ground this time. Thoroughly embarrassed and done letting you pull him around, he tries to back you into a corner with one of your tricks from the fundraiser. “We should get going, actually,” he argues pointedly. “Look at the time. We don’t want to be late for…” Unfortunately, he’s still no better at coming up with excuses, “that thing.”
You roll your eyes at the obvious trick. “Don’t worry.” Your smile is sugary, but your eyes flash with warning. “I canceled it. Let’s go.”
This time when you redouble your efforts to drag him to the graphic design table, he has no choice but to follow, a little miserably. Behind the business table, Jay has zero idea what to make of what he just witnessed.
As the students at the graphic design table start their spiel, Jake is glad at least one of you is paying attention. You nod along enthusiastically while the student representative talks your ear off about the pros and cons of various online photo editing programs, asking well-timed follow-up questions as you expertly skim the pamphlet you’re handed simultaneously. 
Jake, on the other hand, still coming down from the mortification of being caught, is suddenly a little caught up in the way your hand is still wrapped around his wrist. A light pressure he could easily work his way out of. But despite himself, he’s having a hard time coming up with any motivation to do so. 
Distantly, he concentrates on the sensation. Your skin is soft, warm. The gentle pressure of your fingers is a tether to you. And in this moment, it’s a reminder that out of everyone in his life, you’re the first to be so obnoxiously concerned with what his interests are, where his passions lie. 
Despite his rightful protests against attending this event, he can read your intentions behind bringing him here. And it would be a lie if he said he didn’t appreciate them, just a little. 
At this point in his life and academic career, he feels a little bit like a toddler you’ve thrown in a pool to try and teach to swim. It’s hard for him to tread water, to keep his head above the waves, when the solid ground he’s used to is suddenly replaced by new matter entirely. 
But if Jake is sure of one thing, it’s that he won’t drown. How could he, with the lifeline of your arm still reaching out towards him? With the steadiness of your fingers still wrapped around him? He thinks you just might save him too, if you saw him drowning. Would pull him in and teach him to float on his back. To work with the water instead of against it. 
To swim, even when the water gets rough. 
At your side, terms like visual communications and web design and typography all blur together. And Jake’s focus is still narrowed in on the pulse point on his wrist, the way his heartbeat is entrusted in your unwavering grip.
Jake has a well-practiced routine for checking his econ grade whenever results of a new assignment or exam are posted. 
First, he makes sure that anything fragile or breakable is out of his reach. Then, he lights a scented candle. Setting the new one he just bought a few days ago on his desk, he checks the label again. Lavender Dreams. It’s all he can do not to laugh, a little miserably. Well, he supposes, thinking back to your words a couple of weeks ago, time to find out if lavender is actually calming. 
Third, he makes sure he has no other important plans for the day. Nowhere else to be, nothing to do that he can’t show up for in a ruined mood. Because that is usually what happens during this little ritual of his.
Finally, his last step is to look up at the ceiling of his bedroom, imagine the sky above it, and whisper one, desperate, “Please.”
Then he sits at his desk and opens his laptop to greet his fate with a grimace and a racing heart. Today, Jake follows all the same steps until he’s navigating to his university’s learning management platform. He clicks on the Econ tab, slowly releases a breath he wasn’t meaning to hold. 
His shoulders tense at the notification of a newly inputted grade that pops up, the icon begging for his attention. He inhales deeply, letting the smell of lavender enter his nose and hopefully work some magic in his nervous system. 
Maybe he should adjust his ritual, he thinks, mouse hovering over the new grade notification. Maybe he should start burning incense or something, cleansing the air of any bad energy before he looks. In his indecision, his finger slips, presses, clicks. 
And Jake doesn’t quite have time to screw his eyes shut before the number flashes on his screen. 
Oh, he is so fucked.
So, so, so, terribly, absolutely, completely fucked. 
It shouldn’t be a surprise at this point, that the score of his latest homework problem set is a–
Wait. 
Jake opens his eyes, just barely, peeking at the screen again. 
82.
Jake pauses for a moment. His eyes open completely. His brow pulls down in confusion. 
82. He double checks to make sure he’s seeing the grade correctly, that the numbers haven’t somehow been reversed. 
They haven’t. 82. It’s his real, true, honest to god score. It’s a B. A low B, but that’s still the highest econ grade Jake has seen since his third round of the syllabus quiz.
Oh my god. Oh my god. 
Jake kind of doesn’t know what to do with his body, with all of the extra energy he suddenly has. In that moment, he thinks he could do anything. If Jungwon were here, Jake thinks he might actually kiss him on the mouth. 
82. It’s not enough to save his grade, not yet. But if it’s a trend that continues, Jake Sim just might finally pass econ. 
He goes to text his tutor the good news, to confirm their next session, but finds that Jungwon has beat him to it. Fingers still slightly shaky from the excess of nerves, he reads the new messages. 
Yang Jungwon (Econ Tutor) [7:03 pm]: Hey, I saw that the latest homework grades were released. Lmk how you did!
Yang Jungwon (Econ Tutor) [7:04 pm]: Also, sorry to do this kind of last minute, but I’m not gonna be able to meet you at our regular time tomorrow. We could reschedule if there’s another time that works for you? Or we could just wait and meet again next week. 
Frowning, Jake reads the message again. He’s still riding the high of a B- and is reluctant to do anything that might prevent it in the future, including missing a tutoring session. 
Jake [7:10 pm]: Is there any way we could still meet tomorrow? Maybe before our usual time. 
Jake [7:10 pm]: And I got an 82! You’re actually a lifesaver
Yang Jungwon (Econ Tutor) [7:12 pm]: That’s great! 
Yang Jungwon (Econ Tutor) [7:12 pm]: I’m sorry, but I don’t think tomorrow afternoon will work either. I’m going to the university skating competition to support a friend
Yang Jungwon (Econ Tutor) [7:12 pm]: You probably know him actually. Him and ___ are good friends too lol. It’s Park Sunghoon
Jake rereads the message, sighs. He supposes it makes sense. He can’t really fault his godsend of a tutor for wanting to support a long-time friend at one of the most important competitions of his season. Still, Jake’s a little slammed this week, and the thought of missing a tutoring session is enough to sober him from the thrill of his latest assignment grade. 
Park Sunghoon. Jake has only met him once – in search of you, or rather, your phone number – and he doubts Sunghoon remembers much of that interaction. Jake doesn’t really know anything about him, other than the fact that he’s rumored to be one of the best skaters to come through this school and that he’s apparently good friends with both you and Jungwon–
Wait. 
Oh no. Oh no. 
Jungwon can’t go to Sunghoon’s skating competition tomorrow. Because Jake is almost positive you’ll be there too, is pretty sure you and Jungwon are probably going together. If there’s a flare of jealousy in his gut, he’ll ignore it for now. He has bigger problems.
Namely, the fact that Jungwon is under the impression that you and Jake are dating. Officially dating, since he knows that Jake took you to meet his family this last weekend. Quite seriously dating, if the lovesick expression on Jake’s face every time he talks about you in front of Jungwon is anything to go by. 
And the sole reason Jungwon is under that impression is because Jake couldn’t keep his big mouth shut. Because he essentially told him, flat out, that the two of you are very much enjoying the honeymoon phase of your relationship. 
Still working in a cloud of panic, Jake leaves Jungwon on read for the time being and sends a message to you instead. 
Jake [7:17 pm]: What time is Sunghoon’s thing tomorrow? I’ll pick you up
You [7:18 pm]: ??? 
You [7:18 pm]: What the fuck?
Before he can think of a reply to type, Jake’s phone screen is overtaken by an incoming call notification. One that he knows better than to ignore, even as something in his shrivels a little. 
“Hello?” He answers, wheels in his brain spinning as he tries to come up with some sort of explanation on the spot. 
You don’t waste any time. “How do you even know about Sunghoon’s competition? And what do you mean you’ll pick me up?” On the bright side, you don’t sound angry, at least. Just very confused. 
“Jungwon mentioned it to me.” Jake decides he can at least be honest about that. “He had to cancel our tutoring session tomorrow.”
“So what?” Even through the phone, Jake can sense your exasperation. “You thought you could squeeze in some econ notes at the athletics center? My god, you are so persistent about the worst things. Leave poor Jungwon alone.”
Poor Jungwon. Poor Jungwon. 
Jake’s tone is a little less even when he clarifies, “No, it has nothing to do with econ. I just want to come with you. To, uh… to support Sunghoon.” It’s a weak explanation, even to his own ears. 
“You don’t know him.” Your voice is flat.
“We’ve talked,” Jake argues.
“You’ve had one conversation. He thought your name was Jacob.”
“Which turned out to be a very useful alias for me.” At the event for incoming freshmen you dragged him to unwillingly. “I owe him one.”
There’s an extended silence on your end. 
Jake begs a little more. “I let you drag me to that stupid event last week. You know, I had to run, actually, full on run, away from Jay the other day so he couldn’t ask me about it. Just let me come with you tomorrow.” 
You hesitate. “I might, if you tell me why you want to go so badl–”
“Fine,” Jake sighs. “You caught me. My secret passion in life is actually figure skating. I didn’t start training young enough, so now I have to live vicariously through–”
“You are so fucking annoying” But it works. “Fine.”
“Fine, as in, I can come?” Jake knows better than to sound too hopeful. 
You refuse to answer him directly. “Be at my apartment by four-thirty tomorrow. If you’re even a second late, I’m leaving without you.”
On the other line, Jake lets his fist fly into the air in silent celebration. Into the receiver of his phone, he says calmly, “Great. I’ll pick you up, then.”
You hang up without bothering to respond, and Jake returns Jungwon’s message. 
Jake [7:26 pm]: Let’s just plan to meet next week for tutoring. And thanks for the reminder. You kind of saved me again, actually. I’ll see you tomorrow at the competition
Sighing, Jake sets his phone down. 
For the moment, the crisis is averted, at least partially. But Jake knows he’ll have his real work cut out for him tomorrow. As he turns it around in his brain, the celebratory feeling in his chest slowly begins to morph into dread. 
How on earth is he going to sit through an entire evening with you and Jungwon without the illusion shattering one way or another? It feels like an impossible task. 
But then he takes a long inhale of lavender-scented air, looks back at the proud B- still displayed on his laptop screen. If he can pull that off, he thinks he just might be able to do anything. 
It’s a confidence that Jake is finding hard to rediscover the following afternoon. Just after three, every ounce of self-assuredness Jake has ever had is slowly draining from his body as the clock ticks closer and closer to four-thiry with every passing second. 
Standing in front of his mirror, Jake can’t decide how he feels about the black button-down he’s wearing. Is it too much? Not enough? 
He knows he’s probably overthinking it, but he��s about to spend an entire evening sitting with you and Jungwon, watching Sunghoon. If you don’t think he looks at least a little good in comparison, something in his pride is going to be very, very wounded. 
On the other side of his bedroom door, Jake can hear Jay poking around in his kitchen. After a few days of successfully dodging him, his best friend finally snuck his way into his apartment under the guise of delivering a package. Still a little terrified to face him and the questions he’ll inevitably ask, Jake has been hiding in his room since his arrival. 
He curses the situation now. If nothing else, Jay could at least provide a set of fashion-forward eyes to help him choose his outfit of the evening. But that would also involve explaining where he’s going, which would only send Jay’s suspicions about you and Jake skyrocketing. 
Unlike you, Jake is not particularly well-versed in avoiding leading questions. In fact, he regularly does the opposite, if his interactions with Jungwon are anything to go by. 
Somewhat regrettably, he decides he’ll have to use his own intuition for this one. 
That turns out to mean that Jake spends the next forty minutes trying on half of his closet, pulling out shirts that he hasn’t seen since middle school and watching the pile of rejected options pile up on his chair as uncertainties pile up in his gut. 
Finally, he lands on the black button-up he was wearing originally and decides to make the disaster of his room a problem for later. Glancing at the clock, he realizes with a bit of dread that he needs to head out soon if he doesn’t want to miss your threat of a deadline. But then his eyes land on the small handful of ornate bottles on top of his dresser, and he suddenly has a new problem. 
Running low on both steam and time, Jake decides that facing whatever Jay has in store for him is better than trying to make this last decision on his own. So he scans that array of bottles, picks his two favorite scents, and opens the door to his bedroom slowly, doing his best to delay the inevitable inquisition. 
Stepping out warily, he sees that Jay has moved from the kitchen to the living room and is currently snacking on a sandwich he made with whatever ingredients he found in Jake’s fridge as he watches something on the TV. 
“Hey, Jay?” Jake calls out, a little hesitantly. 
“What?” Jay doesn’t even turn to look at him. “Oh, you decided you’re talking to me again?”
“I’m sorry,” Jake searches for a feasible explanation for his avoidance. Finding nothing solid, he settles with the classically vague, “I’ve been busy.”
“Doing what? Training for a marathon? I can’t believe you actually ran from me–”
“I realized I forgot my computer at the library,” Jake lies. “I wanted to go back and grab it before it got stolen.”
“Whatever.” Jay doesn't buy it for a second. But he is eating Jake’s food, so he figures he owes him a little. “What do you want?” 
Jake moves to stand next to his couch, careful not to block Jay’s view of the TV and annoy him further. Tentatively, Jake holds out the two bottles of cologne. “Which one of these smells better?”
Jay sends Jake a look of disbelief, sets his sandwich down on the coffee table. “Do I look like a fucking Macy’s employee to you?”
“Just help me out,” Jake pleads. “Please,” he adds for good measure.
Jay stares at him blankly for a moment longer. “Well, it depends,” He finally concedes. “The Yves Saint Laurent has more of a causal vibe, and the Giorgio Armani feels like you’re trying a little harder, like you want to be impressive and you don’t care if people know that.” 
And then he takes a closer look at Jake. At the way his hair has been perfectly styled to look just the right amount of intentionally messy, at the outfit he’s wearing. 
“Hold on, what are you so worked up about?” Jay’s eyes narrow in on his shirt. “And is that Prada? It’s four in the afternoon on a Thursday. Where the hell are you going?”
“Nowhere,” Jake replies too quickly, already beginning to retreat to the safety of his bedroom before he can be questioned further. 
Jay turns in his seat, eyes following Jake accusingly the whole time. “You’re meeting ___, aren’t you? What’s going on between the two of you anyway? Why are you being so weird?”
Jake pretends not to hear his friend, closing the door behind him and he looks for his coat in the mess of his room. Finding it, he pulls his arms through the sleeves. Stopping at the mirror, he gives himself one final once-over before turning to leave again. Right before he does, he pauses, weighs his options as he weighs Jay’s advice. And then he reaches for the bottle of Giorgio Armani, sprays it twice for good measure. Before he can psych himself out again, he heads for the front door. 
He almost makes it, too, but before he can slip out, Jay asks him one last question. “Just answer this,” he bargains from his seat on the couch. “Are you meeting ___?”
“None of your business” is the only answer he gets as Jake leaves his apartment, quickly closing the door behind him to cut off any other opportunities for Jay to catch him in a white lie. 
And when Jake arrives at your apartment, he has seven minutes to spare. Sending you a message of his arrival, he makes his way to the lobby to greet you. 
“Mr. Sim,” your doorman nods coolly. 
“Elton,” Jake returns, equally as frigid as he reads the middle-aged man’s name tag. 
Thankfully, you don’t keep him waiting long. You make your way down to the lobby before Jake and your doorman have the chance to exchange a few more choice words.
Despite the initial turmoil and the current state of his bedroom, Jake is more than pleased with the clothing choices he landed on for the evening when he sees you. 
It would be hard to claim that the two of you are matching, exactly, considering how simple both of your outfits are. But as he watches you approach him in a black sweater and light jeans, Jake likes the way it almost looks as if the two of you did it by accident. Synced up so well that even your closets align without you meaning to. 
And he likes the way it looks like the two of you go together, two pieces of a matching set.
Giving your doorman one last parting wave, the walk to Jake’s car is short. He doesn’t offer to pull the car around this time, mostly because the white sneakers on your feet are a lot more conducive to walking that your heels for the fundraiser a couple of weeks ago.  
“I assume we’re heading to the Ice Sports Center,” Jake says, putting the car in reverse as he backs out of his parking spot. 
“Yeah,” you nod. Much to his relief, you’re not projecting any annoyance. At least not yet. “But we’re picking up Jungwon first.” 
“What?” Jake balks, suddenly reminded of the awful tightrope he’s about to be walking all evening. The way he’s somehow supposed to keep Jungwon thinking that the two of you are enamored with one another without you finding out that he divulged the nature of your fake relationship to your friend. 
Mistaking his apprehension for annoyance, you shake your head. “You’re so mean,” you accuse. “First you invade our evening and then you complain about picking him up? The poor guy already has to put up with you all night. The least you could do is spare him an Uber ride.”
Jake suddenly has another bone to pick. “First of all, why do the the two of you even need an evening–”
“Because I never get to see him!” A bit dejectedly, you add, “Between classes and tutoring and his internship, he never has any free time.”
Jake wonders, somewhat vindictively, if he could start requesting additional tutoring sessions. Burn up whatever remnants of time the kid has to dedicate to you. 
Instead, he relents. He’s not going to win any favor from you by doing anything to Jungwon. Not that he needs your favor, of course. Not that he even wants it. 
So Jake just asks you to give him Jungwon’s address and plots it into his phone’s GPS without another complaint. But as the estimated arrival time begins to dwindle, so does Jake’s confidence that he can pull this evening off. 
With just a few minutes to go, he decides that honestly might be his only way out of this mess. 
Turning to you slowly, he says, “So, I kind of have to tell you something.”
You groan. “I hate the way you just said that. Please tell me I’m not also going to hate whatever it is you’re about to tell me.”
Jake hesitates, “I mean, I can’t predict the future–”
You read his guilt like an open book. Flatly, you ask, “What did you do?”
Jake is quick to go on the defensive. “Why are you assuming it’s my fault–”
You’re not in the mood for his evasiveness. “What did you do?”
It comes out all in a rush, sounds like one long word as Jake lets the truth spill out. “I might have accidentally told Jungwon that you and I are dating.”
Somehow, you understand just as well as you would have if he enunciated clearly. Your voice is dangerously low. “How, pray tell, did you accidentally tell your econ tutor that you and I are dating?”
“It just came out, I swear!” Jake tries to dig himself out. “You came up somehow, and I mentioned the dinner at my parents house. One thing led to another, and now he thinks that we’re dating.”
You’re still livid, not accepting his threadbare explanation. “I could sue you, you know. You signed a legal document agreeing to not tell our friends and acquaintances anything about our agreement.”
Jake calls your bluff. “That thing is not legally binding, and you know it. Besides, the wording on that part is so vague, I’m sure there are a million loopholes. No judge would uphold that in court.”
“Oh, so now you’re a contract expert–”
“Look, I’m sorry,” Jake interrupts, deciding that neither defense or offense are likely to get him much of anywhere. Maybe an apology will do him one better. “I know we agreed to not get our friends involved, but it really wasn’t on purpose.” It kind of very much was, but he figures you don’t need to know that. “I just… Can we pretend, just for tonight?” It sounds reasonable enough to him. After all, “It’s no different than what we’ve done so far–”
“Yes it is,” you argue. Your fury has evaporated slightly, now just simmering in his passenger seat. But Jake still doesn't get it.  “Jungwon is my friend. He knows me, the real me. I’m not trying to keep up appearances around him. I don’t want to lie to him, and especially not about something like my relationships. Especially because he’s going to think that I’m the one that’s been lying to him about it.” The more you say, the worse Jake starts to feel. “I told him you were my friend.”
It wasn’t about you being embarrassed of Jake or not wanting Jungwon to think that you would ever consider dating him. It was because Jungwon is one of the few people that gets you, that really gets you. It’s because he’s one of your few real friends, someone you don’t have to lie to. Someone who accepts your truths as they come. 
“I know.” For the first time, Jake’s short-sighted solution to his jealousy doesn’t feel so satisfying. He hadn’t considered this, the potential fallout on your end. How you would feel about lying like this to someone that you’re genuinely close to. All he can say is, “I’m sorry. I know I fucked up.”
You just give him a long look, silence building between the two of you as you weigh a million responses on your tongue and let all of them die, one by one, before breathing life into any of them. 
“I…” you finally say. “It’s whatever.” It’s not. Jake can hear it in your tone of voice, can read it in the way your lips twist. “Let’s just do it,” you agree to his original request. Jake isn’t sure why he can’t find it in himself to feel good about it. “Let’s just pretend for tonight.” 
Jake doesn’t know what to say, can’t find the words to remedy the situation. Still, your name is a quiet whisper on his breath. He feels like he’s begging, pleading. For what, he’s not entirely sure. 
You just shake your head, looking out of the windshield. “We’re here.”
And you are. Jungwon, completely oblivious to your conversation, is all smiles where he waits outside his apartment building, sending you and Jake both a friendly wave before jogging over to the car and sliding into the back seat. 
“Hey Jake, ___,” he greets, unaware of the stifling tension he’s just walked into. “Thanks for picking me up, by the way. You have a really nice car.”
And Jungwon is so nice, Jake thinks. So nice and considerate and genuinely pleasant to be around. Things that he controls, things that Jungwon wakes up every day and decides to be. Things that make you like him, want to be his friend.
Things that Jake, as he glances to where you’re still nursing your wounds in his passenger seat, understands with a sickening realization that he has not been. At least not to you. 
And Jake could pin the blame on a million different excuses. His father or the tight constraints of his life or the way he feels like nothing has ever really belonged to him. But when he looks at you, at your hurt, he knows that his lack of consideration for your feelings is all of his own doing. 
Jakes turns back to Jungwon for a moment, tells him, “No problem. I’m glad we could all go together.” And then he puts his eyes back on the road ahead of him and makes the decision to take a little more ownership of the things he can control. To do his very best to be a little better. To try, really try, to put a little love into the things he builds.
So Jake doesn’t protest, when you arrive at the ice rink and slide down into the middle seat, next to both him and Jungwon. Doesn't let the unpleasant feeling that rises in his gut when you give Sunghoon a massive bouquet of flowers and a warm hug after his program do anything but simmer. Doesn’t make his feelings your problem, a fire for you to put out. 
When he excuses himself to the bathroom, he tries not to let the imagined possibilities of what you and Jungwon might be talking about in his absence make him do something stupid. 
Besides, everything he’s thinking of is far off the mark anyway. 
As soon as he’s out of earshot, Jungwon turns to you and smiles. “You and Jake, huh?” He nudges you with his elbow. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me. Actually,” he amends, “I can believe that. What I can believe is that you lied.” The accusation is light, teasing. It still hits you like a sucker punch. “You said you two were just friends.”
But your hurt feelings won’t help you here, and you have tracks to cover. Jake didn’t tell you what he told Jungwon, not exactly, so you’ll have to do your best not to unravel any of the lies he’s already spun. 
“It’s new,” you try to explain, thinking of something that would make sense, that would wound Jungwon the least. “I haven’t really told anyone.” You mean it when you say, “But I am sorry for lying.” You wish you weren’t doing it still. You wish you could tell him the truth.
“Fine.” It’s an apology Jungwon accepts easily, even if he pretends to hold onto it a little longer. “You’re forgiven. But only because his car is really nice.” And then, “He’s good to you?”
“Yeah,” you echo the same words you told his mother a handful of evenings ago. “The best.”
“Good.” Jungwon nods. If there’s wistfulness there, it’s overtaken by his genuine desire to see you happy. “You deserve that.”
You’re not sure why you feel like crying, why everything about this conversation, this situation, suddenly feels so wrong.
“Thanks, Wonie.” You melt a little at his earnestness, the childhood nickname slipping out with your fondness. This is what you were afraid of, what you wanted to avoid. It’s not fair for him, not okay with you that Jungwon is wasting his sincerity on a lie, a false relationship. It’s hollow when you say, “That means a lot.”
Whatever reply Jungwon has dies on his lips as Jake finds the two of you again, slides back into his seat. As the rest of the evening passes, your lingering hurt starts to make room for something else. You’re not sure what to make of how undeniably easy it all is. How natural it feels to be sat in between your childhood friend and your fake boyfriend, trading jokes and smiles and stories that take no effort and make the time fly by. 
When Jake finally drops you back off at your apartment a few hours later, your anger is mostly gone. And unlike him, you were never particularly good at physics, but you do remember the conservation of mass – how things can change and transform but are never truly destroyed. In the absence of anger, you’re not entirely sure what emotions are beginning to overflow in their stead. 
But when Jake whispers, “Goodnight” from the driver’s seat of his car, it’s a sentiment that’s easy to return. 
As the month just before the holidays tends to do, the rest of the semester passes in a blur of late night study sessions, half-finished assignments, and a concerning amount of caffeine. Both of you slammed with responsibilities of your own, Jake hardly even sees you in those last few weeks. Instead, the promise of the holidays and your family’s upcoming New Year’s Eve party are threats that loom on the rapidly approaching horizon. 
This, then, is a small time apart from each other before your fake-dating responsibilities kick into full gear. Before they eventually as soon as the clock strikes midnight on the last day of December and your contract dissolves just as the year does. 
And at this point, that’s a concern for the future. Right now, Jake is too busy trying to pass his classes to have any brainwidth left to worry about other things. Namely, his econ term paper. The hours that he spends alone with his laptop, forgetting to do much of anything else, veer towards a number that is more than a little concerning.
But thanks to his sessions with Jungwon, a report card without any Fs is looking like an actual possibility for him this semester. So Jake doubles down and presses onwards, goes hours and sometimes even days hardly talking to anyone, just to make sure that every last detail, every last word, is as impeccable as possible. 
And a few weeks later, just as the first half of December draws to a close, Jake finds himself back at his desk, lavender candle lit, pleading with invisible deities as he opens his laptop to check his final econ grade. 
He lets one breath pass. Another. 
Slowly, he opens one eye. 
And there it is, on the screen in front of him. His final econ grade. 
73. A solid C. A fucking C. 
He did it. He actually did it. On his third go around, Jake Sim passed econ. And that alone calls for celebration. 
It’s nearly the first time he’s seen you since Sunghoon’s competition when you and Jungwon show up at his apartment by surprise with a custom ordered cake the next day. 
Predict THIS trend, Wall Street, the royal blue icing reads. Jake Sim passed econ!!!!!!
And then it really is the end of the semester, and the three of you are parting ways for winter break. With nearly a month of rest from studies and schoolwork, you and Jake finalize the details of your last two public appearances as a couple. 
The first is set to be at Jake’s parents’ house. It’s not so much an event as it is the two of you exchanging gifts, making sure that there are witnesses around to corroborate your affection. And the second, of course, will be the New Year’s Eve party at your family's home. 
The timeline gives you about a week to finalize your gift to him, something that has proven to be much more difficult than you were hoping. Despite your suggestion that the two of you just pick out your own gifts in advance and say that they’re from each other, Jake has insisted on going the traditional route. On surprising you. 
So when you show up at his family's home a few days before Christmas, a small red gift bag in hand, it’s with a bit of trepidation that the present inside will fall flat of whatever expectations your fake boyfriend may have. 
Moments later, with the glow of the fireplace casting a cozy glow on his living room, Jake holds a self-warming coffee mug in his hands. 
You feel a bit foolish as you reach for your rehearsed explanation, cite the one time he’d complained about his coffee going cold before he had the chance to drink it. But Jake insists that he loves it, assures you that he’ll put it to good use. 
And when your turn comes to open his gift, you do your best to ignore the slight shake in your fingers as you untie the bow on the small jewelry box he hands you. 
Sliding the lid off, it’s all you can do for a moment to stare. 
“Oh.” The golden chain of the necklace is delicate, fragile. But it’s the charm at the center that has you suddenly breathless. It’s a tiny, intricate outline of a house, the same shimmery gold as the chain. The color he memorized as your favorite. And in the center of the miniature home is an impossibly smaller outline of a heart. “Oh.”
Your soft words ring in the air for a moment as your fingers hover over the gift, unmoving.
Mistaking your lack of feedback for distaste, Jake is quick to explain, somewhat sheepishly. “It’s, uh,” he scratches at the back of his neck. “It’s supposed to be like what your great aunt said. Y’know, ‘put a little love into everything you build.’ If you don’t like it, I can–”
You shake your head. “I love it.” It makes your gift to him pale in comparison. The truth rattles in your brain a little too harshly. You got him a coffee mug, and he got you this. Something so obviously wrapped up in thoughtfulness and care and affection. But comparison is the last thing on his mind. 
“I… You do?” His uncertainty is still written all over his face. “You don’t have to just say that. Really, it won’t offend me if–”
“Jake,” you look up at him, put your hand on his chest. Physical touch is the only way you can think to stop his rambling. “It’s perfect. I love it. I really, really do.” Glancing back down at his gift, you smile. His eyes are suddenly wide, from your sincerity or your touch, you’re not sure. “Help me put it on?
Jake nods, swallows audibly. You retract your hand from his chest, let it fall back to your side as you hand him the jewelry box. Carefully, delicately, intentionally,  he takes the necklace out, lets it dangle between long fingers. 
And then he’s moving to stand behind you. The sudden heat of his body is a lure for your senses, a focal point you can’t pull your thoughts away from. 
“I…” He breathes, words suddenly a little strained. You feel the warmth of his words along the length of your spine, deep in your bones. Settling somewhere in the pit of your stomach. “Could you move your hair?”
It makes you feel vulnerable, when you acquiesce to his request, exposing the bare skin of your neck as you pull your hair to the side. “Is that better?” It’s barely a whisper. He hears it regardless. 
“Yeah,” Jake returns, just as airy, just as flighty. “That’s perfect.” 
And then his fingertips are ghosting the edges of your collarbone, skimming the sensitive skin of your throat as he places his gift around your neck. You don’t think you imagine the tremble in his fingers while he fights with the clasp for a moment, drawing in a shaky breath as he finally snaps the mechanism into place. 
“There.” He exhales and it travels over your exposed nape. 
Letting your hair fall back into place, you take a steadying breath before turning to face him again. 
You mean it when you say, “Thank you.” 
Jake takes it in, all of it. The moment. The proximity. You. Warning bells are sounding in his mind as his gaze travels from your eyes to the bridge of your nose to the slight part between your lips. 
He wants it, he realizes. In this moment, there is no doubt in his mind. There’s nothing, in fact, but his desires, his wants. And what he wants is to feel your exhale against his own. To lean down and close the distance and let his fingers trace the skin of your throat again, for real this time. Without the excuse of a necklace. 
He could, he thinks. It’s a rule you both signed your agreement on, but what are rules, he reasons, if not things to be broken? And he thinks that if he kissed you, you might just let him. It’s a theory that he’s desperate to test, almost as desperate as he is to learn the exact taste of your mouth when it’s not trading insults with him. And he was never one to let hypotheses remain in limbo for long. 
There’s heat in his gaze and desire in his bones when he leans down, just a fraction of an inch. 
Your eyes widen. Your breath stutters. Under your skin, your heartbeat races. 
You say nothing. 
And then he’s inching closer. Slowly, steadily, until he’s right there, so much closer than he’s ever been. Invading your senses and mingling your exhales and clouding anything coherent left in your brain. 
His exhale ghosts across your lips. Your eyes flutter shut, and you’re nothing but a slave to sensation. 
It won’t be him that breaks the spell. Resolve slipping with every passing heartbeat, it won’t be you, either. 
In the end, it’s neither of those things. Instead, it’s the shrill ping of an incoming notification that has the two of you springing apart, cheeks flaming, heat of the moment settling in your chest like a shock from a live wire with nowhere to put all of its excess energy. 
“I…” Jake can barely breathe, much less form words. He still wears his desire in his eyes, his want across his lips. It’s a miracle he even manages to say, “I better check that.”
“Right,” you nod, as if he’s asking for permission, as if it’s in any way under your control. But you’re scrambling to fill the burning silence, to redirect whatever is still simmering in the air. “Yeah.”
Jake nearly stumbles over his own feet as he takes a step away from you, pulling his phone off the coffee table. You avert your eyes as he skims over the notification, hoping the heat in your cheeks will fade from sheer will alone. 
Glancing back at him, you notice the way he’s still reading the notification. Notice the way his brow is furrowed, 
Without really even meaning to, you ask, “Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” Jake nods, but he still looks unsure. His eyes are still on his phone screen. “I think so.”
You raise an eyebrow at the vague qualifier, and he sighs before he continues, “Apparently someone submitted an anonymous plagiarism claim on my econ term paper. It went to the dean, and they’re running an investigation to make sure it’s my original work. That was just the department head letting me know that they’re proceeding with the investigation and will reach out again if any additional action is needed on my part.”
“What?” You balk, earlier tension replaced with one of an entirely different sort. You’re still stuck on his first sentence. “Plagiarism? How is that possible? You spent literal days working on that stupid paper. Even Jungwon said he couldn’t believe how much effort you put into it.”
“Yeah.” Jake shrugs. “I know. That’s why I’m not really that nervous.” His expression begs to differ. “I mean, I know that I didn’t plagiarize my paper, so I’m sure the investigation won’t be able to find anything.”
Still, it can’t feel good. Not when it took him so long, so much concentrated effort to finally pass. Not when the relief of it all is now stained with the accusation that looms over his head, no matter how much it lacks in credibility. 
“Is there anything I can do?” You offer.
“No.” Jake shakes his head, won’t make you bear the weight or the worry of his burdens. “I’m sure they’re just going to run some more in-depth comparisons to past papers. I really don’t think I have anything to worry about.”
“Okay,” you concede, a little hesitantly. But it’s a worry that lingers, even as the afternoon ticks by. Even when Jake’s mother arrives home and wraps you up in a big hug. Even when she slips you another box of homemade snickerdoodles, this time wrapped up with a bow. 
It’s a worry that lingers when you say your parting words, wishing the two of them a Merry Christmas and telling your fake boyfriend that you’ll look forward to seeing him on New Year’s Eve. 
It’s a worry that you have no distraction from until you’re on your way out, and your least favorite Sim sibling catches you at the door. 
“Merry Christmas, ___,” James smiles, all pretenses and no sincerity. Despite his words, it’s like he’s begging for a fight when he asks, “Are you enjoying the holidays?” 
If his mother weren’t in the next room over, you might just take it upon yourself to wipe the smug grin off his face. Preferably with an uppercut. 
“Oh, you know,” you shrug, forcing a cordiality you don’t feel. “It’s the same as every year. Good but busy.” It’s more than a little vindictive when you add, “Your brother did get me the most thoughtful gift, though.”
“Did he?” James muses. He doesn’t rise to the bait as much as you’d hoped. “Looks like little Jake is all grown up. Seems like it’s a good Christmas for him too. Miracles all around. He has a girlfriend to spend it with.” Pausing a moment, he tacks on, “And I heard he even passed econ, too. It was about time.”
“Well we can’t all be stuck in our ways forever.” You smile. It’s a polite, family friendly way of letting him know you still think he’s a raging asshole. 
But if James is miffed, he doesn’t show it. You don’t like the way his satisfied grin doesn’t falter either, not even once. “No,” he agrees as you turn your back to him, leaving him behind as you walk out the front door. “I suppose we can’t.”
Christmas morning is an uneventful affair at your house. There are gifts, of course, ones that your mother watches you open expectantly. 
The jewelry box that sits in your hands is reminiscent of just a few days prior. A fleeting touch that leaves your collarbone scalding. A similar gift that you wear around your neck now. 
But lifting the lid on the present from your mother, the differences are stark. 
A pair of silver hoop earrings, beautiful in their own regard and undoubtedly expensive, but silver has never been your color. It’s something you wish she’d remember, something you thought she might know, after twenty-one long years. 
You thank her, words echoing hollowly in the vast expanse of your living room. 
On the table next to you, your phone lights up with a notification. 
Jake [9:23 am]: Merry Christmas, ___
You think it might be your favorite gift yet.
It’s three days after Christmas when you wake up to a series of texts from Jungwon.
Wonie [8:12 am]: Hey ___ did Jake ever work on his econ term paper with you? Like at your place or anything?
Wonie [8:12 am]: He asked me not to get you involved, but I’m getting really worried. This plagiarism claim isn’t going away, and he needs as much evidence as he can get that it was all his work
Despite the way your sleepiness usually lingers in the morning, your friend’s messages have you immediately feeling alert.  
Scanning the texts again, the whole thing really is such an awful twist of luck. Jake finally, finally passed econ and after turning down his brother’s proposal from months ago, he did it as a result of his own efforts. Jake might not have ever worked on his paper in your presence, but you know he didn’t plagiarize it. You can pay testament to the way he was practically a recluse the entire last three weeks of the semester, only ever taking breaks from that damn assignment to occasionally eat, sleep, or bathe. 
And it’s so bizarre, you think. Jake mentioned to you that everything blew up because of an anonymous accusation. It’s not like his paper was caught by some online plagiarism checker. No, someone intentionally went to his professor and claimed that the work was stolen. Someone who wanted to start this fire and watch Jake struggle with the flames. 
It makes no sense, none at all. Who on earth would–
Your train of thought cuts off abruptly. Alone in your childhood bedroom, you know exactly who would do that. 
And, one Google search later, you know exactly where to find him. 
You’re not exactly surprised that the Sim Corporation building is up and operational during the holidays. If anything, the employees’ end-of-the-year burnout works to your advantage as you sneak right by the secretary at the front desk, bypassing the appointment system that must surely be in place for the CEO-to-be. 
The elevator ride is slow. Agonizingly slow. And you should be using this time to think, just like you should have been doing on the drive here. You should be figuring out which cards you can play and how exactly you’re going to make Jake’s weasel of a brother admit to what he’s done and retract his idiotic, completely fake accusation against his younger sibling. 
But the only thing your brain has room for right now is rage. And as the elevator ascends, all your anger can do is heat further and further, releasing steam until it’s boiling over, clouding your judgment and making you see red. 
When the elevator finally lets you off on the thirty-sixth floor, your strides eat up the ground until you're standing in front of the door you’ve been looking for. 
You don't bother to knock. 
Unsurprisingly, James Sim’s office is as completely devoid of life and personality as its owner. Covered floor to ceiling with the stark furniture that wouldn’t look out of place in an upscale Ikea ad, there are little to no personal touches, no hints of anything that might make you think James has any kind of redeeming qualities. 
And the only acknowledgement your least favorite Sim brother gives you behind his desk are two slightly raised eyebrows. 
“___.” He jots something down on a notepad in front of him. Probably writing a reminder to fire the secretary that let you up without notifying him. “To what do I owe the pleasure”
You’re in no mood for games. “Cut the bullshit.”
James’ pen pauses. He glances up at you.“I’m afraid I don’t–”
You won’t hear it. “I said, cut the fucking bullshit, James. You and I both know exactly why I’m here.” Your chest is already heaving as you list your demands. “Back the fuck off from Jake, retract your stupid plagiarism claim, and let him enjoy the holidays in peace.”
James doesn’t give you the courtesy of acknowledging anything you just said. Instead, he demands firmly, “Break up with him.”
“What the fuck?” You’re not sure how it’s possible, but your annoyance multiplies tenfold. How dare he assume he has any say in your relationship, anything at all related to you or his brother. “Why would I listen to anything you tell me to do?”
“You want me to retract the claim,’ James echoes evenly, enunciating so slowly it’s patronizing. “Okay, fine.” He lays his hands out in front of him as if he’s offering some generous, benevolent deal. “Then end the relationship.”
You wonder how much damage it would do if you throw the chair sitting next to you at his head. “Are you actually threatening me right now?”
“Not a threat.” He shrugs, all too nonchalantly. “Just a deal.”
Your strides eat up the ground between the door of his office and his desk. Laying a palm down on the surface in front of you, you point an accusatory finger in his face. “Listen here, you little shit. You and I both know damn well he wrote every word of that term paper on his own, so I suggest you listen to me and back the fuck off while I’m still asking nicely, or–”
“Or what? Hate to break it to you sweetheart, but between my brother and I, there’s only one person Dr. Jeong is likely to believe.”
“What are you, a cartoon villain?” Even this angry, his stupidity is astounding. “You still need evidence. Which you don’t have. Because he didn’t plagiarize shit, and especially not from you.”
James doesn’t falter. “Interesting that you mention that, actually. You know, I asked Dr. Jeong about you as well, and he said you’re not a student in his class.” Despite yourself, your features slacken slightly. “I thought that was odd, considering that’s how the two of you said you met. There are a lot of things that don’t add up about the two of you, actually.”
There’s a threat there, when he meets your eye and says, “So it kind of seems like you know already, that evidence isn’t just found. It’s made. And Jake’s term paper is different from the one I submitted, yes, but I also have a copy of what he submitted on my personal computer. It’d be pretty easy to ask my secretary to adjust a few timestamps here and there. To make it look like it was written years ago. Stolen by the younger brother that’s always been horribly jealous of me.”
“What the fuck is it to you if he passes econ?” You still don’t understand why he’s doing this. “You graduated university three years ago. Your life is here now, in this office. You’re in the process of becoming CEO of a multi-billion dollar company. Seriously, don’t you have better things to waste your time on? I mean, this is what most people call ‘peaking in college’ and usually try to avoid–”
James reveals his motivation with two small words. “Why him?”
But you still don’t get it. “What?”
“Why him?” he repeats, and it sounds so, horribly, terribly jealous. “Like you said, I’m older, smarter, more successful. So why him?”
“Are you joking?” It’s all you can do to not drop your jaw. All of this because you never let him take you on a date? When it’s his fault he missed the first one? The sheer audacity of it all is astounding. “First of all,” you refute. “I did not say any of that. And second, if that’s actually all you have to say about yourself, then put that shit in your Tinder bio and see where it gets you. I have no interest in hearing it.”
James won’t let it go. “That’s not an answer.”
“Why do you even care–”
“Why him?” He won’t stop, not until he gets his answer. 
“Because I like him.” It’s spilling out before you can stop it, before you can give it permission. “Because he’s kind and funny and he listens to me and cares about what I have to say. Because I’m more than just a sum of my parts to him, and the last thing he cares about is my social status and how it stacks up against his. I’m not some tool to impress his parents or a topic of conversation to brag about with boys at Sunday morning golf.” All of the things you’re sure would be a part of any kind of relationship with James.  Because no matter what role he’s given in his father’s company or what grade he passed econ with, Jake is capable of something James never has been. “Because he treats me like a person.”
Across from you, James simmers with barely controlled rage. With the truth at his feet, he has nothing left to do but be angry with it. Destroy what he can in the wake of his fury, like a toddler throwing a tantrum. “Break up with him.”
“Wh–”
“Break up with him, or I swear to god I will submit plagiarism claims to every professor he’s had in the last three years.”
It’s a threat you know he’ll make good on. It’s a battle you’re afraid he’ll win, no matter how fake all of his so-called evidence is. And it will all be your fault. You will be the reason that Jake has to take econ again, and that’s only if he isn’t expelled on plagiarism claims. You will be the reason his father hands him another round of disappointment. You’ll be the reason Jake ends his day with a little more shame to tuck away and revisit on a sleepless night. 
And you were always on a timeline, anyway. This relationship was one that always came with an expiration date, even before it began. 
It should be easy to concede, given the stakes, given the alternative. You’ve known since the beginning that the rapidly approaching New Year would be the end of it all, that you and Jake would become entirely separate entities again in just a handful of days. Still, you have to force the words out through gritted teeth, “Give me until New Year’s.”
James scoffs. “I don’t think you’re in any position to be making demands–”
“I’ll do it.” You double down, agreeing to take Jake’s fate into your own hands. “I’ll end things. Just… just give me until New Year’s.” You can do it, you think. It was inevitable anyway. “And retract the claim now,” you stipulate. “If I go back on my word, you can resubmit with all your evidence once next semester starts.”
Across from you, behind his desk, James weighs your offer. He must sense the finality in your tone, the determination in your gaze. “Fine,” he finally says. “You have yourself a deal.”
You don’t take his outstretched hand, don’t seal your agreement with a handshake. He’ll have to trust your word.
It makes no difference to him. His smile is smug when you turn to leave. You hope his satisfaction burns on the way down. 
Your drive home is slightly blurry. Partially because of the rain that has begun to fall. Mostly because of the tears that gather at the corners of your eyes and threaten to fall. You won’t let them, but they cloud your vision anyway, demand your attention. 
That night, a message from Jake lights up your phone just as you’re sitting down for dinner. 
Jake [6:57 pm]: Good news! The whole plagiarism thing turned out to be nothing. Just got an email from the dean that they’re dropping the investigation. I’m officially freeeeee from econ (again)
If nothing else, you have to give James credit for efficiency. And it should feel like a war won, a job well done. But staring at the message on your phone, the only thing you can think of is how soon New Years is. How little time you have before you’ll have to say goodbye. 
There’s never much to do, in that liminal space between Christmas and New Year’s. Minutes and hours and days blur together as the end of the year passes by, preparing to give way to a new one. 
Jake, giddy with the recent resolution of his econ grade and desperate to get away from the stifling atmosphere of his family home, tries to fill some of that time by spending it with someone he’s starting to realize he cares a lot about. Contract or not. 
First, he sends you a message asking if you’ve been ice skating this winter yet. He does his best to only be a little hurt when your rejection comes quickly, claiming in your response to have another obligation that day. Second, he invites you to drive around and look at holiday lights with him. When you tell him you already have other plans, he passes another lazy afternoon alone instead. Again, it’s a little hard not to dwell. A little hard not to let it sting. And by your third rejection – this time to take Layla on a walk with him – his hurt starts to give way to suspicion. 
But it’s not like you can avoid him forever, not with your family’s annual New Year’s Eve party quickly approaching. The last big event before the termination of your contract, you’ve been counting on him to spare you from your mother’s scathing comments and attendees’ hushed wonderings about when you’ll find yourself a boyfriend. 
And then it will be a new year, a new semester, a fresh start. As the clock strikes midnight, the end of your contract. 
Privately, Jake is a little relieved that it will be over so soon. That he won’t have to keep up pretenses any longer. That he won’t have to stick to your rules. 
He’s not sure when it happened, not exactly. Somewhere between all the bickering and arguing and fighting, but he’s come to enjoy the way you swept into his life like a hurricane and set up a home for yourself right where his heart is. 
He hopes you’ll stick around long after the ink on your contract has dried. He hopes that the two of you will get a chance to figure out what exactly those feelings between you are without worrying about how they look from the outside. How they’re perceived by James or your mother or his father. 
So Jake will be patient if he needs to be. He’ll accept your excuses, real or not, and look forward to seeing you on New Year’s Eve, relishing the fact that it’s the last time his presence at your side will be based on a lie. 
And when New Year’s Eve finally comes, he adjusts the tightness of his tie, looking at himself in the mirror. 
Midnight, he thinks. It will be here soon, quicker than he knows. And all the emotions that he’s been tucking away, all those little moments between the two of you that have fizzled and sparked and ultimately ended in nothing, will fade away with it. 
In their place, he thinks the two of you just might manage to find something solid, something real. 
Halfway across the city, in your childhood bedroom, you turn to Sunghoon. “What do you think?”
“Yeah,” Sunghoon nods appreciatively from his seat on your bed. “Your fake boyfriend is gonna pee his pants.”
“Gross.” Your nose scrunches. “Why would you say it like that? And stop calling him my fake boyfriend.”
“Why?” Sunghoon ignores your first question. “That’s what he is, isn’t he?”
And that, you think, is another reason why you didn’t want your friends getting involved in this little scheme between you and Jake. But Sunghoon’s flight home was canceled due to inclement weather, and you weren’t about to make him spend New Year’s Eve alone. The only problem with him spending it at your family’s party is that he needs to be well-versed in the lies you and Jake have been spinning for the last couple of months to keep the last few hours of your fake relationship believable. So, a mimosa and an explanation of a contract later, Sunghoon is privy to all the gory details. But the last thing you need is reminders of that. 
Reminders of him. Reminders of what you’ll have to do in a few short hours. So you redirect the conversation. 
“Really?” You look at yourself in the mirror again. “Do you like this one better? Or should I wear the red dress?”
“No, definitely that one.” Sunghoon shakes his head. “It looks really good. And everyone knows that black is better for New Year’s anyway.”
As you give yourself another once over, Sunghoon raises an eyebrow. “Why are you so nervous, anyway? Trying to impress your faux beau?”
“Stop pretending to know French,” you threaten. “or you can actually be homeless for New Year’s for all I care.”
“C’mon,” Sunghoon sighs, ignoring the bluff. “You look great. I think so. You mom will think so. Jake’s definitely gonna think–”
“How many times do I h–”
“So stop worrying so much, and let’s head downstairs.” Sunghoon stands from your bed, nodding towards the door. “I’m sure he’ll be here soon, anyway. Do you really want to leave him to the mercy of your mother?”
Point taken. You absolutely do not. With one final swipe of lip gloss, you’re pulling on your heels. It’s just in time too. Barely is the second one strapped on before the message from Jake pings through. He’s here. 
“Is that him?” Sunghoon holds his arm out for you, jerks his chin towards your phone. “Shall we go save your man from the she-devil?”
You don’t even bother to correct him, to reiterate that Jake is most definitely not ‘your man,’ as you hook your hand around his elbow, letting him pull you out of your room and towards the stairs. 
At this point, Jake is not unused to the extravagance of your family’s events. But as he enters your childhood home, he can’t help but be a little floored. It’s a house that would be impressive in its own right. Spacious and luxurious down to every last detail, the place practically screams wealth. But tonight, it really outdoes itself. 
The black and gold decorations shimmer just the right amount – enough to catch the ambient light beautifully without being garish. Every available surface is impeccable, covered with drinks and food and decor so lavish it would be almost laughable if it weren’t so impeccably done. 
Jake strains his neck over the crowd of equally done-up party guests, tries to peer around all the gowns and evening wear until he finds the figure he has memorized. He thinks he might see your mom, over chatting with a group of attendees, but no matter where he looks,  he can’t seem to locate you. 
Not until he glances at the spiral staircase on the outskirts of the room, does a double take at where you make your way down the ornate steps in an evening gown. It’s the same inky, midnight black as his suit, hugging and flowing and cascading in all the right places. Letting his gaze linger, he would have a hard time keeping his jaw closed if it weren’t clenching so tightly. 
He doesn’t mean to let it happen, the flare of jealousy that starts deep in his gut and spreads the length of his spine like a disease. But he can’t help it. Not when you look like that, not when you’re making an entrance and you’re not alone. No, you’re walking down the stairs accompanied by, on the arm of, Park Sunghoon.
Jake decides then and there that he hates figure skating. The glass of champagne in his hand suddenly feels awfully breakable. 
But then you spot him too, and some of the tension simmers, brightens, turns to something else entirely. When your gaze lands on his, your wide, genuine smile is almost enough to set him at ease. Almost. 
Cutting through the crowd, you and your unwanted chaperone make your way over to Jake. 
“Hi,” you breathe. Your hand is still on Sunghoon’s arm. 
“Hi,” Jake returns. He can’t take his eyes off it. 
Gaze darting between the two of you, Sunghoon is the one to gently but firmly remove your grip from his elbow. If it’s any consolation, you hardly seem to notice. 
Still, Jake’s shoulders are unnaturally tense, something Sunghoon takes note of. He just rolls his eyes. It’s not like either of you are looking at him to see it, anyway. 
Finally, after the silence lingers a little too long, he says to Jake, “Yeah, you don’t have to do that around me.”
“Do what?” Jake spares him only a momentary glance before letting his gaze rest on you again. 
“The whole overprotective, jealous boyfriend thing.” Sunghoon calls his game in two seconds flat. “You’re pretty good at it, though. I’ll give you props for that.”
That grabs Jake’s full attention. “What are you–”
“I know about you and ___’s contract. Don’t worry,” he mimics pulling his lips shut like a zipper. “Your secret is safe with me.”
Jake looks to you again. “You told him?” He can’t decide if it makes him feel better or significantly worse. 
You shrug. “I wasn’t sure how else to make sure he didn’t blow our cover tonight.” Besides, you add silently, how much damage could it do? After all, it’s our last night. 
Sunghoon glances between the two of you again, decides he does not want to be a part of this particular interaction any longer. “I’ll see you two later. I’m gonna go check out the hors d'oeuvres.” Turning to leave, he claps a hand on Jake’s shoulder. “Your girl could probably use a glass of champagne.”
Sunghoon makes a beeline for the kebabs, and then it’s just the two of you. And Jake might be hesitant to follow advice from your friend, but he grabs a glass from the next waiter that passes anyway, hands it to you seamlessly as you offer him a quiet, “Thanks.”
It’s easy, just like always, to fall into your routine. His hand finds the small of your back, and you lean into his embrace just the right amount. You can tell it’s working, that the guests you mingle with are charmed by how smitten the two of you seem, that everything you do makes them reminisce on their own long passed days of young love. 
Even the brief conversation with your mother is painless as she offers a stilted compliment for your dress and wishes you both a happy semester ahead. 
But you can’t quite get your smile to reach your eyes, can’t quell the anxiety swelling in your stomach as the night marches on and the clock ticks closer and closer to midnight. 
Jake can sense your unease, your trepidation, but he has no idea what’s causing it, can only guess at what has your eyes darting around the room like a mouse watching for a cat. 
Incorrectly, he wonders if it’s the crowd that’s getting to you, the chaos of so many bodies all in one space. Trying to offer a reprieve, he asks if there’s anywhere quieter the two of you could go. 
It’s not exactly what you’re looking for, not the solution you need, but you still lead him to the second floor, out onto the balcony that overlooks your backyard gardens. It’s similar to the place you and Jake ended your night at his family dinner a handful of weeks ago. 
Even away from the crowd, the lines in your bare shoulders are tense, fraught with unvoiced worries. The inevitability of the end. 
The music is fainter out here, but the rhythm is still easy to track. Jake thinks you just need a distraction. So he holds out a hand in invitation. “Dance with me?” He asks. 
You shouldn’t, not when it will only make all of this worse. Not when there are no eyes out here, no one to convince you that you’re still just pretending. 
But resistance has always been futile. And you can’t find it in you to say no. 
Under the glow of this year’s last bit of moonlight, you intertwine your fingers with his, let him draw you close as he wraps your hands around the nape of his neck, links his own across the small of your back. 
It’s not dancing, not really. Not as the two of you draw nearer under the pretense of staying warm. Not as your bodies barely move through space, just swaying slightly, in time with the harmonies that spin and twist and crescendo and fall below you. 
Jake knows better than to press his luck. But the day is dying, and so is your contract. What are a few minutes anyway, in the grand scheme of things? 
Leaning closer, he lets his forehead rest against your own, noses millimeters apart. “It’s almost midnight,” he whispers. The end of it all. The start, he hopes, of something entirely new. Something that belongs only to the two of you. In just a few moments, he’ll get to let his desires lead his actions, not the agreement he signed his name to.
“Mm,” you hum in agreement. He feels where it vibrates in his chest. 
“Ten,” he hears the crowd inside chant in unison. The countdown has begun. The New Year is nearly here. 
“Nine.” He pulls you a little closer, hands pressed a little tighter to the small of your back.
“Eight. Seven. Six.” You sigh, and it’s lost somewhere against the skin of his throat. 
“Five. Four.” One of his hands begins to move, traces the length of your spine, finds a new home against the curve of your jaw. 
“Three.” Using the gentle guidance of his thumb, he angles your face, just slightly.
“Two.” Around you, the world holds its breath. The two of you do the same. 
“One.” And then he’s closing the distance, lips against yours as exclaims of “Happy New Years” are lost somewhere in the wind. 
He may have brought you here, but you’re just as greedy, hands around his neck pulling him down further until the angle has you reeling. His mouth parts against yours, and you’re not quite sure if your eyes are open or closed. You’re seeing stars either way. 
Jake pulls you closer, and it’s not enough. He’s desperate for it, for something, for closer, for more. It’s everything that he imagined. Countless times in the darkness behind closed eyelids in the privacy of his own thoughts. It’s a million times better. 
He can’t focus on anything, can’t do anything but feel, give way to the shape of sensation. He wants to let his senses drown, wants to die and be reincarnated back into this moment just for the chance to live it again. Wants to wash away anything that isn’t tethered to sensation, to the urgency in his gut, to you. 
The first in a series of fireworks lights up the sky behind you. The booming echo has you jumping in your own skin, giggling against his lips at the irrational fear. Jake thinks this must be heaven. He must have died doing something wonderful, and this must be his eternal reward. 
Your amusement lasts moments longer before he’s doubling down, pulling you in again until you’re both well and truly breathless. Lip gloss a mess on both of your mouths, chests heaving as you finally break for air. The space between your bodies is miniscule, meaningless. In this moment, you’re a single entity with nothing but the desire for more. 
Fireworks continue to burst behind you as the sun sets on the contract that bound you together. His hands are still pressed against the small of your back, and you think the fabric of your dress must be nothing but a figment of your imagination. The only real thing is the heat of his skin on yours. 
The sound of your name whispered against your skin is something you’re afraid you’ll remember for a long, long time. He sounds desperate, where he repeats it. Pleading. Longing. 
But the fireworks are a symbol of a new year. An expiration date on an agreement. A deadline on a deal. 
Jake whispers your name once more, and you savor it for just a moment longer. Then, you carefully disentangle yourself from his grip. Most of it, at least. The hands against your back allow you space, but don’t stray from your spine. 
Still encircled in the arms of feelings that were never given the chance to take flight, you try to turn blows into kisses by whispering them softly, “I think we should end this.”
It’s presumptuous, on your part, to think that there is anything to end. You feel a little ridiculous saying it when you both signed your agreement long months ago. But your head is still spinning and your heart is still hurting. This is what it feels like, you realize. To mourn for the future. To grieve all of the what ifs and maybes and almosts. 
Across from you, Jake stokes your fears. “What? End what?”
“This.” You sigh. You can’t look him in the eye. “All of it. It’s officially the New Year now. We can stop going to things as each other’s plus-ones. The fake dating. Everything.” You’re rambling now, but you can’t help it. You’re afraid that if you stop to think, you’ll propose something else entirely. Something you know you can’t have. Something that will only ruin everything Jake has worked so hard for. “We can tell our families it was mutual – fizzled, like you said.”
Jake releases his grip on you, severs that last bit of connection. It takes every ounce of your willpower to bite back your tears. 
“Woah, slow down.” His brow creases in confusion. His words are still gentle; he still handles you with care. “Where is this coming from?”
“I just…” You trail off, doing your best to find steadiness in your voice. “This was our agreement. And it’s served its purpose. Besides, it’s a new year, you know? No point in starting it off with lies.” No matter how much he searches for it, you’re still avoiding his gaze.
Jake’s cheeks are flushed – a combination of things. The taste of champagne that’s fading on his tongue, replaced by something sweeter. The gentle midnight breeze. The aftermath of a kiss that he still wears on his lips. “I…” Suddenly, he finds it very difficult to breathe. “That’s all this is to you? A lie?”
And you wish he would just let this be a clean break, would stop pressing, stop making you say things you don’t mean. But you need him to believe it. That this is well and truly done. “I mean, we got what we wanted, didn’t we? You passed econ, and I got my mother off my back for a bit. This was the date we agreed to end things on. It doesn’t make sense to keep dragging things out.”
Jake is suddenly unsure of many things, and most immediately, himself. He’s not sure how to explain it to you, here on the balcony, with the bitter taste of something that stings all too much like rejection sitting heavy in his throat. That he’s pictured it a million times. You and him, together because it lets you both breathe a little easier, because it feels a little bit like coming home. Not because of a contract or your family or his brother. 
He doesn’t know how to tell you that every time he goes to a cafe, he marks a mental note to ask you what your favorite kind of coffee is. Doesn’t know how to tell you that every time he passes the corner table on the third floor of the library or the Student Union Building, the only thing he sees is your face. 
Doesn’t know how to thank you for helping him pass econ, for being the boost of confidence he needed to finally stand up to his brother for once, for making him think that he might not be as much of a failure as everyone else seems to think he is. For believing in him.
He doesn’t know how to thank you for being in his life, for making it a little better. For putting a little love in the parts of him that he thought would always be consumed by anger and bitterness and resentment. 
Doesn’t know how to tell you that it’s not just a contract to him. Not just a lie. That it hasn’t been for a long, long time. 
Instead, he listens, motionless while you whisper, “Thank you for tonight.”
He knows your voice is wavering. He knows your resolve is crumbling. But he doesn’t know why. 
So he watches, still unmoving, as you turn to walk away from him. Left alone on the balcony with no company but the stars, Jake Sim has nothing but a million regrets and the horrible, irrevocable feeling that he’s done something terribly wrong. 
“You look terrible.”
“Thanks, Sungoon.” Your voice is flat, no energy for any real malice. Sarcasm, though, you can muster. “You really know how to make a girl feel good.”
“I’m just saying.” He’s still looking at you like you’re a particularly unsightly piece of roadkill he narrowly avoided colliding with. “Would it kill you to do something about those dark circles? I don’t know, maybe, like – and I’m just throwing out ideas here – sleep?”
You’ve tried. You have. But no matter what you do, rest can’t seem to find you easily these days. And aside from that, it’s the moments just before sleep that you’ve started to fear the most. In the dark, with your eyes closed, the only thing you see is the confusion, the unmistakable hurt on Jake’s face as you walk away from him for the last time.
“Look,” Sunghoon sighs, suddenly serious. “It’s just… I’m a little worried about you, to be honest. Did something happen on New Year’s? With you and–”
“I’m fine.” You cut him off. The last thing you want to hear is the sound of his name, the reminder of what you’ve done for the sake of preserving his future. “I’m just tired, really.” You try to smile, and it’s far from convincing. “It’s been a long few days.”
Sunghoon wears his doubts as plain as day, but he won’t press the issue for now. “If you say so.” He does need you to take care of yourself, though, at least a little. “At least come eat something.” Suddenly grinning, he whispers, “I snuck in some instant ramen behind your mom’s back. C’mon, we can go make some. We can even get fancy with it, if you want. I’ll fry you an egg and everything.” He’s pulling out all the stops, a testament to how terrible you really do look. 
But it works. Or it’s enough to get you out of your room, at least. Stomach grumbling, you’re about to tell Sunghoon to make it two fried eggs when the two of you are intercepted by your mother on the way to the kitchen. 
“Oh,” she intones, taking in your appearance. Her eyes travel from your sweatpants to your t-shirt to your lack of makeup, disapproval apparent in every glance. “You look…”
“Save it,” you grumble, not in the mood to be ridiculed. 
Pushing past her, she stops you again. “Hold on a minute. I have a question for you.”
You take a deep breath before you turn back to face her. Might as well get it over with. “Yes?”
Smoothing her hair, she tells you, “Your father and I are hosting a banquet to celebrate the firm’s most recent acquisitions. It’ll be the last weekend in January. We’d love it if you could come.” 
You suppress the urge to roll your eyes, not seeing where the question was anywhere in there. To you, it sounds more like a demand. 
Sensing your reluctance, she adds, “You’d be welcome to bring Jake, of course–”
“We broke up,” you inform flatly. At your side, Sunghoon stiffens. 
“Oh,” your mother says again, not missing a beat. There’s very little sympathy when she adds, “Well, I suppose that’s probably for the best. Don’t you think so? I mean, you’ll be so busy with law school applications soon, it’s probably better to not have a boy around to distract you.”
You don’t bother to dignify that with a reply. Instead, you turn your back to her, fully this time. Altering your course, you set your footsteps on a path towards the garage instead of the kitchen. “I’m going for a drive,” is the explanation you throw over your shoulder. 
When Sunghoon tries to follow, you just shake your head. “I want to be alone.”
“But–”
“Please.” 
There must be something desperate in your features, because Sunghoon only nods, doesn’t argue further as he watches you climb in the driver’s seat of your car. He’s still standing there, concern apparent on his features as you open the garage door behind you and reverse your car out of it. 
It’s been a long time since you’ve done this, driven without a destination in mind. Your playlist blares through the stereo, loud enough to drown out any thoughts that threaten to cross your mind, to consume you, to send you spiraling. 
It’s not until long minutes later, when the first drop of rain hits your windshield, that you even notice the way storm clouds gather menacingly above you in the sky. 
Whatever, you think, turning on your wipers and increasing the volume another notch. You’ve navigated worse. If anything, it’s a perfect match for your temper, for the way emotions swell and churn in your stomach. 
Mindlessly, you let nothing but intuition guide your way, turning down streets you’ve never seen on nothing but a whim and the desire to escape, even if just for a little bit. The rain continues to pour, and the storm clouds darken in time with your mood. 
By the time you do start to recognize some of the scenery around you, it’s already too late. And you’re not sure where to place your blame. Fate, your subconscious, the way you can’t seem to let him go? No matter where fault lies, you’re suddenly perfectly aware of your location. 
Mostly because you’ve been here twice in the span of a month. Because you’re only a handful of blocks, at most, from Jake’s family’s home. 
The realization makes you quick to pull over. The best course of action, you decide, is to plot your course home in your phone’s GPS, since clearly you can’t be trusted to wander. It’s in the middle of searching for a better signal that you see it. A flash of movement outside your window.
It’s hard to be sure, through the thick sheets of rain that fall from the sky. But then you see it again, see her again, and you would know that dog anywhere. 
“Shit.” Turning to scan the backseat of your car, you find neither a jacket nor an umbrella. Nothing to shield you from the wrath of nature outside. But it’s not like you can leave Layla alone in a storm. Gritting your teeth, you set your resolve. And then you open the car door, stepping outside into the rain. 
It’s the kind of downpour that’s unforgiving, that soaks you to the bone as soon as you’re in it. Hair sticking to your face and already so cold you think you might start shaking, you start Layla’s name, hoping it carries over the wind. 
“Layla!” It’s all you can do to hope she hears you over the storm. You lose her for a minute. Bringing up your hand as a makeshift visor, you force your eyes to focus. When you finally see a flash of tan again, you know it’s her. The relief is short lived. Frustrated, you watch her turn to run in the opposite direction. 
“Layla!” you call again, this time louder, so much so you’re sure your voice will be hoarse tomorrow. From the way rain soaks your clothes, you’ll no doubt be nursing a nasty cold along with it.Thankfully, though, your beckoning does the trick this time. At the sound of your voice, Layla spins around, makes a beeline straight towards your familiar figure.
“Layla,” you chide once she’s at your feet, still grinning at you like the two of you aren’t absolutely soaked through and freezing. “C’mon,” you open the back door of your car to let her inside. “Hop in.”
She does so without an argument, and you slide back into the driver’s seat just as soon as you shut the door behind her. Putting your car back into drive, you set your wipers to full speed and drive straight until you see the turn a few roads down, the one that you know leads straight to his house. 
Still, you pull over again a few houses away, hesitating. 
“Sorry, Layla,” you turn to the dog in question. She just tilts her head at you quizzically. “I’ll get you home. I just…”
Don’t want to see him. Don’t want to look at him and face his anger, his resentment, his bitterness. Surely those are the only emotions he has left for you. Besides, it would be nothing but disastrous if his older brother were home. James would assume that your presence in his home means you’ve neglected to uphold your end of the deal and as such, has no reason to honor his. 
There’s a lot of damage to be done here, if you don’t go about it wisely. 
Turning back to the dog in your backseat, you point at her house in front of you. “You can make it home from here, right?” Again, Layla offers nothing but the slight perking of her ears. “Your house is right there,” you point again. “Just go up to the front porch and whine or scratch at the door and they’ll let you in, alright?” You give her a scratch behind the ears for good measure. 
You know Layla likes it, know that it’s her favorite place to be scratched. You know it because you watched him do it a few short weeks ago. Suddenly, you wonder if he’s noticed that she’s missing. If he’s frantic, going crazy trying to find her. 
A new sense of urgency motivating your actions, you turn back to Layla one last time. “Alright, girl. I’ll watch from here. I’m gonna open the door, and I want you to go straight home, okay?” 
She wags her tail at you, and that will have to be confirmation enough. 
Opening your door, you slide out of the car first. You hold your arm above your head as a makeshift shield from the rain, but it’s of little use. Reaching for the handle of your car’s back door, you’re about to send Layla home on a wing and a prayer when a voice behind you calls out your name. 
At least you think that’s what you hear. You can’t quite tell, over the sound of pouring rain, the whistling of the wind. Still, you turn with trepidation in your gut. Rightfully so, when you peer into the car that’s just pulled over next to you and lock eyes with no one other than Jake’s mother. 
She repeats your name, this time a little more frantic. “Oh my god,” She exlaims, taking in your appearance. “You’re soaking wet. Quick, follow me home and we’ll get you warm and dry.”
“That’s okay,” you try to explain over the story, “I have Layla, actually. I saw her wandering a few blocks over, and I–”
“Layla? Oh my goodness.” Concern and gratitude color every word. “Thank you, ___. I’m sure Jake is going crazy. C’mon,” she reiterates. “Follow me, and let’s get you both inside.”
Not bothering to wait for a response, she rolls her window back up, driving away with the clear expectation that you follow. And it’s not like you have any other choice, not really. You can hardly drive away with her dog. And it’s not like you can let Layla out now, not when she’s seen you.  
So, hoping against all odds neither Sim brother is home, you climb back into your car and follow her command. 
“Oh my god,” she repeats when you pull into the driveway behind her, letting yourself and Layla out of your car. “You two are absolutely soaked. C’mon, quickly,” she ushers you towards the front door. 
Opening it, she steps inside first. 
And of course luck is not on your side. You hear him before you see him. “Mom,” he sounds panicked, horribly on edge. “Have you seen Layla? She’s been missing for almost an hour and I can’t find her anywhere. I called James, but he left on a business trip this morning.” He doesn’t leave room to breathe. “I’m worried she might have gotten outside–” 
Your rescue doesn’t remain a mystery for long. Layla bounds through the front door, jumping on her favorite sibling, wet paw prints staining his jeans as her sudden movement forces the door open wider. Reveals you. 
Relief washes over Jake’s features as he greets his dog just as affectionately, and then he glances upwards. He takes one look at you, soaked to the bone and shaking from the cold. Any other words he had die on his lips. 
“___ found her, actually,” his mom explains, reching behind you to usher you in fully and shut the door behind you. “A few blocks over, you said?” She clarifies, turning to you. 
Eyes not leaving Jake’s, you just nod. 
His mother glances between the two of you, your frozen, shocked stares. The tension is palpable, and she senses it as well. 
“I’m going to go get Layla dried off,” she offers. “Jake, why don’t you help ___ find a dry set of clothes.” Shuffling past the two of you, she brings Layla along with her. 
And then it’s just you and him. 
Both of you stand there a moment longer, neither of you saying anything.
When you do break the silence, it’s at the same time. “Are you okay?” Jake tries, just as you say, “I’m sorry.”
Another beat of silence passes between you. 
Jake nods towards you. “You go first.”
“I’m sorry,” you try to explain, words feeling jumbled as you give them life. “I was driving and I saw Layla all alone, and I didn’t know…” That you’d be here. That I would run into your mom. That it would hurt so much to see you again. You don’t know what exactly you’re apologizing for, but your presence feels like an intrusion. 
Jake begs to differ. “Don’t apologize.” He shakes his head. “I should be thanking you. I was worried out of my mind thinking I might never see her again.” He’s talking about Layla. You know he’s talking about Layla. But his eyes don’t leave you once. 
It feels like a moment that could stretch into forever, you and him. Masking your hurt, hiding wounded prides. Standing inches apart and the distance has never felt greater. 
The spell is only broken when you sneeze, an immediate reminder of the circumstances that brought you here. Of the fact that you’re trembling like a leaf in his entry way, soaked to the bone. 
It's enough to spur him to action. “Come on.” He jerks his head towards the staircase behind him, voice and features still carefully guarded. “ I’ll get you some dry clothes.”
You could argue, but you don’t see a point. Not now. Silently, you follow him, all the way up the stairs and down the hallway to the last door on the left. When he opens it, there is no doubt in your mind as to what this room is. 
It’s his. It has to be. You know it, from all the little pieces of himself he has on display. Pictures of him in his youth with friends that smile just as big and brightly as he does. Soccer trophies, a drawing of Layla done before he had well-developed fine-motor skills, a picture of him and his mother at the beach. 
All at once, you wonder what it would have been like to discover him naturally. How long it would have taken you to uncover all these little parts of him, one by one, if any part of your relationship had been given the chance to be real. 
And then you notice the mug sitting on his nightstand. The self-heating one you gave him for Christmas. There’s nothing special about it, and it’s not particularly attractive, design-wise. It’s practical. Almost impersonal. He has no reason to keep it displayed like this. Part of you wants to swell with unshed tears. The other wants to run and hide and face your shame alone. 
But Jake is already rummaging through a drawer, and a moment later, he turns to face you with a pair of gray sweatpants and a matching hoodie. 
“I’m sorry,” he apologizes preemptively, and you hate the uncertainty that lingers between you. The awkwardness. All the stilted pauses and unsure silences that were never there before. You hate that it’s your fault, that you have no clue how to fix it. “I’m not sure how they’ll fit.”
“That’s okay,” you shake your head, ignoring the way your heart stutters suddenly at the thought of wearing his clothes. “They’ll be dry. I appreciate it.”
“The bathroom is through there.” He nods towards the adjoining room. “There are clean towels under the sink, too, if you want to dry your hair or anything.” Pausing, he adds, “Take as long as you need.”
Nodding, you walk into his bathroom, shutting the door behind you. You know he meant it, when he told you to take your time, but part of you is hesitant to linger. Somehow, this space feels even more private, even more intimate than his bedroom. Again, you feel like an intruder. An unwanted presence in a place that’s entirely his. A place you lost the right to be when you struck a deal behind his back and took his future into your own hands.  
Sighs mingling with regrets you can’t voice, you trade your rain-soaked clothes for his dry ones. You look at yourself in the mirror, and then you tuck the necklace he gave you out of sight, underneath the collar of his gray hoodie. 
A minute later, you emerge from his bathroom slightly self-conscious and significantly drier. Across the room, Jake looks up at you. You watch as he swallows audibly, eyes tracing the planes of your body swallowed by his borrowed clothes. His throat bobs before he tears his eyes away. 
“I should…” Again, you hate this tension between you, this uncertainty. “I should go. Thank you for the clothes. I’ll wash them and give them back once the semester starts–”
“What happened?” Jake couldn’t care less about your upcoming laundry plans. You can keep his sweatshirt and sweatpants and whatever else you want from him forever, as far as he’s concerned. Instead he’s still stuck on–
“New Year’s Eve. I thought…” He shakes his head. “I thought things were… good between us.”
And you could continue to be evasive. For his sake, you probably should. 
You could continue to make his decisions for him and decide to preserve his econ grade instead of whatever unnamed feelings might still linger between the two of you. But, the quieter parts of you whisper, that would make you no different from anyone else in his life, from the people you’ve encouraged him to break free from. The people that have molded his decisions and guided his path with a heavy hand all in the name of doing what’s best for him. All because they think they know him better than he knows himself. 
You don’t want to do that. What you want, here in the privacy of his bedroom, in the comfort of his borrowed clothes and the legacy of his youth, is to tell him the truth. You want to let him do with it as he sees fit. Taking a deep breath, you make your decision. 
And then you brace yourself for his anger, the outrage he’ll surely have at your explanation. “Your brother–”
“My brother?” Jake’s face falls, misreading things entirely as he jumps to premature conclusions. But it’s not like he’s grasping at straws. Jake isn’t blind to the way James has been gloating more than usual as of late. To the way his mood started improving right around New Year’s Eve. And he assumes the worst. “Oh. Okay.” Jake is trying to smile, but his features are completely wilted when he says, “I guess he got that second chance after all, huh?” 
“What?” Your lips twist in disgust as the implication sinks in. “No.”
“No?” Now, Jake just looks confused. 
“No,” you reiterate. “Look,” you sigh, “I figured out that those plagiarism claims about your econ paper came from him.”
Across from you, Jake’s jaw drops as it sinks in. “James was the one who…”
You nod, lips tight. You still can’t believe it either. “I went to his office to confront him about it, and he told me he’d retract the accusation, but only if..”
Jake’s eyes are imploring. You have the feeling he already knows the answer. “Only if what?”
“Only if I promised to end things between us.” And there it is. The truth. Cold, hard, ugly, and Jake’s to interpret as he will. You brace for impact. 
Jake is silent for a moment, shocked into stillness. And then, “He what?”
Your smile doesn’t reach your eyes. “I can see why you have such a hard time getting along with him. He’s kind of the worst.”
“Wait,” the wheels in Jake’s mind start to spin. “Did you tell him, then? About our contract and everything?”
“No,” you shake your head. “He never realized our relationship wasn't real. I just asked him to give me until New Year’s. I told him I would break up with you then, as long as he retracted the accusation.”
Jake takes a step closer to you. “And he agreed?”
You nod. 
Jake pauses.Takes another step. “Why did you ask him to wait until then?”
There are a million things you could say, a million ways you could answer.
Because I couldn’t stand the thought of another New Year’s alone. Because the thought of being at a party hosted by my mother without you at my side made me want to crawl out of my own skin. Because I’m selfish. Because those butterflies in my stomach have a habit of making me do stupid things. Because everything I told your brother in his office that day was true.  
You can’t give him all of it, but you can at least offer scraps of your honesty. “Because I wanted to spend my New Year’s with you.”
Jake says nothing, but his feet are moving. Each step brings him closer and closer to you. It feels a bit like it’s playing out in slow motion, delaying the inevitable. You move backwards until you run out of places to go, until he’s crowding you against the door of his bathroom, invading your space and demanding all of your attention, your focus, you. 
There’s no hesitation this time around, not when he leans down, cupping your chin in one hand to adjust the angle to his liking.
“Wait,” you breathe, lips a hair's breadth from his own. “What about your brother–”
“Fuck my brother.”
And then his lips are on yours. In the sanctity of his bedroom, in the aftermath of revelations. It’s the second time in the span of a week, and it already feels familiar. A little bit like coming home. 
His palm finds a place to land against the sliver of skin exposed just about the waistband of your borrowed sweatpants. A shiver traces the length of your spine, this time not from the cold but from the unbearable, unmistakable heat that threatens to boil over with every touch of a fingertip, every ghost of a caress. 
When you pull back for air this time, you don’t use the moment to shatter what’s just beginning to build between you. For real this time. Instead you say, “You’re really good at that, you know.”
“Thanks,” Jake grins, still a little breathless. “I could use some more practice, though.”
And who are you to deny him an opportunity for improvement?
epilogue – one year later. 
“This looks pretty cute on you, you know.”
“Do not touch it,” you hiss, swatting Jake’s hand away from your graduation cap. “Do you know how long it took me to bobby pin it into place? You’ll rip out half my hair if you try to move it around.”
“Okay, okay. Sorry.” Jake raises his hands in mock surrender, puts them as far as he can from your immaculately done headwear. 
Unlike you, he’s dressed in jeans and a button-down. But it makes sense. After all, the only person celebrating a milestone today is you. Jake doesn’t find that he minds so much. He just submitted his final project for Advanced Typography a few days ago, and he received stellar marks on it. The best in his section, actually. Not to mention that the class has been one of his absolute favorites so far. 
Besides, his time will come soon enough. In another year or two, it’ll be his turn to have a graduation cap bobby pinned to his hair. And he thinks a Graphic Design diploma will lead him to much happier places than a Business one ever would have. Even if it does come a year or two behind the schedule he once cared a lot more about. 
For starters, it won’t let him or you fall into any more ridiculous traps set by his brother ever again. Turns out, things like photoshop and other image-altering softwares leave traces. Ones that Jake is now excellent at detecting and could use to easily work his way out of false plagiarism accusations the future may throw his way. 
Straightening your graduation gown, your eyes land on something behind Jake’s shoulder. There’s a crowd today, as to be expected at a graduation ceremony, but you’ve always been good at finding what you’re looking for. And even better at finding what you’re avoiding. 
“I think I see your family,” you nudge Jake. Even his father is here. Mostly, you suspect, because you never bothered to correct his assumption that you’re heading to law school after this. Next to him stands James, lips twisted in permanent disdain, no doubt dragged here against his will. 
Still, you propose, “Should we go say hi?” The only reason you suggest it is because you also see your second favorite Sim (and first favorite on the days that Jake is particularly annoying). Hand blocking the sun and eyes wandering, you can tell that his mother is looking for the two of you. 
Jake keeps his back to them, steps in front of you to block you both from their sight. “No,” he denies flatly. “My brother is still weirdly obsessed with you.”
You wink, nudge him as you tease, “Must run in the family.” It’s an echo of a past conversion and rings even more true this time around. 
“C’mon,” you grab his hand, tugging him along. “I promised your mom a picture. I’ll ignore him. Trust me, I’m good at it.” Glancing down at your feet, you reconsider. “Actually, I’ll step on his foot. These heels weren’t just made to look good, you know. They’re actually a pretty decent weapon if yielded properly.” 
So Jake relents, lets you pull him along. Towards an interaction he doesn't really want to have but knows he will come out of just fine. Towards a future that’s full of uncertainties and doubts, but is his alone to forge. 
He doesn’t know what life will look like in ten years or five years or even just one, but he knows that he likes the way it feels when he does his best to put a little love into everything he builds. To let it swell and overflow until it touches the world around him and smoothes over lingering remnants of the bitterness and resentment and anger that never did anything but make him miserable. 
And Jake likes the way it feels when you smile at him. He likes the way it feels when your hand is wrapped up in his own. 
And for now, he thinks that might just be all he needs. 
outtake – sixteen years ago. 
At the age of six, there is a lot you don’t know about the world around you yet. 
For starters, you don’t understand why it’s only grown-ups that get to drive. It seems awfully unfair that you’re always relegated to your car seat in the back when the front seems much more exciting, especially considering the way your mom is always yelling at the other cars. 
You’re also not sure why she always makes you wear itchy dresses whenever you go to places with a lot of other people. After all, your princess nightgown is way more comfortable, and you like the way it feels against your skin. But no matter how many times you begged, your mom still put you in one of those awful, scratchy dresses tonight. And by the time she finally finishes her first round of mingling at your family firm’s annual charity fundraiser and lets you sit down in the seat next to her for a brief break, you’ve already been poked and prodded by people you don’t know more times than you can count. 
Which is saying a lot, since you just learned your numbers up to one hundred last week.
And you’re really not sure what your mom means when she leans over to your father and whispers, “I think this could be the start of something extremely profitable. A contract with the Sims, exclusive rights to represent them legally, I mean, that’s huge.” 
You scratch at your shoulder. That’s the itchiest part of your dress. Your mom leans a little closer to your father. “I know you don’t like to, but suck up to him a little tonight, if you have to. And if he invites you to golf, you must say yes. We absolutely cannot blow this opportunity.”
At six, your interest is still a flighty thing, and grown-up conversations you can’t understand are usually quick to lose it. It’s not long before your eyes are wandering for something to entertain them, something to hold your focus. 
Finally, it settles on a boy halfway across the room from you. He’s small, just like you. You wonder if he’s six, too. If he can also count to one hundred now. 
Head tilting, you watch as he reaches for one of the delicately balanced centerpiece bouquets sitting on a table in the middle of the room.
“Jake,” you hear someone call, that edge of worry only mothers can manage clouding her voice. “Don’t touch that, sweetheart. It’s fragile.”
“Fragile?” The boy repeats.
“It could break easily,” she explains patiently, pulling his hand into hers as she guides him away from the fragile centerpiece. If he is six, you’re definitely smarter than him. After all, you already knew what fragile means. 
But watching his retreating back, you wonder some more. Wonder if he was made to wear an itchy outfit tonight too, wonder if he’s ever gotten to drive a car or if all mothers are thieves of fun, just like yours. Wonder if he also hates coming to these things, if people pinch and prod at him too. 
“Jake.” You try out his name, just to see how it feels in your mouth. 
Momentarily distracted by the reminder from your mother to keep your voice at a whisper level, you lose him in the crowd.
Jake, you think to yourself. Most of all, you wonder if he would be your friend. 
⋆。゚☁︎。⋆。 ゚☾ ゚。⋆ ⋆。゚☁︎。⋆。 ゚☾ ゚。⋆
note: thank you for reading!! I know that this one is quite the commitment with the word count, so I really do appreciate it. as always, I love to hear thoughts, comments, screaming, etc. in the comments, reblogs, or my inbox! also, like part one, this is the latest version I had saved in my docs, and I didn't reread before posting. if there's anything glaringly off, please let me know. other than that, please excuse any minor grammatical stuff.
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tiredfox64 · 5 months ago
Note
I already sent this ask but accidentally sent it before I could fully type it out, I apologize 💀
But I was wondering if you could write a Lin Kuei x reader where she finds a stray kitten outside and takes it in to nurse it back to health. She probably keeps the kitten hidden in her room. Tomas probably finds out about it first and she’s just like “please don’t tell Bi-Han” So the two of them help raise the kitten and try to keep it a secret from Kuai Liang and Bi-Han.
Thank you 🩶💛💙
Calico Critters
Yip notes: No need to apologize! Ah yes, the cat distribution system is working just right. It been working for me for years
Pairings: Lin Kuei Bros x Afab reader
Warnings‼️: I hope you’re not allergic to cats
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You’ve always wanted to own a pet of your own. It didn’t matter if it was a shaggy dog or a wimpy tortoise. You wanted to love and care for something when the world could not give it to them. But your family was not big on owning pets. They would tell you they were too much responsibility and cost a lot of money which you understood. You thought you would have a chance to care for an animal when you were an adult but that hope dwindled quickly. Bi-Han would not allow you to be distracted by even a moss ball. Unless that pet was a powerful stallion, you weren't getting anything.
But the universe doesn’t listen to Bi-Han. The universe gives when the time is right and that time is now. It is your destiny and right to own a pet. And what better way to start your loving journey than with the sweet love and attitude of a kitty cat.
══💤══╡°˖✧🦊✧˖°╞══💤══
You just finished practicing for the day, the winds pricking your skin even with how hot you were. If you stay outside for any longer you’ll risk getting arthritis in your joints. And boy is that hell in the winter and summertime.
You were stopped by a sound that you thought was the wind at first. A squeaking that was unfamiliar to you. There was nothing in Artika that could make that sound. Not even a seal would make this high-pitched squeaking noise. You followed the direction of the noise, bringing you closer to a fern bush. You moved the leaves out of the way and came across interesting colors. Orange, black, and white with a pair of green eyes. Oh my goodness, it’s a kitten! The poor thing was shivering and being pushed by the wind. It seemed to be alone. There was no mother cat around or even any siblings. This one might have been the runt of the litter.
“Oh, you poor thing.” You said softly as you lightly picked up the kitten in your hands.
It, or more like she since this was clearly a calico, immediately started nuzzling in your hand to gain some warmth. You couldn’t do much since your hands were starting to freeze as well but it was better than the rough ground and thin ferns. You started looking around to see if there was anyone else around. There were luckily none to see what you were about to do. You moved your uniform around to find a spot to stuff the kitten into. The only place that worked was your chest area. You let the kitten snuggle up against your uniform as you started making your way inside.
Your arms were crossed over your chest area as you took quick steps toward your room. It didn’t matter if someone had something to ask you or was asking if you were alright, you had to get this kitten somewhere safe. You had to ignore Bi-Han as well. That was a risky choice, you know how much that man hates when no one listens to him. There were other things on your mind.
Finally, you got back inside your warm room and let the kitten out. She was still shivering but it reduced. You grabbed the softest blanket you had before rolling her up in it. She was like a burrito in the softest tortilla ever. The squeaking sound she produced ceased and she finally opened her eyes fully since there was no snow pelting them.
They were as green as the fern you took her from. Her irises were not slit but like big orbs. There was already a connection made. You are her savior, her new mother. This world is too cruel for such a pure being to live in. You must protect and keep this calico. She needs you. If you try giving her to another family you’ll break her heart.
Have I guilted you enough?
Screw Bi-Han and his rules! You’re keeping her. You just need to keep her hidden. Good luck with that.
══💤══╡°˖✧🦊✧˖°╞══💤══
Your family was right, pets are a big responsibility. You had no issue with getting supplies for your kitty like litter, toys, and food. But goodness that little mouth can be loud.
Meow! Meow! Meow!
She never stops. Her mind is too small and fragile to realize that she is creating sound herself. She speaks but is there truly meaning behind her words? No. Her brain functions but not fully. It will still be a while before she can comprehend that she has control over her mouth. For now, she will scream for the gods to listen to her cries. Or she will just scream at you to feed her more fish.
You tried bottle-feeding her some formula to help calm her down. It works for a little before she screams. She drinks, she enjoys, she screams. What more does she want, she doesn’t even understand trigonometry. Why is she having a crisis?
Meow! Meow! Meow!
Tomas stopped walking in the hallway. His eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Why did he hear a high-pitched meow coming from your room? What are you doing in there?
He walked closer to the door and placed his ear against it. He heard you speaking to someone, saying that they needed to quiet down and that no one could find out about them. There were more meows after that. He’s not going to wait for the answer to hit him in the face. He’s gonna investigate this for himself.
“What is that noise?” Tomas asked as he opened the door. His eyes widened once he saw something in a blanket and a bottle in your hand.
There is no easy way to explain this. You slowly turned around to show the colorful kitty in your arms. It was a relief to Tomas to see that you weren’t holding a baby but it’s still confusing. He was about to ask you why you have a kitten but you already started begging.
“Please don’t tell Bi-Han. You know he’ll tell me to get rid of her and I just can’t do that. Just look at her.” You held up the kitty burrito in front of Tomas.
“Where did you find a cat? When did you bring it here?” There were a thousand questions running through Tomas’ head but he did take a moment to look at her.
For once she quieted down. Her big, green eyes looked into Tomas’ soul. Those eyes were begging him not to snitch. They beg him to love her, care for her, to be a father to her. You were right, Bi-Han would tell you to get her out. Her small size or pure eyes would not win over his heart as it was doing with Tomas’ at that moment. Her little paws began clawing out of the blanket before stretching them to the sky. Her paws spread out and he could see the light pink toe beans that were so tempting to squish. Ah, it’s just too cute!
“You still need to tell me how you found it.” He reminded you.
You gave him all the details. You told him how you found her, what you did after, when you got all the supplies, and how long you’ve had her. You’ve only had her for a week and she’s beginning to desire more solids. You’ve been taking some of your fish from dinner and bringing it back to your room to feed her. Somehow no one has noticed until this point. You were doing well, she’s just a loudmouth.
“You seem to have your hands full. It’s like you became a mother overnight.” He joked.
She started taking big, wobbly steps on your bed. She climbs over the lumps in your sheets with determination. Her wobbly legs carried her to Tomas who was resting on your bed as you relayed everything to him. She screams and she is heard. Tomas laughs a little before trying to pet her. For some reason, she falls and begins to roll off the bed. He panics, rightfully so, as he tries to catch her in his big hands.
“Nooo, why would she do that?” He asked like he was truly heartbroken. He might have actually been heartbroken.
“She’s dramatic.” You replied.
Now she’s purring in his hands like she didn’t just cause him to have a heart attack. His thumb lightly pet her head and flicks her ears back and forth.
“Wait, did you even name her? You never once mentioned a name?” He pointed out.
“I was more concerned about hiding her than naming her. But I guess now would be a good time to think of a name.”
You two sat there for a good few minute trying to think of a name for this little scoundrel. This rapscallion who lies upon Tomas’ hands and receives pets from him. What to name a unique creature like her?
“How about Ionnah? I think it’s unique just like her.” Tomas suggested.
“Ionnah, huh? That sounds cool! I love that for her. Ionnah it is.”
She was already getting used to the name considering her head perked up once you repeated it. Now this secret lies with you and Tomas. You two are responsible for her. You both must hide her and care for her. Congrats, you have become cat parents.
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She was easier to manage with the help of Tomas. He brought her more food and since he had more freedom to leave he took the time to get cat food for Ionnah. He even started to teach her to be a hunter like him. And by teaching that means letting her chase a cat toy in the shape of a mouse. Yup, that’s a lethal predator right there. She’ll be taking down some of the clansmen in no time.
But you two could not be more obvious. You do realize Kuai Liang sees all, right? You can’t hide anything from that man he will always get suspicious of something. He’s been seeing you both whisper to each other and giggle about stuff before sneaking into your room. Tomas always shuts the door quickly and locks it. Are you two…dating?!
Oh nah, he needs to know now. Why would his brother hide anything like that from him? He doesn’t like that at all. Kuai Liang kept a close eye on Tomas, almost mad dogging him until he would say something. It didn’t work because you and Tomas weren’t dating. You’re just parenting together which could be like dating if you fancy that.
Ah whatever, Kuai Liang needs to sharpen his kusarigama. And you both need to figure out WHERE THE FUCK YOU LEFT IONNAH!
“I didn’t realize I left the door slightly open. I was so tired after that mission.” You were crying into Tomas’ arms after you couldn’t find Ionnah.
“It’s going to be alright. We’ll find her. She couldn’t have gotten far with those tiny legs of hers.” He tried soothing you before taking your hand to look around the temple.
Ionnah was on a journey of her own. She may be small but she is mighty. She was looking around for some extra food since you and Tomas figured out you were feeding her fish multiple times a day without knowing. She likes her carp. But her green eyes saw something else that she was interested in and her slit pupils became wide.
She saw the rope that was connected to Kuai Liang’s kusarigama. The other end with the kunai on it was hanging off the table, the rope occasionally waving when Kuai Liang would move it to sharpen the other side. Those hunting practices Tomas was giving her kicked in and she bolted toward the rope with her claws out. She pounced on it, sinking her claws into it. She is so light that Kuai Liang didn’t feel anything pulling on his weapon. He only noticed something was wrong when he heard you sniffling near the doorway. Tomas’ eyes were angled down in shock as he was unsure of what to do to not make Kuai Liang look down.  Ah, too late he just did. That was when he noticed the furball made of white, black, and orange gnawing at his rope.
“Huh? How did that get here?” He questioned before leaning down and grabbing her by the back of the neck.
She immediately let go of the rope in response to the grab. Kuai Liang lifted her up to his face to get a better look. She looked perfectly healthy, too healthy to have just strolled into the Lin Kuei temple. Something ain’t connecting. He looked past Ionnah to see Tomas coming towards him with his hands out as if asking to pass her to him.
“Can we have her back please?” Tomas asked softly like that would stop Kuai Liang from asking questions.
“Explain.” He said bluntly.
“Okay.”
You went over what happened again. You added on the fact that you begged Tomas not to say anything and he agreed to help you take care of Ionnah. All the while she continuously purrs in Kuai Liang’s lap as he pets her. She loves how warm he is. He’s like a sentient toasty blanket to her.
“I agree that Bi-Han would have told you to get rid of her. I would have agreed with him but now I see that she has not caused any distractions in your two. You both have been training still and doing missions. She has caused no issues.” Kuai Liang said as he looked down at her.
“So you won’t tell Bi-Han?” You wanted to double-check.
“No, I will not. But you might need extra help seeing that this slip up of yours could have gone wrong if she made her way to Bi-Han. I would like to help out. Plus, she is adorable.” He smiled softly as he smoothed out her fur.
This was awesome! Three parents for this little lady. One who is a 24/7 warm blanket for her, one who is constantly playing with her, and one who is a mother at all hours of the day. She is surrounded by so much love and warmth. Hopefully, no bitter cold will envelop her again.
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You three have spent a lot of time in your room now. Every day after dinner you all go to your room to spend time with Ionnah. Every time the door opens she gets up from where she is and runs up to you while meowing. Her eyes are like boba every time she looks at you and her tail waves back and forth. She is that boost of serotonin that you all need.
Other than her mouse toy, Kuai Liang has figured out she loves rope. She loves climbing it and gnawing at it. He got her some rope that didn’t have sharp pieces of metal at both ends. She’ll start getting the zoomies when Tomas and Kuai Liang start playing with her. She will switch between the rope and the mouse before doing circles. You’d be there laughing at her cute antics. She’s gotten bigger and stronger since you first found her shivering in the cold. It warms your heart to see her enjoying her life with so much love around her. This is a better life than being stuck outside.
You’re still too suspicious. It’s the same thing except Bi-Han has noticed now. He notices how there are more whispers between you, Tomas, and Kuai Liang. He’s seen you all rush into your room. Though he didn’t come to the same conclusion Kuai Liang did, he was still suspicious. He believed the issue was in your room and he was right. That’s why he made you three go out on a mission so he could snoop around your room.
You were concerned about leaving Ionnah alone since Tomas and Kuai Liang would be with you. But Kuai Liang told you to lock the door and there would be no problems. He or his brother could help unlock the door once you guys get back. You thought that would be reasonable so you accepted the mission from Bi-Han. You did what you were instructed and locked the door. But do you think a lock will stop your grandmaster? Never.
When you guys left he immediately made his way towards your room. Of course, the door was locked but Bi-Han was quick to think of a solution. He made a pick made of hard ice to jam into the doorknob and it worked like a charm. He opened the door and Ionnah thought it was her parents. She leaped off your bed and began running towards the door until she saw Bi-Han. Her ears immediately folded down as she backed up. Her tail went down and she made that whining noise to alert that she did not feel safe. He is not her father.
Bi-Han’s eyebrows furrow in frustration as he watches her give him warning signs. She sure had an attitude.
“A calico…interesting…”
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“How could this happen again?” You started crying.
When you three came back and Kuai Liang tried to pick the lock he realized it was already unlocked. You three couldn’t find Ionnah anywhere. Not under the sheets, the bed, in the closet, under the dresser, or even in the drawers. You all ripped your room apart and could not find her anywhere.
“Do you think she could have snuck outside?” Tomas asked Kuai Liang.
“That is impossible, she hates the cold. She would not willingly go outside even to chase after us. She has to be in the temple still.” He said.
You all scattered around the place trying to find even a hint of her. There was no fur anywhere to hint at her being in a certain area. She did not respond to her name or even pspspsps. No meows or screams from her. You all met up in the middle again and none of you had any good news. But that’s when Tomas noticed something strange. He pointed to the fish pieces on the floor. There was a path of them all leading to…Bi-Han’s office! Oh gosh, he found her!
You three burst into his office expecting him to be holding Ionnah captive. Instead, you saw her lying on his desk while he worked on some paperwork. He sees he has to order more fish for the clan. Ionnah immediately picked her head up and jumped off his desk to run up to you. You picked her up and gave her many kisses, thanking the gods for keeping her safe surprisingly.
“I expect to hear that your mission was completed,” Bi-Han said casually.
You all were shocked. It was like he didn’t notice the kitten that was once on his desk.
“Brother, are you not going to ask-“
“Ask about the cat that you have been hiding away even though I told you that you were not allowed to own any pets,” Bi-Han said with a clear attitude.
You looked down all guiltily even though you have proven to be able to take care of a kitten. Tomas and Kuai Liang were not happy with their brother and his cruel tone. They were still confused about why he even had her in the room. He was ready to answer that though.
“I was wondering where the runt of the litter was. I was surprised to see it was a calico since they are rare. She does not look like her mother but she does have her fluffy coat.”
This confused you more until Bi-Han got up and walked over to a corner of his office. That’s when you notice the sort of fort made from blankets. He lifted one of the corners to show a bunch of kittens and one cat. That’s Ionnah’s family! She really was the runt of the litter!
You all got a closer look and saw that the mother was a Serbian cat with light gray fur. Her babies seemed to be a mix of Serbian and Russian blues. Some had darker fur while others had lighter fur. What they all had in common was the mother’s fluffy fur that was well-kept and her green eyes. Yup, that’s definitely Ionnah’s mother. Bi-Han placed the blanket back over to allow them to rest.
So Bi-Han was the one who took the rest of the family in? Who would have thought! Not even his brothers would have guessed that. What was he supposed to do, leave them out there to freeze to death? He can be evil and cruel but he’s not a monster. If he can manage a clan he can also manage a litter of kittens. There is enough fish to go around even for Ionnah which was the only way he could get her to leave your room. She would not allow his cold hands to pick her up.
“But I thought we weren’t allowed to have pets.”
“You are not allowed to have pets but I am allowed. I’m the grandmaster, it is my choice. Plus, they are useful when it comes to getting rid of mice.” The second point makes sense but the first is bitchy of Bi-Han.
“So…does that mean you are keeping Ionnah for yourself?” You asked in a sad tone, thinking Bi-Han would keep her for himself since he is the only one allowed to have pets around here.
“Why would I keep her when she does not allow me to touch her? There is no point. You can keep her but remember she belongs to the Lin Kuei.” It’s important that he adds in that last part.
You were extremely relieved to hear that and so were Tomas and Kuai Liang. That means Ionnah is still yours and you all get to do whatever with her. She can live with you and have other cats to spend time with if she chooses to. She’ll get all the fish she wants and if there are any mice around that’s an extra treat. Good thing Tomas was already training her. She’ll be the best mice hunter the Lin Kuei has ever had!
Yap notes: Speaking of cats here's my co-writer who sometimes distracts me:
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Also I do have calico critters that my bestie gifted me for Christmas which I gifted her a cat set as well:
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Also that card in the middle was cause i didn’t wanna put a divider or do a transition cause i got lazy and I just want more of my ice cream cake. Adiós!
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haoboutyou · 7 months ago
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pretty kitty | lee minho
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fluff | 707 words | no warnings
If hybrids exist in this world, you are convinced your boyfriend would most definitely be a cat.
Cats love Lee Minho, and he loves them just as much. Your affection for him increases tenfold whenever you see him tenderly caring for any feline within his sight. He’s the kind of person who would carry extra cat treats in his pocket even when he was only going on a walk around the neighbourhood. He prepares Soonie, Doongie and Dori’s food bowls with such immense attention to detail every mealtime, and the cats have made a habit of eagerly waiting for him to come home to the door every evening. And your personal favourite: how gentle he is with his cats, always talking to them in soft voices; that’s how much he loved and adored them.
Naturally, you’ve noticed that your boyfriend seems to have picked up on some of his fur children's habits. His jaw widens first when he yawns, eyes forming into the cutest crescent moons as he does so. He shies away from physical touch, but bumps his head on your shoulder when he craves your attention. His arms reach outwards whenever he stretches after waking up from sleep.
Even now, he slowly blinks to show you that he is actively listening to you, reminiscent of his feline counterparts. His concentration breaks briefly when he notices a cat sleeping on the park bench, stopping to bend over and pet the sleeping calico. You couldn’t help but giggle at how he tilts his head, confused as to why you started laughing mid-sentence.
“Pretty kitty.” You mumble, kneeling next to him. Minho watches as you reach over to scratch the cat’s chin. The cat lets out a subtle purr at your touch, eliciting a smile from you.
His signature vanilla scent enveloped you as his arm slings around your shoulder. Minho pulls you closer to him, causing you to practically fall into him.
“That’s not right,” he starts the exact moment you yelp in surprise. “I’m your pretty kitty.”
“Minnnn” you whine, “you’re gonna scare him.”
“Good.” He hugs you tighter, nuzzling his cheek into yours. “You should only pay attention to me.”
“Jeez, what’s gotten into you?” Laughing, you leaned into his chest. The cat must’ve gotten sick of the PDA happening right in front of him, choosing instead to disappear into the bushes behind. “Min, the cat ran away!” Oh, how difficult it was for him to resist pinching your cheeks.
Instead, he turns to plant a sloppy kiss on you. He throws his head back, whole body vibrating with laughter when you over-exaggerate wiping away his affections. “I miss this. It’s been a while since it’s been just the two of us.”
It’s true; the two of you had been so preoccupied with work lately, to the point that the only time you got to see each other was through brief video calls late at night. Today was the first proper date you had been able to go on in a month, and Minho was determined to keep you all to himself.
Humming in reply, you stood up, pulling your boyfriend up with you. His grip on your hand tightened as he stuffed your intertwined hands into his jacket pocket. As if transported into a romance drama, a gust of wind blows through the very park you stood in. Cherry blossom petals flutter about, with a few of them even getting caught in Minho’s fluffy hair. You reach up on your tippy toes to extend a free hand moving up to brush them away. Minho takes this chance to grab it by the wrist, tilting it to press another kiss on the inside of your palm.
“I’ve missed you too, my pretty kitty.”
His ears tinged as pink as the flower petals floating about. Half his face hidden by your hand, his shining eyes stare back at you with all the affection in the world. One day, he thinks. One day he’ll permanently make you his.
But for now, he notices how the chill of the wind causes you to shiver, prompting him to pull you even deeper into his chest. “There’s a cafe nearby that Jisung recommended. Shall we go?”
“Yeah, i’d like that.”
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hier--soir · 1 year ago
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sun don't set
ellie williams x f!reader
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rating: sfw, not explicit summary: life in the little house is calm - quiet. days pass in a blur of fruit and sunshine and companionship. slow mornings, afternoons, and evenings. ellie is slowly rediscovering her love for music, and on that journey, she writes a song about you. warnings/tags: late twenties ellie, set years after the events of tlou2, no spoilers or discussions of plot points in tlou2 - except perhaps the description of an old injury but the way it happened isn't described, established wlw relationship, food and eating, brief description of skinning animals for food, soft soft soft ellie. word count: 1.3k masterlist a/n: this short little thing poured out of me after a nice sunny day and it's maybe one of the softest, sweetest things i've ever written. a slice of life type thing based on the happy ending i hope ellie got x [ALSO the song ellie sings is ronnie's song by odie leigh]
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The little house lives in the basin of a valley, circled by sycamore boughs and juniper bushes.
A shallow stream trickles close by.
In the mornings, you eat berries drizzled in honey, sipping warm tea while watching the water. The air is still and quiet, filled only with the sounds of the dribbling brook and teeth sinking into ripe fruit. The first rays of sun arrive and they are safe and warm against your skin, and time moves slowly. Gently.  
You sit on the patio in chairs that she built. Ones that creak and whimper as your weight settles upon them; rickety wood and worn old nails. On the armrest, hers or yours, fingers catch and hold. Thumbs and indexes and pinkies looped together.
In the afternoons, she peels an orange. Spindly fingers tear thick skin, pulling apart perfect segments of flesh – one for you, one for her, one for you, one for her. Together you bite and chew and swallow, jaws and mouths and teeth working in sync. In the silence, you relish the feeling of tasting this together. That burst of juice across your tongues. Wisps of pulp that catch in the cracks of your incisors.
When it’s warm you splay out on the grass, stretching and purring like two cats in the sun. She’s a calico, splotches of white and brown and beige, and you’re a tabby, mottled streaks of burnt orange – wiling away what’s left of your nine lives together.
In the evenings, she returns from her walk. Some days empty handed, others with rabbit or duck or deer trailing behind her. On those days you sit with your knees pressed together, sharp knives peeling back hair and skin and feathers. You eat as the air turns cooler and the sun sets over the hill, an almost endless—always wondrous—burst of oranges and pinks that taint the sky before it turns to black.
Often, you turn in first. Tuck yourself away inside the little house, swathed in blankets; keeping her side of the bed warm. Alone, she reaches for the guitar. Takes it outside and closes the door behind her, so that those soft melodies won’t carry to your ears. With heavy eyelids, your ears pique and strain, eager to listen. But she must stray further than the patio, for you never hear a thing.
Time passes and she joins you soon enough. Her long limbs coil around yours beneath the covers; cold toes press into the skin of your calves. Her hand on your back, those fingers tracing a tickling portrait. The tip of your nose rests in the base of her neck and you breathe in the scent of pine and rosemary and honey on her skin. In the darkness, sinking into her warmth, you feel tenderness thicken the lining of your throat. And together you sleep; at peace knowing that another morning awaits you.
Ellie found the guitar in your fourth year together. Deep brown, layered in dust, the sound hole and fretboard decorated with cobwebs. She didn’t say a word as she slung it over her back and carried it the entire way to the little house. Didn’t offer any explanation when she stashed it away in an empty room. And when you caught her one night, long after sunset, wiping away the dust and tightening the strings, you didn’t ask any questions. Didn’t ask if she was thinking about him – you already knew the answer.  
“It’s hard,” she told you one morning, lips and chin shining with berry juice. “Learning how to play again. How to play… like this.”
Your fingers ghost over the palm of her left hand, splayed on the armrest of her chair. Tracing lines and scars on pale skin until you reach the shortened stumps of her ring and pinkie finger.
“Sometimes the hardest things,” you pick up her hand and lay a soft kiss to each finger, lingering a little longer on those two. “Are the things most worth doing.”
She hums a short response, eyes trained on where your lips touch her skin. Then her hand cups your jaw and brings your face to meet hers, and she smears the taste of blueberries into your mouth.
It’s not until a morning in your fifth year together that you hear it for the first time.
She wanders in from the chicken coop, white and brown eggs cradled in the well of her palms. The wind tousles that short auburn hair, loosening it from behind her ears, and carries her voice through the door to you.
“She’s my… I’m… she’s a coffee cup, I’m tea.”
Your fingers still against the page of your book, and you glance up as she walks through the door, still murmuring under her breath.
“What’s that?” you smile.
“Eggs?” She holds them up, eyebrows pinched defensively—secretively.  
“Ellie,” you laugh. Dog ear the page of your book and tuck it away on the kitchen counter. She nestles the eggs carefully into a bowl and sidles up beside you, hooking an ankle neatly around yours.
“It’s nothing,” her nose brushes against the apple of your cheek, lips chapped and dry from the morning air as they lay a kiss to your jaw. “How do you want your eggs? I’ll make a fire.”
Months pass after that, and you hear it as she bathes. Hear it as she hangs your socks on the clothesline.
“She’s the salt,” she sings faintly. “And I’m the sea.”
Hear it as she builds her arrows, hunched over the table, tired fingers fiddling. Hear it grumbled through a mouthful of mint as she brushes her teeth.
“She’s a dog, and I’m her fleas.”  
One day in Summer you walk together, following that little stream all the way to the lake. You hear it then too. Softly, under her breath, your hand held loosely in hers as the sun turns her shoulders pink.
“If she’s creamer, then I’m jooooe,” the voice you love purrs, her thin lips pursing and parting as she drags out the vowel. “Sun don’t set, wherever we go.”
And then one night, as the two of you sit admiring the sky and all of its pinks and blues and yellows and oranges, you abandon your chair for hers. Slink two steps across the patio and into her lap, welcoming the way her arms drape around your shoulders. She kisses the bone at the top of your spine, the sloping side of your neck, and watches the sky from over your shoulder.
And then she sings quietly, her voice a delicate and hoarse thing against the back of your head.
“She’s a pistol.” A breath in and a breath out. “I’m a bow.”
“Is that from your song?” you ask, voice a hushed whisper. Scared to break the softness of the moment; the sunset trance that rests in a warm shroud over the patio.  
“Hmm?” she murmurs. You feel her lips trail the shell of your ear, the edge of your jaw. You shiver and go lax in her lap.
“Will you sing me your song?” you say louder, eyes focused on the waning horizon.
“My song?” Ellie laughs. One of her hands slips from your shoulder to play with the hairs at the nape of your neck. Twisting a strand around her finger and tugging gently. “It’s your song, babe.”
“Well, I’d like to hear it,” you murmur, and you can hear the smile in your own voice. “Properly, I mean.” Feel the heat that rises in your neck at the mere thought of it. Your song.  
“What about…” she says, fingers thrumming a beat against your stomach now. “What if I sing it for you in the morning? I think it’ll be warm. Sunny. We can see if those strawberries you planted are ready to eat.”
You consider it for a moment—her lips stained pink; eyes bright as she croons your song in the morning sunshine.  
“With the guitar too?”
A pause.
“With the guitar,” she agrees.
You nod once and turn to kiss her. Smile into her mouth.
“Okay,” you whisper. “Strawberries and my song in the morning.”
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thank you for reading! x
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snowy-yoshi · 1 month ago
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something i really like about calico jack, professor natquik and ranger marsh is how they all reveal themselves by emerging from the darkness, a cave or a bush. it’s a small thing but i find it really interesting :3
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so-i-did-this-thing · 21 days ago
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Hi hello I'm a new follower here and I'm losing my mind over the fact that your cat and I have the same name, tell Ada I said hello!!
Hello! 😽
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She is named after Ada Lovelace, and more importantly, was an imaginary cat (down to being a calico) I headcanoned for some of my Pacific Rim blorbos.
And then she materialized for real in the bushes one evening, just barely out of kittenhood:
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The power of imagination!
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kaciidubs · 10 months ago
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Kaciii I know someone sent sungie and jinnie in skirts buttt, what about poly! Skz with you seungie, sungie, lixie, and jinnie in skirts and tail plugs I would melttt.
Oh, I'm absolutely melting and foaming at this thought, Nonnie! ❣ Warnings; Sub Poly! Hyunjin, Jisung, Felix, and Seungmin, Fem Dom! Reader, slight feminization, pet play, mommy kink, hint of a foot kink ❣ Additional tags; Usual pet names, Jisung is referred to as Sungie and Seungmin is referred to as Minnie for ease of reading, Reader is referred to as Jagi, Mommy, Miss/Ma'am Previous: Hyunjin and Jisung + Skirts
Play Time [Pretty Puppy, Pretty Kitties]
Having the free time to schedule a play date involving two of your boyfriends was a trial to say the least, but having the grace of gathering all four for one full night of play was a feat only the best could pull off.
Luckily for you, you were the best.
It always started out the same; laying out blankets, rearranging some furniture, and gathering all of the necessary toys for the night, before your pets came to run amok - under your rules, of course.
Hyunjin, your pretty kitty, elegant white tail plug and fuzzy ears to match, was sitting at your feet with sultry, yearning eyes.
"You look like you want something, Hyune," you hum softly, gently twisting a stand of his jet black hair around your finger, "mind telling me what it is?"
"You, Miss." His response came fast and easy, never the one for beating around the bush when it came to his desires.
"Me? My precious prince, you know play time is meant for everyone, right? Why don't you go play with them for a little bit?"
His simmering gaze turned into a soft pout as he looked longingly toward your other partners and you followed suit, easily realizing why he sought you out first.
Jisung, the calico kitten dressed in a baby doll tank top and pastel pink skirt, was eagerly watching the remaining two of your pets happily play fighting each other; Felix, your excitable orange tabby kitten, wrestling with Seungmin, the lone golden retriever puppy among your kitten group.
There was already a dynamic at play, and Hyunjin resigned himself to taking, potentially, the easy way out.
"Oh, my poor baby," cooing in played up pity, you nudged your sock covered foot against the obvious bulge of his purple skirt, "You just need someone to give you attention, is that it?" When his eyelids fluttered from the welcome stimulation, you smirked, "Alright, sweet prince, I've got you. Sungie, can you come here, kitten?"
At the sound of his name, Jisung crawled over to you before nudging your leg with his face, peering up at you with doe eyes.
"Yes, Jagi?"
"It seems like our precious Hyune feels a bit left out..." Leaning down, you danced your fingers down the line of his jaw before pulling his pink bottom lip down with your thumb, watching as it bounced back into place. "Can you play with him, for me? Give him the love he deserves?"
Nodding with no hesitation, the small bells on his cat ears jingled from the motion, "Y-Yes, I will!"
Just as you went to praise him for his obedience, a sharp cry reached your ears and you looked up to see Felix at the will of Seungmin yet again; the puppy pinning him down and nipping at his sensitive skin.
"Minnie! No biting!"
Felix let out a whined moan at a particularly sharp bite, turning his head to look at you with glistening eyes - though, the pleasure flushing his face was unmistakable. "Mommy!"
Scoffing out a laugh, Seungmin glanced at you with the fire of challenge burning behind his eyes - ever the daring puppy to test your patience. "But he likes it, look at him!"
Of course, you knew he liked it without needing further proof, yet your eyes trailed down their lithe bodies to see Felix's white skirt flipped up from the roughhousing and his dick solid and leaking against his thigh. You could also make out the sight of Seungmin's own length poking the fabric of his blue plaid skirt, equally as excited from the push and pull of their little dominance match that he never failed to win.
Coming back to your nerves, you pinned him with a warning glare, "Did I ask if he enjoyed it?"
Conceding with a smirk, he shook his head, the sliver tag of his collar catching the light with the movement, "No, Ma'am."
"Okay, then. Don't make me have to turn this into a punishment." turning your attention to your orange kitten, your gaze softened, "Lixie, honey? You okay?"
He nodded quickly, "'M okay, I- I just want more."
Humming in understanding, you looked back to the previous pair to see Hyunjin on his back, airy moans falling from his plump lips while Jisung's head was partially covered by his skirt - though, judging by the not-so-subtle sucking sounds, you could guess what exactly was happening.
"It's okay, baby, we're about to get into the real fun pretty soon."
[unedited]
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huramuna · 1 year ago
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the calico bastard - chapter 1.
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 aemond targaryen x strong bastard oc (series) part one | next part
summary: After his takeover of Harrenhal, Aemond encounters a dreamy-eyed, wistful bastard of House Strong, who piques his interest and changes the course of Westerosi history.
 warnings: smut (eventually), angst, canon typical violence, canon typical misogyny. will add more as I go through each chapter. 
wordcount: 2.6k
a/n: alys rivers doesn’t exist in this universe, alysanne takes her place somewhat. a/n 2: this is my first fic, i got the courage to post it -- please be nice n' leave a like if this interests you!
wuthering heights - kate bush • leave me for dead - GAYLE
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It was a chilly spring day when he arrived— atop his dragon that blotted out the sun. 
Harrenhal stood tall, foreboding against the horizon of the Riverlands. It was a tower with a known history of bloodshed and held many ghosts within its hallowed walls. 
Recently, it’d been a symbol of the Dance, a game of tug of war between the Rogue Prince and his One-Eyed nephew. 
Day after day with Daemon holding Harrenhal, Aemond taunted him by flying in the distance atop his mossy colored war dragon. 
Until, one night, Daemon acquiesced. He gathered his forces and left during the hour of the wolf, leaving the original denizens of the ancient stronghold behind.
It was all too fast that Aemond would seize the opportunity— and seize he did.
“Bring out every man with the blood of House Strong in his veins!” he cried out, his voice stringent and unwavering. His dragon grumbled in agreement just outside of the castle’s walls.
His soldiers ripped husbands from their wives, fathers from their children, and sons from their mothers. All were dragged out to the courtyard. 
A diminutive lady watched atop the castle ramparts, looking down at the scene. Alysanne Rivers— a bastard of House Strong, as far as she knew. 
She looked nothing like her Strong relatives, her hair being almost white in color, tumbling down in billowing curls, likely not been cut drastically since she was born, as it lingered past her bottom. The only reminiscences of the Strong bloodline was the errant streak of brown that ran down the front of her hair.
No two sides of her face were alike— one side had a violet eye with white lashes and a brown eyebrow, the other side having a brown eye with brown lashes and a white eyebrow. 
‘The Calico Bastard’ they tended to call her, mostly behind her back— but she didn’t mind. She was rather fond of calico cats.
As she pressed herself belly down on the ramparts, she observed the man below. Tall and chiseled, she could almost feel the hate and contempt eek from his being. It smelled of brimstone. 
Her brows perked as he reached to his face, ripping his eyepatch off, revealing the sapphire prosthetic underneath. He spoke a few words, too quietly for Alysanne to hear.
Then he unsheathed his sword. She watched with widened eyes as he brought down the blade upon the neck of the first in line— Ser Simon Strong, the oldened head of Harrenhal; now beheaded. 
She didn’t retch, but she felt a pit of darkness settle in her stomach. Alysanne had been raised as a bastard usually was; hardly at all. She was treated like a dormouse, her chambers being a closet near the kitchens, her bed a pile of old mattress material. 
Her Strong family had treated her with contempt, for the whiteness of her hair and her violet eye— she could only wish to hope that her mother, whomever she may be, never received such treatment. 
She’d heard not much about her mother over her eighteen years of life, and such questions would earn her a slap to the face. 
She never felt love for the Strong family, not even her father, Lyonel Strong, who had left her for many years of servitude on King Viserys’ council. 
The only one to not treat her like dirt beneath her feet was her supposed half-brother, Ser Harwin ‘Breakbones’ Strong. He was the only kind person she’d ever known.
But he was gone now. And apparently, so was the rest of House Strong.
She watched the heads roll into the mud with a detached gaze. No tears would be shed on account of her blood family’s deaths, but she hadn’t seen such ruthlessness firsthand. The only thing comparable was when she heard the screams of her father and brother dying in a fire all those years ago— but she didn’t see them. 
As the last man fell, Aemond glanced up at where she was laying. He leaned over and said something incoherent to a Dornishman next to him. 
Then she was grabbed. She kicked and growled like an impudent animal, snapping her teeth at the soldiers that drug her from the ramparts, down to the courtyard and before Aemond himself. They let her go, then, and let her adjust herself as Aemond approached her slowly.
The bastard girl glared up at him. And he stared back, his one violet eye wide with a fading madness. 
“You were watching,” he started, his voice laced with authority but also… curiosity. “What do you make of this?” he asked then, his arms resting behind his back. 
She swallowed nervously as he got a bit closer, to which she took two steps back. “I see the dragon has come to deliver its reckoning upon House Strong.” she bowed her head, averting her gaze as if it pained her to keep eye contact with him. 
Aemond’s brow rose. The way she spoke was odd, mysterious, dreamlike, even. Not unlike how his own maddened sister, Queen Helaena, spoke often. “Reckoning,” he repeated, “House Strong has defied the crown for too long.” His tone held a touch of disdain for their audacity to challenge him—an affront that demanded retribution in the form of blood spilled upon already stained grounds. 
He stepped closer to her, closing the distance between them. His presence so close was almost suffocating, scalding— like being too close to dragonfire. “And what do you make of this reckoning?” he pressed, searching her mismatched eyes for any recognition that she understood— it was more likely she didn’t. 
“You smell of ash and musk, dragon,” she murmured, stepping back once more. She did not like having people in such close proximity to her, it seemed, as her eyes flitted nervously around.
“A reckoning within your right; mere mice burn before a flaming beast.” she said finally, seemingly in a riddle or poem. Her voice was soft, lilting and song-like; not unpleasant upon the ears, but could be unnerving if anyone actually paid attention to the depths of her manic mutterings. 
Aemond’s face stayed neutral, his jaw clenched slightly, “And what do you make of this flaming beast? What lies beneath its exterior?” he continued. There was something about this fidgety bastard that intrigued him— perhaps it was how much she looked and acted like his sister. His heart clenched slightly at the thought. 
She let out a huff, as if annoyed by his incessant questioning. “A dragon needn’t concern itself with the opinions of mice or birds,” she grumbled. Her hands fiddled with the hem of her dress. “Are you going to kill me, dragon?” 
He stared at her for a moment longer, “Hm,” he seemed to mull it over in his mind, “Mayhaps not, for the moment. I am in need of a cupbearer, and you are capable enough.” 
Alysanne bristled slightly but said nothing. She just stared down at her feet— they were bare, stained with dirt and dust. 
“It seems she knows the power of holding her tongue. I know a few bastards who would do well to learn such a thing,” he added before turning his gaze upward towards two of his men, “Find some handmaidens or servants and have her scrubbed and dressed— I shan’t have my cupbearer looking like…” he appraised her dirty form up and down, “that.” 
The two soldiers nodded their heads, “Yes, prince.” they hummed in agreement, one going to grab Alysanne once more. 
He roughly pulled her, the coarse leather of his gloves grating against her skin. She hated the feeling, the sensation of being grabbed and strewn about like she was nothing but a sack of potatoes or a bale of hay.
Aemond spoke once more, his voice cutting like a whip, “And treat her with respect— she may be a bastard, but she is still a lady, hm?” he glared at the pair of men, his icy stare boring particularly chilly into the one who had so carelessly handled her. 
The soldier straightened up, releasing Alysanne from his grip— he left harsh red marks upon her skin, “Yes, my prince— apologies.” he dipped his head. 
Seeming satisfied with the answer, he turned around and began walking away. 
Alysanne observed him with a tenuous gaze. The way he walked was unnerving— a bit slow, but meticulous. Like a stalking predator. 
But he wasn’t just a mere predator, was he? He was the apex, the king of predators, hewn from brimstone and lava deep within the fissures of the Fourteen Flames. 
Alysanne had encountered the Targaryen house before— with Daemon having occupied Harrenhal just before. 
Daemon was an annoyance to her. She had a distaste for him, even if they did not speak. He would leer at her, looking as if he was undressing her with his eyes. 
But Aemond— he felt different. He didn’t leer, nor undress her with his eyes or look upon her as a commodity. 
No, he looked at her as if he wanted to remove her skin and see what lies underneath. To remove the outer layer of her being from the bone and tear out her heart— 
She snapped herself out of her reverie at the annoyed quip of one of the soldiers that were to escort her. 
“You deaf or something, bastard? Get moving,” the man grunted. 
A fitting noise for him, as he was nothing but a grunt, behest to a dragon. 
A dragon that interested Alysanne, for reasons she didn’t understand. There was an unconscious nagging sensation, deep in her gut when she looked at him. A feeling that elated her and made her feel sickly. 
She walked along, being escorted— escorted in her own home. She thought the idea silly, but let them do as they liked. They were stronger than she— let them have their moment of significance. 
Prince Aemond, as it turns out, left much of the staff in Harrenhal intact. Scared, but alive. 
Her mismatched gaze flitted around as they stepped into the Great Hall. The quivering, huddled bodies of servants, cooks and maids alike stood together. 
“Oh, girl, you lived,” the cook, Magga, cried. The older woman broke away from the conglomerate of clucking hens to go embrace Alysanne. 
She flinched slightly— girl, Magga had called her. She didn’t even call her by her name. She hardly ever did, and never with such… saccharine sweet reverie. 
She fought every instinct within her to run away, growl or do some other animalistic display of fear as Magga enveloped Alysanne in an all encompassing hug, practically suffocating her in her bosom. 
“We thought ye dead, girl,” Magga continued, “They said they were butcherin’ all of House Strong. They didn’t do anything to ya, did they?” 
Alysanne, once she was finally able to catch her breath, shook her head. She was still confused by Magga’s sudden maternal disposition. The cook always treated Alysanne as a nuisance, an extra mouth to feed that likely didn’t deserve it.
Witnessing death, she supposed, had a funny way of changing people. 
Alysanne would give the old cook a fortnight before she was back to calling her a bastard and trying to beat her bloody with a wooden spoon for pilfering honey cakes. 
The two guards that had led Alysanne in seemed unmoved by the reunion. One, apparently named Ser Daunton, spoke up, “Which of you is a maid? The prince has deemed that this…” he cleared his throat before speaking, “lady, requires to be bathed and clothed— befitting the station of royal cupbearer.” 
A few of the ladies spoke up. Flora and Beth stepped up— sisters from near Maidenpool. “Yes, ser,” Flora, the more talkative of the bunch, murmured, “We will… tend to Lady… Rivers,” she glanced over at her sister, who gave an imperceptible shrug of her shoulders. 
“Very good. I’m sure that the prince will have need of his… cupbearer sooner than later— so do not tarry.” Ser Daunton nodded, his gloved hand rested on the pommel of his sword before he turned and left, a nod of his head commanding his companion. 
As they walked out of the Great Hall, there was almost a physical sigh in the room. 
Flora and Beth walked to Alysanne, the latter finally speaking, “What in the name of the Seven did you do to be spared?” she hissed, pushing Alysanne to the back room while Flora began to heat the water for the bath. 
“I did nothing— the dragon, he—,” her voice was cut short as Beth pinched the sensitive skin of her arm.
“He is not an actual dragon, you dumb girl,” she admonished, “He is a prince— more so even than the one that was here before. At least address him with some modicum of respect. You greet him as ‘my prince’ or ‘your grace’— no more of this foolish dragon nonsense.” Beth grumbled, stripping Alysanne of her clothes. 
“But he… he is a dragon, he—,” 
SMACK.
A sharp hit to her cheek by Beth, “I don’t care if he has horns growing out of his bloody head, or breathes fire— I won’t have you jeopardize our lives by spewing hogwash,” she paused for a moment as she began pulling Alysanne’s hair out from the errant braids she had them in, “I… He is unstable, look what he did to Ser Simon— poor lord couldn’t even raise his sword before the prince took his head. He was just an old man, shameful,” Beth continued, her fingers attempting to unknot her curls, “But we shan’t expect better from a Kinslayer.” 
Alysanne winced, her scalp prickly and heated. She didn’t say anything else— she would only dig herself into a deeper hole; it already felt like she was six feet under. 
The sisters dragged the odd-eyed lady to the copper tub, now filled with hot water and began to scrub her raw. Her skin pulsed red before finally settling into its normal pallor. 
Her hair was run through with a brush, more than half a dozen times before pulling it back into one tight braid that swept to her posterior. 
They stuffed her into a modest dress— a blue woolen kirtle with a white undershirt, the sleeves long and puffy. 
Alysanne, who hated being touched, squirreled and wriggled all throughout their prodding. She wasn’t a skinny thing by any means— she had a soft core and curvy figure, which was accentuated in the corset they strapped her in. 
“Cruel lot of chickens,” she grumbled under her breath, eyeing the two sisters with ire. 
“Hm— didn’t know you had a pair o’ hips under those mops, Calico,” Flora hummed, “This might be what the prince wanted you for.” 
Alysanne felt her cheeks heat up at the thought— she had been the receiving end of looks of leer and lust a few times, but she staved them off. She had no interest in romance, or whatever her twisted ideology of it was. Nor was she interested in being rutted into like a barn animal. 
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she replied, her voice quiet, but with a tinge of sharpness, “A dra— a prince has no use for a calico bastard— mayhaps you should visit him instead of I, Flora?” 
SMACK. 
That earned her another red mark on her cheek— one from each of those shrewd sisters. 
“I’d knock you out if you weren’t meant to be somewhere, Calico. Now go, I’d imagine you’re being expected.” Flora snapped, leaving the room. 
Beth tagged along, giving Alysanne one last dirty look. 
She took a few deep breaths, smoothing down her dress. Once, twice, thrice. With as straight of a posture as she could give, she left the room as well, quickly swept up by Ser Daunton to be escorted to the prince. 
Into the dragon’s lair.
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chlorophasmic · 8 months ago
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==> [S] Treekat: Welcome the spring! (@standbywarrior)
It's not every day the seasons change, and certainly even more infrequently you've been awake to witness this particular transition. The winters are cold and harsh, driving to sleep even the hardiest inhabitants of the forest, including yourself. Generally, curling in a bush until the snow melt from overhead is the only signal you take to awaken.
Spotting the white hair bobbing at the corner of your vision, though, you know just how much that's changed. It's funny, how quickly your followers swapped out. Paws that trekked through the barren whiteness of December, the cozy heat at the side of your neck where a small calico hid from the frigid winds.. they're replaced now by the forced nonchalance of the forest's newest residence, and the awareness of the collar constricting your throat, now free of hitchhikers.
It's a short walk to the dungeon, but you're in no hurry. It's spring, after all. Though the air is still crisp, chilled down by last night's rains, the shine of the sun is unmistakable in the sky, finally freed from the grey overcast that'd haunted most of the dark months. With the sway of snowdrops poked out between thawed roots, heavy and bulbous with young petals, the effects of the slow warming are unmistakable. The rustle of reborn leaves seem to chide you for ever doubting, and you stray over the new mosses towards the direction of the labyrinth you've abandoned since Futurekat was discharged.
There's no trace of psychic outbreak, now. Every limb, once broken, cleared and gnarled into scabby ends, replaced by new shoots. The woodland, like all things, has healed itself.
You're hoping that's a good omen for things to come, as you glance to the man who's spared you no ounce of turmoil since his return.
"..Hear anyone new?"
No gesture to the surrounding life, tweeting and twittering amidst the canopy. The birdsong is enough of a cue, and you've known Karkat long enough to know he's probably already immersed himself in it. All the better- You'd asked him to trek out here with you. Might as well get something out of it, since he didn't seem familiar with the prospect of celebratory ciders.
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dira333 · 1 year ago
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Married life
Sasuke x reader, just a little bit of fluff
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Contrary to popular belief, being married to an Uchiha isn’t like the dreams of little school girls. 
He doesn’t bring home flowers every day or serenade you under the stars. He doesn’t buy you fancy jewelry or take you out to dinner every week. 
The reality was a lot less impressive.
Most of the Uchiha estate had been destroyed in Pain’s attack and restoring what was left gobbled up your savings faster than Naruto could scarf down a bowl of Ramen.
It had taken Sasuke a whole year to prove himself worthy of taking on something above a D-Rank Mission, his earnings barely paying the bread you put on the table.
And it took a toll on him, you could tell, that his contributions were so small. 
He had never been a romantic and living as a nomad for so long had stolen what had been left of his inclinations. Why should he buy you flowers if they would only wilt on the table? Why buy jewelry you would not be able to wear during work?
Luckily for the two of you, you’d never been one to compare.
“Thank you.” You tell him when he opens the door for you, leaning in to kiss him. “I’m so happy to see you.”
Sasuke smiles softly. He doesn’t remind you that you’ve only been gone for the day, he likes your little routine.
“I found something today.” He tells you as you unload the groceries you’ve got on the way. Without asking he picks up the fruit and places them in the bowl on the table where they are always in sight, a nice little remember to eat a bit more healthy.
“Really?” 
“Yeah. You’ll like it. How was your mission?”
“Boring, but I guess that’s fine once in a while. I’m free tomorrow, do you want to sleep in?”
He throws you a smile from where he’s putting the meat in the fridge. 
“Always. Ready for your present?”
“Always.” You copy him and let him take you by the hand, guide you through the house onto the unfinished patio.
“Wait here. I’ll be back in a second.”
Despite his efforts, you hear the soft mewling before he even opens the door.
You turn with a smile to him awkwardly holding a calico kitten, the cat desperately trying to escape.
“I found her in the bushes.” He explains as he drops the kitten into your waiting hands. “Knew you would love it.”
“She’s so cute. Have you given her a name yet?”
“I’m not good with names.” He laughs softly when the kitten starts gnawing on your thumb, his own hand softly caressing the kitten’s tiny head. “You name her.”
“How about Yuki?”
“Like Snow?”
“No, like Happiness.”
“I like that.” He gifts you a smile that’s carefree and open and so rare on his face. It makes him look just as young as he still is, as innocent as he once was. 
“Thank you.” You lean up to kiss him. “You’re the best.”
It’s not the first pet Sasuke has brought home. 
Around and beneath your house live a lizard, a turtle, and a finch, all animals he’s found and brought home to nurse back to health. Maybe the cat will stay in the house, maybe it won't, but every time he brings home another stray and claims that it’s a present for you, it reminds you how much love he’s still left to give.
Being married to Sasuke is not a glamorous feat nor the carefree life some might have thought at age 12.
It’s a calm and gentle adventure, but an adventure nonetheless.
And one of these days you’ll ask him to add another soul to the potpourri of your life when the patio is finished and the kitten has learned that the bedroom is off-limits.
Or maybe, like those things often go, it will happen when it happens.
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rhysdarbinizedarby · 1 year ago
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Our Flag Means Death Costume Designer Breaks Down Season 2's Punk-Pirate Looks
Gypsy Taylor explains the surprising historical details that influenced the 'rule-bending' comedy's costumes
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Rhys Darby, Our Flag Means Death (Nicola Dove/Max)
[Warning: The following contains spoilers for the Season 2 finale of Our Flag Means Death.]
Packing a ton of plot twists and emotional upheaval into a tightly paced eight episodes, Our Flag Means Death just concluded its tumultuous second season. Season 2 ends on a heartwarming note, with Ed "Blackbeard" Teach (Taika Waititi) and Stede Bonnet (Rhys Darby) settling down to open an inn together. This gives fans a satisfying happily-ever-after if the show ends here — although showrunner David Jenkins intentionally left things open for a potential third and final season, teasing a team-up between Stede, Blackbeard, and pirate queen Zheng Yi Sao (Ruibo Qian).
Along the way, Our Flag Means Death continued to deliver its unique brand of historical storytelling, offering a chaotic mash-up of 18th century sources and modern themes. Working in tandem with theatrical visual effects and a soundtrack featuring Kate Bush and Nina Simone, costumes play a key role.
To cap off the season, TV Guide spoke with costume designer Gypsy Taylor. Among other topics, we discussed Stede and Blackbeard's evolving wardrobe, the historical research behind characters like Zheng Yi Sao, and Taylor's favorite unsung costuming details among the supporting cast.
This season there's a lot of journey to the costumes. Characters are experimenting with self-expression. I'd like to talk first about Stede, who starts as a caricature of a foppish aristocrat, but looks a lot more practical this season. What was the vision for that look?
Gypsy Taylor: The story is that he's lost everything. Blackbeard's gone on a heartbroken rampage and he's destroyed everything that looks like Stede on the ship — which would include that wonderful wardrobe. You know, like how you'd throw your boyfriend's clothes in a box out the window.
Stede was on his boat heading to the island at the end of Season 1, just wearing this one outfit. We see him in a filthy version, he's been living in it for two or three months. Rhys [Darby] was a little bit disappointed because he was like, "Do I get to wear any rings?" And I was like, "No! You've lost them all!" Then as the season starts to go on, he starts stealing some other pirate clothes and he starts to get really sexy and come into his own gorgeous pirate self.
And he gets that cursed suit.
Taylor: The cursed suit was so much fun! That's the first time in months that he's seen something beautiful like what he used to own. It's on this Spanish ship, so we went with a dandy matador look. Rhys put the calico version of that on in the fitting room and instantly embodied this character. He was flicking the tails and spinning around and he stood up straighter and his butt clenched… It was magic to watch.
I love that dandy side of him. There's a lot going on in terms of gender presentation with the main guys. They're both trying to escape toxic masculinity, but Stede's also chasing this idea of being a badass, and then Ed is doing the opposite because he abandons his leathers. I'd love to hear your thoughts on that, and how Ed is for half the season wearing things like sackcloth and linen.
Taylor: The leather is very constraining, and it's very much his persona of Blackbeard. To lose all of that means he's lost his toughness, and that exterior that's sort of like armor. So we went straight for the opposite end and just put him in a rice sack that he'd made into a jumpsuit. The idea behind it was that Wee John had sewn it because he'd started to learn to sew and knit — the concept being that there [were] rice sacks below the decks, which was very common in pirate ships.
Once Buttons turns into a seagull, his clothes were left behind on the ship. So Blackbeard takes those linen clothes, and he's like, "This feels right, this is kind of light."
I don't know if you're able to speculate about Season 3, but given the symbolism of Ed's leathers, do you think we've seen the end of that outfit, or is it going to stick around?
Taylor: I can't say anything to Season 3, but I do know that in the finale the leathers magically come back. I had a conversation with [showrunner] David Jenkins because he says, "Well, we have to end the show with him wearing his Blackbeard leathers, that's what we all know of him." And I was like, "How the hell has he gotten them?" You know he's thrown them off the boat, into the ocean, never to be seen again. And David just turned to me and went, "He's Blackbeard, he can do anything." I thought that was pretty funny.
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Taika Waititi, Our Flag Means Death (Nicola Dove/Max)
That's exactly the kind of fairy-tale logic the show thrives on.
Taylor: We often refer to it as Looney Tunes. It's not exactly historically correct. Funny sh-- happens and we all sort of took on that Looney Tunes theory of like, episodes change and something appears and then it doesn't.
The good thing with costume and pirates is that the way they get their outfits is they just steal them. So whatever we came up with, I was like, "Oh well, they run into a French ship and they've stolen a great leather jacket." Costume elements could appear based on that rule that pirates steal anything.
I'd love to hear a bit about the crew's looks. The show does a really good job of illustrating their personalities, but this season a lot of them also have this makeover where they start out wearing Blackbeard's goth/punk outfits, then change into something more comfortable.
Taylor: Characters like Izzy and Fang were already established in the Blackbeard gang, so we didn't change them too much. With Fang I added extra sperm whale teeth and extra studs. I got rid of his shirt and we covered him in tattoos. Time had passed and he'd evolved a bit. Izzy was very classic, so we didn't need to change him at all. He was pretty adamant not to be evolved as the other guys had been.
Frenchie and Jim, which are the biggest transformations we see, they've spent months at sea with Blackbeard, who is a tyrant. He's made them wear head-to-toe black, and they've had to piece together outfits from around the ship. So Jim is covered in all these ropes to make them look tougher, and their belt is a giant fish hook. Frenchie's an artist, and he's stolen a beautiful leather jacket — he's brought the little flag element into the back of his jacket with some embellishment. Then Archie just looks like she's picked out of a crowd of pirates from the Republic of Pirates.
As far as the other characters go, we continued on from Season 1 and just kept their same outfits, but three months later. They were stuck on an island, so I gave Wee John a little necklace that he'd tied out of old rings that he'd found. And we gave Olu some shells and pieces that they could've crafted on the island.
Once we see them all go to Zheng's ship, I wanted to keep elements of the Zheng uniform. So you see with Black Pete, he kept the shirt but ripped off the sleeves and got some new pants, and Roach kept the pants. It starts to become like a mesh of all the little adventures that they've gone through, or the trauma that they've gone through.
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Our Flag Means Death (Nicola Dove/Max)
I love the contrast you mentioned between Izzy and the others. All the other characters are having fun experimenting with their looks, and Izzy is so static. Do you think he's more sure of his identity?
Taylor: Definitely sure of his identity, you nailed it there. He's also very sentimental, like he's got his mother's ring around his little scarf. You know his glove on his hand, he wanted to keep it on that hand and I was like, "Shall we add some studs to it?" And he was like, "No no, keep it as it is." He's just very much about routine and rules and sentimentality.
Even for Calypso's party, I was like, "How far do we wanna go?" Everybody's dressing up and covering themselves in flowers. Once we learned that he was singing La Vie En Rose I was like, "I think we should keep it classic." Just put a little rose here, and Wee John's done your makeup, and you'll look classic and beautiful.
This show has a really fun relationship with historical accuracy. I was interested to read that you do a lot of historical research, maybe more than other members of the creative team. How do you decide which characters should look more historical and which ones are more anachronistic?
Taylor: I always started with the historical first. I actually didn't know much about Captain Zheng, so I got really into the history of pirates. I would always start there, with that 18th century historical moodboard of the paintings that were done of them, or the etchings. Then I'd add our rule-bending concept, which was to make everything a bit more rock 'n' roll and a bit more streets of New York in the '80s.
I was able to push completely out of the historical, and put things like safety pins and screen-printing and bleach. You know, zips and studs, and all these things that are very 20th century costume elements, but on an 18th century silhouette.
Is Zheng based on a specific 18th century outfit?
Taylor: There's one really specific [etching], she's wearing those Chinese pants. I looked at a lot of 18th century Chinese work uniforms as well, I looked at one from a collection from a museum. We copied that exact neckline of an 18th century Chinese smock. The same with the shoes. I looked at some workers' shoes from the 18th century, and they had those kind of black ballet flats with a woven bottom and little white socks.
I was using beautiful Chinese silks and Japanese embroidery techniques that were used in the 18th century, and sort of mish-mashing it all together because she would travel the Silk Road through Egypt and Morocco, and collect all these fabrics.
Same with Anne Bonny. Again, there's some etchings of the real Anne Bonny — quite a famous one with her gun and her pants. I was like, "Oh yeah, I wanna start there and then I wanna sex her up a lot," because her and her girlfriend have a really great S&M relationship, really sadistic. I wanted to bring that fetish element into her. That's where the corset came from. We based that on an 18th century corset, but made it leather because it was more pirate-y.
The twist on her was that David Jenkins came to me and said, "This episode is basically Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?" And I was like, "Great, I love that movie!" So I went home and watched that movie, and noticed that Elizabeth Taylor has this beautiful necklace and this patterned blouse. I was like, "Let's recreate this pattern on Elizabeth Taylor's blouse," which is set in the early 1960s. So we recreated it and then made an 18th century blouse.
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Driver Minnie and Rachel House Our Flag Means Death (Nicola Dove/Max)
I feel like this season the villains are the most historically accurate. There's this contrast: Ned Low and Prince Ricky have a formal look, like with the British naval uniforms, and then the good guys have this anarchic vibe.
Taylor: Yeah, I never really wanted to mess with the uniforms. That was actually a really fun one to get historically correct. We had the proper frock coats and the heavy wools, and the heavy brocade. Ned Low and Ricky were very much straight out of an 18th century historical book. But then with Ricky, I gave him the one black lace Madonna-meets-Michael Jackson glove, just to mess with it a little bit.
With Ned Low, once we had his beautiful Paganini-inspired 18th century suit on, David Jenkins was like, "I just picture him being silver." We painted his suit silver, and then art department and props came up with a silver violin, and makeup put these silver teeth in. So he's instantly turned into a rock star.
Finally, are there any little details that you'd like to highlight for viewers?
Taylor: One of the background characters that I love the most is one of these pirates when Stede is the maitre d' at Spanish Jackie's. His first encounter with a customer is this horrible swearing pirate. I'd been listening to a pirate podcast that morning on the way to work, and I was learning all about how many rats were on board. I was like, "I reckon that pirate should just have a whole jacket made out of rats." That's what you'd do with all the dead rats, right? You'd have a little fur bolero.
I asked one of my team members to make me like a hundred little fur rats. She'd hand-sewn all the tails and little feet and ears. Then we built this vest and they covered it in blood and dirt, and made it all like wet rats that had been living at sea for a hundred years.
That's the kind of thing you might see a fan wearing at a convention, a really specific background character.
Taylor: God, I hope so. You'd have to get in real close to see there's actually little tails all over the whole thing.
I'm trying to think of another really sweet thing. That whole Silk Road thing was really interesting to me. I found this museum piece of a necklace that was all these little leather satchels that collected little pieces along their travels. We started making this beautiful piece, and we ended up giving it to Auntie. It's these little trinkets from Japan and Egypt and Morocco; she wears all her souvenirs around her neck close to her heart. There's a lot of little things like that where we go into great detail and I give a little backstory, but maybe no one will ever notice. Or they might! You never know!
Our Flag Means Death Season 2 is now streaming on Max.
Source: TV Guide
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breadvidence · 3 months ago
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Ch. 17 of Dammit finally expands on Javert’s blatant pass at Valjean in Montreuil, which is the divergence point between it and The Dammit AU: Fuckin’ Montreuil. I don’t know that I’ll ever expand enough on the AU to post on AO3, so, here:
***
Obligation keeps him at the event until its close, when there’s some matters of paperwork around the donations collected through the night, but he dodges the round of self-congratulation among the organizers that follows on the excuse of needing air. He’s wistful, at such times, to have given up smoking: it makes a natural escape. He will accept some awkwardness, Cathy Womack’s knowing glance: after all, he’s no politician, in need of winning that game, and if he’s learned effective charitable giving requires social networking, well, he has money enough to play eccentric, too. He finds a chair on the back porch of the town hall, which overlooks a sharp drop-off planted with calico bush, heavily in fruit, and he feels the temptation to take cuttings—there’s that spot of poor soil that looks altogether too bare of flowers, in summer, that has good enough drainage to—
The door behind him opens, and he pivots in his chair. Makes his expression exceedingly pleasant as he greets, “Why, hello, officer.”
“Mr. Madeleine,” he drawls—Jean Valjean has never been able to quite place his accent, but he recognizes—empathizes with—an effort to sound middle class, whatever’s underneath. “I think we’re the last ones here.” He heels the door closed behind him and strolls to the chair opposite, resting one hand on the back.
“Call me John,” he invites, for the—is it the second or third time? “I saw you circulating.” Difficult not to; of the people in Montreuil who are taller, none were present, and none even of those can boast shoulders quite so broad. “Not on official business, I hope.”
“Do you?” He gives him the flat, searching stare to which he is so very unpleasantly inclined, which is like being caught under the beam of a high-powered flashlight: it will not penetrate or burn, but it’s damned unpleasant. “Father Inez convinced me the church ladies needed another set of hands for set-up and break-down. I’ve spent the last thirty minutes hauling folding tables and chairs into a back room. But then, if I had known you would be here, I might have assumed there was enough muscle available for the job, and declined. —It’s too damn hot, isn’t it, for late summer?” He shrugs out of his sport coat, tossing it over the back of the chair, and sits, thumbing open the top button on his shirt as he does so.
If he stands and leaves now, how terrible a faux pas will it be? Fairly bad, he hazards. “Ah.” No, last time they spoke at any length Javert stared at him until he came up with an actual comment. He’s fucking patient. “Yes, I’ve certainly had to keep on top of watering my garden.”
“Really? I hear you’re out on the east side of town, little bit out of the way. Fair bit of property out there? Might be you have a long hose, then.”
Jean Valjean gives him a bemused look, just shy of impolite. “No, I’m afraid I’m too busy to do more than keep a few raised beds, so the hose is average. As to the rest of the property, it fends for itself. I keep it natural.”
Javert tilts his head, eyes narrowing, as if he’s been posed a riddle. “Well, nothing wrong with that. Average and natural—matters of taste. I don’t mind.”
“Ah,” tries Jean Valjean, uncertain.
Javert looks wry, then he says, voice pitched oddly low, “I’m further out than you—down south. Long gravel drive, and the privacy balances the inconvenience of washing the car regular. Maybe you could give me some pointers. I have a long hose handy already.”
Even further uncertain, Jean Valjean asks, “What did you buy a long hose for, if you’re not gardening?”
“Well, no, I didn’t mean the actual—” He clears his throat. “Though one did come with the property.”
“Oh,” says Jean Valjean.
Javert sighs, mutters what sounds rather like fuck it, leans forward in his chair—reaches out a hand—
Jean Valjean clutches at the arm of the chair—makes a noise he does not recognize from himself, an animal grunt, mindless with the sensation of unexpected weight on his—his groin—he normally dresses right; body parts shifted, today, as happens—God help him—he thinks it’s a threat, Javert could not have intended this intimate contact, and Jean Valjean should knock those long fingers away, he should stand—he should—he seizes Javert by the forearm, feels the heavy muscle there cord, and waits for the moment when he will clench his fingers and do harm, hesitating in his vulnerability to initiate that violence by shoving him away.
Instead Javert strokes his thumb across the head of shamefully firming flesh, squeezes firmly over the shaft, strokes down all the way to his knee, a moment of reprieve, then reverses—terrible—cups his palm over—Javert bends close, mouth near his ear, and growls, “You should invite me over.”
“You should—” Jean Valjean, helpless, chases sensation with a twitch of his hips.
“—yes, come over. I know your address.”
The hair prickles on the back of his neck.
Javert releases him, casually brushes away his lax hand, and stands. “This evening?”
No, please. Jean Valjean looks up into those empty blue eyes, that suspicion, the police embodied bent a little over him, sharp with a lust which abruptly clarifies otherwise baffling behaviors, and feels the risk not to his own flesh but to Javert—in having made the offer, alone. There’s a telling stiffness in trousers others than his own, close by his face. Of the two of them, Jean Valjean senses he loses less by fucking, though it’s—he will pray on it—God will, probably, forgive. “Yes. This evening.”
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