#construction paper angst

[makesomethingawfuleveryday]

forgot to post this important sidewalk chalk art I did of Mr. Bunny, Mr. Sun, Mr. Squirrel, and Ms. Turtle from my high school webcomic

[choerrypuffs]

red velvet hearts.

pairing: bad boy!donghyuck x baker!reader

genre: fluff, slight angst

word count: 7.7k

synopsis: you patch up a boy with a bloody nose and bruised knuckles, only to find out that he has quite the sweet tooth.

author’s note: why do i keep injuring hyuck in all my fics lmao??? anyways i tried to write his character a bit differently than i usually do to challenge myself so please let me know how you guys like it! also remember, ladies: this is fiction. you cannot fix him <3

warning(s): brief description of injuries, mentions of violence, maximum amounts of cringe and melodrama

playlist: all my ghosts by lizzy mcalpine ― heart eyes by coin ― close to you by gracie abrams ― sidelines by phoebe bridgers ― the alchemy by taylor swift

RECIPE 1. TIRAMISU

“This is not what I meant when I said you need your back blown out.” 

“Not funny. I almost died,” you grumble as you wrap the back brace around your torso. You hate the immediate relief you feel from the support it provides, no longer able to tell yourself that it’s really not as bad as it seems―which only makes you angrier. 

“Throwing your back out while lifting a giant bag of flour and nearly getting crushed to death by said flour is genuinely the funniest fucking thing I’ve ever heard,” Yeri, your best friend (derogatory), snorts as she shakes her head. “I wish you had cameras in the storage room because I want to see that shit so bad.”

“Thank you for the brace. You can get the hell out now.” You roll your eyes. 

“So, what are you going to do now? Aren’t you swamped with orders?” Yeri asks, ignoring you completely. 

You have no clue what you’re going to do now. It isn’t just orders you have to worry about fulfilling; it’s also the freshly baked pastries that you have to sell every morning. After a year of blood, sweat, and tears, the bakery that you built from the ground up is finally starting to gain some stable business. So, of course, you chose now of all times to try to lift a bag of flour over your shoulder like you were Dwayne The Rock Johnson. 

“I think I’ll have to hire some temporary help,” you answer begrudgingly. 

“You could sound less like someone is holding you at gunpoint,” Yeri snorts, “Come on. It had to happen sooner or later anyway.” 

“I was handling things just fine on my own.”

“Were you, though?” Yeri raises an eyebrow, gesturing to your current state. 

You fear you walked right into that one. “Shut up and help me make some posters.” 

The two of you eventually manage to whip up some haphazard “Help Wanted” posters, the letters written in glitter pen and Yeri’s clumsy bubble text. You tried your best to fill in the empty gaps on the construction paper by placing Pompompurin stickers that you normally give to customers’ kids all over it. The posters look like a nine-year-old girl’s school project gone wrong, but you hope it’s charming enough to catch some attention. 

By the time you and Yeri finish hanging up all the posters, the sun is already starting to set, and all you want to do is go home and put a heating pad on your back. After saying bye to Yeri, you start making your way back to the bakery to lock up. Once you arrive, you notice a figure dressed in black slumped over in front of the door. You can see their shoulders rise up and down as they take in labored breaths, leaning against the glass door for support. 

Every rational fiber in your being screams at you to not approach the stranger alone, but it’s not like you can just leave this person at the front of your place of business. Cautiously taking a step forward, you squat down to eye level with the stranger, wincing slightly from back pain. Through the sweaty and matted mess of his brown fringe, you can see that the stranger is a young man around your age. However, his face is absolutely battered: bloody (and almost certainly broken) nose, split lip, black eye swollen shut, and a jagged cut on his cheek. If he notices your presence, he doesn’t show it, keeping his head hung down.

Gingerly placing a hand on his arm, you give him a small shake. “Excuse me? Are you okay? Do you need me to call an ambulance?” 

His brows furrow, and he opens an eye (the only one he’s probably able to open) with a wince before lifting a finger and putting it against his lips. You notice that his knuckles are completely scraped raw. 

“Not so loud. I’m okay,” he answers. 

“You don’t look―” 

As if on cue, his stomach rumbles with a guttural growl that slowly drawls into a sputtering gurgle before dying out all together―leaving a long silence to hang between the two of you.

After another beat, he gives you a sheepish smile. “You got anything to eat?” 

You stare at him for a moment; his face is flushed, pink all the way down to his neck. 

And like a stupid horror movie character who opens the door to a room that clearly screams danger, you nod. 

.

.

.

Fortunately, he―Donghyuck, as he introduced himself―ends up not being a crazy ax murderer. 

Unfortunately, you find yourself awkwardly sitting in your closed bakery with a virtual stranger, fiddling with a first aid kit while watching him absolutely devour a piece of leftover tiramisu that you had in your fridge. If the situation wasn’t so insane, you might actually think it was pretty funny. For someone who looks the way he does, this current picture of Donghyuck absolutely doesn’t suit him―bruised chipmunk cheeks stuffed with ladyfingers and cocoa powder stuck on his split lip. 

When he’s finished, Donghyuck looks over at you with a mesmerized expression on his face, as if you just fed him ambrosia. There’s a softness to his face that you didn’t think could exist underneath all that grime and dried blood. 

“That was…delicious,” he breathes. 

“Thanks,” you snort, pushing a glass of water towards him. Unsurprisingly, he chugs it in the blink of an eye. “I still think you should get those injuries checked out, though.” 

“Nah, I’ll rub a little spit in them and it’ll be fine,” he shrugs. 

“Don’t be gross,” you sigh, scooting your chair closer to him as you set the first aid kit on the table. “Now, come here.” 

Donghyuck reluctantly dips his head, and you carefully cup his jaw for support, disinfecting and applying ointment on the cuts and scrapes on his face. You also clean up the dried blood near his nostrils and on his bottom lip, and he doesn’t flinch even when you accidentally brush tender areas like his broken nose or the gash on his mouth. Instead, he stays perfectly still, leaned back in the chair with his forearms resting on his thighs and fingers nonchalantly laced together. 

He keeps his gaze trained on something past your shoulder, and you also try your best to focus, but it’s hard to keep yourself from staring―especially when his demeanor has changed so much. He’s so calm and quiet in such a cold, ruthless manner, as if he’s physically steeling himself from pain―like he’s done this a million times before. Occasionally, you feel his eyes swipe across your face when he thinks you’re not paying attention, and it occurs to you how close the two of you are. Suddenly, you’re acutely aware of the heat of his skin against your palm and fingertips, and you rip your hand away from his jaw. 

Clearing your throat, you move onto his hands, dabbing his raw knuckles with a cotton ball soaked in alcohol before placing large band-aids on them. Despite your best efforts, it’s hard not to notice how slim his long fingers are or how surprisingly clean his nail beds are for someone who’s covered in blood. You keep your head completely bent, fighting the urge of looking up and possibly meeting his eyes. 

“There, all done,” you announce a little too loudly. 

“Thank you,” he says softly, “for the cake and for this. For helping me.” 

“Don’t worry about it. I didn’t do much,” you blurt, still avoiding eye contact as you clean up the table. However, you notice in your peripheral that his gaze follows your movements, almost hesitantly, before he asks: 

“So, you’re hiring?” 

You click the first-aid kit shut, blinking a few times before turning back to him. He looks at you with a raised eyebrow, waiting for an answer.

“I―yeah. How did you know that?” you ask, puzzled by such a random question. 

Donghyuck points at a poster that you didn’t even know you left here, sitting on the table right behind you. You realize that he was probably looking at it while you were patching him up. 

“That poster that says ‘help wanted.’ With the Pompompurin stickers. I’m actually in between jobs right now, so if you would have me―”

“You know Pompompurin?” you interrupt him. It’s not that important and should not stand out to you as much as it does. Yet, you can’t help but grin at the fact that someone like him knows about a tubby Golden Retriever character with a name that sounds like a mashup of the English language’s most adorable onomatopeias. 

Donghyuck trails off, stiffening as if you just found out his deepest, darkest secret. He opens his mouth slightly, trying to speak but unable to formulate a response―an excuse, rather. Instead, he just lets out an airy cough, putting a hand over his mouth and turning away from you in an attempt to obscure his face. Despite his best efforts, he can’t hide his glowing red ears and the way his earlier coldness melts away.

“I―yeah,” he responds, words slightly muffled by his hand. 

You struggle to maintain your composure as you gnaw on your bottom lip to keep from laughing. Fighting a smile in your voice, you finally say: 

“The pay won’t be that much, but you’ll get a bunch of free desserts at the end of the day. Are you okay with that?” 

It takes him a moment to process that you’re offering him the job, and you watch his eyes light up and a warm smile overtake his face. There’s still a light shade of pink dusting his cheeks, clashing with the purple bruising and swelling of his injuries. 

“I’d love nothing more.”

Suddenly, it occurs to you that Donghyuck somewhat reminds you of a tiramisu. 

He may look a bit rugged and grimey, bitter like coffee, but in actuality, underneath it all, he’s soft and fluffy (but not too sweet) like a mascarpone filling. 

RECIPE 2. BLUEBERRY PIE

“Are you out of your mind?”

You cringe away from your phone, hurriedly turning the volume down. “Damn, you don’t have to scream like that.” 

“You should be the one screaming,” Yeri hollers. “I better not come over one day and find your body stuffed in the freezer or something.”

“I thought you wanted me to hire someone!” 

“Not some random dude off the side of the street who was covered in injuries and doesn’t even have any baking experience,” Yeri hisses. 

“I don’t need him to bake. I just have him working the front counter and doing all the heavy lifting when I get my ingredient shipments,” you protest. “Did you think I would really just hand over all my orders to some random dude and go party it up in Cancún or something?” 

Yeri is silent for several seconds before asking, “He’s hot, isn’t he?”

“What?”

“So you did know what I meant when I said you needed your back blown out.” You can hear the smugness in her voice. 

“Yeri,” you say tiredly, “please be serious.”

“I am serious. You’re the one being unserious,” she retorts. “Yesterday, you acted like you would rather sacrifice your firstborn child before hiring a part-timer, and now look at you. Dickmatized.” 

“Okay, I’m hanging up now.”

“So, when do I get to meet him―”

You quickly hit the button to end the call and shove your phone into your pocket, letting out an exasperated sigh. You definitely won’t be hearing the end of that for a while. Your face feels warm for some reason, and you decide that you need a coffee break. After you finish making it, you pour yourself and Donghyuck a cup. 

You peek your head out from the curtain that separates the kitchen and the front counter to see if Donghyuck is busy. He’s politely chatting with an elderly woman, and your eyes nearly pop out of your head when he takes out the entire tray of egg tarts in the glass display and wraps it up for her. The woman happily hands him a wad of bills and waves him goodbye. After putting the cash in the register, Donghyuck turns around and catches you in the middle of gawking. 

“Oh, Y/N. I was actually just about to head back there. We’re out of egg tarts for the display,” he says nonchalantly. 

“Uh, yeah, I can see that,” you whisper loudly, “Was that Mrs. Kim? Why the hell did she order a dozen egg tarts? That woman can barely finish a single cookie.” 

Donghyuck blinks, clearly confused, whispering back, “She asked for my recommendation, so I said egg tarts since no one had bought any yet, and she said she would take all of them.” 

You pause, things finally clicking. Grinning knowingly, you say, “You know, having you work the front is doing wonders for sales.” 

���I don’t understand.” He furrows his brows. 

You laugh, handing him his cup of coffee. “I’m talking about your face card, Donghyuck. You’re too handsome, so you’re flustering the customers.” 

“Are we not whispering anymore?” he asks awkwardly. “Besides, that’s not true. Look at the state of my face right now.” 

His injuries have faded significantly, but the bruising and cuts are still there. You want to tell him that superficial wounds can’t mask the warmth in his caramel-brown eyes, the fullness of his cheeks and the sharp jawline, and the air of mystery that enshrouds him and draws people in. 

But you don’t. 

“Well, for someone who’s only been working here for two weeks, you’re doing superb. Injuries or not.” 

And it’s true. You’ve always preferred to work alone because you’re the only one who understands how you want things done. You naturally assumed it would be a hassle and a waste of time to try to explain to someone else when you could just do it yourself, but Donghyuck never seems to need an explanation. In fact, he knows before even you. 

He gets to the bakery three hours before you, cleans and preps all the equipment you need for the day, unloads the ingredient shipments, and is already manning the front counter by the time you arrive like it was no big deal at all. He also seems to have a sixth sense of knowing when you’re about to do something you shouldn’t be, even though you downplayed your back injury. He’s somehow always there―moving all the stuff you keep on the top shelf to somewhere within your reach even though you insisted that the rickety wooden step stool you use is perfectly safe, cleaning up a glass beaker that you accidentally shattered, taking out the trash during his breaks, checking in on you when you skip lunch. He even turned down his first paycheck, saying it’s repayment for patching him up and feeding him. 

Donghyuck is so perfect that sometimes you wonder if you’re being set up, like maybe he’s secretly embezzling money from the cash register―which would be a more viable theory if he didn’t drive an Audi to work everyday. 

“Thanks for the compliment. And the coffee,” Donghyuck says, snapping you out of your thoughts. He gingerly takes a sip and makes a strangled noise, a mixture being choking and retching, before slapping a hand over his mouth. 

“Are you okay? Was it too hot?” you ask worriedly. 

“No, it’s just…really bitter,” he mumbles, words muffled in his hand. 

“Oh,” you blink, “Sorry. I drink black coffee, so I forgot to ask if you wanted creamer and sugar. Come on, there’s some in the back.” 

The two of you head to the kitchen, and you watch him dump an exorbitant amount of creamer and sugar in his coffee, the dark roast swirling into something more akin to milk tea.

“You know, there might be some chocolate milk in the fridge if you’d rather that,” you tease. 

His head shoots up, those doe eyes lighting up. “Really?” 

“No,” you trail off awkwardly, “Sorry, I'm just messing with you.” 

It’s a bit adorable that you can visibly see him being disappointed in there not being chocolate milk before growing embarrassed, looking down at his cup. He turns away from you, but you can see the flush on the back of his neck. 

“You really have a sweet tooth, huh?” you laugh. 

“Pretty lame, right?” 

“Why would that be lame? You’re talking to someone who owns a bakery, in case you forgot.” 

Donghyuck smiles at you, and it’s sugary sweet like buttercream frosting. He looks at you like you just said the most wonderful thing in the world; in fact, he always makes you feel like that, no matter what you say or do. “I guess you’re right.” 

“What’s your favorite dessert?” you blurt, needing a distraction urgently. 

He pauses briefly. “I don’t think I have one.”

That actually surprises you. “You don’t? Even though you love sweets so much?” 

He laughs, the sound harsh and rough, and it almost makes you flinch. “I’ve never really had an opportunity to have many until now.” 

There’s clearly weight behind his words, but you know you’re not in a position to ask any further. A selfish part of you wants to be important enough to him that you are in a position to know more, but you’re all too aware about him very purposefully keeping you at arm’s length. 

“Well, you have plenty of time to find out,” you quickly continue, pretending not to notice. “Actually, I’m going to a blueberry farm tomorrow because I’m thinking about adding blueberry pie to the menu. When I get back, I’ll bake one for you, and you can be the first to taste test it!” 

“You’re going by yourself?” Donghyuck raises an eyebrow. 

“Of course. Who else would I go with?” 

“Me. I’ll go with you,” he replies immediately. 

“But it’s, like, a forty-five-minute bus ride to the farm. Plus, coming with me to get ingredients isn’t part of your job description anyway,” you explain. 

“I can’t come with you on my own free time?” he asks, tilting his head. “Besides, I’m worried about you overexerting yourself with that back injury. A bumpy bus ride definitely isn’t going to help, so I’ll drive us there.” 

“You’re going to drive that fancy ass car to a farm? You do realize it’s going to be dirt roads, right?” You cross your arms. 

“I think I’ll live. Besides, what makes you think this is the only fancy ass car I own?” He gives you an amused smile. 

“You’re joking, right?” You stare at him. 

He hesitates for a moment. “Yes.” 

“That doesn’t sound―”

“What time are we leaving tomorrow morning?” 

“...Seven.”

.

.

.

Unsurprisingly, Donghyuck picks you up right on time, not a minute too early or late. As the universe would have it, it rained the night prior―meaning all the dirt roads are now rivers of mud. You wince every time you heard a splat of mud hit Donghyuck’s pristine white car, but he seems to pay no mind to it. The two of you arrive at the farm within twenty minutes (he found a shortcut), and because you came so early, you get the entire farm to yourselves. The staff arms both of you with a large wicker basket each before setting you loose onto the massive property. 

“Okay, make sure to pick the fat ones. The small ones are super tart, so avoid those,” you instruct Donghyuck. “We’re going to fill these baskets to the brim and get our money’s worth.” 

“You got it, Captain.” He salutes. 

You give him a determined nod and a thumbs up before turning to your respective side and beginning to pick the blueberries. The two of you work without much fanfare or conversation, and it’s a silence that lingers between you comfortably. It reassures you to hear the sound of the bushes rustling from Donghyuck working; his companionship alone relaxes you. 

Eventually, when the sun starts peeking through and the weather grows warmer, both of you decide to take a break. You find a spot in the shade before sitting down, pulling out snacks and bottles of water from a backpack Donghyuck brought along. 

“I have a surprise for you,” you tell him, trying to hide a smile. “Close your eyes.” 

He eyes you suspiciously but does so anyway. You fish out a handful of unripe blueberries wrapped in a handkerchief from your pocket and feed some to him. His reaction is nearly instant the moment he starts chewing them; you watch as his face puckers up from how sour they are and his entire body shrivels into itself, a shudder running through him. He’s polite enough to not spit them out, but you’re not polite enough to resist pointing and laughing at him. Throwing your head back, you laugh so hard that your stomach starts to hurt. 

“Oh my God, your face!” 

“Ugh,” Donghyuck groans, taking a big gulp of his water. “I should’ve known you had sinister intentions from the start.” 

“I didn’t think you’d react like that,” you finally manage to say after catching your breath. “You really can’t handle anything except for sweet stuff.” 

“Are you having fun bullying me?” He rolls his eyes. 

“So much fun,” you say in a sing-song voice. 

Donghyuck tries to continue feigning annoyance, but he can’t help the low chuckle that rumbles in his chest. His eyes always soften when he looks at you, and his gaze is intimate like a lover’s―gentle, tender, unwavering, and vulnerable. But his warmth is always fleeting, and he only allows you glimpses of it through the unmoving walls that he’s erected around himself. 

You wish he wouldn’t indulge you so, terrified you’ll try to cross the line he’s drawn between the two of you. 

“What are you thinking about?” Donghyuck asks, trying to read your expression

“About the delicious pie I’m about to make when we get back,” you smile. 

“I see,” he responds, though it’s clear he isn’t convinced. “I’m looking forward to it.”

“You better be. This is how I’m paying you back for driving me here,” you nod. 

“Instead of that, pay me back by telling me what your favorite dessert is,” he suddenly says. “I do still want the pie, though.” 

“That was random,” you snort. “Why do you want to know my favorite dessert?”

“Because you asked me, but you never told me yours.” 

You suppose he has a point, but you find it ironic that he wants to know more about you when he refuses to offer you even a modicum of information about himself. Despite this, you tell him anyway because you are obviously the fool here. 

“If you must know, it’s red velvet cake,” you sigh. 

“Why?” 

You don’t answer at first, carefully thinking about if you’re ready to be vulnerable in front of him―still a virtual stranger. A virtual stranger who loves sweets. A virtual stranger who is a bit of a messy eater. A virtual stranger who knows Pompompurin. A virtual stranger who worries about you even when he’s not on the clock. A virtual stranger who gently tells you to be careful whenever you try to do something dangerous, whispering, “I’ll do it instead.” A virtual stranger who allows his luxury car to be caked in mud for you. 

“Because it’s the dessert that made me realize I want to do this for the rest of my life,” you finally say. “I baked it for my mom’s birthday, and I think I ended up being more excited than her.” 

Donghyuck stays quiet, gauging your reaction. 

“I was in college, studying to be a doctor like everyone else in my family. So, like a dumb young person who thought that dreams were more important than money, I dropped out of college and went to culinary school. My parents told me I was ruining mine and their lives, disowned me, yada-yada―a bunch of depressing stuff, you know. Eventually, I graduated, took out a huge loan, and opened up my own bakery. Worked a bunch of part-time jobs until my business could stand on its own. Now here I am. Still in debt, though,” you laugh awkwardly. “But I’m not doing too shabby. I was able to hire you, so at least I have a little cash to spare.” 

He still doesn’t say anything, so you find yourself starting to ramble. You’re really not sure what possessed you to trauma dump on him like that. 

“You know, a lot of people talk shit about red velvet cake because they say the only thing that makes it special is the red food coloring,” you hurriedly explain, “but that’s not true. The cream cheese frosting is super important too. Also, I always say love is the most important ingredient of all. As a baker, you’re kind of baring your heart to the customer, and isn’t it kind of cute that red velvet cake is red like a heart? Okay, please say something now or else I think I’m going to projectile vomit.” 

Donghyuck reaches over and brushes a sweaty lock of hair out of your face. His fingers brush over your temple, which makes you sharply suck in a breath. You almost lean into his touch, but you catch yourself. His hand slightly lingers on the side of your neck, like he wants to bring your face closer, but he eventually pulls away. 

He searches your face, and you’re not sure what he’s looking for―if anything. Rather, perhaps he’s not searching. Perhaps he’s committing your features to his memory, as if the way you look right now is something he wants to remember forever. 

“You’ve worked hard, Y/N,” he says softly, voice slightly hoarse. “This is long overdue, but congratulations. You achieved your dream, and don’t let anyone ever discount that. Not even yourself.” 

You wonder how long you’ve waited to hear that. You’re not even sure you knew you needed to hear that. But when Donghyuck says it, it hits you just how long and hard you’ve worked all on your own without a single break. Throughout the years, you’ve really only ever heard, “I’m sorry that happened.” When was the last time someone congratulated you? When was the last time you congratulated yourself? 

You surge forward, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and burying your face in his shoulder. Donghyuck cradles you against him, one hand wound tightly around your waist while the other is tangled in your hair. You can feel his chest rise up and down as he holds you. He smells like lavender soap and a bit earthy from being outside, and the warmth of his skin against your cheek makes you want to close your eyes and fall asleep in his arms. 

“Thank you,” you whisper. 

“No, thank you,” he murmurs into your hair. 

You’re not sure why he’s thanking you instead, but what you are sure of is that you’re crossing the line, taking a step towards him and wondering if he’ll meet you halfway. 

.

.

.

“Tada!” you announce cheerfully, setting down the freshly baked blueberry pie onto the table. 

Donghyuck claps excitedly. “Holy shit, it looks amazing.” 

“I’m still trying to figure out the right portions for the filling, so let me know if you think there’s too much or little,” you tell him as you hand him a slice. 

Without even answering you, he stabs his fork into the pie and almost eats the entire slice in one bite, seemingly unbothered by the steam still rising from it. 

“Be careful. You’re going to burn your tastebuds off. I’m not letting you eat it for shits and giggles, you know. This is for research purposes.” You cross your arms. 

“It’s perfect, Y/N. I’m serious,” Donghyuck says after swallowing. “The filling isn’t too sweet, and the crust is airy and light.” 

“Well, alright, Gordon Ramsay. I think we’re going to be adding a new menu item then,” you smile. “Think you can get Mrs. Kim to buy a dozen of these?”

“I don’t think she’ll need much convincing with how good these taste.” 

“You’re so easy,” you tease. “All I need to do is feed you. Anyways, I’m going to clean up here, but you should head home. It’s getting late, and you wake up way earlier than me.” 

“I’ll help,” he insists. 

“Go,” you order, pointing at the door. “I can handle it.” 

He looks conflicted but eventually relents when you threaten to physically kick him out. Before he leaves, he turns back to you and says, “Thank you, Y/N.”

“Why do you keep thanking me?” you laugh. 

“It’s been a long time since I’ve had this.”

“What? A blueberry pie?”

Donghyuck pauses, a slight wonder in his expression, as if he’s realizing his answer for the first time as well.

“Peace.” 

And you think maybe this is a step forward for him too. 

RECIPE 3. CREAM PUFF

It’s quite surreal how easily and naturally you and Donghyuck fall into a routine together. Somehow, in the blink of an eye, two weeks becomes two months. You’ve learned the little things about him, like how he always swipes some icing before you can fill up the piping bag or that he’s not a coffee drinker at all (more of a hot cocoa person) or that he purses his lips when a dessert he’s testing tastes off (no matter how hard he tries to hide it) or that he involuntarily sticks his arm out in front of you when he wants to stop you from doing something you shouldn’t. 

You also notice that he sometimes comes into work with injuries. They’re not nearly as bad as the first time you met him, but it’s hard to ignore a bruised cheek or bloodied knuckles. He always has a reason for them, whether it’s tripping down the stairs or accidentally falling down and scraping his hands on the concrete. You can tell by the way he laughs it off that he doesn’t plan on telling you the truth, so you laugh with him. The two of you, having taken only a step towards one another, find yourselves completely immobile now. 

He always does this: envelops you like a cloud but disappears the moment you reach out for him. 

You’re honestly not sure why he’s still here. Your injury has long healed, and he clearly doesn’t need the abysmal pay you’re giving him. He feels like he’ll slip away at any moment, fleeting like a warm spring breeze, and you suppose time flies by when you know it’s limited. Despite knowing that, you can’t help but desperately want him to stay. 

“I think it’s cute how hard he’s working,” Yeri randomly says one day as she eyes Donghyuck prepare orders in the front. He’s in the middle of a lunchtime rush, so he doesn’t even notice the two of you watching him like weirdos.

“Well, that’s what I’m paying him to do,” you reply, rolling his eyes. 

“Oh, I think the money is the least of his worries here,” she hums, taking a sip of her coffee. 

She has a point, but you’re pretty sure she’s implying something else as well. Just as you go to ask her what exactly she means, you hear a loud clatter. Flinching, you turn your attention back to Donghyuck and realize that he’s dropped a tray on the floor. However, the tray is the last thing on your mind when you see the expression on his face. It’s a mixture of horror, anger, and almost sadness―like he’s finally come face-to-face with whatever he’s been running from. It makes your blood run cold. 

Donghyuck is looking at a boy around his age; the boy has dark hair, a mole under his eye, and a grim expression. More importantly, he’s covered in injuries too. 

“Who is that?” Yeri whispers. “Why does Donghyuck look like he’s seen a ghost?” 

Maybe because he has, you want to tell her. 

Donghyuck grabs the boy's arm, squeezing so tightly that his knuckles turn white, and mumbles something to him. When he turns around and meets your eyes, he looks pained and fearful as if you witnessed something you shouldn’t have.

“Is it okay if I take my break early today?” he asks calmly, though the tremor in his voice gives him away. 

You nod hesitantly, unable to force yourself to speak. You watch him as he drags the boy out; when he passes you, you can tell how tightly his body is wound right now. His jaw is clenched, a muscle spasming as he tries to control himself, and every step he takes seems labored. He’s running on pure adrenaline right now, like he’s physically steeling himself. 

However, you don’t think he’s ever appeared so incredibly alone before. As you watch his back disappear further and further from your view, you’re unsure if he’ll ever return, and you never imagined how terrifying that would be. 

.

.

.

The cream puffs aren’t rising.

You’re crouched in front of the oven, watching the dough remain flat and lifeless. You should’ve known better than to attempt to make cream puffs on such a shitty day, especially when pastries like these are so sensitive to the environment and atmosphere. Even though you know you should probably just scrap them and try again, you wait for just a little longer, hoping that maybe if you wish hard enough that they’ll magically start to rise. 

But then again you suppose that no matter how hard you try, no matter how careful you are, no matter how perfect the batter is, no matter how much time you spend time piping them, no matter how much you want them to rise, they won’t. 

You decide that Donghyuck isn’t like a tiramisu at all; he’s sensitive and delicate and elusive and frustrating like a cream puff. 

“Y/N, they’re burning.” 

Losing your balance and nearly falling over, you gasp loudly. You were so lost in your thoughts that you didn’t even hear Donghyuck walk into the kitchen, nor did you smell the undeniable scent of something being burnt to a crisp. 

“Oh, fu―!” you curse, hurriedly opening the oven and casually suffocating both you and Donghyuck with a hot plume of air. Sputtering, you look around and grab a random rag from the sink before reaching for the cream puffs. 

“Wait, stop!” Donghyuck stops you with an outstretched arm, his hand pressed to your side. “Let me do it.” 

He gently takes the rag from your hand and removes the tray of charred cream puffs from the oven, dumping them into the trash before putting the tray in the sink and running some water on it���just how you like it. 

Letting out a relieved sigh, he turns back to you and asks, “Are you okay? It’s not like you to make a mistake like that. You didn’t get burned anywhere, did you?” 

When you don’t answer immediately, Donghyuck rushes forward and grabs your hands, carefully examining your fingers and arms. “Wait, are you hurt? Where? Tell me where you got burned. We have to cool it down with some lukewarm water. And don’t just say you’re fine. Burns are not a joke, Y/N―why are you looking at me like that?” 

His hands are calloused and rough, and you can still see scabs from where he tore his knuckles, yet he touches you like you’re the delicate one. He’s covered in fresh and old wounds, yet he looks so panicked at the thought of you having a scratch. 

“Shut up,” you whisper furiously, ripping your hands away from him. “From now on, don’t ask me another question. It’s my turn to ask you questions.” 

He blinks, a bit stunned by your reaction, but it’s clear he knows what you’re about to say. He goes to reach for you again but decides against it. “Okay.” 

“Who was that guy?” you demand. “Why are you always covered in injuries? Why did you lie to me? Who are you?” 

“He’s an old friend,” Donghyuck starts quietly. 

“Do you treat all your friends like that?” 

“When I don’t want to see them.” 

You wait for him to continue.

“Before I met you, he and I and a few of our other friends worked…odd jobs for cash,” he explains, and he looks like he’s choking on every word. “The jobs usually entailed us hurting people and also getting hurt. I did a lot of shit I wasn’t proud of. At the time, I didn’t really care. It was just nice to feel something, whether it was the adrenaline rush from doing the punching or the pain from being punched. I got a bunch of money, bought a bunch of expensive stuff, but none of it mattered. Eventually, I just felt nothing again. I didn’t even have the energy to loathe myself anymore. So, I took one last job, got the shit kicked out of me, and then I left. That’s when you found me―”

He inhales, and his eyes flicker towards you. He gazes at you so longingly, as if you were impossibly out of his reach, that you can’t help but involuntarily take a step towards him. 

But he steps back. 

“I thought that working here would make me feel like a human being again, but I didn’t realize how much I would―” He pauses again. “I thought working here would be a nice reset for me, but I naively thought that I could completely leave my past behind. My friends eventually found me, and I guess I care about those reckless assholes more than I thought because they managed to convince me to take on a few more jobs with them. That’s why I’ve been coming to work with injuries. But I’m done. I cut them off for good when they walked into this bakery. I don’t want…I don’t want our past to tarnish this place. I want to keep this place a beautiful, warm, and pure safe haven that you worked so hard for it to be. That’s why I lied to you, Y/N. I’m a coward to the bone, and I was envious of you. I was ashamed to admit it to you. You, who had the courage to chase after your dream. You, who had the kindness to help a good-for-nothing asshole like me. I only want you to have happy memories from now on, and I am not one of them.” 

“Are you going to leave?” you ask softly. 

“I probably should,” he answers shakily. 

“What’s stopping you?” 

“Just…one reason.” 

“When you say it like that, it makes it sound like the reason is me.” 

Donghyuck laughs bitterly, and his eyes drag across your face like every movement hurts him.

“You know it’s you. It’s always been you.” 

When you reach for his hand, he turns away like just the warmth from your body heat burns him. So instead, you take a step back. 

“I won’t ask you to stay, Donghyuck, I won’t chase you. I’m going to wait right here, and it’s up to you if you're going to meet me halfway.” 

RECIPE 4. RED VELVET CAKE

When your alarm clock goes off the next morning, you seriously consider just not showing up to work. It’s not like you can be fired for being a no-show when you’re your own boss, after all. 

And it’s not like you have any employees who will be expecting you. 

You’ll just apologize to Mrs. Kim and your other regulars later. You’re allowed to have a day where you just rot in bed and feel sorry for yourself. 

However, no matter how much you tell yourself that, you find yourself crawling out of bed and getting ready anyway. You can’t seem to brutally crush that small glimmer of hope that Donghyuck might still be there, no matter how hard you try. When you see yourself in the mirror, you recoil in horror. Your eyes are almost swollen shut from the amount of crying you did last night, and your face is sallow and lifeless. 

So much for putting on a brave face, you think wryly to yourself. You tried so hard to look tough, when in reality, you bawled your eyes out and even considered praying to God for Donghyuck to stay. It’s a humiliating and humbling reality check. 

“Stand up right now,” you sharply tell yourself in the mirror. “He’s just some guy. Get it together.” 

You do your best to clean up your appearance and make the trek over to the bakery. It takes another internal pep talk before you can make your way to the door. After you finally walk up, you see that the lights inside are off. Your stomach sinks, and your eyes start to burn. Even though you’re holding the handle, you can’t bring yourself to open the door. It’s an outcome that you expected, yet you wonder why it hurts so badly. 

“You liar,” you mumble to yourself, “You said you only wanted me to have happy memories.” 

Once you make your way inside, you numbly head towards the kitchen, trying to remember what exactly you have to do today. Oh right, now that he’s not here, you also have to make sure all the ingredients are prepped first. 

When you walk into the kitchen, you do a double-take. 

The whole place looks like it’s been completely ransacked: used pans and utensils piled up in the sink, two opened boxes of cake mix, containers of ingredients without lids on on the tables, random lumps of flour and egg shells strewn about― 

And right in front of the oven is Donghyuck, flour in his hair and frosting on his nose. He’s holding a cake stand with…you think it’s supposed to be a cake on it? The shape is mangled and haphazardly cut, but it has echoes of a heart. The frosting is a hot mess, as if a bird with diarrhea shat all over the cake. The batter is clearly underbaked and makes the cake look gooey in a bad way. 

“Um, I promise I’ll clean all of this up in a second, but I wanted to surprise you,” Donghyuck starts awkwardly. “It’s not perfect, but I tried making a red velvet cake for you.” 

You stare at him, still not sure how to react. 

“You once said that baking is like baring your heart to the customer and that love is the most important ingredient of all,” he laughs softly to himself. “I think love is the only ingredient I managed to get right, but I’m baring my heart to you now, Y/N. I’m sorry I hid everything and lied to you, but I’m in love with you. Hopelessly so. All my life, I’ve chased a feeling, not knowing what it was. But now I do. I don’t think I knew how to feel until I met you. I never once thought I would ever have a purpose in my life, but you make me want to be a normal, proper member of society. Your dream is my dream. I want to wake up at 5AM and sell egg tarts with you for the rest of my life, if you’ll have me.” 

Donghyuck sets the cake down on a table in front of you, and you notice that his fingers are dyed red from the food coloring. It almost reminds you of when you first met him, except his injuries have been replaced with red food coloring, flour, and cream cheese frosting. 

“This cake is terrible,” you smile, “how did you butcher it that badly when you used cake mix?” 

You watch him blush all the way down to his neck, as he sheepishly looks away. “Don’t make fun of me. I really tried my best. I stayed up watching tutorials―” 

Leaning across the table, you cup his face with both hands and kiss him, brushing your thumbs across his cheekbones. He tastes like frosting, hot cocoa, and your prayers being answered. The way he kisses you back is bruising, dizzying and knocking any coherent thought out of your head, his hands finding your hips and anchoring you to him. He kisses you like you’re the sweetest and most wonderful thing he’s ever tasted.

When you finally pull away, it takes you a moment to regain feeling in your legs. Donghyuck presses his forehead against yours, lips brushing against yours once again as the two of you try to catch your breath. 

“I think I’m going to have to fire you, though,” you whisper. “You know, with me being your boss and all. The power dynamic is too weird.” 

He hums, pausing for thought. “Then how about I become your business partner?” 

“What?”

Donghyuck reaches into his pocket and fishes out his wallet, pulling out a shiny and fancy-looking credit card. He hands it to you without much fanfare. 

“I have a lot of money, you know. So I’m going to invest in your business. Use it as you’d like,” he casually announces.

You stare at him, your jaw hanging wide open. He never tried to hide from you that he was rich, but he never told you that he was rich rich. 

“Well, damn! Why didn’t you show me this earlier? I would have forgiven you a lot sooner,” you tease, slapping him on the arm. “Are you sure you want to give this to me? I’m quite the gold-digger, you know.”

“When I told you to use it as you’d like, I meant me as well,” Donghyuck replies, shrugging.

“You’re insane.” You hope he can’t tell how much your face is burning up. 

“I guess I am,” he laughs, and you don’t think he’s ever looked so free. You want to tell him that you hope he only has happy memories from now on too. You want to tell him that you’ll rewrite all of his scars with sugary and fluffy desserts so that they won’t ever hurt again. 

And for the first time in your life, you feel it too.

Peace. 

EXTRA

“So, have you figured out what your favorite dessert is?” 

Donghyuck stirs slightly, groaning, as he wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you closer. He slips his hand under your shirt (well, technically it’s his shirt) and rests it on your bare hip bone. 

“Why aren’t you asleep?” 

“Because I’m curious.” 

“If I answer, will you let me rest?”

“Depends on how good your answer is.” 

“Blueberry pie. That’s my answer.” 

You smile against the crook of his neck. 

“Why?” 

“Because it’s the dessert that made me realize I want to do this for the rest of my life.” 

[pathologicalreid]

omg consider this a request to bury reader again lol. imagine having to go through that again…imagine SPENCER knowing you’re experiencing it again…….margot pLS IM BEGGING🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️🙏🙏

black hole | s.r.

in which the BAU has to race against the clock to find you after you've been buried alive, again

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: angst content warnings: spoilery content warning at the end of the post. lol. claustrophobia, being buried alive, death. reader does NOT die, spencer reid crashout, kids/pregnancy, blood, hospitals, spencer's addiction, being drugged, the replicator, i probably missed something!!!! word count: 5.35k a/n: guys can u believe my first fic on here was buried alive. and here we are. doing it again?

Spencer was surrounded by people who cared about him, and yet, the only person he genuinely wanted to see was nowhere to be found. He’d sent you home from the office, passing the car keys along and swiping the incomplete files from your desk.

You’d kissed his cheek the same way you’d done it thousands of times before, and he’d taken it for granted. He should’ve turned his head to kiss your lips. He should’ve left the files to finish tomorrow and gone home with you. He shouldn’t be looking over his shoulder right now, searching for something that wasn’t coming. You weren’t coming.

He’d sent you home, only to find himself standing in your kitchen hours later, surrounded by evidence of a struggle. There had been blood smeared across the floor, a nauseating pattern that, in his professional opinion, looked like someone had been dragged. Without enough time to DNA test the blood, he couldn’t be sure, but once the crime scene unit had typed the blood and it came back as your type, he felt comfortable in his assumption. You had been taken.

Abducted right from the home that the two of you had created for each other, a safe haven to retreat to when the world felt too cramped, too dark.

Remnants of fear lingered in every corner of the house, skylights built into the ceiling for optimum light and nightlights in every room. Spencer had designed the house for you, and Derek arranged the construction. To the average bystander, the open floor plan looked like a modernization of the original structure. To you, each wall was placed purposefully so that you’d never feel like they were closing in on you.

The first person he called was Alex. Part of him wondered if he’d chosen her because she was the only member of the team who hadn’t been around to witness this the first time. The first time Spencer had been standing in a room and had been told you were missing; it felt as though time had completely stopped. This time, it felt like a jackknife to the chest, stabbing him continuously until his legs went out from under him, leaving him gasping on the phone to his friend. The rational side of his brain tried to tell him it was because Blake lived closest, but the irrational portion of Spencer Reid was the only part of him that ever had second thoughts.

That irrational side of him was the side that was in love with you, and he couldn’t justify the probability of this happening again. The math couldn’t be completed, and Spencer was once again left in fragments, nothing more than a shattered mirror that bore the reflection of someone who had it all.

Now, back at the BAU, he stared at the confidential FBI folder that had been abandoned on the kitchen counter by your abductor. It had been dusted, only to find no sign of fingerprints. The evidence was laid out on the roundtable; each page, each horrifying photo served as a memory of what had happened to you two years ago. Left on top of the folder was a piece of paper torn from the journal your therapist had instructed you to keep. Scrawled in unfamiliar penmanship, the note read: He who fears suffering is already suffering from what he fears.

He wasn’t concerned with the origin of the quote; he’d recognize Michel de Montaigne as surely as he would his own work. No, Spencer’s concern laid solely with the implications of the quote, and there was only one outcome he could come to. After all, suffering and your name were synonymous in his mind, even after all of this time.

You kept your eyes closed, grounding yourself just as your therapist had taught you in your hundreds of sessions. Soon enough, Spencer would wake up to your soft whimpers, and he’d coax you out of your paralysis. His hands would find their way to your shoulders, skimming his palms over the cotton of your sleep shirt, and he’d pull you up.

Any minute, Spencer would use the fader to illuminate your bedroom, providing you with the light that you needed as proof that everything was going to be fine. You’d anticipated this; the second anniversary of you being buried alive was just around the corner, and with it, the trauma bubbled to the surface. Even still, you found yourself frowning at the things your senses picked up—the smell of the dirt, the hard surface you were lying on, and the eerie silence of your surroundings. It took you a moment to realize that Spencer wasn’t cooing your name, trying to get you out of your nightmare without scaring you too much.

Clenching your fists, you found yourself missing the familiar pressure of your wedding ring on your left hand, and you told yourself that this had to be a dream. Since you’d gotten it, you only ever took it off if it was absolutely necessary. You’d missed the band so much that you’d gotten a cheaper one to replace it while you had the two pieces soldered together.

You took a deep breath, immediately overwhelmed by the rich earth that flooded your senses, the scent so pungent that you could almost taste it. Against your better judgment, you opened your eyes, letting the lids flutter open while you tried to adjust to the all too familiar darkness. A wave of nausea ran through you, churning your stomach while you tried to swallow it down—not wanting to lay in a puddle of your own sick. “No,” you breathed, having half a mind to sit up and look around, but as your eyes adjusted, you estimated there were only a few inches from the tip of your nose to the roof of your enclosure.

Tentatively, you felt around, grazing your fingertips across the interior surface of your newfound prison. Opposed to the smooth silk of the casket, you were met with a rough wooden surface that grated against your skin, tugging and pulling at the ridges of your fingerprints while you tried to bury your panic.

Denial only got a person so far, and there was nowhere else for you to go except to accept it. This was happening to you again.

This time, it seemed as though you were trapped within the confines of a wooden box, a collection of old two-by-fours haphazardly connected with various nails and screws. You could smell the age of the wood, damp and mildew only served to nauseate you further when mixed with the smell of the dirt.

He’d been put in time-out. Not that Hotch would ever use such layman’s terminology to describe the action taken but being told to sit in the roundtable room and stay there until they knew something felt like a child’s punishment. A flash out of the corner of his eyes signaled that JJ and Rossi had returned from checking the house, meaning Spencer had some explaining to do.

“What did you see?” Hotch asked as soon as they walked into the room. Spencer turned his head to gaze out the windows, watching the cacophony of the joint task force as it entered the next hour. He avoided JJ’s curious eyes, knowing that she knew.

Rossi’s leather boot tapped at the worn carpet in the doorway. “There was a cup of what looked like water on the kitchen counter,” he responded, nodding at the rest of the team as they all filed into the room. “The crime scene techs took a sample of it for testing. The field test came back positive for narcotics, but we won’t have an exact makeup until it comes back from the lab.”

A test that you didn’t have time for, but Spencer felt it was unnecessary. Hearing what they knew from the scene was enough to turn his stomach inside out, the kind of information that gets delivered and then all of a sudden, your ears feel like they’ve been stuffed with cotton. He’d subconsciously tuned out any other news to protect himself while he looked at the data on the form that Rossi had given him. For a long time, Spencer had accepted that his brain was one that worked with figures and reason, but looking at the numbers in front of him—nothing processed. Every number seemed foreign to him, and nothing made any sense to him.

He stood up suddenly, sending his office chair flying behind him, the aged wheels clattering within themselves as he looked around. Horrified looks were sent to him from everyone in the room. It only took one glance at your picture on the screen for him to grab the paper from the polished wood table. “I have to… I need to…” He rambled aimlessly, staring at the paper while he blindly tried to find his way out of the roundtable room and down the ramp.

Practically bolting out of the bullpen, Spencer sought the fresh air that the campus would bring, but Hotch had told him to stay put, so he settled for the more or less abandoned interview room that neighbored Morgan’s office. The room sat unused most of the time, a fine layer of dust coating everything in plain sight.

Gracelessly pulling at the strap of his watch, he flung it across the room, each faint tick of the seconds a haunting reminder that you were rapidly running out of air.  He lowered himself to the ground, sitting down before his legs had a chance to give out beneath him. If he had shut down the first time, he was nothing more than a shell of himself right now, merely a pile of skin and bones that concealed organs—like a heart that was breaking. Pulsatile tinnitus made it seem like his heart was pounding in every area of his body, causing him to pull his legs to his chest, condensing himself so he didn’t take up so much space.

A soft knocking saved him from his own pit of despair, a familiar curtain of brown hair on narrow shoulders greeted his eyes, and the soft smile that Blake gave him dripped with pity. “Do you mind?” She asked rhetorically, gesturing to a chair in front of him before taking a seat. “What is it?”

Spencer’s brows furrowed, too stressed to deduce the meaning of her question. “What is what?” Dropping his hands, he thumbed the hem of his slacks, fiddling with a loose thread to occupy his busy mind. He tried to act as if there weren’t tornado sirens going off in his head, cluing him to an impending storm—one where he was bound to be swept up.

“There’s more to this thank you’re letting on,” Blake nudged the toe of her boot against Spencer’s sneaker. “Hotch wouldn’t have taken you out of the field if there weren’t exigent circumstances.”

Sometimes, he had to remind himself that even though she hadn’t been a profiler for very long, Alex had plenty of experience in the bureau. She had a knack for reading people and reaching conclusions, and, at this moment, Spencer despised her for it. He turned his head, resting his cheek on his knee, the displacement of his face causing one of his eyes to close. “She’s pregnant,” he confessed, the weight of the secret crumbling from the air around him.

He shut his other eye to avoid the look of shock that had inevitably taken place on Alex’s face. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen; you were supposed to be able to wait three more weeks until the second trimester and be able to tell everyone. It was supposed to be a joyous moment, not a secret choked out when there were no other options. “Hotch knows?”

Blinded by his eyelids, Spencer nodded. Hotch was the first person he’d told once that little plus sign popped up. Before you’d told any friends and family, Spencer knew he had to tell Hotch about the baby; he had to keep you safe. What a waste that had been.

Just last week, you’d gone to see the baby for the first time, the sonogram had been gleefully posted on your refrigerator that same day. He knew the chances that JJ and Rossi hadn’t seen it were next to none, so really, there was no more secret to keep.

You were just barely nine weeks along, the last few days had been spent debating whether or not you wanted to do a blood test to find out the sex, and now you might never know. He’d thought you’d be better off at home. He’d thought getting away from the office at a normal time would be healthy for you, but instead his well-meaning gesture had placed you under the radar of someone who wanted to hurt you. What was worse was this person undoubtedly knew who you were and what you were afraid of, they’d probably been watching you for a while.

Guilt burrowed deep inside of his gut when he lifted his eyelids, looking at the paper he’d taken from the roundtable room. Mixed in with whatever they’d given you to knock you out had been an unlisted narcotic. The field test hadn’t been precise enough to name the drug, but in the end, Spencer found he didn’t really care about the specifics. He only cared about what he knew. Narcotics were known to cause miscarriages, and when you combined that with whatever had knocked you out—GHB, Rohypnol, whatever—it only killed more hope. It brought Spencer to a place of desolation.

He was miserable as he handed the paper off to Blake, vaguely aware of the people passing by in the hallway, rubbernecking near the door to try and get a glimpse of him. “Did the UnSub just take whatever was left over in your medicine cabinet and give it to her?”

The question was innocent enough. Maybe in another lifetime, you’d have a few pills left over from various hospital trips, but that wasn’t the case in this timeline. “We don’t keep narcotics in the house,” he answered a tad too quickly.

Interrupting his thought process, JJ poked her head into the interrogation room, “Uh, Hotch wants everyone in the roundtable room.” Her sorrowful blue eyes pierced through Spencer, with him sitting on the floor, everyone felt so much bigger than him. “The Replicator sent us a message.”

You gasped a sob, trying to rein in your emotions so you wouldn’t use as much of your limited air supply, but with every passing moment, you found it that much more difficult to hold yourself together. Reaching up a hand, you pressed your palm at the ceiling above you, pushing up at the roof of your enclosure to no avail. Paranoia was beginning to creep in, telling you that the things you were hearing were the worms in the soil preparing to return you to the earth.

Swiping your hand on the wood, you repeated the motion until you were clawing at the rotting material, attempting to burrow yourself out of confinement. The split grains tugged and pulled at your fingertips, leaving splinters to interrupt the fine lines of your prints. You were on the verge of throwing a tantrum, kicking and scratching at your confines, until one of the boards broke, bringing you to a screeching halt.

You’d kicked one of the boards loose, breaking it and leaving the void to fill with dirt. Lowering your shaky hands, you took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to regulate your breathing through techniques you’d learned over the years. You’d spent countless hours in therapy trying to help your claustrophobia, but you’d used that time to navigate things like elevator rides and tiny bathroom stalls. You never thought you would need to prepare for this to happen to you a second time.

You couldn’t halt the tears when they finally came. Part of you knew that crying would use up what little oxygen you had at a fast rate, but the other part of you, the despondent part, didn’t have the energy to care. You tried for a moment, covering your mouth with your bleeding palm to contain the volume of air you were taking in, to no avail. You had finally lost control, and the fuzzy feeling in your brain was only exacerbated by the scent of the dirt that coated your hands.

It just wasn’t fair. Subconsciously, you knew the concept of fairness should’ve been something you’d given up on years ago, but as the air surrounding you grew stale, it was all you could think about. The idea that you’d spent your morning with Spencer trying to prove to you that your bump was showing, giggling while using the false name you’d assigned to your unborn child as you insisted you were just bloated.

Slowly, you dragged your bleeding fingertips down your torso, leaving them resting hesitantly on your lower belly, the exact spot that Spencer had insisted was protruding just that morning. Bile rose in your throat as you feared what your day of turmoil meant for your baby. You had no idea how long you’d been in the ground, and you had no idea how much time you had left. Spencer would’ve figured it out—he had last time. One sleepless night, you’d made him explain tidal volume to you, and he’d let you comb your fingers through your hair while he told you the story of the last time he came to your rescue.

As you lay there, paranoid, wondering if you were imagining the pain in your head and stomach, it occurred to you that you never should have come back to the BAU the first time. The sleepless nights you’d spent combing through the trauma of your teammates, convincing yourself that what you’d been through was nothing in comparison to their scars, had been entirely unnecessary. You kept a tally of the flights of stairs you’d taken when one elevator ride would’ve sufficed, wearing the count as a badge of honor. You could count on one hand the number of elevator rides you’ve taken in the last two years—they were usually spent with your head in your hands and Spencer’s hand on your back.

You’d always compared yourself to Emily, who’d lost her life, and Hotch, who’d lost his love, and you decided that if they could return to the field after those events, then there was no reason for you to lag behind. You forced yourself to play a part you didn’t belong in, and you could never forgive yourself for it. It’s part of the reason you let your eyes fall shut when the air grows thin, wondering if there was any point in coming back to a life you weren’t mean to be living.

He'd run out of things to throw, eyeing the books that he’d left scattered on the ground, his watch still discarded somewhere in the interview room. His tie was loosened to the point that it was almost slipping off of his neck while he desperately tried to catch his breath. Each time he settled down, he remembered you were suffocating, and the cycle continued.

The Replicator had all but taken responsibility for your abduction, and the world around him had begun to spin. Quickly, everything began to make sense, repeating a crime that had been committed against you and using narcotics to knock you out.

His addiction had never been officially documented in any FBI files, but that didn’t stop Spencer from placing fault on himself. There were easier ways to incapacitate someone, and somehow, the Replicator had chosen the method that was likely to do the most harm. Spencer put his trembling hands over his head, knowing that if he’d never taken that vial off of Tobias Hankel’s corpse, you wouldn’t be in this situation now. His mind that had been previously praised for genius drew convoluted lines between the dots, making connections that he never should’ve considered.

In the doorway, Alex came to his rescue once more, holding a Kevlar vest in her hand while smiling at him kindly, “We found her.”

The distance between Quantico and the cemetery was no more than a blur to him. He had no idea when it had started to rain, but he found each pelt of a raindrop to be soothing, welcoming the constant drumming that occupied his minds, keeping him away from catastrophizing.

Rossi, Hotch, and Emily had arrived only moments before the second SUV, but they’d wasted no time in getting the cemetery staff to dig at the coordinates Penelope had found in the message sent by the Replicator. The rain made the soil move like sludge off of the makeshift casket that contained the love of his life, and he took his first step toward you when he saw the broken pieces of wood.

A familiar arm went out in front of him, blocking his path to you with a sense of fraternal protection, but Spencer tried to push Morgan away. He was the weaker of the two, exhausted by his own emotions as he shoved his way through to you. Distantly, he heard himself asking to be let through, but it wasn’t until the lid of the casket was popped that Blake spoke up for him, “Derek.”

Immediately, Derek’s arm dropped, releasing the hold he had on Spencer and allowing him to run to you. The sopping ground sept into his shoes as he ran, falling into the mud while Emily and Hotch precariously pulled you out of your enclosure. Morgan’s intention had been to shield Spencer from the harsh reality of your death, but even if you were gone, he still felt an otherworldly pull to you. After all, what was the point of promising ‘til death do us part if he wasn’t with you when you went?

Mud coated every spare inch of his clothes, but he couldn’t care less as he scrambled to take your hand in his, gently pressing his fingers to your wrist and waiting for something—anything. “Baby, please.” He couldn’t tell, the radial pulse could be undependable, so he moved his hand to your neck and crouched his head over your face, immediately comforted when he heard the faint whistle of air flowing through your nostrils.

Relief flooded his senses, inclining his head to rest his forehead against yours and nodding profusely when Emily asked him if you were alive. His chest shook with a sob as he pulled back, tugging his FBI jacket off and laying it over you to try and warm you up, the rest of the team following suit while JJ and Hotch tried to flag down the ambulance. He tuned out the frantic discussion of the team and the loud blare of the emergency vehicles.

Shifting so he was sitting on the ground, he gingerly placed your head in his lap, using his fingertips to deftly wipe away the dirt and blood that covered your marred skin. He noted a scratch on your head, and a quick scan of your body didn’t show him any visible injuries, though your hands displayed a nauseating portrait of your time in the ground, torn apart with dozens of splinters. “I’ve got you,” he cooed to your unconscious body. He looked up to see a team of EMTs running towards you, decked out in rain gear and medical supplies, “She’s pregnant.”

His words elicited a stare from one of the rain-soaked paramedics, telling him he had reached the same conclusion that Spencer had already resolved himself to. “We’ve gotta get her out of this rain,” he said, loading you onto a spine board and lifting you to the gurney so they could easily roll you to the ambulance, leaving Spencer scrambling to catch up with you. He practically threw himself into the ambulance, refusing to separate himself from you.

Spencer squeezed your hand, hoping you’d squeeze back, staying as far back as he could from the paramedics while keeping his fingers intertwined with yours.

Nothing hurt when you came to, but you could feel the familiar pressure of a bandage around your leg. Sensation traveled up to your hands, each of your fingertips precariously wrapped with cause, initiating the healing of your cuts from when you’d tried to scratch your way to freedom. Slowly, you took a deep breath, letting the antiseptic air of the hospital flood your senses.

Through your eyelids, you could see that the room around you was bright, and a soft smile tugged at your lips despite yourself—Spencer was here. You felt him now, the soft touch of his hand on your arm, the imprint of a hand you knew as well as your own. The warmth of his palm served as a brief distraction before your brain registered a dull ache in your stomach, and somehow, you just knew. A low keening sound slipped from your throat, more from the compressed escape of air than a complaint of any pain you felt.

“I love you,” Spencer whispered gently, his voice hoarse with emotion, “So, so much.” He took your hand in his and pressed a kiss to your battered knuckles. “Oh, honey,” he sighed, gently squeezing your hand, minding your wounds.

He was so gentle with you—he always had been. His fingertips drifted over your arm with an attention to detail that rivaled a medical doctor, minding the IV in your arm when he moved past it. You tried to mumble an I love you in return, but the words came out unintelligibly.

Spencer’s ministrations came to a halting stop at this first sign of life, “Hey,” he cooed, “What was that?” You felt the side of your mattress dip as he took a seat on your bedside, he hushed you gently, dragging a knuckle up and down your cheek while silently pleading for you to speak.

He was testing you, that much you knew. He wanted to know if being deprived of air had cost you your ability to speak. You shook your head at him, denying the implication as you cleared your throat determinedly, “I love you, too.” Your voice was gravelly, likely from all of the screaming you had done in the tomb, but it was there, and it was coherent.

The hospital sheets scratched at your skin while you tried to coax yourself into opening your eyes, the promise of seeing Spencer providing an incentive. Taking a deep breath, your eyelids fluttered open, looking up at his sorrowful eyes. Even so, he smiled at you softly, just happy to see you awake, “There’s my girl.”

The tear tracks on his face were like daggers to your heart, bringing with them a terrible reminder of whatever fear he felt when you had gone missing. You blinked additional sleep out of your eyes, focusing on him and his exhaustion, “How long?” You asked, watching him reach over for a glass of water, guiding the straw to your mouth.

He waited until you’d taken a few sips before answering your questions, “You’ve been asleep for two days.” He said, setting the cup to the side—close enough that you could grab it on your own if need be.

You made a face—two days was a long time—and sighed, relaxing back into the pillows while you tried to find the right words to say. “How’s…. Am I…?” You stumbled through the question, tears welling in your waterline before you even had the chance to ask. Swallowing thickly, you could only hope Spencer understood when you were getting at before you had to force the words out.

Your husband shook his head softly, “There’s no heartbeat.” His voice was tight, but he maintained his position as a pillar for you to lean on, keeping your hand in his just in case you needed additional support.

It didn’t hurt, not right now. You were sure the grief would hit you at some point in the near future when the sun hit your face just right or a blue car passed you by. Some inexplicable harbinger of grief would enter and exit your life just as quickly as your child had. “Okay,” you breathed, gazing at Spencer, hoping your eyes would have the ability to convey how you felt.

“They haven’t pinpointed a cause; it could’ve been any number of things, but it’s not… Are you in any pain?” He cut himself off to check in on you; he studied your expression with a stoicism that rivaled your boss.

You shook your head, “No.” The achiness you felt wasn’t strong enough to fully qualify as pain, and anything that was there, your body had already gotten used to. You were sure there was something in your IV that was assisting the numbness in your limbs.

Spencer raised his eyebrows doubtfully, “Would you tell me if you were?” He asked you, giving you a look that reminded you he knows you better than you know yourself.

“Will you just… not tell anyone I woke up yet?” You shifted uncomfortably on the bed, “I’m not ready.” You needed time to prepare for the prying eyes and barrage of questions that were bound to come with the BAU.

His head bobbed, “Anything. Anything you want,” he promised, dragging his knuckle up and down your cheek. Subconsciously, you leaned into his touch, prompting him to cup the cold skin in his warm palm. “You could go back to sleep if you wanted to.”

You hummed woefully, “Not yet. I missed the light.” Besides that, you wanted to enjoy your sedated mind before it became overwhelmed with a flurry of emotions. Right now, you felt peace, and you deserved to have that kind of silence. Surely the dam would break, but as long as you could hold it off, you just wanted to lay in bed with Spencer. “’m cold,” you mumbled thoughtlessly, thinking of it as a throwaway comment before you remembered who you married.

Spencer had a pile of blankets to his left, and he deftly pulled the top one from the pile and got to work placing it over you. “Is this better?” He asked, timidly tucking the blanket under your side and making sure you were well-covered.

Wincing, you slid your hand beneath the blanket and lifted the side, creating an opening for him to slip into. Your silent invitation was accepted when Spencer kicked his shoes off and joined you in the crowded hospital bed, “Much better.” You rested your head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, “Spence?”

“What is it, honey?” He asked, skimming the pad of his thumb over your side, his large hand splayed against your back.

Clenching your left hand into a fist, you sighed, trying to ignore the tears that were pricking your eyes. “Did you find my ring?” You remembered missing it in the ground, but you’d forgotten until just now, your finger once again intolerably bare.

A gentle kiss was pressed to the crown of your head, “Yes.” He twisted back, plucking the familiar ring off of your bedside table and returning it to its rightful home on your ring finger. “It was on the back of your sink in the bathroom,” he explained, twisting the band so the gem was facing out.

Small, sad tears trickled from your ducts. You sniffled, and Spencer’s grip on you changed—not tighter, but firmer as if he had anticipated this moment. The moment when what you had been avoiding finally caught up with you.

“I’ve got you,” he reassured you. You didn’t even have to ask for him to rub small circles on your back, whispering sweet nothings into your ear. As it had been for years now, Spencer was the only reason you felt safe enough to let your eyes fall shut, and even the darkness of sleep didn’t seem so intimidating when you knew you had him near.

spoiler content warning: miscarriage

[strrykais]

ᝰ.ᐟ off the record

someone had to write for the sports column in your schools paper, and unfortunately it falls onto you. only knowing very little about basketball - thanks to your friend chenle, this shouldn't be so bad!

well, that was until you meet the team’s captain and he rudely asks if you are deaf.... funny thing is, you are!

pairing: lee jeno x fem!reader

genre: social media au (some written parts), angst, fluff, humor, some miscommunication situations, sports love

warnings: explicit language, suggestive/death jokes, reader is deaf, reader is in journalism, jeno is on the basketball team, more to be added

notes: watched twinkling watermelon again and here we are!

status: ongoing

taglist: CLOSED

yn's group | jeno's group

0- prologue 1- im going to hell 2- its a face i wanna ride on 3- messing with etsy witches 4- that little whore 5- sign rizz go crazy 6- my voluminous, plump fat ass 7- on that same freakuency 8- opp to oppa 9- mark lee is gay 10- drop your pants boy 11- five big booms 12- i think im in love with you 13- plenty of people want my cookie 14- j names are toxic 15- why tf was he rizzing me up?? 16- ???

reblogs, likes and replies are appreciated! feel free to send constructive feedback/thoughts in my asks!

[thatfeelinwhenyou]

SAFE & SOUND — extras: jungwon's POV

Navigating one year post-apocalypse, when the dead began to walk and the living proved to be no better, you decide that trust is a luxury you can no longer afford. But after a run-in with a group of seven peculiar survivors, you learn that there are bigger problems than just the undead roaming the streets. You also start to wonder if there’s more to survival than simply staying alive.

word count: 18.1k (LMFAOOOO)

a/n: erm... i know i said i wouldn't be writing anything extra for safe & sound but I saw some of your comments saying how it would be interesting to read from Jungwon's perspective. i realised then, how much detail I was missing out on because I was writing in first perspective. the thought irked me. so I opened my laptop and wrote this... LOL it's not full chapters, just some scenes and extra cuts that I thought would be fun to read in won's POV! enjoy reliving some of the most traumatic moments I guess? as usual, heavy trigger warning for blood, killing, death, ANGST, and morally grey ideologies.

MASTERLIST

Pre-Safe & Sound

The courtroom reeks of cigarette smoke and musty paper, the air so thick it feels like it’s clogging his lungs. Jungwon’s shoulders ache from sitting too stiff for too long, his back pressed against the cold metal of the chair. His fingers tap against his thigh in an impatient rhythm, a habit he’s never quite managed to shake. 

Jungwon is just one of many faces scattered throughout the makeshift courtroom—one of many playing pretend in a crumbling civilisation that wants to believe it’s still standing. Pretending the world hasn’t rotted outside these concrete walls, pretending the rules still matter. The others around him—higher-ups, officers, men and women who hold titles that lost their meaning the day the world went to shit—are watching the spectacle with all the enthusiasm of a pack of vultures waiting for something to die.

It’s always been like this—marble floors and steel walls, designed to intimidate, to remind everyone sitting here of the authority they’ve willingly, or unwillingly, surrendered themselves to. The Future prides itself on order and control. On weeding out the weak. On pruning the unruly.

The General sits at the head of the room, his posture rigid, shoulders squared, the insignia on his chest gleaming under the fluorescent lights. Beside him, Sergeant Major Kim of Weapons Control has his mouth twisted into a sneer, his eyes like polished stone.

Jungwon knows this isn’t just a formality. It’s an execution, dressed up in procedure.

“I’m tired of tolerating his shit. So what if he’s a good shot? All the more he’ll turn the muzzle on one of us if he feels like it.” Sergeant Major Kim’s voice grates on Jungwon’s nerves, his words nothing more than polished venom, a slow, creeping poison meant to dismantle anyone who steps out of line.

It’s been a solid forty-five minutes since Sergeant Major Kim started making his case against Jay. Not just any case, either. A full-blown, meticulously constructed argument, layered with every possible sin Jay might have committed. Insurbodination. Recklessness. Endangering his comrades during an infiltration of a new community not far from HQ.

Jungwon’s jaw tightens as he listens, only half paying attention to the string of accusations that drip from the Sergeant Major’s mouth. It’s all politics. It’s all bullshit. They’re clinging to some sense of order, some desperate attempt to pretend they have control when the world has already slipped from their grasp.

“Private First Class Park is a liability. Reckless, undisciplined, and worst of all, disobedient. We give orders and he questions them. We set boundaries and he oversteps them. That’s not someone we can rely on.”

The words are familiar. They echo the same rhetoric Jungwon has heard in every damn meeting about Jay. The same tired complaints, the same frustrations disguised as grievances.

But something is different this time. There’s a finality to Sergeant Major Kim’s tone. A hunger for punishment.

Jungwon’s fingers drum against his thigh, the motion so slight it’s almost imperceptible. Outwardly, he remains calm, collected, his expression one of neutrality. But his mind is anything but.

The General leans forward, his hands clasped together on the table before him. “Expulsion has been discussed in the past.” His voice is measured, dispassionate. “But now, the situation has escalated.”

Jungwon’s jaw clenches. Escalated. That’s one way to put it.

Jay’s a good shot. Too good. His skill with a rifle has saved lives more times than anyone can count, his quick thinking turning the tide of more battles than the council has the nerve to acknowledge. And his mouth—well, his mouth is the part they can’t seem to stomach. The bluntness. The refusal to bow to authority when that authority is nothing more than a fragile facade.

Jay had defied orders, yes. Had disregarded direct commands during the last infiltration mission. But Jay’s reasons were sound. Ethical, even. The community they were raiding had families—innocent people trying to survive, same as them. Jay had pushed back, refused to partake in what he deemed an unnecessary massacre. And in doing so, he’d broken the one unspoken rule The Future held above all else—obedience.

“His actions jeopardise the integrity of our system. His insubordination is not only dangerous, but infectious.” Sergeant Major Kim’s eyes narrow, his gaze sweeping over the room like he’s daring anyone to disagree.

Jungwon doesn’t. Not outwardly. Not yet.

“Expulsion is the only logical course of action.” Sergeant Major Kim’s voice is calm, collected. “Unless someone can offer a viable alternative.”

The silence is thick, stifling. No one speaks. No one dares to.

But Jungwon can feel it—something coiling in his gut, hot and sharp and undeniable. A warning. A decision.

Expulsion.

He can’t get the word out of his head. They’re going to throw Jay out. Cut him off from their little makeshift organisation like he’s nothing more than a diseased limb that needs to be amputated. And Jungwon knows what happens to those who are expelled. It’s a death sentence. Maybe not right away, but eventually.

Because the world out there doesn’t care if you were once part of a structured society. It doesn’t care if you were skilled or strong or brave. It only cares about whether you can survive. And survival is a lot harder when you’re alone.

Jungwon’s eyes narrow, his mind racing. The General is speaking now, his voice calm and detached, as if he’s discussing nothing more than a routine supply run. But Jungwon catches the hesitation. The way his fingers drum against the table. The way his gaze shifts from the Sergeant Major to the others gathered around, gauging their reactions.

Politics. It’s always politics.

He needs to get out of here. He needs to think. His fingers tap harder against his thigh, his frustration simmering just beneath the surface. If they really expel Jay, if they really push him out into the world without resources, without allies—

Jungwon doesn’t know why the thought bothers him so much. Doesn’t know why his fists are clenched so tight his knuckles have turned white.

He’s been trained to follow orders. Conditioned to obey, to survive, to keep his head down and his mouth shut.

But for the first time, he’s not sure he can.

He takes a measured breath, his eyes fixed on the General’s. “Expulsion is a permanent solution to a temporary problem,” he says, his voice steady, deliberate. “Jay is reckless, yes. But he’s also resourceful. Skilled. Loyal.”

“Loyal to who, exactly?” Sergeant Major Kim cuts in, his smirk barbed. “Because from where I’m standing, his loyalties lie wherever his own moral compass points. And we can’t afford to keep someone around who values his own judgement above the chain of command.”

“Loyal to us,” Jungwon counters, his voice sharp enough to cut. “To me. And to the rest of our team.”

The words hang in the air, their weight undeniable. Jungwon can see the way the General’s gaze narrows, his fingers twitching ever so slightly as he considers.

“And what would you propose, Staff Sergeant Yang?” The General’s tone is cold, indifferent. “A slap on the wrist? A stern talking-to?”

Jungwon’s mind is already racing, the pieces clicking into place. He has to be careful. One wrong move and he’s signing Jay’s death warrant himself.

“No,” Jungwon says, his voice tight, controlled. “I suggest we redirect his skills. Use his rebellious nature to our advantage. Put him on tasks that require ingenuity and creativity. Give him the freedom to operate without compromising our security.”

“You aren’t just defending him because you know him personally, are you? Bias isn’t a good look in the military, Sergeant Yang.” 

The words hit like a slap, sharp and cutting. Jungwon’s eyes narrow, his posture stiffening as he meets Sergeant Major Kim’s gaze head-on. The sneer twisting the man’s mouth makes Jungwon’s stomach churn. The accusation is there, laid bare for everyone in the room to see.

A murmur ripples through the room, low and treacherous. Judgemental eyes flicker his way—other officers, other officials. Faces he’s seen time and time again, most of them just waiting for him to slip. Because no matter how many times he proves his competence, his loyalty, his efficiency, there are always those who resent his place here. A twenty one-year-old commanding respect, making decisions that affect the lives of hundreds. It’s not natural, they say. It’s not fair.

“I’m defending him because he’s worth defending,” Jungwon says, his voice flat and calm, though his pulse thrums with irritation. “Jay’s unconventional, yes. But so are the challenges we’re facing. If we want to survive—if The Future wants to survive—we can’t afford to be rigid. We need people who think differently. People who aren’t afraid to act when the situation demands it.”

Sergeant Major Kim’s mouth twitches, his gaze turning flinty. “Acting on instinct isn’t the same as insubordination. The man is a liability. And if you can’t see that, perhaps your judgement isn’t as sound as we all thought.”

“Then give him a task that suits his skills,” Jungwon counters, refusing to let the Sergeant’s condescension sink beneath his skin. “Put him somewhere his resourcefulness can be an asset rather than a threat.”

“You’re missing the point, Sergeant,” Sergeant Major Kim drawls, like he’s explaining something obvious to a child. “This isn’t about skill. It’s about loyalty. It’s about control. And if Park can’t follow orders, then he doesn’t belong here.”

Jungwon’s teeth grind together. The committee’s eyes are on him, assessing, judging. He needs to tread carefully. One wrong word, and he’s not just condemning Jay—he’s signing away their entire group’s place in The Future.

“Sergeant Major Kim,” Jungwon says, voice tight, steady. “If you think that questioning orders is grounds for expulsion, then maybe you need to re-evaluate what you value more—obedience or survival. Because if you can’t adapt, if you can’t make use of the skills people bring to the table, then we’re not building a future at all. We’re just holding on to the past.”

The room goes silent. Eyes shift from Jungwon to Sergeant Major Kim, awaiting his response.

“You’re speaking out of line, Sergeant,” Sergeant Major Kim says, voice cold and clipped. “This is the military and you’re soldiers. Your sole purpose and duty is to follow orders. Your arrogance will be your downfall.”

“My pragmatism is what’s kept us alive,” Jungwon snaps back before he can stop himself. The words hang heavy in the air, his defiance stark against the sterile, calculated atmosphere of the room.

A beat of silence stretches, and Jungwon can feel his own heartbeat pounding against his ribs, his fingers curling into fists at his sides.

The General clears his throat, cutting through the tension like a blade. “Enough. This discussion has gone on long enough.” His eyes flicker towards Jungwon, unreadable. “Sergeant Yang has made his case. We will deliberate and make our decision by the end of the week.”

A dismissal.

The others begin to file out of the room, some casting Jungwon wary glances, others looking almost impressed. But he pays them no mind. His focus is on Sergeant Major Kim, who lingers by the doorway, gaze still locked on Jungwon with the intensity of a predator sizing up its prey.

“Bias or not, Yang,” Kim says, voice low and venomous. “You’ve just tied yourself to a sinking ship. And when it drags you down, I won’t be there to pull you out.”

The words are a threat. And for the first time since Jungwon walked into this room, he feels the ice creeping into his veins. 

But his expression remains impassive, his shoulders squared, his eyes unwavering. He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t let the Sergeant Major see even a flicker of fear. Because he knows now what he has to do.

Jay’s expulsion isn’t a question of if. It’s a question of when.

And Jungwon will be damned if he lets them take his friend without a fight.

As he leaves the room, his mind is already churning, thoughts clicking into place with ruthless precision. If The Future wants to cast Jay out, then fine. They’ll be leaving together.

And there’s nothing—no threat, no authority, no crumbling society—that will stop him.

The hum of fluorescent lights buzzes faintly overhead, muffled by the thick concrete walls of the auxiliary storage bay. The place is empty—technically off-limits after curfew, which makes it perfect for the conversation Jungwon doesn’t want anyone else to hear.

Jay’s leaning against a stack of ration crates, arms crossed, posture defiant in that quietly confrontational way of his. His expression, though unreadable, holds a kind of lazy edge—like he already knows why Jungwon’s here and doesn’t care.

“I take it this isn’t a supply check,” Jay says, tilting his head.

Jungwon steps in, letting the heavy door shut behind him with a dull thud. His voice is low, steady. Controlled, but fraying at the edges. “What the hell were you thinking?”

Jay doesn’t move. “You’ll have to be more specific. I think a lot of things.”

“You disobeyed a direct order, Jay. You blew the infiltration on the west community. Sergeant Major Kim is calling for expulsion.”

At that, Jay’s eyes narrow. “They were unarmed civilians, Jungwon. Not raiders. Families. Kids. We weren’t just ‘infiltrating,’ we were planning to strip them dry and leave them vulnerable.”

“That’s not your call to make.”

Jay scoffs. “Says the guy who helped design half the tactics we use to screw those people over.”

Jungwon’s jaw tightens, and for a moment, the silence is razor-sharp between them. Then he steps forward, closing the distance until there’s nowhere left to hide behind words or sarcasm.

“I told them you weren’t a threat. I vouched for you, Jay. Sat in that goddamn courtroom and played the perfect little soldier so they wouldn’t put you on the list.”

Jay flinches—barely—but Jungwon catches it.

“You think you're some kind of saviour because you questioned one order? You’re not. You’re reckless. You’re lucky they’re only talking expulsion and not something worse.”

“They’re wrong,” Jay bites out. “And you know it.”

“I do,” Jungwon says quietly. “But that doesn’t change the fact that you fucked up. You made yourself a target. And now… now I can’t protect you anymore.”

There’s a beat of silence where neither of them says anything.

And then Jungwon’s voice lowers further, like the weight of what he’s about to say is too heavy to carry out loud.

“I’m thinking of leaving.”

Jay’s head jerks up, brows drawing together. “What?”

“If they expel you, they’ll monitor the rest of us. And if they find even a trace of sympathy or dissent, we’re next. Me, Jake, Sunghoon, Ni-ki, Sunoo, Heeseung... all of us.”

Jay stares at him, eyes unreadable. “So that’s it? You’re just going to run?”

“No,” Jungwon breathes. “I’m going to take us out before they bury us.”

Another silence. This one charged. Heavier.

Jay’s voice softens, almost uncertain. “Does the rest of the group know?”

“Not yet. I’ll tell them when I figure out how to get us out without getting us all killed.”

That night, the air inside The Future’s inner walls felt unusually still—eerily subdued in a place that never truly slept. The soft hum of generators buzzed overhead, casting stark white light down the sterile hallways of the supply depot. It should have been louder—more movement, more noise, more bodies. But something was off.

Jungwon noticed it the moment he stepped inside.

There were fewer people on duty than protocol demanded. Only two stationed at the check-in desk, one watching the entrance, and none making rounds through the aisles. It wasn’t just a shift change lull—it was a skeleton crew, and they all looked like they hadn’t slept in days.

He didn’t ask why. Not at first. Asking questions in The Future was how you got assigned to more shifts, more silence, more suspicion.

But then he heard it.

Whispers. In the hallways. Low voices crackling over radios. Reports that the outbound retrieval unit—Team D4—never made it back on time. They’d been dispatched earlier that week to collect a shipment from a nearby survivor community. 

But something had gone wrong.

According to murmurs passed between command and medbay, the team was ambushed. Overrun. The dead poured out of the treeline, faster and hungrier than anticipated. Out of twelve, only three returned. All injured. One of them shot in the leg. Another missing an arm. The third didn’t speak—just stared at the floor with blood still drying in his beard.

That explained the silence in the depot. The tension. The missing bodies. Everyone was stretched thin trying to fill the void the dead left behind.

It also explained why tonight—if they were ever going to do it—was the night.

Jungwon turned on his heel and made his way back to the lower barracks, where Jay was already waiting, sharpening the edge of a blade that technically wasn’t authorised for lower division use.

"Team D4?" Jay asked, not looking up.

“Most of them didn’t make it back,” Jungwon replied, voice low. “They’re short-staffed across all zones. Nobody’s looking at us tonight.”

Jay simply nodded.

Because they both knew. This was the window. The only one they might ever get.

And by morning, they wouldn’t be soldiers of The Future anymore. They’d be deserters.

Alive—for now.

But fugitives all the same.

The first night outside The Future feels like stepping onto another planet.

They move fast under the cover of darkness, adrenaline coursing through their veins, every footstep deliberate but uneven with nerves. The plan had been hastily drawn, but executed with terrifying precision—at least on Jungwon’s part. He hadn’t factored in the emotional weight that would follow the moment they drove past the barricade.

They’re not alone. A handful of others—faces half-familiar, half-forgotten—had taken the chance when Jungwon gave the signal. Deserters, they’re called now. Traitors, even. People clinging to the fragments of their humanity in a world that no longer rewards it.

They make camp in the remnants of an abandoned roadside diner. Dusty booths. Shattered windows. A place that probably once smelled of burnt grease and coffee. Tonight, it smells like mildew and ash.

Ni-ki tries to help set up makeshift beds from ripped upholstery while still casting anxious glances at the shadows outside. He’s the youngest, but he doesn’t complain. Just listens when Jungwon gives instructions. Follows every word like it’s law.

Jay sits by the boarded-up window, rifle across his lap. Silent. Watching.

And Jungwon—he doesn't sleep. Instead, he stands alone outside the back exit, staring into the trees, trying not to hear the voices in his head. The ones asking if he did the right thing. The ones whispering the names of the people he didn’t save. The ones asking if it’s worth it.

He doesn't have an answer.

But when he finally looks back at the diner, at the silhouettes of his friends—of his family—huddled together in the quiet, in the cold, something settles in his chest.

Back at The Future, they weren’t just surviving—they were thriving in the roles handed to them, performing with the kind of polished discipline The Future demanded. 

Jake had earned his place in the treatment facility. Respected. Quietly feared, even. He had a mind for detail, a steady hand, and an ability to detach just enough to survive the sight of infected test subjects without flinching. He had a bed. A routine. The luxury of clean scrubs and indoor lighting. And yet, he walked away from it all.

Sunoo manned communications and supplies, his sharp tongue and sharper wit oddly perfect for keeping morale in check. He had access to inventory, conversations, coded maps—he knew where people were and what they needed. And he traded all of that in the second Jungwon came to him with the plan.

Ni-ki, though young, had embedded himself in logistics. Quiet. Observant. Efficient. He knew the flow of shipments and troop placements better than most commanding officers. He could take apart a busted engine and rebuild it before most had even figured out what was wrong. He was becoming indispensable. But Ni-ki didn’t hesitate either.

Even Heeseung, who’d just been promoted to Head of Security two weeks before their escape—an elevation that came with more food, a locked quarters, and actual authority—chose to follow. He’d worked so hard for that title. And in the end, it meant nothing compared to the people he refused to leave behind.

Sunghoon was rising fast, too. A newly appointed drill instructor, his job was to sharpen recruits, to crush fear out of them and replace it with precision. His methods were harsh, but the soldiers he trained survived. He was well on his way to a permanent place in the system. Yet, he too joined the escape.

Because even with their ranks and privileges, they could all feel it: The Future was rotting from the inside out. The higher you climbed, the more of your soul you had to trade in for the view. They could see what was happening to them. To others. And in the end, they decided they'd rather run into the teeth of the dead than sit comfortably while everything human in them slipped away.

So when Jungwon offered them a way out, even those who had the most to lose didn’t hesitate. It wasn’t about leaving safety behind. It was about reclaiming something they’d forgotten they were allowed to have.

Freedom.

Now, that freedom tastes like blood and ash and sleepless nights, but it’s real. 

For the first time in a long time, they get to choose who they are.

And that, they’ve decided, is worth everything.

Part 1

You shift against him in your sleep, and before he even realises it, your head has tilted until it’s resting lightly on his lap.

For a moment, he doesn’t move, barely breathes. Not because it’s uncomfortable. But because he doesn’t know what to do with this—this trust. 

He glances down at your face—peaceful and still, completely unguarded. Your breathing is slow and even, lashes fluttering with whatever dream you’ve slipped into—it gnaws at something inside him, something dormant he thought he’d buried alongside the worst of who he used to be.

His fingers hover awkwardly over his knee before curling into a fist. It takes a second for his body to catch up—then another before his heart finally settles. The weight of you isn’t heavy. It’s… grounding, in a way. Familiar. Even though he doesn’t really know you.

Not yet, anyway.

It’s been a long time since he had a conversation like that with anyone. A real one. Not about supplies or patrols or plans. Not about death or survival. But about feelings. About fear. About loss. 

It’s weird—talking to you. It shouldn’t be this easy. He barely knows you. You’re a stranger. But maybe that’s exactly why it’s easy. There’s no expectations, no history weighing things down. Just two people who’ve seen too much, said too little, and survived more than they should’ve.

Still, something about you makes him feel like he could be honest for once without having to pay for it later.

He thinks back to what he said earlier. About The Future. How he called them monsters. And you’d nodded, like you understood.

But you didn’t. Not really.

Because what you don’t know—what he didn’t say—is that when he talked about the coldness, the control, the cruelty, he wasn’t just talking about the system. He was talking about himself.

You’d looked at him like he was someone good. Like he was someone worth listening to. And he let you. He let you believe it. That’s the part that makes his stomach turn.

He watches your face now, how peaceful it looks, how easily you slipped into rest next to him like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he hasn’t done things that would make your blood run cold.

The problem isn’t that he’s afraid you’ll figure him out. It’s that part of him doesn’t want you to. And that part—small and stubborn and stupid—is what terrifies him the most.

The moment he laid eyes on you in that auto shop, he could tell you weren’t from The Future. The sole fact that you were out here, exposed to the dangers of the world beyond those walls meant you weren’t from any of their civilian divisions. And if you were part of the military, He, Jay, Sunghoon, or Heeseung would have recognised you. 

But it’s not just your unfamiliarity that confirms it. It’s the way you act. The way you talk. The way you still believe survival doesn’t have to come at the cost of decency.

You risked yourself to save him back at the motel, didn’t even hesitate. You’d offered him safety before yourself, with that determined look in your eye, like death was just another inconvenience you’d deal with later. You asked nothing in return. You didn’t walk away. And Jungwon doesn’t know what to do with that kind of goodness. That kind of blind, foolish courage.

You were the kind of person who still gave a shit. Who still held on to morality even when the world tried to beat it out of you. Who reached back for others when there was every reason to run. That kind of soul didn’t survive long in this world. People like you aren’t supposed to exist anymore. And yet… here you were—making everything he’s done harder to justify.

He knew then, for sure, that you weren’t one of them. 

The Future didn’t make people like that. 

No one who spent time under that regime would’ve wasted energy on strangers like that.

The camp is quiet. The kind of quiet that makes your thoughts louder, more unbearable. Somewhere below, Jungwon can hear Heeseung snoring faintly. The occasional shift of movement in the camp. But up here, it's just you, him, and a silence so thick it presses against his ribs.

Your head shifts slightly on his lap, your brows twitching faintly as if sensing his thoughts. He smooths a hand gently over your hair, careful not to wake you. 

He swallows hard, eyes scanning the treeline beyond camp, trying to focus on anything other than the way his body feels too still, too aware. Like he’s being watched. Like he’s watching himself.

He should wake you. He should shift you off and remind you that trust is dangerous, that closeness is a liability. But he doesn’t. He stays still. He lets you sleep.

Not because he wants to. But because he can’t bring himself to interrupt the first quiet moment he’s had in months.

Still, something gnaws at him.

Not pity. He’s long since buried that. No, it’s something more restless. A low, crawling discomfort that settles beneath the surface of his skin. 

He looks down at your sleeping form again, the faint rise and fall of your chest syncing with the rhythm of the wind brushing through the trees. His jaw tightens. He can’t describe it, but there’s a softness about you that reminds him of who he used to be. Who he still wants to be—

Someone who he had forgotten shortly after the world fell apart.

He finds comfort in that thought.

Part 2

The rations are lower than he’d hoped.

Jungwon crouches near the supply crates, fingers counting through the bags of dried grains and tins with fading labels. Heeseung’s estimate from earlier was right—they had enough to last a week if they were careful. Less, now, with one more mouth to feed. He doesn’t blame you, not really. It was his choice to let you stay. His burden to carry, his responsibility to manage. He just didn’t expect how fast everything would dwindle.

His eyes flicked toward you, sitting just a few feet away, chewing quietly on the last of the dried jerky. You didn’t know he’d seen the exchange between you and Heeseung. You didn’t need to. The guilt already lingered in your eyes like smoke. 

He wasn’t angry. He understood. You weren’t deadweight. You pulled more than your share. But it didn’t change the math. Nothing ever changed the math.

He holds one of the dented cans in his palm, thumb brushing over the label, nearly worn down to nothing. He calculates quickly, quietly. Eight mouths, one meal a day, factoring in exhaustion and hunger—

They’d have to start scavenging. Soon.

Still, Jungwon keeps his face calm when he approaches Heeseung. His words are clipped, deliberate: “We’ll have to send a team out to hunt. Latest before noon.”

The others gather instinctively. No one questions it—it’s the way they’ve always operated. Without him barking orders, without a raised voice. He isn’t their leader by title, but by necessity. By trust earned through blood and bone and all the things he’s never said aloud. He stands where others hesitate, and they follow because he always brings them back. He always calculates the outcome.

Except now, the variable is you.

He watches the way Jay glares at you, a quiet resentment simmering under the surface. It’s not even subtle anymore. The jab lands—“We do have one more mouth to feed”—and Jungwon feels a flicker of something hot rise in his chest. Not quite anger. Not yet. But something protective. Something unfamiliar.

He didn’t even need to look at you to know that you took that hit without flinching. You’d gotten good at that—pretending you’re fine. It annoys him. Because he could see through it.

“Jay,” he said simply.

It was enough. Jay looked away, but not before Jungwon saw the frustration still simmering behind his eyes.

“I’ll go,” you say, your voice slicing through the tension. Jungwon’s gaze snaps to you immediately, eyes narrowing. The suggestion is unexpected, and he doesn’t like surprises—not when it comes to survival. But you’re already explaining yourself, calm and rational, just like the first time he heard you speak in that busted-up auto shop. That same fire, the same grit. You weren’t lying then, and he doesn’t think you are now.

Still, he challenges you. “You?”

You don’t back down. “You need every fighter you can spare here, and I can handle myself.”

There’s no hesitation in your eyes. No flinch. It’s not a bluff—it’s a debt. You’re trying to repay them, even if you don’t realise that’s what it is. Jungwon recognises the expression. He’s worn it himself before, back when guilt used to be sharp and fresh instead of dull and persistent.

When the volunteers step forward—Heeseung, then Jay—Jungwon watches closely. Jay’s distrust is expected. Heeseung’s trust is reassuring. But it still doesn’t sit right with him.

So he steps forward too. “I’ll go.”

But the moment the words leave his mouth, you’re already challenging him again.

“No, you can’t go.”

And that stuns him more than it should.

He watches you, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. You step in closer, your voice low and measured, as if you know that contradicting him in front of the others is dangerous—but you do it anyway. Because you’re not afraid of him. Because you believe what you’re saying.

“They need you here,” you whisper. “They’re rattled. They need their leader.”

And maybe it’s the exhaustion, or maybe it’s the way your eyes meet his like you’ve known him longer than you have, but Jungwon hesitates. Just for a second. Just long enough to admit to himself that you’re right.

He couldn’t let them fall apart again. Not like before.

His silence is his answer.

“All right,” he concedes at last, softer than the others expect. “But don’t take unnecessary risks. If it looks bad, you come back. Understood?”

He doesn’t know why he says it that way. Not “be careful.” Not “watch each other’s backs.” No, his concern is aimed at you specifically, and that confuses him.

Jungwon watches the group disperse to prepare. The fire’s gone out, and the morning chill begins to creep through the trees. You’re already tying your boots, already too far from him to see the way his jaw clenches as he watches the way you glance around at the others like you were memorising them. It unsettles him. Like you were saying goodbye.

That’s when Jungwon pulls Jay aside, his steps quiet but deliberate as he angles them just out of earshot from the others. The moment feels heavy, calculated. Not a command—but close.

“Make sure she comes back,” Jungwon says, voice low but firm.

Jay’s head snaps toward him, blinking like he’s not sure he heard right. “What?”

“You heard me.” 

Jay’s head tilts slightly, disbelief flickering across his features. “You can’t be serious. I’m not her babysitter.”

“I’m not asking you to babysit,” Jungwon replies, his voice steady, eyes scanning the trees ahead. “I’m asking you to make sure she doesn't run off.”

Jay scoffs, folding his arms across his chest. “Why? What’s so special about her?”

Jungwon’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t flinch. “You’ve seen the way she moves. She’s adaptable. Resourceful. Smart. Doesn’t hurt to have someone like that around.”

Jay lets out a dry, humourless laugh. “So what? That doesn’t mean she’s not a threat. You really think you can trust someone who showed up out of nowhere? Remember what happened the last time we trusted somebody? I lost Ji–” Jay cuts himself off, suddenly conscious of his voice raising.

There’s a beat of silence. Jay knows there’s no point arguing with Jungwon, not when he’s already convinced you are some kind of saviour sent down from the heavens. So, he exercises the only form of discontent he can manage by shaking his head and muttering something under his breath before stalking off to grab his pack. 

Jungwon doesn’t call after him. Instead, his eyes drift back to you—your silhouette against the trees, knife sheathed, shoulders squared. You don’t look back. You never do. And that unsettles him more than it should.

Because for all his planning, for all the careful equations he ran in his head—the tactical choices, the contingencies—he never planned for you. Never anticipated the weight of your presence. Never accounted for the way you made the lines between logic and instinct blur. And no matter how he frames it in his mind—no matter how much he tries to reduce you to a number, a risk factor, a variable in a larger equation—he can’t.

You don’t fit. You’re not the plan.

And yet, you’re already part of it.

Part 3

Jungwon can feel the tension rising before anyone speaks—like a storm pressing down on the air, suffocating and inevitable.

He watches you carefully, your fingers curling slightly against your palm, your shoulders square despite the weariness clinging to your frame. You’re pushing. Offering. Volunteering to go in someone’s place. Again. It’s not the first time you’ve done something like this, but it still hits differently now.

He knows what you’re doing. You’re trying to prove something—not just to them, but to yourself.

And then there’s Jay.

“This is insane,” Jay scoffs from where he leans against a tree, arms crossed, eyes hard. “We barely know her, and you want to let her go off into the village?”

The words hit exactly how Jungwon expects them to. He doesn’t move, just watches the way your jaw tightens—just a fraction, but he sees it.

He waits for Jake’s voice. Right on cue.

“Jay,” Jake says without even looking up, his tone sharp and steady. “Again. Not your place to speak.”

It’s almost funny, the way Jake can silence a room. Almost. If the air weren’t already thick with leftover tension. And in his defense, Jake’s anger is not completely misplaced. Jungwon lets the silence linger, lets it press down on the group, watches the way Jay shifts his stance and glances off to the side, jaw clenching. 

You take a breath, and Jungwon instinctively shifts his focus to you again.

“Trust me,” you say, and it’s the way you say it—steady but hollow—that pulls something taut in his chest. “Or better yet, don’t trust me. If anything goes wrong, it’s easier to leave me behind anyway.”

The words land like a stone in his gut. For a second, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

Guilt. It coils in Jungwon’s chest like smoke, slow and suffocating. It’s not an emotion he’s allowed himself to feel in a long time—not when he needed to stay sharp, decisive, calculated. And yet, there it is, curling through his ribs the moment your words slip out.

Because he’s thought about it.

He’s thought it, and he hates that he has. It’s how he’s survived this long. Know the numbers. Know the odds. Know when to cut your losses. He’s always been that kind of person. Tactical. Strategic. Even now, even when he tells himself he’s changed, his mind still drifts to the math of survival. He’s still capable of thinking in loss ratios and calculated sacrifices. Still carrying remnants of the machine he once served.

But when you say it—not coldly, but as if you’ve accepted it already—it doesn’t feel like survival. It feels like cruelty.

It’s not just about your willingness to risk yourself. It’s the fact that, deep down, he’d allowed himself to believe it too. And that makes him feel like a monster all over again.

His gaze flicks around the group. Heeseung looks away. Sunoo’s lips are pressed into a thin line. Even Jay shifts uncomfortably.

They’ve all thought it too, haven’t they?

Still, your words echo in his mind, louder than anything else.

It’s easier to leave me behind anyway.

So when he speaks, when he says “Don’t joke about that,” it’s not just to you. It’s to himself. A warning. A plea. Because he doesn’t want to be that person anymore. Doesn’t want to weigh your life like a number on a chart.

And for the first time, he realises: you’re not just another survivor to be measured and managed. You’re something he doesn’t know how to carry—but he wants to try.

So he makes the decision now, quietly, without anyone knowing.

He wants you to come back.

No matter the cost.

The siphon’s slow. Too slow. Jungwon watches the steady trickle of fuel through the tube like it might suddenly stop working, like if he looks away, everything could go to shit again. The sky’s still wrapped in the pale grey of morning, but the air smells like heat’s coming. Another scorcher, probably.

He doesn't look at you or Jay—he keeps his gaze trained on the canister. Keeps his hands steady. Keeps everything steady.

Then your voice cuts through the quiet. "It might not mean anything, but I would’ve done it too.”

Jungwon’s head turns before he can help it. You’re not looking at him—you’re looking at Jay. And Jay, who’s standing on the other side of the tractor, squints at you, clearly caught off guard.

He didn’t understand it at first, but then you say it: “Going after him—I mean.”

And everything freezes for a second.

Jay’s expression shifts. Hardens. “You don’t have to lie to comfort me. I know what I did was wrong.”

Jungwon watches you quietly, his fingers curled into fists beside him. His pulse is steady, but something in his chest tightens. There’s a fire in your voice—not rage, not grief, but something deeper. Something rooted. You speak like someone who’s already lived with loss. Too much of it.

Jungwon doesn't move, but his mind has already left the field. It's spiralling, fast. You’ve done something to him again—upended the quiet order he relies on to stay sane. The structure. The roles. The carefully drawn lines he’s used to separating emotion from survival. You, with your raw words and unwavering eyes, walk right through them.

“But even if you think it’s wrong, you don’t regret it.”

The way you say it... Jungwon flinches inwardly. Because it’s not just a statement. It’s a mirror. And for a moment, he sees his own reflection staring back through the cracks—every line of guilt etched beneath your voice. He’s not even sure who you’re talking to anymore. Jay? Yourself? Him?

Jay tenses, trying to keep that wall up, but it’s already thinning. “What are you trying to say?”

You don’t even blink. “What I’m trying to say is, what you’re feeling is valid. If it were up to me, I would’ve shot him in both ankles. Make sure he couldn’t run to begin with.”

Jungwon’s chest tightens. The field goes quiet.

Jay shoots him a look. “You’re not scared to say that? In front of him?”

You turn slightly. Just enough to meet Jungwon’s gaze. He doesn’t react, not outwardly. But inwardly, there’s a small ripple beneath the surface. Because that’s the second time this morning you’ve challenged something—first his orders, now his image.

“Why would I be?”

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. His silence is answer enough. Because no matter how steady he looks, he feels everything ripple underneath—this fracture between who he was and who he wants to be. Between the person who signed off on raids and the person standing here now, listening to you speak like someone who’s survived both sides of the war.

Jay exhales through his nose, like he’s trying not to let something else slip. “You probably already figured it out, but the whole point of this group—the way Jungwon leads us—is to make sure we don’t become the monsters we ran away from. Whatever Jake or the others feel about what I did… that’s valid.”

Jungwon wants to correct him. Wants to tell him that he’s not leading anyone. That he’s just trying to keep the wheels turning long enough for someone else—anyone else—to take over. But he doesn’t. He keeps his eyes on the canister, his fists tight enough that his knuckles start to blanch.

Because Jay’s not entirely wrong. Jungwon is supposed to be the anchor. The one who holds them together, who balances risk and morality like it’s simple math. But even now, hearing it out loud—that he’s the one meant to stop them from falling too far—feels like a lie. A fragile one at best. He’s barely holding himself together as it is. And it’s only about to get harder now that you’re here, making him question things he thought he’d buried.

You speak again, quieter this time. “If I saw someone I love die in front of me, I’d do much more than just shoot someone in the ankle.”

And that sentence? That one stays with him.

Because it reminds him that he doesn’t know who you’ve lost. Doesn’t know how close your grief is to the surface. But whatever it is, it’s carved into your spine. There’s a weight behind your words that’s too heavy to fake.

Jay goes still. “Yeah… it doesn’t bring her back, though.”

“No,” you reply gently. “It doesn’t.”

Silence again. Not heavy this time—just worn. Weathered.

The wind picks up, brushing the overgrown stalks around them. Jungwon’s eyes flick to you. You’re still calm, composed. But there’s a sadness in you too. One he hadn’t noticed before.

“But,” you add, “you seem to forget that it’s also human to want justice. Or revenge. Whatever you want to call it.”

Jungwon watches the way Jay’s expression softens. Just barely. The way your voice threads through the space like balm and blade all at once. And all he can think is that this is what scares him the most. Not that you’re reckless. Not that you challenge him. But that you feel so deeply, and still haven’t hardened yourself into something else. That you’re still fighting like it means something.

Jay mutters, “Justice or revenge… depends on who’s telling the story.”

You nod once. “Or who’s left to tell it.”

It’s a brutal thing to say, but it isn’t cruelty he hears in your voice—it’s clarity. Cold, sharp clarity born of a world where justice and revenge are no longer separate concepts. And what scares him isn’t your willingness to say it. It’s how much he agrees.

Jungwon doesn’t look away. Not now. Because there’s something in you, in the way you speak—raw, candid, without hesitation—that gnaws at his chest. The others follow orders, look to him for structure. But you?

You keep challenging the narrative.

Jay’s shoulders loosen. His eyes drop. “I don’t know what that makes me, though. A monster or just… someone who’s trying to survive.”

And that’s when Jungwon finally speaks.

“It makes you someone who’s still here. Someone who’s still fighting. That’s all that matters.”

His voice is level. Measured. But it rings hollow in his own ears. Because the truth is, it’s a reminder meant for himself just as much as for Jay. Because when you joked earlier about being easy to leave behind, it wasn’t funny—not to him. It was a reminder. That he’s calculating again. Risk versus reward. Just like before. Just like The Future trained him to be. You could’ve died, and he weighed it like an equation.

And even now, he’s still calculating.

But for the first time, he doesn’t want the answer. Because the numbers don’t reflect what’s clawing at him now—the feeling that if something happened to you, the loss wouldn’t be strategic.

It would be personal.

You pick up the tube, pull it free from the tank, and screw the cap back on. Jay lifts the canister, nods once, and starts heading back toward the road without another word.

You and Jungwon walk side by side now. He keeps a few paces from you, but every now and then, his eyes flicker to your profile. You don’t speak. Neither does he. But the silence between you is louder than it used to be.

It unsettles him.

Because just days ago, you were a stranger in the shadows. Another mouth. Another risk. A variable Jungwon wasn’t prepared for. Someone he would’ve discarded in the past, or worse—filed under liability and moved on. Back then, in The Future, everything was numbers. Resources. Probability. Sacrifices. Names didn’t matter. Faces didn’t matter. And you?

You were never supposed to matter.

But now you’re this—this raw, unpredictable thing that keeps catching him off guard. Every time you speak, every time you meet his gaze without flinching, something in him shifts. Rearranges. Like you’re tugging at wires he didn’t know were still connected.

You challenge him—his leadership, his orders, his silence. You don’t do it with arrogance or anger. You do it with honesty. With conviction. With a quiet kind of strength that doesn’t come from training or hierarchy, but from survival. And somewhere along the way, without permission or warning, you've slipped between the cracks of his guarded exterior.

He hates that.

Not because you’re dangerous.

But because you’re not.

Because you remind him of the part of himself he’s spent years burying—the part that wants to believe there’s still something worth protecting that doesn’t serve a strategic advantage. That maybe, just maybe, not everything needs to be calculated. That there are people who still make choices because it feels right, not because the odds are in their favour.

And worse, it mirrors your own thoughts—how just hours earlier, you convinced yourself that walking away would be the safest thing. That leaving them, leaving him, was the right call. Not because you didn’t care, but because you cared too much. Because you’ve seen what happens when you let people in. What it costs.

You told yourself you’d repay them, that you’d disappear before they grew to trust you. Before you grew to trust them. Before the roots took hold.

But they already have. He sees it in the way you offer to hunt, to siphon gas, to carry your weight and more. He sees it in the way you speak to Jay—not with contempt, but with understanding. He sees it, and it frightens him.

Because you’re not just surviving—you’re still human.

And in a world where humanity is often a liability, you are living proof that some parts of it are worth saving. You are proof that maybe he’s not too far gone. That maybe he doesn’t have to bury every soft part of himself to lead.

It’s maddening.

Because this isn’t how it was supposed to go. You weren’t supposed to get under his skin. He wasn’t supposed to feel anything other than the instinct to keep the group alive. He wasn’t supposed to look at you and think—

Not her. Not if I can help it.

But the thought is there. It has been for a while. And now, no matter how he tries to push it down, it keeps resurfacing.

Because for all his structure and restraint, you’ve introduced something volatile.

Hope.

Part 4

The van bumps down the cracked road, the scent of Jay’s blood thick in the air, the silence louder than the groans fading behind them. Jungwon sits rigid in the passenger seat, fists clenched on his thighs, jaw tight. He hasn’t spoken since they pulled away. Not even when the two men started running after them. Not even when one of them screamed, “Please! We didn’t want it to go this far!”

He hears you, though. The urgency in your voice when you say, “They’re unarmed. They’re not a threat.” You say it like you believe it. Like you need it to be true.

But Jungwon doesn’t answer. Can’t. Because if he opens his mouth, he’s afraid of what might come out.

Because the truth is, he doesn't know anymore.

He used to. Back in The Future, everything was black and white. You either secured the mission or you didn’t. You either survived or you didn’t. There were no in-betweens. No compromises. No emotional attachments to blur the lines.

But that world didn’t have you in it.

You, who looked the man who shot Jay in the eyes and still hesitated to pull the trigger. You, who dared to say out loud what he’s been burying since day one—that if any of them died, he wouldn’t be rational about it. That if you had collapsed into that field with a bullet in your chest, if Jay had died protecting you, Jungwon doesn’t know what he would’ve done. What line he might’ve crossed.

And that terrifies him.

Because now he knows. You were right.

If any of you had died, he would’ve hunted them all down without a second thought. No calculation. No strategy. Just blood. Just rage. 

He knows in the marrow of his bones that he wouldn’t have left survivors. Wouldn’t have spared the two men running after the van, wouldn’t have let anyone surrender. A bullet through the head wouldn’t have been justice. It would’ve been the highest form of mercy he was capable of offering in that moment. Because there wouldn’t be room for compassion. Or mercy. Or even thought.

Only vengeance.

The van rumbles on, Ni-ki’s knuckles white around the wheel. Sunghoon is silent, his eyes fixed on the floor. Sunoo looks sick. Heeseung hasn’t moved from Jay’s side. Jake is still pressing down on the wound, hands trembling. They’re all unravelling.

And it’s his fault.

Because the thing he never accounted for—the variable he couldn’t predict—was what would happen if he started to care.

Now he knows.

Caring makes one reckless.

Caring makes one hesitate.

Caring makes one pull the trigger for someone else and never quite recover from it.

He watches the woods blur past the window. Thinks about the woman who died. The men who tried to kill you. The man who shot Jay. The two who begged for their lives. The part of himself that wanted to give them a chance. And the part that didn’t.

He hears you shift beside him, hears the way your breath shakes as you whisper, “We’ve crossed a line.”

He doesn’t respond.

Because he’s still trying to figure out when exactly he lost sight of it. All he knows is that this—this sickness in his chest, this silent weight pressing against his lungs—is the cost. The toll you pay when you start thinking with your heart instead of your head.

He should’ve never let that happen.

But he did.

Because of you.

Because somewhere between your barbed honesty and quiet defiance, between the way you look at this world like it hasn’t fully beaten you down yet—he let his guard slip.

He doesn’t want to feel this way. Doesn’t want to feel anything. Emotions get people killed. Emotions make you weak. He knew that once. Lived by it.

But now?

Now he’s watching the person beside him become someone they don’t recognise. Just like he did. Just like they all did.

When Jungwon said “I did it for me,” he wasn’t trying to sound cold. He wasn’t trying to push you away.

What he meant—what he couldn’t say in that moment—is that he pulled the trigger so you wouldn't have to.

Because if you had taken that shot—if you had crossed that line—you wouldn’t have come back from it. Not really. Not the way you are now. Not the version of you that still believes in something more than just survival. The version that still pauses before pulling the trigger, that still sees people instead of threats. That still tries.

And that version of you? That fragile, lone, dandelion still clinging to the cracks in this rotted world?

He couldn’t let that die.

Not when you were the first person in a long, long time to make him question who he was outside of tactics and duty. Not when you were the first person to look at him and not just see the soldier, the strategist, the boy bred by The Future to be a weapon—but someone worth saving too.

So yes. He did it for you.

But more selfishly?

He did it so he wouldn’t have to watch you become someone you’re not. He did it so you could stay as somebody who is kind and innocent. Somebody who inspires him to be a better person. You’re not a monster. And he’ll do everything he can to keep it that way.

Because watching that kind of light go out in someone like you?

That would’ve destroyed him.

And he’s already too far gone to survive another kind of loss like that.

Jungwon doesn't know how they got here so fast. One moment he hears them—low groans bleeding through the trees like a warning—and the next he’s pulling you through a sea of rusted cars, adrenaline screaming through his veins. His grip on your wrist is tight, desperate. He doesn’t look back. He doesn’t have to. The dead are close. Too close.

He finds the lorry purely on instinct, tossing you up before you even have time to catch your breath. The edge of it scrapes his palms as he climbs up after you, then yanks the tattered tarp over both of you in one swift motion, plunging the space into shadow.

Your voice rises, a startled whisper, but he cuts it off with his hand pressed lightly over your mouth—not harsh, just firm. His other arm braces over you, holding himself there as the first chorus of groans rolls past the truck.

It’s suffocating, the way the air thickens with decay and tension. The sound of their dragging feet fills his ears, an endless wave of hunger just inches away. The metal beneath him vibrates with the weight of it—the horde moving past like a tide of death. If even one of them hears you breathe too loudly, it’s over.

So he holds his breath. And he holds you.

Your chest rises and falls beneath him, the quickened rhythm of fear making your whole body tremble. You’re shaking, but you’re trying to be brave—trying to stay still despite the instinct to run. He feels your shoulder tucked under his arm, the way your hand clutches at the fabric of his jacket, whether you mean to or not.

He doesn’t look. Not at first.

He’s too busy listening—calculating the distance, counting the footsteps. But when the sound starts to fade, when the worst of them pass and only the stragglers remain, something in him shifts. He glances down.

And he sees you.

Really sees you.

The dim light filtering through the moth-eaten holes in the tarp spills soft patterns across your face—highlighting the curve of your cheek, the flutter of your lashes as you fight to keep your eyes closed. There’s dirt on your skin, a smear of something across your jaw, but you still look... beautiful. Fragile, in a way he doesn’t know how to stomach. It makes his chest ache.

Because he remembers the drugstore. Remembers the exact second he almost lost you.

He remembers the scream—the sound of you calling his name, the thud of your body slamming into the hatch frame, the sickening moment when a rotted hand grabbed your ankle and yanked you back toward death. He’d never moved so fast in his life. Never fired a shot with such fury. He pulled you out of that hatch with every ounce of strength he had left, your blood smearing across his palms, your gasps digging into his ribs like knives.

You could’ve died back there. And the truth is—he wouldn’t have survived it.

And now, lying here in the silence after the storm, your breath brushing his collarbone, your body curled so unconsciously against his—it hits him all over again. The closeness. The danger. The way your hand just curled a little tighter into his jacket.

You shift slightly, and he instinctively pulls you closer, one hand sliding to cradle the back of your head. “Stop moving,” he murmurs against your hair, his voice barely more than breath.

He expects you to flinch. To pull away.

You don’t.

Instead, you press your cheek closer to his chest, your breath steadying, syncing with his. And it feels like something clicks into place—something that shouldn’t. Something dangerous.

Because in a world like this, closeness is a luxury. Tenderness is a risk. And you… you are a risk he never meant to take.

But lying here now, with the world rotting just inches away, he can’t find it in himself to regret it. Not when your heartbeat thuds against his ribs. Not when you’ve buried your fear in the safety of his arms.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just listens to the dying groans fade into the distance, holding you like you’re the last good thing in this godforsaken world.

Part 5

Jungwon sits on the rooftaop long after the sun has risen, legs bent, arms draped loosely over his knees, the rifle resting at his side, untouched. The morning air is crisp, and the sky above is a pale, uncertain blue—washed-out and faded like a painting left out in the rain. Even the clouds seem hesitant, lingering low and unmoving, as though the weather itself is unsure whether to weep or stay dry. 

From his perch, he has a clear view of the road—the same one you walked away on just an hour ago. It winds past the edge of the camp, disappearing into the hoizon like a thread unraveled too far to follow. And even though he knows better, even though he tells himself not to expect anything, he watches that path like it owes him something. Like maybe if he stares hard enough, you’ll come walking back. That some part of you might still choose to return.

But you don’t.

And he doesn’t look away.

The breeze brushes against him, tugging gently at his hair, but he makes no move to push it aside. His body is still, but his mind is anything but. 

He's been up here since you turned your back on him and walked away, since he realised you were gone for good. He didn’t go back down, didn’t speak to the others when they woke up, didn’t offer an explanation. He didn’t have the words. He still doesn’t. Because if he says it out loud—if he lets the sound of your absence cross his lips—he’s afraid something inside him will crack so deep it’ll never be put back together.

So he sits.

And he watches.

And he thinks.

About the things you said to each other. Words thrown like knives in the dark, sharp and bitter and honest in the ugliest ways. He thinks about how your voice broke when you told him you couldn’t stay, how your shoulders trembled with the weight of the choice you were making. He thinks about how you looked when you said you couldn’t lose them—couldn’t lose him. 

There was a look in your eyes then—a look he’d never seen before. Not even when Jay nearly died. That time, you were reckless. This time, there’s a look of desperation, grief, something close to love and even closer to fear. Not the kind of fear that comes from facing the dead. The kind that comes from having something to lose.

It’s strange—the silence that follows. It’s not rage. Not yet. Not grief, either. It's a kind of stillness. The kind that presses against the inside of your ribs, caught in the base of your throat like a sob that never quite makes it out. 

He feels it settle into him like a sickness. A slow, crawling thing that starts in his gut and moves outward, hollowing him out. 

You lied.

That’s the first thought that really stings. You stood there, looked him in the eye and said you’d stay. That you’d help carry the burden. That he wasn’t alone.

And now you’re gone.

He leans forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, the sun casting a faint glow across his face. It should feel warm. It doesn’t. Nothing feels warm anymore.

He remembers how your voice shook and how you avoided looking into his eyes when you said you never meant to care. Thinks about the way you flinched when he accused you of being no different from those who left you. The way you looked like you wanted to scream and collapse all at once.

You think he’s good. You told him he was the one holding everything together. That they follow him not because they have to, but because they trust him. Because he’s him.

But you don’t see it the way he does.

They follow him because there’s no one else. Because someone has to make the hard calls. Someone has to carry the weight. And he does. Not because he’s good. But because he’s still standing. That’s all it is.

The good ones are the ones who don’t make it. The ones who hesitate. The ones who don’t pull the trigger.

But Jungwon? He pulled the trigger the moment the world went to shit. And he’s been pulling it ever since.

You're not like him. You're better. Or maybe you were. Maybe he just didn’t want to watch that final part of you die.

But the truth is—you’re not good either. Not really. You’ve lied. You’ve stolen. You’ve done things you’re not proud of. You’ve chosen survival over strangers more times than you’ve admitted. You hold the blade just as well as he does. 

He knows that now.

You think he’s good, and he thinks you are.

But the truth? You’re both just survivors, trying to hold onto what little scraps of humanity you still have left. You're not good. Not anymore. Maybe not ever. But that doesn’t mean you’re monsters either.

Not yet.

Because what neither of you realised—what he’s only beginning to understand as he sits on this rooftop, staring out at the road you vanished down with an ache in his chest—is that the parts of yourselves you’re trying so hard to protect aren’t found in your own strength.

They’re found in each other.

You were his balance. The reminder that the weight could be shared. That maybe he didn’t have to carry it all alone. That maybe not every decision had to be cold and calculated. And he was your anchor. The reason you stayed longer than you should have. The one thing that made you second-guess running. He was the tether pulling you back to something human. 

He grounded you. You softened him.

Neither of you were good. But together, you were better.

And that was enough.

Or it could have been.

He exhales slowly, the sound quiet against the breeze. His eyes don’t leave the road, even though it remains empty. His fingers curl against the rooftop's edge, digging into the concrete until his knuckles pale. The pain’s dulled now, no longer sharp—just a constant, aching throb, like a bruise you forget is there until you move the wrong way.

He should be used to this by now. People always leave. Always look out for themselves. That’s what the world has become. And he’s always known that. It’s why he never lets himself get too close.

But you were different.

You were the exception.

You were the moment he started to hope.

And now, standing there in the pale morning light, your name like a ghost on the back of his tongue, he feels something crack. Not loudly. Not visibly. But deeply.

You’re the greatest loss, Jungwon.

When you said that, he swore his heart was about to jump out of his chest. It wasn’t a goodbye. It was a confession. One wrapped in cowardice and fear. But a confession nonetheless.

And god, he wanted to believe that was enough.

But belief doesn’t change the fact that you still walked away. And Jungwon is left with the thought that he alone wasn't enough to convince you to stay.

He closes his eyes for a moment, letting the wind run through his hair, letting the world fall quiet again. 

You’re gone and he’s still here. Still watching. Still waiting. 

But the road stays empty and the rooftop stays quiet.

He just sits there, alone. Holding onto the last part of himself you hadn’t taken with you.

And hoping, quietly, that maybe—just maybe—wherever you are, you’re holding onto a piece of him too.

Part 6

The moment you say the word—bit—Jungwon feels the world tilt. It doesn’t make sense. Not immediately. He hears the word. Understands it. But the meaning doesn’t sink in. Not really. Not until he sees your arm.

The torn sleeve. The torn flesh.Teeth marks.

He goes still.

No air enters his lungs. No words form in his mouth. He just stares.

This isn’t happening.

He steps forward, slow and mechanical, like he’s walking through a dream—no, a nightmare—where his body no longer obeys him. Every instinct screams denial, but the evidence is right there, painted in your blood, mocking him.

“You’re lying,” he says.

Because you have to be. Because the alternative—the truth—splits something down the middle of his chest. He can feel it cracking, deep and irreversible.

But you’re not. And he sees it.

In the tremble of your fingers.

In the pale stretch of skin around the wound.

In Jay’s silence.

No. No. No.

The images of your death floods his vision and Jungwon swears he’s slowing losing his mind. He steps closer without thinking, fury and panic colliding in his chest. “Why?” His voice is a snarl now, strangled and broken.

You start to speak, but he cuts you off. He’s spiraling, his voice raw, hoarse, unraveling. “I told you to stay put inside. I told you. You never listen. Fuck–” His voice catches, his fists clench, and the words fall apart before they reach the end.

His hands fly to his head, fingers digging into his hair, tugging, trembling. He can’t hold it in—this storm rising inside him. It’s too much. Too loud. Too fast.

She’s bit. She’s bit. She’s fucking bit.

He sees the blood again—so much blood.

And all he can think is: I should’ve been faster. I should’ve been there. You’re dying and it’s my fault.

You apologise.

He wants to scream.

Because you’re apologising like it’s over. Like you’ve already accepted it. Like he’s just meant to stand here and watch you die.

He doesn't think.

There’s no calculation. No weighing the risks. No strategy. No logic. Because logic doesn’t exist in this moment—not when you’re standing there, blood soaking through your sleeve, skin pale and eyes resigned.

The world goes silent, deafeningly so.

And then, without thinking—without permission, without hesitation, without fear—he lets go of the rifle in his hands. It crashes to the rooftop, forgotten. Worthless.

His feet close the distance in a single breath.

He grabs you, pulls you into him like he’s trying to anchor himself to reality. One arm locks tightly around the back of your neck, the other cradles your head, his fingers threading into your hair, holding you against him like a lifeline.

It’s not careful. It’s not soft.

It’s desperate.

Crushing.

He doesn’t realise how hard he’s holding you until his arms begin to ache, until his breath shudders with the effort of keeping you close enough—close enough to feel you breathing. Close enough to feel your heartbeat. Close enough to convince himself you’re still here. Still his. Still alive.

His whole body is trembling. He presses his face into your shoulder, barely breathing, jaw clenched so tight it hurts. Your scent, your warmth—it’s all still here. Still real. Still you.

And it’s killing him.

Because this moment isn’t supposed to be happening.

You’re not supposed to be leaving. You’re not supposed to be dying.

His grip tightens, the pads of his fingers digging into your scalp like he can force your soul to stay through sheer contact alone.

He knows—god, he knows—he should let go. Should be the strong one. The leader.

But he can’t. Because he knows that if he lets go, you’ll start slipping away. And if you slip away—he might not survive it.

And the terrifying part? 

He doesn’t think he wants to. Not if it means going back to a world that doesn’t have you in it.

It’s selfish.

But he doesn't care.

He’s breathing you in like this is the last time he’ll ever be able to. Like this is the last trace of warmth he’ll ever know. And maybe it is.  Because this moment—this second in time where you’re still you—is slipping through his fingers, no matter how tightly he holds on.

And when he feels your arms slowly wrap around his waist, it shatters him. Because you’re comforting him. You’re steadying him when you’re the one who’s dying.

It’s too much.

Your fingers twist into his shirt, creasing the fabric. He holds you tighter in response, burying his face in your hair, letting the scent of ash and blood and you consume him. He doesn’t know how to say goodbye. He doesn't know how to live with this.

He’s not ready. He’ll never be ready.

Then—he feels it.

A hand. Not yours. On his back.

Then another. A body presses in from behind. Then one at his side. Then another. Until the world around him disappears. He doesn’t need to look to know it’s the others closing in, forming a wall around them. A shield. A goodbye.

And something about that breaks him even further. Because he was supposed to protect them. He was supposed to keep you safe.

But he couldn’t even stop this.

So he holds you like a dying man holds a lifeline. Arms locked around you, one hand gripping the nape of your neck, the other wrapped so tightly around your shoulders it must hurt. But you don’t complain. You don’t flinch.

You sink into him.

And that’s what undoes him.

He feels it when you press your cheek to his collarbone, the wet heat of your tears seeping through the fabric of his shirt. He feels the way your body finally gives in to the grief. Not quietly. Not gently. But all at once. Like a dam breaking. Like everything you’ve been holding in—every fear, every sorrow, every buried hope—has chosen now to bleed out.

The first sob wrecks him.

It shatters through his chest like a shockwave, a sound so raw, so guttural, it forces the air from his lungs. And then another. And another. Until you’re sobbing in his arms, uncontrollably, violently, like grief is trying to tear its way out of you.

And still—he doesn’t let go.

Because if this is the last time he gets to hold you, to have you, then he’s going to memorise it. Every trembling breath. Every broken cry. Every heartbeat that still syncs with his. He’s going to carve it into his skin so he’ll never forget what it felt like to love someone so much it made him stupid. So much it made him human.

When you finally start to pull away, when your body begins to shift, the movement feels like a knife. Like losing you in slow motion.

His hand—without thinking—clutches yours, refusing to let it go, even as your breath steadies, even as your sobs die down into a choked stillness. His fingers are shaking. His eyes are burning. But he doesn’t loosen his grip.

And then—then you say the worst thing you possibly could.

“I need to go.”

The moment the words leave your lips, something in him fractures.

It’s not the first time you’ve challenged him, not the first time you’ve spoken with that stubborn fire in your voice—but this? This feels different. The way your tone doesn’t shake. The way your eyes hold his like they’ve already said goodbye.

Jungwon reacts before he can think. “No.”

It’s sharp. A command. A wall. One final barricade against the inevitable.

But you’re already scaling it. With every word, every breath, every look—you’re slipping from his grasp.

“I’m no help up here,” you say, and his gut twists. Your voice is too steady. Too rational. Like you’ve already buried the part of yourself that’s scared. Like this is already decided. “In fact, I’d be a threat. A is still out there. If I don’t find him, he’ll come back. He’ll keep coming back.”

“No.” His hand tightens around your wrist. It’s reflexive. Desperate. His fingers dig in like they can stop time, like pressure alone will keep you tethered. But it’s not enough. You’re still slipping. Slipping like water through cracked palms.

“We can still win, we can—”

“I’ve already lost, Y/N.”

The words escape before he realises he’s said them. And the second they’re out there, hanging in the silence between you, he wants to take them back. Because the look in your eyes—god—it hurts.

You freeze. Just for a second.

But your conviction doesn’t falter. He sees it in your gaze. You’ve already accepted what he can’t even begin to fathom.

“Please, Jungwon.” You step closer, and the distance that’s been widening all night folds in for one fragile moment. “I need to know that you’re safe. Only then can I die in peace.”

He sways. 

He physically sways like the ground’s shifted beneath him. Because that word—die—cuts through him cleaner than any bullet. Any blade. It’s the word that makes it real.

His head shakes before he can stop it, violently, like he can shake the thought loose from reality. His grip tightens around your wrist, trembling now, trembling so hard it’s like his body already knows what his mind refuses to accept.

His gaze drops. He can’t look at you. Not when he knows this is the last time you’ll be standing here, this whole. This you.

So when your hands rise to cup his face, when your fingers brush his skin—warm, gentle, grounding—his hands instinctively come up to hold your wrists, to keep you there, to anchor you. 

And that’s when the panic really sets in.

Because your expression… it’s not defiance. Not anger. Not even sorrow.

It’s peace.

That kind of terrifying, heartbreaking calm only people ready to die wear like a second skin. 

Your thumb grazes his cheek, and it’s so tender it nearly kills him. He wants to scream. Wants to tell you to stop, to fight. Wants to kiss you

You beat him to it.

Your lips press against his, gentle and slow, and it feels like everything in him collapses all at once. It’s a kiss of desperation. It’s grief. It’s love. It’s a goodbye carved into the shape of your lips. Because you’re kissing him like this is the last thing you’ll give him before you walk away. He kisses you back like he’s trying to memorise it. Like he can pull you back from the brink with nothing but the way he feels about you.

You lean your forehead against his, and the moment is still. Timeless.

Then, you step away.

He’s still chasing your warmth when he realises what’s happening. The second your gaze shifts to Jay, Jungwon’s body moves on instinct. His hands reach out, wild with panic.

Too late.

Jay and Heeseung seize his arms just as he lunges, and the world erupts into chaos. He’s thrashing. Screaming. Cursing at both of them, calling out your name over and over like maybe you’ll turn around. Like maybe if he says it enough, you’ll change your mind.

But you don’t.

You walk away.

And he breaks.

He breaks.

Not like before. Not like the quiet grief he’s used to carrying.

This is raw. Ugly. Loud.

He screams until his throat burns, fights against the hands holding him down, eyes locked on the back of your figure as you move further and further away. And the terror—god, the terror—it’s not just about losing you.

It’s the helplessness.

It’s knowing that he’s still alive, still breathing, while you march straight toward death with his name still warm on your lips.

It’s knowing he can’t stop you. 

When you're gone—masked and determined—Jungwon falls to his knees. Not because he’s weak. But because you took the best part of him with you.

And now he’s just a boy again.

Not a leader. Not a survivor. Just someone watching the person he loves choose to die so that he can live.

And god help him—

He would’ve switched places with you in a heartbeat.

A few minutes after you disappear into the horde, Jungwon collapses.

His legs give out beneath him like they were only held up by the ghost of your presence, and now that you're gone, there’s nothing left to keep him upright. He drops hard, first to his knees, then to the cold, unforgiving concrete of the rooftop. And he stays there. Hands pressed flat against the ground like he’s trying to anchor himself to something—anything—that won’t slip through his fingers the way you did.

But it is slipping.

You are.

And no matter how hard he digs his nails into the rooftop, how tightly he curls his fists into the grit and grime beneath him, it won’t stop the splintering sensation inside his chest—like his ribs are cracking open from the inside out.

His whole body is trembling now—violent, uncontrollable tremors racking through him. The adrenaline that had pushed him this far is gone, drained in an instant, leaving only the bone-deep exhaustion, the helplessness, the guilt. His breaths come in short, uneven gasps, like he’s forgotten how to inhale properly, and when he finally speaks, his voice is a rasp—barely audible, a ghost of sound that drifts between them like ash.

“Somebody should’ve stopped her.”

No one answers.

Because they all know they couldn’t have.

Sunoo is crouched against the wall, knees hugged tightly to his chest, face buried so deeply that his shoulders are the only thing giving him away—trembling, silent sobs rattling through him. Even Jay, who almost never breaks, has to turn his face to the side, his jaw clenched so tight it’s a wonder he hasn’t cracked a tooth. His hand covers his mouth like he’s trying to swallow down every raw emotion threatening to spill out. His eyes are red-rimmed, glassy. And he doesn’t even try to pretend he’s okay.

Jungwon doesn’t lift his head. He doesn’t need to.

He feels it in the silence—the grief sitting on all of them like an anvil, the unspeakable weight of watching you walk off with death marked into your skin and no one able to stop you.

“Fuck,” Sunghoon mutters from the edge, staring out at the horde below. His voice is hollow. “What do we do now?”

For a moment, no one speaks. But instinctively, they all turn to Jungwon.

Even though they know.

Even though they see the way he’s curled in on himself, eyes fixed on a crack in the concrete, like if he stares hard enough, it’ll crack all the way open and swallow him whole. He doesn’t speak. Not right away. Not until he finally forces out three words—empty and trembling.

“I don’t know.”

The silence that follows is brutal.

It eats at the edges of them like rot, and Jungwon wonders—quietly, bitterly—if this was all worth it. If he had just gone with you when you asked. If he’d just agreed to leave. If he hadn’t pulled you back into this place—into this war, this hope, this delusion—would you still be whole right now? Would you still be his?

And he sees it—etched into the others’ faces. That same regret. That same guilt. Especially Ni-ki.

Ni-ki, who had fought you the hardest. Who yelled at you, argued, doubted your intentions. And now you’re the one out there, bleeding, hunted, dying—for a place you never wanted to stay in to begin with.

And just when the silence feels like it’s going to smother them all—

A sound cuts through it.

A muffled giggle.

They all turn at once.

Lieutenant Kim.

She’s still tied to the base of the convenience store sign, her arms bound behind her, the gag damp in her mouth. But her eyes are bright with amusement, glinting in the moonlight like a blade. She’s smiling.

Ni-ki is the first to move, fury snapping through his limbs as he storms over to her and rips the gag from her mouth. 

Lieutenant Kim exhales with exaggerated relief, then sighs dramatically, like this is all beneath her.

“Oh, you’re all so fucking pathetic,” she sneers. “Really. I almost feel bad watching this.”

Her words ripple through the rooftop like a slap. Sunoo doesn’t even look up from where he’s curled in on himself, but his voice trembles with exhausted frustration.

“Ni-ki, shut her up before I throw her off this roof.”

“Oh?” Her smile is twisted. “Even if I can tell you how to save your precious Y/N?”

Everything stops.

“What?” Jungwon’s head jerks up so fast his neck nearly snaps. The crack of his voice sounds like disbelief, but his heart’s already lurching.

Lieutenant Kim doesn’t look at him right away. She’s toying with them—slowly rotating her shoulders, rolling her neck, tasting the sudden shift in power. It’s a game to her.

“I said,” she drawls, as if repeating herself for children, “I know how you can save her.”

“You’re lying,” Jay snaps immediately, his arms folded tight across his chest, his expression cold and controlled—but his eyes flicker.

“I don’t know,” She says, that smug tone curling at the edge of her words. “Am I?” She turns her gaze sharply to Jake. “What do you think, Doctor Sim?”

Jake narrows his eyes, brows furrowed. “How can we save her?”

Lieutenant Kim shrugs like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “I’ll tell you. But only if you let me go.”

Sunghoon scoffs, stepping forward. “We’re not risking that. You could be lying. Stalling. Feeding us bullshit to get free.”

“I’m telling you,” she says sharply, her smile gone now. “You still can save her. But the longer you hesitate, the less time you have. Tick-tock, soldiers.”

“You expect us to believe you?” Sunoo bites out. “She could be dying while you play us like this.”

“And what if I’m not lying?” she continues, locking eyes with Jungwon now. “What if I’m the only one who knows how to stop this?”

Before Sunoo can argue again, Jungwon’s voice slices through the chaos.

“Okay. Deal.”

The word lands like a grenade.

Everyone turns to him.

Sunoo’s mouth opens in protest, but the look on Jungwon’s face silences him before a single syllable can form. Jungwon’s voice is steady. Flat. Unrelenting.

“I give you my word,” he says, his eyes locked on Lieutenant Kim. “You tell us how to save Y/N… and I’ll let you go.”

The wind rustles across the rooftop. Somewhere in the distance, a low groan rises from the ground. The world holds its breath.

Lieutenant Kim tilts her head slowly. She stares at him like she’s trying to read something behind his eyes, something buried deep beneath the mask he wears so well.

“Shame,” she says at last, her smirk returning. “You would’ve made an excellent leader in The Future, Sergeant Yang.”

Jungwon doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch. His fists are clenched tight at his sides.

Lieutenant Kim nods once. “Alright then. I’ll take your word for it.”

She turns to Jake. “You remember the day I came into the treatment facility?” Her tone is casual now, like they’re catching up after a long absence.

Jake nods slowly. “You’d lost your arm. Said you were ambushed.”

She smiles. “I was. By a biter. So I cut it off.” She lifts what remains of her limb as if presenting a trophy. 

“You’re saying…,” Jake murmurs, the horror dawning across his features, “You amputated. And it stopped the infection?”

“Exactly.”

“That’s insane,” Heeseung mutters, but even he doesn’t sound convinced anymore. Just shaken.

“How do we know you’re not lying out of your ass right now?” Sunoo snaps. “If we cut it off and she dies—”

“She’s dying anyway,” Jay says quietly. His hands are clenched into fists at his sides. “She’s already been bitten. What else do we have to lose?”

No one breathes. The rooftop is still.

And Jungwon?

Jungwon’s heart is thundering in his chest. Because this is it. This is the thread. This is the one, impossibly thin thread he didn’t know he was praying for.

And he’s going to grab it with both hands.

Even if it means destroying what’s left of you to keep you alive.

Part 7

Day Zero

The first few hours after you pass out are chaos.

Jungwon doesn’t remember who screamed first. It might’ve been him. He doesn’t remember how they amputated your arm, how Jake’s hands moved with frantic precision, or how Heeseung kept barking orders that no one listened to. He doesn’t even remember when you fell asleep on his shoulders as he sang that lullaby to you.

What he does remember is the first sound you make. It didn’t even register as human. He remembers it tearing through the air, through Jungwon, like something primal and raw and wrong. The way your body arches, every muscle seizing, and your scream rips through him like glass dragged across his ribs.

He also remembers the pained look on your face as Heeseung holds you down, whispering, repeating something over and over—but Jungwon can’t hear it. Even when he wants to look away. Even when his instincts scream at him to close his eyes, to shut it out, to protect himself from the sight of you in so much pain—he doesn’t.

Because this is the cost. Your cost. And if you’re going to bear it, then so is he.

He remembers murmuring your name, again and again, not even sure if you can hear it. His voice is hoarse, breaking under the weight of every syllable. “I’ve got you. You’re okay. You’re okay. Stay with me.”

But you’re not okay.

And he’s not sure you’re going to stay.

He also remembers the blood. How warm it was, even as it soaked through your shirt. The way it clung to his fingers long after Jake had said, “It’s done.” Long after Sunghoon pressed the iron down and your body stopped seizing. Long after your eyes rolled back and the world went quiet.

He sits beside you through the night, not moving. Not speaking. Not breathing, it feels like.

When the others finally drift into uneasy sleep—some out of exhaustion, some out of fear—he stays.

Your hand is limp in his. Cold.

You should’ve come back different. That’s what he keeps telling himself. You were bit. It was over. That’s what the world said. That’s what they all said. But you didn’t turn. You didn’t die either.

You just... slipped into silence.

He also remembers overhearing the moment you appointed Jay as your executioner. He hadn’t mean to eavesdrop but its hard not to tune you out when all he wants to hear is your voice. He had to take a moment to recollect himself but the thought only twists the knife deeper.

You’re the one dying, and you’re still trying to protect him from the fallout. From having to be the one to end it all.

He feels nauseous.

By the time he makes it back into the room, his throat is raw from holding in everything that wants to shatter him that it hurts to even swallow. And when you look at him, softened eyes unaware of what he’s heard, he says nothing.

He just walks to your side, careful not to let the shaking in his arms show as he drapes the blanket over you. He tucks the edges beneath your body, fingers lingering near your shoulder, pretending nothing has changed.

But it has.

Jay lingers around a few feet away, fingers curled around the handle of a pistol. Jungwon knows why. He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t need to. He's simply upholding the promise he made to you.

Day One

He still hasn’t slept.

Your fever is rising now, sweat slicking your skin, your body shaking beneath the blankets. Jake does what he can—sponging your forehead, checking your pulse, redressing the stump—but Jungwon doesn’t leave your side. He stares. Watches your chest rise and fall, rise and fall, like if he looks away even once, you’ll stop.

When Jake tries to get him to eat something, Jungwon doesn’t respond. Not really. Just a blank stare. A nod that never leads to a bite.

Heeseung tells him gently, “She’s going to need you when she wakes up. You need your strength.”

But in his head, Jungwon hears: And if she doesn’t wake up, what’s the point?

Day Two

Heeseung sighs as he speak, “We can’t hide out in here forever. I’m sure the horde has thinned out a little, I’ll go see if I can lure them away.” 

“No, I’ll go. Watch after Y/N for me, please.” Jungwon adjusts your blanket as he says.

“What? But you haven’t had proper sleep in days.”

Jungwon doesn’t argue. He just nods, gets up, grabs his rifle, put on the mask and leaves.

The first scream he lets out doesn't sound like his own. It tears out of his throat like grief incarnate, drawing the horde’s attention instantly. All of them. Their heads snap in his direction like puppets on strings, drawn by the sound of something alive—something grieving.

Jungwon bangs his rifle against the edge of the barricade, the metallic clang echoing into the night. Then again. Then again. He can barely hear it over the pounding in his chest.

“Come on,” he shouts. “Come on. You want something to eat?”

Another scream, more hoarse this time. 

The first ones break away from the rest stop like waves caught in a new current. Their groans rise, louder now, a chorus of hunger, and as they move toward him, the others follow. Mindless. Predictable.

He keeps shouting until his throat burns. Until the only thing left is breath and bitterness.

Then he runs.

And they follow.

The sun is just starting to rise by the time he reaches the bus terminal, and his legs are already threatening to give out. He keeps going. He doesn’t look back.

He can hear them behind him. Always. Just far enough to not be on top of him, close enough that he can’t afford to slow down.

There’s blood on his tongue from how hard he’s been biting the inside of his cheek, and he swallows it down like medicine. He doesn’t stop. He can’t. He sees you every time he blinks—your arm, your face, the sound of your voice when you said “do it before I change my mind.”

He doesn’t know what kind of strength it takes to say that. But whatever it is, he clings to it now.

He screams again. Bangs his fist on a rusted signpost. Shoots a round into the air just to make sure they’re still coming.

They are.

The rain begins somewhere near midnight.

It’s cold, sharp, soaking through his clothes, turning the mud beneath his boots into sludge. His muscles scream. His head is pounding. He hasn’t eaten. Hasn’t drank anything. He left without telling anyone where he was going, didn’t even give them time to argue.

He had to go. If he stayed, he would’ve lost his mind.

The horde is quieter now, more sluggish with the rain. They still follow. Not because they understand. Just because it’s what they do. And maybe that’s what scares him more than anything—the simplicity of it.

No purpose. No will. Just motion.

He wonders if that’s what he’s becoming.

Day Three

He passes the village again around noon.

It’s quiet, but not empty.

He spots them first by smell, the rotting air thick with the coppery stench of death. Then he sees them—the two men he left behind. Or what’s left of them.

One has no face. Just torn muscle and glistening bone. The other’s stomach is splayed open like a dissected frog, intestines dragging behind him as he staggers forward without aim, without destination. Their eyes are grey now. Vacant.

Jungwon stops walking. Just for a second. Just long enough for a thought to cut him open: They were people. And we left them behind.

Then he shoots them both. One shot each.

He doesn’t flinch when their bodies hit the ground. Just reloads, turns his back, and keeps walking.

He wonders if that makes him human—or something else entirely.

That night, he finally sees the city.

Just beyond the rise of the hill, it sprawls in fractured silhouettes—buildings collapsed on their sides, smoke rising from craters in the road, the wind rattling broken windows like teeth chattering in a dying skull.

He slumps against the shell of a vending machine, hands shaking.

His feet are blistered. His ribs ache. His jacket is soaked through. His fingers are numb and raw, his voice long since gone.

But he made it.

They’re following him still—thinned out, some lost to the terrain, others distracted by noises that only exists in the city—but enough of them came. Enough of them are far, far away from the rest stop now.

From you.

Jungwon drags himself into the first store he sees, the door already broken in. He barricades what he can. Collapses behind a counter. Pulls the hood of his jacket low.

And for the first time in two days—he cries.

Not loud. Not even with tears.

Just silent shaking, his fingers curled in his hair, his chest folding in like he’s trying to disappear into himself.

He doesn’t sleep.

He just lies there, listening to the moans outside, wondering if you’re still alive.

Day Four

The next morning arrives cloaked in a brittle stillness. The rain that had dogged him for hours has finally stopped, but it’s left behind a colder, meaner kind of silence.

The wind has sharpened with the chill of dawn, slicing through the fabric of Jungwon’s soaked jacket, biting at his skin as if trying to remind him that he’s still alive. Every step he takes feels heavier now—sluggish and deliberate, like his body is finally starting to reckon with what he’s just done. With what it cost.

He glances out at the street, eyes scanning the remnants of the chaos he’d lured away. The horde is dispersing now, their ranks thinned and wandering, scattered like leaves caught in the aftermath of a storm.

His job is done.

But he doesn’t feel victorious. Not even close.

There’s no sense of relief settling into his chest, no triumph pounding in his veins. Just an ache. A dull, echoing emptiness that stretches from his ribs to the soles of his blistered feet.

He should feel proud—he pulled them away, bought them time, gave you a chance—but all he feels is this gaping hollow where something inside him used to live.

So he turns.

And begins the slow, punishing walk back to the rest stop. Back to you.

Not because he knows you’re awake. Not because there’s been any sign, any whisper of hope that you’ve stirred. But because he has to. Because something in his chest—something feral and aching and stubborn—needs to be near you again, even if it’s only to sit beside your motionless body and count your breaths.

Even if you’re no longer breathing at all.

Halfway back, while dragging himself along the road with boots caked in mud and legs that barely hold him upright, he stumbles across a curb overgrown with weeds and cracked cement. And there—sprouting defiantly between the rubble and ruin—is a small patch of wildflowers.

Delicate. Bright. Alive.

They sway in the breeze like they’ve never known the end of the world. As if they exist in a time untouched by rot and ash. And Jungwon doesn’t know what kind they are—hasn’t the faintest clue. He doesn’t even care.

He sees them and thinks of you.

You, curled beneath a threadbare blanket, your forehead damp with fever. You, whispering your final requests with the last of your strength. You, promising you'd be okay—just to spare him.

His breath catches in his throat, and then—

He runs.

Doesn’t think. Doesn’t hesitate. He sprints like a man chasing salvation, like a single second might make all the difference between reaching you in time and arriving too late.

His feet pound against the pavement, raw and ragged. He slips once—knees colliding with the ground, palms tearing open on shattered glass. Blood seeps from his hands, but he doesn't stop. He can’t. He presses on, stumbling to his feet with a ragged gasp and pushes forward again, faster, harder, propelled by something that isn’t logic or certainty but need.

Because he doesn’t know if you’re still breathing.

Doesn’t know if the others were able to hold the infection at bay, if the amputation worked, if the fever broke.

He doesn’t know anything.

But he needs to.

Because if you are awake—if you’re still there—if your eyes are open and searching for something to hold onto in this world—then he wants to be the one you see. Wants you to remind him that it’s not too late to hold on to what’s left.

Not hope.

Not some dream of a better world.

Just you.

Because in a world where everything is dying, where everything good slips away too fast—you are the only thing he can still believe in.

Day Five

You still haven’t woken.

The others take turns watching you now. Heeseung insists on it, says Jungwon needs to get some air. He does but only so he could hunt down the remainder of A’s people.

He doesn’t tell them that he’s not hunting them for safety. That he’s hunting them because it’s the only thing that makes the noise in his head stop.

He stalks the woods in silence, teeth clenched, gun steady. Every bullet he fires feels like penance. Every body that hits the ground is a fraction of the rage and helplessness he can’t bleed out any other way.

By the time he returns, you haven’t moved. And he hates that the sight of your motionless figure still makes him hope. 

Day Eight

He starts blaming himself.

Not just for this. For everything. For dragging you back to the camp when you wanted to leave. For believing he could protect anyone. For every command that got someone hurt. For letting you go that night, when you said you were bit.

You had looked him in the eye and told him. And what had he done?

Screamed. Panicked. Held you like you were already slipping through his fingers. You had to be the one to make the plan. To tell them what to do. To walk away. And he let you.

He let you.

Day Eleven

He wakes up from a dream where you died.

Your body had gone cold. Your eyes clouded. But worse—your voice, the one he’d memorised in every tone, every laugh, every biting remark—it was gone. Forever.

He screams himself awake.

Jake and Sunghoon find him on the edge of the rooftop, heaving, fists clenched in his hair, shoulders shaking. He doesn’t say anything. Just stares down at the world and tries to remember how to breathe.

Day Twelve

He’s still out there, combing the surrounding woods for any trace of A’s remaining people. 

Deep down, he knows there probably aren’t any left—not this close to the rest stop. But that doesn’t stop him. He keeps going, driven not by strategy or necessity, but by something far more relentless: the need to do something. 

To bleed out the guilt he can’t seem to quiet.

Day Fourteen

You move.

Just your fingers. A twitch. Barely there.

He’s the only one who sees it.

He grabs your hand and nearly crushes it in his grip, whispering your name like a prayer, like a drowning man breaking the surface. But you don’t stir again. And when he tells the others, they think he’s imagining it.

He doesn’t care.

He knows what he saw.

Day Fifteen

The second Jungwon steps past the barricade, he knows something’s changed.

He can’t explain it—there’s no sound, no shout, no rushing footsteps to greet him. Just the stillness of the evening air, the muted creak of the gate behind him, and the way the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end like some part of him already knows.

He moves automatically, his legs dragging with exhaustion, muscles screaming from days without rest. The rifle slung over his shoulder feels heavier than ever, the dried blood on his sleeves long since stiffened into the fabric. Every step toward the convenience store feels like wading through wet cement, but he keeps going. Because you’re here. Or you were. And that’s all that matters.

Heeseung meets him at the threshold, eyes wide, mouth opening like he’s about to say something—but Jungwon doesn’t stop.

Not until he sees you.

You're standing up. Just barely. But it’s enough to make his heart lurch so violently in his chest that it knocks the breath clean out of him.

You're awake.

You're alive.

His legs buckle.

He doesn’t remember crossing the room. Doesn’t remember letting the rifle slide from his shoulder or the way the others instinctively moved aside for him like they knew—they knew—he wouldn’t be able to wait a second longer. 

And then you look at him.

Eyes tired, swollen, half-lidded from pain and medication, but unmistakably you.

“Y/N.”

Your name breaks in his mouth—raw and jagged, torn from somewhere deep in his chest.

He buries his face in the crook of your neck, and the second his skin touches yours, he shatters.

His entire body trembles, the sobs clawing their way up his throat with a force that leaves him breathless. He feels your warmth, your breath, the faint thump of your pulse against his temple—and it’s too much. Too much relief. Too much grief. Too much of everything he’s been holding back. 

And when he feels your hand on his back, pressing into him, returning the embrace, it splits him wide open.

“You’re okay,” he breathes, over and over, like if he says it enough, he can make it true. “You’re awake. God, I thought—” His voice breaks, catching on the words he’s too afraid to finish. “I thought I lost you.”

Your voice is quiet, trembling. “I’m here. I’m okay.”

He pulls back, just enough to see your face—drawn, pale, bruised, but alive. Alive. His thumb brushes along your jaw, reverent and aching, and it feels like holding something sacred. He can barely believe it.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out, voice thick with guilt. “I should’ve been here. I should’ve—”

“No,” you whisper, shaking your head. “You kept them safe. You kept me safe.”

The words don’t make it easier. They just hurt differently. He leans in again, forehead pressed to yours, his breath stuttering as his hands find your waist, gripping like you might fade if he loosens his hold.

“I thought I lost you forever,” he whispers, and this time, the weight of it nearly brings him down again.

And then—then you say it.

“I’m alive.”

Your voice cracks on the words, but they echo like a miracle.

His chest seizes. His breath stalls. “You’re alive.” It slips from his lips like a confession, like an answer to a prayer he didn’t know he was allowed to make. “God, Y/N… you’re alive.”

He lets out a shaky laugh, the sound caught somewhere between disbelief and something dangerously close to a sob. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, and you feel the heat of his tears before they even fall.

He’s crying.

Openly. Unashamedly. His body trembling against yours, breath hitching with every inhale, fingers clutching at your shirt like it’s the only thing tethering him to this moment. He’s held it in for days—for weeks—and now, with you finally awake, it all comes spilling out.

His arms tighten around you, as if trying to pull you further into him, trying to convince himself that this is real—that this isn’t a dream or some hallucination brought on by sleep deprivation and guilt.

And then you kiss him.

Or maybe he kisses you. He doesn’t know who moves first. All he knows is the way your lips find his like they’ve done it a thousand times before. It's desperate, clumsy, shaking with emotion, but he pours everything into it—every sleepless night, every scream he swallowed, every prayer he never voiced.

When you whisper his name, it doesn’t sound like pain anymore. It sounds like salvation.

“I’m here,” he whispers back, lips brushing yours, his voice trembling with the weight of a thousand promises. “I’m here. I’m not leaving you.”

He feels you collapse against him, your face tucked into the curve of his neck, and the sound of your breathing against his skin grounds him in a way nothing else can. He holds you tighter. Closer.

You’re real.

Somehow. Against every odd, through every horror. You came back.

And now, finally, so does he.

He doesn’t let go of you that night.

Not when the others start filtering in, trying not to stare. Not when Jake quietly checks your vitals and nods in quiet relief. Not even when Sunoo tries to pass him a damp cloth and tells him to “breathe or something.”

He stays curled beside you on that mattress, head tucked near your shoulder, his arms wrapped protectively around you like you’ll vanish if he lets go.

Because for two weeks, he lived in the space between grief and hope.

And tonight—for the first time in what feels like forever—he gets to choose hope.

Because you're here.

You're alive.

And he never wants to know a world without you again.

part 7 - hope | masterlist

♡。·˚˚· ·˚˚·。♡

notes from nat: okay NOW i conclude safe & sound... see this is what happens when a writer has major attachment issues. it gives you 18k words on a word document after a series supposedly ended. anyway happy jay day! and I'll come back with many exciting things soon! xoxo

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non-grey/underlined = cannot tag

[eowynstwin]

professor price

professor price x reader. age gap. older man/younger woman. pining. pre-relationship. jealousy. angst. guilt. voyeurism. mvp alejandro. lightly explicit. - A Christmas gift to my friend @guyfieriii, centered around her own Professor Price au from all the way back in early 2023. I have linked each fic of hers that I reference in this work—highly recommend you check them out.

The first day of class you’re in the front row—center seat.

Old instincts never really retire even if the body leaves the field; a moment’s evaluation opens you like a book. Pencil pouch on your desk, set parallel to the edge. Syllabus in the middle, creased at the stapled corner but otherwise pristine. Water bottle at the corner, solid blue.

You: hair neat. Wearing clean slacks and a knitted sweater like a uniform, ankles crossed, buckled straps of your Mary-Janes intersecting in an obtuse V. Like a flock of birds in formation, flying southwards for the winter. There’s a curated look to you, a careful arrangement of details meant to declare the essence of who you are and what you’re about.

It’s clear immediately; from only a glance.

You’re a good girl.

The eager-to-please kind. The five A-levels kind. The kind who does her bonus assignments because they’re available, not because she needs them. Prim, polished, ironed at the creases.

Straight from a 90s teen drama, or porn of an equal vintage.

You meet his eyes—

And Price knows how it goes.

Boredom and professional stagnancy are the bane of active men. Men with egos. Men who long to fix things. Men who have reached the heights of every achievement now looking for the next peak to summit.

It’s the curse of middle age’s collision with machismo. How does a man prove his masculinity when there’s no proving left to be done? When the panopticon has finally turned its eyes away, satisfied at his self-regulation enough not to constantly surveil it?

Suddenly the performance can end, if he wants it to. Only, if it ends, how does the actor not disappear, when the role is the only identity he’s ever had?

In academia, the answer is—of course—simple:

Fuck a student.

And oh. It’s right there, in those wide, sweet eyes, looking up at him with the reflexive veneration of a star student.

You’re begging to be fucked.

Fucked right. Fucked by someone who knows what he’s doing. Fucked so good that it upends every clean line of you, like breaking furniture, like smashing crystal. Fucked crying, whimpering, groaning beyond recognizable language, sweaty and gross until it’s impossible to tell whether or not his body and yours have begun to fuse.

Fucked the way no snot-nosed twenty-something twat, the age-appropriate kind that sleeps in the back of his lecture hall and then emails him at the end of every semester begging for extra credit to fix his grade, could possibly fuck you.

He holds your gaze for too long. You smile at him, shyly, and he gives you a brusque nod before distracting himself with the papers on his lectern.

You’re too young for him.

Not that it matters.

Price is all about lines. Stark delineations between will and won’t. Before his untimely retirement, the lines had meant everything. They separated the kind of man he was from the kind of man he did not want to be, and they kept those men separate, even when the distance from one to the other narrowed so sharply that the differences between them were a matter of context rather than consequence.

The important one now is the one that splits his lectern off from the rest of the lecture hall. Students are allowed to cross it, of course, or else he would be neglecting his duty to them as their instructor. But they must inevitably leave, and his feet must remain planted squarely on his side of it.

It’s not even a line he drew himself, although he would have if need be. No—professors, at the beginning of their tenure, are warned. Students will construct feelings of intimacy with their teachers, interpreting their passion for academics as passion for the conduit thereof. Close relationships between mentor and mentee, to be sure, can be deeply beneficial for the young scholar’s development—

But they must remain impersonal. The work must be the lens through which student and teacher look at each other. That barrier must never be lifted.

So it doesn’t matter how old you are or aren’t, or that you’re a second-year grad student, or that every time you walk into the classroom Price wants to drag his desk chair over to yours because you’re the only one who seems like she gives a damn about what he teaches.

He may draw his lines, but he never crosses them.

He’s seen it before. Never done it himself. Phillip Graves has a reputation for it.

Of course, as the Americans like to say, innocent until proven guilty, but it’s hard to argue with the pretty girls Graves always seems to have floating around him every semester. Undergrads, even, though to his credit they seem usually to be the older ones.

Price doesn’t think that even Dean Shepherd’s lapdog could get away with fucking freshly legal coeds—mostly because, if Graves tried to pull something like that, Price might actually take matters into his own hands and kill the bastard himself.

As it is, he can’t actually prove that his colleague is sleeping with anyone he shouldn’t be. He’s not in the army anymore; he has no desire to lose sleep over staking out the man’s house.

The only consolation is that no one besides his students and the Dean seem to like Graves—something the man doesn’t seem concerned to rectify, if he even notices. Though Price can’t imagine that he hasn’t noticed. He’s always sitting alone at staff meetings if Shepherd isn’t present, and if he does try to talk to anyone, it’s usually the adjuncts, young women just beginning their careers in higher academia who know the drill by now and merely humor him.

So it shouldn’t surprise Price when, one day, he catches Graves chatting you up.

“Hey, congrats on the election, kid,” he hears him say to you, referencing your recent appointment as president to the student association of his department. Graves smiles, dimpling, all that American charm amped up to the maximum.

And Price sees red.

“Thank you, Professor Graves,” you say politely. You have your arms crossed over your binder, held to your chest, as if a makeshift shield.

“I’d have voted for you if I could’ve,” the other man says. “And hey, I know you Brits like your formalities, but it’s just Phil with me.”

“Erm…”

“There you are,” Price announces from the other end of the hallway.

You turn, and give look you shoot him is so relieved that, almost immediately, it clears the haze from his eyes, like a cool breeze moving through the hottest part of a summer day. Relief of his own floods him, washing the jealousy he’d barely had time to confront completely away.

“Hello, Professor,” you say, “I was just on my way to your office!”

“Good,” says Price, approaching. “Wanted to talk about your last paper. Had some issues with your secondary sources.”

You blanch, and he immediately feels guilty for the lie.

“Ah, go easy on the kid,” says Graves. “I keep telling you, John, no one likes a hardass.”

For some reason, there are two men in the department that Phillip Graves makes a consistent effort to interact with, and Price has the misfortune of being one of them. He’s not sure why—he thinks he’s made his distaste for the man very clear. It’s probably some dick-measuring contest for him; Price’s standing in the department, even despite Shepherd’s favoritism, is secure.

Whether it’s secure enough to withstand this…thing happening between you and him has yet to be seen.

“I hold my students to a higher standard, Graves,” Price says shortly. Then, to you, “Come along, and we’ll talk about it.”

He turns and leaves, and as he hears you hurry after him, an ugly kind of gratification begins purring behind his sternum. The two of you walk for a ways in silence.

“Was it the interviews?” you finally ask him, sounding genuinely upset. “I thought they would be okay, given that they were original transcriptions…”

“Your sources were fine,” Price soothes, unable to take it. “Just needed to give you a good out, didn’t I?”

You falter beside him, but quickly catch up. “Oh no, was I that obvious?”

He looks to you as he walks, catching the anxious expression on your face, and smiles, amused. “Don’t worry, promise you he couldn’t tell.”

Then you laugh. It enter’s Price’s bloodstream and pumps through his veins, all the way to the arteries in his neck. It fills the lobes of his brain, rapidly bringing the world into sharper focus.

“I’ll hold you to that, professor,” you say, and it’s a tether he welcomes, a sting of pleasure as its hook lodges in his ribs.

Price looks over his shoulder, and finds Graves watching the two of you walk away. He doesn’t like the expression on the other man’s face. It’s…knowing. Understanding, in the way of a man having competed for something and lost to the better opponent.

He catches the Graves’ eye, scowling at him; he means for the expression to be disapproving. For Graves to know that Price knows what he’s about, and has no intention of humoring it.

But he knows how it actually comes across.

Back off. She’s mine.

Price’s colleague and friend Alejandro Vargas is the only other man in the department that Graves cares to know, and, luckily for Price, Alejandro shares his dislike.

“He is too young to be acting the way he does,” he says one evening after work. He and Price share a pint at a pub nearby campus on a regular basis.

“Too young?” Price repeats. “What is he, thirty-five? Forty?”

“Who cares,” Alejandro says. “Anyone chasing after his students the way he does should at least be fifty. That way a midlife crisis can at least be a valid excuse.”

Price’s stomach turns. His forty-sixth birthday has already come and gone.

“So you’re sayin’—”

“Man his age can get his ego boost somewhere else,” Alejandro mutters into his tankard. He has a strange way of looking at things, sometimes; as if he were a much older man himself, and not in his prime at thirty-eight. “Don’t they make apps for that nowadays?”

“No excuse for messing with students,” Price agrees, although he tastes the bitter note of hypocrisy in the back of his throat as he thinks of you, and that rainy afternoon.

Driving you home was a mistake, although he can’t think of anything else he would’ve respected himself for doing. He clings to that excuse like a buoy in the ocean—no matter his feelings for you, leaving you on campus to wait until the storm passed, no umbrella, no coat, would have been unforgivable.

He’d played it off as simply doing a favor for his favorite student. A willingness to go beyond his usual responsibilities to you, since you excel beyond what even his high standards demand of you.

Something the two of you should keep between yourselves, for professionalism’s sake, because he has an obligation to treat every student equally.

I can be discreet, you’d said, the tone of your voice playful and also…not.

The way one says something that they mean, while framing it as a joke, just in case it’s taken the wrong way.

Mitigation.

Something he could’ve brushed off, if your hand hadn’t moved toward his.

Good girl. He’d moved his away. Focused on the line. Accepted your apology with grace, determined not to embarrass you for feelings that are only natural—

That are reciprocated, even though they shouldn’t be.

“That is less the problem to me,” Alejandro muses.

“What?” Price exclaims. “Mate, we have a responsibility to these kids. We can’t go treating classrooms like bloody Love Island.”

“It is about the man,” says his colleague. “If a man shows respect in his relationships, then it is not so important where they happen. Graves, he is not a respectful man.”

“No one his age should be with girls that much younger than him,” Price growls.

Alejandro fixes him with an intense look, a serious expression tightening the sharp lines of his face.

“This is what I mean by respect,” he says evenly. Purposefully. “Knowing who is right and wrong to be with. Girls that young? No. They do not know themselves, and Graves will try to tell them who they are. But not every girl is that young.”

Price shifts uncomfortably on his barstool, remembering one late afternoon—when Alejandro had stopped by his office, to find you sitting on the small couch there, studying, as Price finished grading essays.

Innocent, he’d thought. A mentor and his student, sharing space, making room for scholarship to flow between them.

He realizes now, chagrined, that Alejandro has always been too perceptive to accept what he merely observes.

“Mate,” Price says, measured, “It isn’t like that.”

“No,” Alejandro agrees, “it isn’t. That does not mean it can’t be.”

“Alejandro—”

“You are not your father, hermano,” his colleague says, knowing exactly where to strike. “That is the end of what I will say.”

And he sips his beer while leaving Price to seethe.

You’re seeing one of the twats.

Price convinced himself the first couple of times you walked out with him—Will—that you were taking on a charity case. You’re a student leader, after all. Helping a classmate with their ailing grades falls under your purview. You’ve hosted tutoring sessions before, and the pride of it had nestled glowing in his chest so warmly that he couldn’t help bragging about your academic promise to his colleagues.

Even outside of the ache for you that sits in his gut every time he sees you, Price could not be prouder. The students’ Historical Society’s fundraiser last month had gone off beautifully thanks to you, and everyone who had attended was still talking about it: from the brilliant idea for a fifties dress code, to the truly impressive array of antiques you’d convinced donors to contribute to the silent auction.

You’d looked so beautiful in your little red dress, too. The sharp lines of your burgundy lipstick had made your smile so bright all evening that he’d fallen asleep thinking about it.

His student. His protege, really. Of course you’d notice someone struggling, and make an effort to help.

Except, Price has never been very good at fooling himself. The truth is too valuable an asset for him to disregard.

The first time you leave with Will, he feels it clench around something in his gut. He has to remind himself he has no right to feel anything about it at all.

The second time, it starts burrowing deeper. Gnawing a hole in his stomach. The look on the twat’s face, as he follows you out like a lost puppy, is too smitten to allow Price his illusions.

Then one day, you take that twat’s hand in yours at the end of class, slotting your fingers between his.

It descends again. That film of red over his eyes. He stares at the two of you as you make your way to the door—and you throw Price a look, Price, aimed straight for his center.

You’re his. His.

And what has he done about it?

The accusation is in your eyes. It’s honed by everything he’s done—and hasn’t. The late-night chips after fundraiser planning. The cigars between classes, and the scotch in his office he pours every time you stop by to discuss your thesis.

The cufflinks he wears for every single class you’re in, and the box you wrapped them in sitting open on his beside table. Like a conduit for bringing the warmth of your touch into his home.

The same warmth, in his weakest moments, that he imagines wrapped around his cock. As his fingers find the soft give of your cleft. As his tongue meets yours, and tastes the liquor he now only drinks in your company.

Imagines, but never pursues.

Why had he believed you wouldn’t search for the same elsewhere?

The anniversary comes up faster than Price would have liked, despite the fact that the calendar isn’t missing any days.

He goes to the cemetery alone. Bouquet of English roses clutched in the vice of one hand. It feels like a day it should be raining, but the sky betrays him, the gray covering of clouds thin enough to let the dyed sunlight through.

He buried his mother in the plot she’d bought for herself and his father, Price the elder, according to her wishes. He’d buried his father beside her against Price the younger’s own.

It had happened within a year of each other. The chemotherapy hadn’t worked, after years of fighting it, and the last months of Mrs. Price’s life happened far sooner than it was fair. She hadn’t left any regrets behind, she promised in her will, but young John Price knew it for a lie.

He remembers sitting with her in the mornings as a boy, flipping through old issues of National Geographic. His mum would ooh and aah over exotic pictures of the American west—the Russian steppe—colorful bird’s eye shots of the Taj Mahal or Burj Khalifa.

“We’re gonna go there someday,”she would enthuse, squeezing him around his toddler-belly with one arm as he perched in her lap.

Even then he’d known it was a dream, and not a goal. All he had to do was look around at the yellow tint of their kitchen with its laminate countertops, the scuffs on the corners of its scratch-and-dent fridge, the mismatch of cookware hanging on a smoke-stained wall. Peeling wallpaper they didn’t have the right to tear off, because they needed their deposit back very badly when they moved out.

His father was a tradesman—they could barely afford to visit Wales.

And his mother, at the elder Price’s insistence, did not work.

It’s in a nice place, the grave. Far back away from the entrance, where it can’t be trivialized by passing cars or dog walkers. Price can stand at the end of it and reckon with death without having to think of life going inexorably on right behind him.

Except, it’s the years to the right of the dash that he stares at, not the left. Even as a boy, he’d always noticed the disparity between his mother and father. How, before the younger even turned fourteen, grey streaked Price the elder’s temples, scars of age furrowing deep from the corners of his nostrils— while the decades his mum still had left to face radiated from her so brightly that sometimes people took her for his father’s eldest, and not the baby she bounced on her hip.

Decades she never even got to see.

Price rounds to his mother’s side and lays the bouquet beneath her epitaph—Loving Wife and Mother. He’s almost as old now as she was, in her last year, and he feels the epicenter of it sit somewhere between his heart and lungs. It burns, furious, indignant.

“Got tenured this year, Mum,” he murmurs to her. “Probably pay off the house next.”

He hears birdsong in the tree line beyond the border fence. Tries to feel her fingers running through his hair in the breeze, and fails. It’s just wind.

His father—who he sees in the mirror too often lately—he does not address.

He makes the mistake all men eventually do—

He calls his ex.

“Hallo?” Ada says, after picking up on the second ring. She’s one of the few people he knows to keep a house phone these days. She’d explained she enjoys the novelty, and the surprise on the rare occasions it actually rings.

“Hi, darlin,’” says Price.

“John, hi! How you doin’?”

“I’m alright. How’s the new place?”

He hears a shift in the background, like she’s thrown herself at a haphazard angle into a chair. She’s always been like that; she moves through any space she occupies unafraid of what she might bump into.

“Tidy!” she enthuses. “Got a view of the sea down the hill. And there’s a market on Saturdays! I got the loveliest Gruyère from one of the stalls, says he ages it himself. Can’t wait to put it in a sauce.”

“Sounds nice,” Price says, meaning it.

“Yeah, it is,” Ada replies. He pictures her twirling the cord between her fingers. “Heard about your promotion, by the way, congratulations—you earned it, John.”

“Thank you,” he says. “Have you settled in okay there? Students giving you trouble?”

“Not at all! Bit touch and go at the start of the semester, but you know me,” she laughs. “That’s how I thrive.”

“I know.”

A pause. Long enough for Price’s regret over dialing her to make itself a part of the conversation.

She sounds good. She sounds better than good—she sounds great. Happy with where she is in life, and where she’s going.

Nothing like she did when she lived with him.

“So…” Ada trails. “I know you didn’t just call to chat, John. Not that I don’t appreciate it.”

“That obvious, am I?”

He can hear the sympathetic smile in her voice when she replies, “I can look at a calendar too.”

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I just—just wanted to hear your voice. Hope that’s alright.”

“Yeah, it’s alright,” she says. “Didn’t stop caring just because I left, you know.”

He hears the unsaid: just because you didn’t follow.

“I know,” he replies. He leaves the me neither unsaid as well. “Ada, do you—do you regret it, at all?”

“Regret…what?” The tone of her voice edges toward the defensive.

“Being with me.”

“What? John, of course not!” She laughs, tension evaporating. “We had some bad times, sure, but we had some good ones too. I’m grateful for all of them.”

“Even the bad times?” he asks, frowning.

“Yeah, John, even those. They showed me who you were. And I liked that person, a lot. If you had—”

She cuts herself off from the what if John knows had been coming. The speculation about what their relationship might have looked like, if he’d made a different decision. It would only hurt both of them more to think about it.

“If you’d been a worse man I’d have left a lot sooner,” she amends. “But like I said. No regrets. It’s over now, and I’m sad about that. But I’m glad it happened.”

Something happens behind Price’s ribs—something hard, trying to claw its way upward, that he has to draw his lips between his teeth and sniff hard to foil its escape.

“Thanks, darlin,’” he says, hearing the tremor in his own voice, and, for once, not hating himself for it with her listening. “I feel the same way too.”

He catches you with the twat in the library. It doesn’t surprise him—he hadn’t expected anything else. You hadn’t even looked at him this time as you’d pulled Will out of the lecture hall, nor had you noticed him following at a remove behind.

So when he opens the door to the sound of smacking flesh, it doesn’t shock him in the slightest.

You’re on a reading table with your skirt flipped upward, underwear dangling from one ankle as you curl your legs around the twat’s hips. The boy’s arse quivers and clenches as he jackhammers into you with neither art nor precision.

The look on your face is one of concentration. Focus. Like whatever pleasure you could derive from this is something you must actively keep hold of, otherwise you’ll lose it.

Your eyes land on him then, and for a split second—a fraction of a heartbeat—you seem relieved. Pleasure radiates from you, and you begin to roll your hips as you hold him in your gaze—and then, suddenly, horror overtakes it. Your eyes widen. You raise a hand to grab Will—

Price shakes his head.

You freeze. Your chest heaves. (The twat is oblivious.)

He stares you down. Leans against the bookshelf with his hands in his pockets, unblinking.

His.

His.

The thing about lines is that they can be redrawn.

You run your tongue along your parted lips, hands coming up to rest on the twat’s back. Price looks down at the place Will’s body hides yours from his gaze, then back up.

He inclines his head. Go on, then.

And again, you move. Right as his command. Pull the body between your legs closer, brows creasing together, undulating into each thrust as you let Price’s eyes cage yours. You draw up higher and higher, the pitch of your breath thinning as your climax stretches taut inside you—you beg him with your eyes—

He nods.

You seize on the desk, throwing your head back, jaw dropping open. No sound escapes you—he sees the muscles in your throat work to contain it.

What will you sound like when he gets his hands on you?

By the look on the twat’s face next class, you’ve ended it. Price hardly cares. His phone is hot in his pocket, a grenade with its pin nearly out.

In case your memory fails when you find yourself thinking of me.

And, in the center of the photo, the exact thing the twat’s hips had been hiding away.

You’re there, in the front row. Every time his gaze falls on you, you shiver. The same skirt from before leaves the soft expanses of your thighs bare, for him, this time.

His. You know it now, too. It intersects the line, perfect in its perpendicularity.

You have lessons to learn. You’re already a good student; the despondent expression on Will’s face, even now, as he gazes at you like a lovelorn puppy from the back of the hall, proves it.

But you’re not there yet. You’re only just now catching up, after all. And only Price has the duty—the right—to teach you.

You’re too young for him—

Not that it matters.

a/n: If this seems disjointed or missing context, it's because a few things I reference are no longer available on the internet. Ash, I mourn daily what you have withdrawn from us.

Thank you for reading!

[decojellyfish]

OH MY GOD I just fell in love with the blog and not if you are taking requests but if so I would like to suggest a guard dog!Ghost and Abandoned kitten!reader where price maybe adopt the reader and ghost take care of her??

I am so sorry this took so long! But thank you SO much for being my first request/ask! This idea is really cute, I'm sorry it's a bit short, but I hope you like it! Also, I hope this makes up for the angst fic about Dragon! Price lol

------

Bonbon

Hybrid AU! TF141 (Retired) Guard dog! Ghost x Kitten! Reader x Owner! Price !!No Romance For Obvious Purposes!!

SFW ~ Fluff

Warnings: None!

───♡───────────── Beginning

10:30 AM. That was the time John Price would go grocery shopping every day. Today’s list was a few ingredients for tonight’s dinner, more rawhide for his rescue dog, Ghost, and paper towels. What he didn’t expect to be suddenly added to the list, after he had just bought and paid for his groceries, was a kitten. Today, Price had to take a different route to the grocery store. The usual trail he would take was under heavy construction, much to his dismay. But he still managed to get to the store. About 4 minutes after leaving the store, he passed by a short alleyway. Now, no one ever really pays any mind to alleys. Until a noise comes from said hypothetical alleyway. And that’s just what happened. A little grunt, followed by a small cry, and then the sound of a takeout box crashing onto the ground. It made the retired captain stop in his tracks and turn his head to look into the dark alley. He could only hear tiny little munches now, and he could only make out the tiniest little figure in the void. Price made sure to be careful with his steps, he could tell that this little thing could be easily startled. Then he finally realized what he had come across.

It was a you! A little kitten and a very hungry one at that. You were munching on someone’s thrown-out, moldy, spaghetti, your tiny little fangs doing the best they could at tearing the pasta apart. It didn’t seem like you’d been there for that long, considering how young you looked. You remained in a little cardboard box, that appeared to be your makeshift home. It was filthy and withering away, like the blanket you had too. And your clothes. And you in general. You were a very dirty kitten. It didn’t help that your being hungry all the time caused you to be a messy eater.

By the time you had realized a big thing had snuck up behind you, your face was already coated in marinara. You snapped your head to look at the big creature and quickly folded your ears back and fluffed your little tail up. You hissed with all your might, knowing that you were probably the scariest thing this large figure, well over five times your size, had ever seen. Price only looked at you, taking in your starving appearance. Eating tossed food was unhealthy for a young thing like you. Surely, he had to have something on him that would make you trust him. He set his bags of groceries down and searched his pockets. He was relieved when he found one of those strawberry bonbons in his back pocket. You know, the ones that only grandmas seem to have. He unwrapped it and set it down in front of your hissing form. He would then grab his bags and slowly back away, watching for any kind of movement that came from you. After what felt like ten minutes, you would sneak up to the bonbon. Cautiously, you would reach your little hand out to it and snatch it right into your mouth. Price was almost terrified, thinking you would choke on it with how disparate you were for this little piece of candy. But thankfully, you didn’t. You would sit there and just let the hard candy melt in your mouth. This tasted so much better than moldy pasta. You looked up at the guy who gave you this candy, reaching up and making grabby hands for more. Price was relieved at your reaction, taking it as an okay that you wanted to be picked up. So he scooped you up into his arms and began the journey home.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Ghost could already smell his owner through the door, peeved that he was a little later than arriving home on his usual time. But something was off about Price’s smell. There was an additional scent, something he’d never smelled before. It was a rancid smell, especially overwhelming due to his strong nose. Whatever Price was bringing home, it needed to either be cleaned or immediately disposed of. The door opened, and Price would quickly set his bags of groceries down before going into the bathroom. Ghost would pause, processing that he’d just seen his owner with what looked like a tiny human. Had he been seeing a mistress of some sort??? Ghost would’ve known, he would’ve smelled some perfume on his owner by now. He continued to think about it while he took the groceries and began to put them away in the kitchen.

Price had drawn a bath, ensuring the water was warm but not scalding. You were sitting on the bath rug, looking around the bathroom you were in. The large dog man sitting in the doorway wasn’t that subtle, so you looked at him too. You looked at him for a long time, mostly because he’d been staring at you for a while. It was like a staring contest between the two of you. “That should be good.” Price said to himself, turning around to you. He watched the silent stares between you and Ghost, causing him to chuckle before he picked you up and gingerly set you down in the warm, bubbly water. You mewed and squealed in protest like any other cat would. Price would quietly shush you as he began to mush shampoo into your hair and tail.

After your little bath, during which you spent a good chunk of it verbally disapproving until you realized it wasn’t doing anything. Now, you were content. You’d been swaddled up in a large towel, your hair air-drying as you rested on the couch. Price could tell you were happy because you sounded like an active car engine. You were purring, and you were purring loud. You hadn’t felt this warm and cozy since… well, you’ve never been warm or cozy once in your life. You were always cold, hungry, and never comfortable. Now, you had this random guy clean all the dust, dirt, and grime off of you and now he was preparing food for you. And yeah, this big dog who’s constantly trying to figure out why you suddenly appeared in his home. But you were willing to put up with him. Eventually, Price came back with a small plate filled with soft foods. He would spoon-feed you a bit of squishy rice to which you happily ate it up, you were starving. You would loudly purr through your little munches, causing Price to chuckle. “This must be a lot better than the rubbish you were stuck with earlier, yeah?” You wouldn’t respond, but still purred and opened your mouth for another bite, to which Price readily spoon-fed you some more.

Ring ring! The sound surprised all three of you, Price was getting a phone call. “Agh, work…” He grumbled when he checked the caller ID. “Ghost, why don’t you feed the wee one for a bit, hm?” He handed the plate and small spoon to his big scary dog, to which, he begrudgingly agreed as it looked like he had no choice. Ghost looked down at you as Price stepped away to take the call. You looked up at him, both of you resuming your staring contest. Until you meowed, impatiently. Ghost rolled his eyes, hastily feeding you a spoonful of pudding. The sweetness of the dessert surprised you, you’d never had a dessert that was fresh, cold, and not coated in mold or garbage juices. You immediately meowed again, demanding more. This big monster of a dog couldn’t believe he was being bossed around by this little kitten! But alas, he fed you another spoonful of pudding, then rice, until the whole plate was empty.

About 10 minutes later, Price returned to the living room. He was pleasantly surprised by the scene that beheld him. You were curled up on the couch, sleeping soundly while Ghost was curled around you and loudly snoring. Price could only chuckle to himself, shaking his head before he grabbed a blanket. He placed it over you and Ghost and relaxed on the couch as well.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Ghost woke up, immediately alert when he couldn’t smell you. He could hear Price in the kitchen, cooking up dinner for that night. The dog-hybrid got up and began his search for you, faintly being able to smell you from down the hall. Peering into Price’s bedroom, he could see that the television was on. It was set to a children’s cartoon channel, and then he saw you. You were swimming in one of Price’s shirts, making biscuits out of his fluffy blankets as you happily watched cartoons. He would walk up to the bed, sitting on the side of it. His weight caused the bed to dip on one side, making you almost roll over if it wasn’t for Ghost panicking and swiftly holding you in place before he moved to the center of the bed, balancing the weight out. It didn’t phase you, you just went back to making biscuits. It made Ghost chuckle, your nonchalant-ness. Price entered the bedroom after about an hour, ready to announce that dinner was ready. He was pleasantly surprised when he saw you and Ghost playing together. He was using one of his old toys that he had held onto since he was a puppy, playing tug of war with you. Obviously, he was going easy on you, his grasp on the toy limp while you were gripping the toy between your teeth like your life depended on winning. But it made him smile when he saw how happy you would get every time you won each round.

But he would definitely make it harder to win when you grew up.

───♡───────────── End

If you have any requests or asks, feel free to submit them! And thank you again, anonymous, for being my first request!

[thanksbutno98]

Kitchen Sink

John Price x wife!reader OC

Summary: John Price comes home from deployment excited to see his family, only there’s an unexpected guest.

Warnings: NSWF, sexual themes, swearing, violence, angst, domestic argument, comfort, not edited

——————

Relief. That’s what John felt every time he pulled up the long driveway after being gone overseas. Seeing that the lawn needed to be mowed, the chicken coop needed some patching up, or the list of work you had waiting for him was a reminder he was home. That life had carried on but not the same. It could never be the same without him and as much as that hurt in some moments, today, on the day he arrived home it didn’t. It meant his family needed him. That you needed him.

Stepping out of his old beat up truck John grabbed his worn military grade duffle bag and slung it over his shoulder. He took a moment to check his beard in the side view mirror of his car and practiced that charming smile he knew made you weak in the knees. It was good to be home and John was looking forward to your warm embrace and a home cooked meal.

Making his way inside John was greeted with an empty kitchen. At least he thought it was. Breathing deeply John took in the familiar scent of home. He could smell that you had baked something with blueberries, the lingering scent of your candles, and the lemon scented soap you liked. Everything looked the same to him. The kids shoes were in a pile by the back door instead of neatly put away. You had flowers from your garden in a vase on the kitchen table. But what caught John’s eye were the baked goods sitting out on the kitchen island waiting for him. There was a piece of construction paper next to the plate that read ‘Welcome Home!’ that was decorated by his three children.

“She must be on a run.” John spoke to himself.

Dropping his bag by the door and kicking off his boots John went straight for the blueberry muffins on the counter. He knew you made these special for him. You were always sweet like that, cooking and baking his favorite things his first day home. Rounding the island to grab a glass of milk John stopped in his tracks.

“Who the hell are you?” It came out a lot ruder than John knew you would appreciate; but he didn’t care.

There was a man in his home tucked under the kitchen sink. This stranger had half his torso under the sink and was clearly fiddling with something that needed fixing. From where John stood he could only see scuffed work boots, old jeans that were worn at the knees, and a grey long sleeve that rode up and revealed this mans stomach. Now, John wasn’t one to check out other men. But it was hard to miss this guys v-shaped waist, toned abdomen that somehow looked better than John’s, and the dark black hair that disappeared under this man’s tool belt.

Everything in front of John were the things you would make cheeky comments about if he were the man under the sink. How you would need to find a way to repay him and some more flirting. The memory of you sitting down in his lap the last time he fixed the sink playing in his head. Now, seeing someone else in the position he was meant to be had him prickling up. John was like a dog having his territory encroached on; ready to fight.

“Huh?” The man stopped what he was doing, the sound of his tools being placed on the tile feeling louder in John’s pulsing ears.

It took a second but soon the man was sliding out from under the kitchen sink and looking up at John with a confused expression.

Fuck.

The guy was good looking too. Wavy jet black hair and bright blue eyes, he was strikingly handsome. He had a beard just as thick as John’s and equally well maintained. His thick eyebrow quirked up at John seemingly confused on the interruption.

“Who the hell are you?” John reiterated coming off rude and irritable.

“You must be Y/N’s brother in law. She said you were stopping by.” This comment only infuriated John further but the man continued before John could lash out.

“I’m Tim. Moved in down the street a couple weeks ago. Y/N needed some help with a few things around the place since her husband’s away.” Tim didn’t bother standing to shake John’s hand. He simply ducked back under the sink and carried on.

“Is that so?” John spoke evenly, swallowing his anger.

This was infuriating. John was suppose to be the one under that sink fixing who knows what. It was he who needed to do this to get the praise you normally showered upon him for fixing the house. But now you had some other man doing it for you? A man who so casually had his abs on display. It also got under John’s skin how this guy assumed he was your brother in law not your actual husband. It made John’s mind wander to why that was the immediate assumption.

Little did John know that Tim thought this because you talked so highly of John. The way you spoke about your husband made most people think John was a friendly man. You didn’t do it on purpose, but you were so in love with John that the way you spoke about him didn’t always characterize him accurately. It was common for you to skip over his stoic demeanor and grumpy nature because he was only like that from time to time with you and the kids. You got the fun and playful side of John while others got his stoney and skeptical side. So, when John was rude just now Tim assumed this couldn’t be your husband because the man you spoke about would have to be perfectly friendly.

“What’s your brother like? She has him out to be this larger than life block. Seems to believe he can move heaven and earth.” The sardonic comments were followed with a playful laugh.

“I would move heaven and earth if she asked.” John spoke dryly.

There was a moment of silence as Tim stilled underneath the sink. It seemed to John that it was sinking in to this stranger who he was. Poking his head out for only a second Tim looked at John again. It wasn’t a look of embarrassment but more of genuine surprise. It seemed to catch Tim off guard John was in fact your husband.

“Oh, you’re the husband.” It was said matter of factly.

John was ready to yank this guy by the legs and throw him out the back door. Pushing up his sleeves to his elbows John was just about to do that until you walked into the room.

“John!” You squealed at the sight of him.

It had been three weeks since you last saw the man you loved most dearly. And here he was with that scowl you loved to kiss away and dressed so handsomely. John was in blue jeans, a white t-shirt with a brown flannel thrown over it, and those funny socks with avocados on them that Lily picked out as his birthday present this past year. His beard was overgrown and he needed a haircut but you loved when he looked all scruffy like this.

“Hello, darling.” Appearing before him was enough of a distraction John halted in his tracks.

Violence was never a knee jerk reaction when home, that part of John turned off almost instantly around your family. But with someone threatening John’s roll in the house had him feeling ready to throw a punch. It was partially due to having been deployed and having been involved in more hand to hand combat than usual.

You didn’t know it but you had saved John from catching an assault charge.

Throwing yourself into his arms you had completely forgotten you asked Tim to fix the sink. It felt amazing to feel John hold you and how the tension of his muscles seemed to melt with you in his arms. He smelled oaky with a twinge of musky sweat from the hot summer day.

“I missed you.” You whispered into his solid chest. But something felt different all of a sudden. John was tense again which was unlike him when he arrived home.

“You okay?” Pulling your head from John’s firm chest you gazed up at him lovingly. You thought maybe this last deployment was tougher than he let on when he called you yesterday.

Then you saw it. Those furrowed brows and cut eyes. It was the possessive stare you had become all to accustom to since before John was able to call you his and you called him yours. Following that violent stare you watched as it was stuck on Tim, your new neighbor.

In an instant your own eyes cut and you felt an annoyance take over. John hadn’t been home five minutes and you knew he was already picking a fight. He could be so territorial at times you knew he hated seeing another man in your home.

“Tim’s fixing the sink. I didn’t know when you’d be home today and the pipe was spraying water everywhere.” Going on the defense so John wouldn’t get riled up was your knee jerk reaction.

“Could’ve called me.” John grumbled and slipped away from you.

You weren’t sure if John was upset you asked someone else to fix something or if he was purely moody because he didn’t like having a stranger in the house. When John came home he usually liked staying away from all people besides you and your children. He took solace in the simplicity of family life and once he was feeling refreshed and like he made up for lost time John was back to being social.

“No need to explain yourself on my account.” Tim said as he gathered his things and shut the cabinet under the sink.

The remark had you wondering if you were explaining yourself too much. If you were, you hoped it didn’t come across as if you were hiding something. That wasn’t your intention what so ever. Little did you know that was exactly what your husband thought. It raised John’s hackles thinking you were being shady about having this stranger over and having him do something you normally declared made John sexy.

“Your wife was very kind and baked me and my son some lovely brownies when we moved in two weeks ago.” Tim was now standing with his tool kit in hand and a confident smile. John didn’t even like brownies but knowing this asshole got them instead of him only added to the building anger.

“I’m a handyman so if you ever need any help I’m only down the street.” Nodding his head Tim finally stuck out his hand for a proper introduction.

John shook it, his gaze staying stoic and calm. No part of John wanted this man to know he had gotten worked up at his presence; that would be a sign of weakness. And John had every intention of coming off collected with a strong marriage unable to be penetrated. It was more than the fact Tim was here doing John’s husbandly duties that made John frustrated yet act cordially. It was the fact he was a neighbor now and the last thing John needed was for your family to be seen as trouble in the neighborhood. Evelyn had done enough to make your reputation subpar since she usually got the other children into some form of trouble.

“I’m home now so we won’t be needing your help.” The curt response had your gaze burning a hole in the side of John’s head. So he followed it up with something kind so he wouldn’t have to hear how unfriendly he was from you later.

“But why don’t you and your wife stop by for drinks and food some time. Y/N here’s an excellent cook and I bet our kids would get along.” John sensed how you softened significantly at this kind gesture.

“Oh I know! Y/N had us over for dinner a few nights ago.” Tim gave you an approving look which John didn’t appreciate.

Now John was jealous wondering what you cooked for Tim. Did he sit in John’s seat at the table? Help you wash up after dinner like John always did? Maybe you played your music and danced around like you normally did while packing up leftovers.

You knew Tim was non the wiser but you could feel the tension radiating off John. He appeared perfectly normal, stoic, but normal.

“I’m a single dad though, so it’ll just be me and Ian stopping by.” With a charming smile Tim grabbed his toolbox ready to head out.

That was another red flag to John. A single dad sniffing around was most likely because he had become smitten with you. It wouldn’t have been the first time a single dad came after you with romantic intentions.

“Thank you so much Tim. Seriously stop by for that drink, the kids can play.” You smiled kindly and patted his broad shoulder, a way too friendly gesture in your husband’s eyes.

“Tonight?” Tim asked.

“Yeah! We’ll be grilling so bring your appetites.” You both shared friendly smiles.

Tim grabbed one of the muffins off the plate you had set out. He nodded with a grin as a way to thank you and made his way to the back door. John wanted to snatch the muffin back. Those were for him not this random person.

“I’ll shoot you a text before we head over.” Opening the back door Tim saw himself out.

As soon as the door shut John was picking a fight.

“Oh so you two text?” John was snarky as he asked.

There was a beat of silence as you both stared at each other.

“Is this really how you want to be right when you get home? We can fight if you want. Or you can drop the ‘She’s Mine’ act and fuck me upstairs.” You decided flirting with John would be the better move.

Not only would it show your desire for only John but he was worked up right now so you knew it would be rough possessive sex. He’d probably have you chanting who you belonged to by the end of it all.

There was another beat of silence.

“Well, get a move on we don’t have all day.” John motioned with his hand toward the stairs and smacked your ass.

You grinned wildly, turning and scurrying up to your room. You could feel John hot on your feels as he chased you up the stairs. To him this was a much better option than arguing first thing being home.

——————

“So he just invited himself over?” John asked with a mouthful.

You two were back in your kitchen after some much needed quality time together. Your skin still felt hot and your ass ached from the numerous smacks John’s calloused hands laid against it. That and how you expected to have bruises in the shape of his hipbones on the fatty flesh.

John was sat on one of the barstools at the kitchen island. He was on his second blueberry muffin and watching you as you made the pair of you lunch. As annoyed as he was about this man Tim, John was a little too distracted to care. After he got his frustration out upstairs, which you seemed to throughly enjoy, his eyes had been glued to you. John may have just gotten off but he had half a mind to drag you back upstairs. Those athletic shorts you were now wearing and his white t-shirt had him wanting you beneath him all over again.

“Not really. Him and Ian were exploring the woods and accidentally came into the yard. The kids were already playing while I weeded the garden and Evie asked if Ian wanted to play too. So Tim hung around for a bit and I invited them for dinner because he’s a really nice guy.” You explained the encounter from a few days prior.

Tim and Ian had accidently wandered into your yard as they explored the forest behind both your homes. Evelyn hollered for the boy her age to come help her and Jj lift up the tire John used to work out with. John had brought that monstrosity home from work one day claiming it was going to be a better workout than your at home gym in the basement could provide. When he was home you loved the ugly thing because you got to sit on the back patio and watch John flip it back and forth through the yard shirtless. When he was away the kids played on it and tried to flip it themselves. They still hadn’t been able to do it but were determined.

The large tire that weighed at least 300 pounds had become the topic of conversation between you and Tim. He had asked why you had it and once you explained your husband’s reasoning he agreed with John it was a better workout than lifting weights. Tim ended up being extremely nice and friendly and you wanted him to feel welcomed in the neighborhood. Some of the other parents could be snobs in your opinion and you liked making sure whenever anyone new moved in you welcomed them warmly. It didn’t mean you had to be friends but it was nice for others to know there was a friendly face in case they needed anything.

“Nice guy? You two friends?” It was obvious John wasn’t pleased by the turn of events in his absence but you could only roll your eyes.

“Not yet. His son is between Evie and Jj age and they get along great, so I suggest you quit it with not liking him all because he fixed our sink.” You sighed out in frustration and busied yourself with cooking before you started a fight with John.

“He assumed I was my brother. Any reason for that?” John asked a little too sharply.

“Yeah, he probably assumed you were nice and not some rude jerk.” You quipped.

You had John there so he chose not to respond.

“Here.” You placed John’s plate in front of him with a little too much force.

“Darling, I don’t like coming home to another man in my house, fixing my sink.” John tried to reason with you as if his foul mood was excusable.

“What was I suppose to do? Let the sink leak water all over the place? Don’t think you’d appreciate coming home to a flooded kitchen.” You threw your hands up now officially annoyed.

“You really going to be like this right when I get home? Or do you want to fuck me upstairs instead?” John used your own tactic against you, only he gave you a charming wink.

You both stared at each other for a moment.

“C’mon, we should be quick so the food doesn’t get cold.” You waved John toward the stairs as you exited to make your way back to your bedroom. Now it was your turn to take out your frustration.

——————

“Sooner or later we have to finish that conversation.” John was lying on his back, bare chest heaving as he caught his breath.

You were sprawled out next to him in a daze. Legs thrown over his and a sticky mess waiting to be cleaned on your stomach. The room felt stifling hot, the open windows allowing a refreshing summer breeze to cool you both off.

“What?” You asked having barely heard John.

You were still completely blissed out from having had your way with your bear of a man. Well, it was more him having his way with you only you told him exactly how you wanted him to take you. From the pace to position, John let you call the shots this round so you could get your own frustration out like you had so kindly done for him.

“Never mind. Do we need to go to the shop since we’re apparently grilling tonight?” John asked as he started to get out of bed, leaving you with a sweet kiss to your lips. Staying completely naked John walked to the bathroom and came back a moment later with a damp wash cloth.

“Yeah, was thinking we could do steaks and I’ll make whatever else you’re craving.” You were still catching your breath while you watched John clean you up. The warm cloth was rough against the skin of your stomach and inner thighs but you appreciated being taken care of.

“Mash and chips.” John grinned at the thought of getting double starch with a nice juicy steak.

“I can do that. But it’s Saturday so I’m also going to make spaghetti or Lily is going to lose her shit.” Finally starting to not feel so dazed you got up out of bed and started to get dressed along side your burly husband; who had a few hickies littering his torso.

“She’s still obsessed with spaghetti and meatballs? Was hoping she’d be over it by now.” John asked in disbelief.

Your whole family loved to eat there was no doubt about that. You and John were lucky Jj and Evelyn were never really picky eaters. They had some foods they didn’t like but they never truly gave you a hard time. Lily on the other hand would get fixated on specific foods for periods of time. John was hoping the spaghetti and meatball phase was over because he was absolutely sick of the dish.

You were sweet enough that every Saturday you let the family take turns picking Saturday’s dinner. Today was Lily’s turn to pick. All the other days were up to you or you had leftovers. For the last nine weeks in a row Lily had picked spaghetti and meatballs and everyone in the house was sick of it. Last time she did this was with rice pilaf and chicken so you made a large batch of it to give her at dinner each night. Only she decided that same day she hated rice pilaf so you and John had to eat it everyday for lunch so it wouldn’t go to waist.

“I’m starting to think there’s no end in sight.” You lightly complained.

“We can say no.” John tried to persuade you on this again.

“No we can’t. The deal is they can pick whatever as long as I can cook it in under an hour.” With a sigh you shimmied your jeans over your hips.

“Saying no isn’t going to kill them. You know that right?” John was now buckling his belt then reaching for his shirt on the floor.

“You know I was a kid who always heard no. You were the same. I don’t like doing that to the kids unless it’s truly an inconvenience.” John couldn’t deny how sweet you were to your kids.

“You keep spoiling them and they’ll turn rotten. Now let’s get going, they’re going to get dropped off in a couple of hours.” John tossed you your bra and then put on his socks.

“They’re already rotten to the core and I love it.” You joked with a cheeky smirk.

Your kids were far from rotten and you both knew it. You had the sweetest children who were all a bit misunderstood in their own ways which was what made them each so endearing.

The both of you finished getting dressed and then headed downstairs. You ate your cold lunch rather quickly and then climbed into John’s truck. Instead of actually talking about what you and John had been trying not to fight about you two ignored the conflict. Instead you chatted about how the kids had been, your work, John’s deployment, and your favorite, the holiday you two were planning.

This continued at the grocery store where you picked up everything you needed for dinner and the rest of the week. John then spent the ride home going on a tangent about grocery prices. Telling you how much cheaper things were a few years ago.

“Did we really need all this?” John grumbled as you two unpacked.

“Don’t start.” Chuckling you swatted John’s ass which had the sour mood washing off of him.

The two of you continued with your tasks. You prepped everything for dinner while John seasoned the steaks then checked over the sink. You had to step over him as you cooked and he laid on his back under the kitchen sink. John continuously made snarky comments about the ‘poor work’ Tim did. Claiming Tim had to be a ‘shit handyman’ because your sink was still leaking slightly. You weren’t sure if John was telling the truth or simply banging his tools around for show.

Soon enough you both heard screams of laughter as your children ran up the driveway. They had spent the day with their cousins and had just been dropped off. It was common your kids were dropped off at the end of the driveway unless it was your dad dropping them off. He always stopped in to say hello.

“DADDY!” Evelyn busted through the back door and ran full speed at John.

She ran into him with so much force John had to take a step back. Jj was not far behind as he too hugged John around the middle. Lily stood in the doorway looking all cute and bashful.

“Missed you two.” Bending down John took each one under an arm and picked them up so they were now upside down.

Jj was laughing so hard he was snorting while Evelyn was screeching with laughter like crazy.

“Spin! Spin!” Your two oldest hollered and John did just that.

You watched your husband swing Evelyn and Jj around, a chorus of laughter filling your home once again. You had happy kids there was no doubting that. The soundtrack of this house was giggles and joyous screams. But nothing compared to the laughter your husband brought each one of your children. It was absent while he was away and he brought a warmth into your home that was undeniable.

Once Jj and Evelyn were dizzy John flipped them back over and placed them on their feet. Jj stumbled to the ground laughing so hard he was barely making noise. Evelyn was wobbling around trying to find her balance while giggling. Stepping over Jj, John stuck out his arms for soft and sweet Lily who hated rough housing. Gently John took the four year old into his arms so they were nose to nose.

“Missed you peanut.” John spoke softly watching as the bashful look Lily wore turned into a giant smile that rivaled yours.

“Hi, daddy.” Lily whispered before wrapping her arms around John’s neck.

“Your mums making spaghetti for you.” Lily kicked her feet hearing John talk.

“Wait!” Lily pulled her head away from Johns shoulder.

You were just pouring the box of pasta into the boiling water. Lily had her hand stuck out having you halt your action of stirring the water.

“I want dippy eggs.” Lily informed you.

You and John both stared at her straight faced. The pair of you weren’t sure if you were happy she finally picked a new food or frustrated she waited until now to tell you.

“I already started the spaghetti.” Trying to reason with Lily she shook her head adamantly ‘no.’

“Mummy you never asked what I wanted. And I want dippy eggs.” Crossing her arms Lily pouted at you with a mean look.

“I- well yeah. I guess I assumed you wanted spaghetti.” Looking at the sauce you had on the stove with the meatballs cooking in it and then back to the pasta cooking you sighed. This is what you got for assuming and not asking Lily this morning.

“Well, we have lunch for the week, John.” You stirred the pot while John looked up to the ceiling with a sigh. He was truly starting to hate spaghetti and meatballs.

“Don’t be cross with me!” Lily shrieked in John’s face.

“We’re not.” Trying to comfort the sniffling four year old John and you shared an amused look at the dramatics.

“Okay you two go play outside. Ian and his dad are coming over soon for dinner.” You motioned for your two oldest to get a move on.

“Woohoo!” Evelyn threw her arms in the air, stumbling slightly from being dizzy.

“Ian’s so much fun.” Jj was finally catching his breath and then sprinting out the back door with Evelyn behind him.

“Lily c’mon! Help us flip the tire!” Jj called for his youngest sister who was quickly pushing herself out of John’s arms.

“They wanna play with me, I gotta go daddy.” Lily said seriously when John wouldn’t let her go.

“You don’t wanna spend time with me?” It sounded like John was teasing but you knew he wanted more attention from his children than this quick hello.

“Daddy.” Lily wriggled until John let her go. She walked towards the back door then stopped and looked at John with the utmost seriousness.

“Jj and Evie only play with me sometimes. I have to go. Cuddles later.” Turning around Lily hoped off the stair on to the patio and cautiously jogged toward her siblings who were in the middle of the yard.

“She’s so fucking cute I could die.” You squealed.

“Couldn’t agree more.” John’s smile was soft as he watched his children get along so well.

“Dippy eggs for dinner. . . She’ll be starving by bed time.” John told you with a chuckle.

“She’ll eat four eggs and three pieces of toast.” You were now pulling out the ingredients needed for your daughters newest dinner choice. You noticed you only had two eggs left from having baked this morning.

“Four eggs!?” John was astounded by Lily’s large appetite. He ate four eggs in the morning, it was crazy to him his child could eat that much.

“Yep! Would you go grab more from the coop we’re already running low.” Taking out another pot you got to cooking.

“We’re about to go through so many eggs. Hope the gals can keep up.” John sighed as he grabbed his work gloves, slid on his boots, grabbed the basket normally used for this task, and went to go get more eggs.

Walking over to the chicken coop John stopped to see his children trying to flip the 300 pound tire. They were strategizing how they could do it. John flipped it a couple times and his three children hollered in excitement which was a huge boost to Johns ego. Soon enough you were yelling from the back door for him to stop goofing around and go grab those eggs.

Part of you felt bad for disturbing the fun. But you knew if dinner wasn’t on time for Lily she would have a meltdown. She could be exactly like John when hungry and that meant she was an absolute monster. Thankfully, John was an adult so he didn’t freak out but he was horrible to be around when particularly hungry. It had you wondering if that’s why he had the reputation of being as asshole at work. Maybe he was just always hungry while deployed and he took it out on everyone around him.

John made his way to the coop he had built over a decade ago. It needed some work from how weathered it had become. It was a small wooden structure painted a garnet red to match your home. The slatted roof had moss growing atop it hiding the numerous patch jobs John had done. It was about the size of a small shed with a door for John to enter on the right side and a small hatch in the front with a ramp for the hens to get out from.

There was a fence around the coop that came up to John’s ribcage. The fence was a two rail estate fence with wood so old it had turned grey. Moss stuck to the wood and grew around the chicken wiring used to wrap around the posts and keep the hens inside.

“Hey there Nancy.” John said in a chipper voice that most would find strange with his gravely voice and rugged demeanor.

He was currently squatted down in the small coop ready to go through the nesting boxes. John had thrown feed out for the hens and the other four had gone to eat but Nancy had stayed back; firmly sat atop her nest in the back corner. Nancy and John had a love hate relationship. She was a pain in his ass but he respected her ferocity.

Nancy was a syrupy brown hen with ivory tail feathers and a cherry red comb. She was ‘pretty’ as John liked to say. Her eyes were dark and looked like daggers when anyone but you came near.

John started by first clearing out the unoccupied nest boxes. Slowly he made his way over to Nancy who hadn’t stopped staring at him the entire time he was there. John maintained eye contact as he slowly made his way over. One second to the next he was in a staring contest and then the he was being charged at. Nancy took off from her nest ready to fight and feathers flying. Swiftly John moved past her and grabbed the two eggs she was protecting. In quick succession his hands were violently pecked and then he was taking off out of the chicken coop.

Running out of the small structure Nancy was right behind clucking loudly. In his haste John saw out of the corner of his eye a small crowd had formed a few yards away from the chicken coop. Dodging the other hens who were enjoying their snack they squawked in surprise as John dashed by. A few feathers flew in the air as John hurtled over the wired fence with the basket of eggs cradled under his arm.

“Wicked!” A young boys voice boomed through the open air.

“See! I told you my dad’s cool!” Evelyn’s voice quickly followed.

Looking back at the pen John could see Nancy eyeing him, her little head bobbing to look at him from different angles. After a quick check of the basket John saw all the eggs were in tact and now he could bring them back to you. He would have to be doing this twice a day now instead of the once with Lily’s new request for dippy eggs. Hell, maybe he’d have to buy another chicken.

“Dad, this is Ian.” Jj motioned with his head.

Jj was hoping into the chicken pen to throw some more feed since it was his turn to tend to them. When John was home the chickens were his responsibility. But when deployed Jj and Evelyn did mostly everything besides collect the eggs. John didn’t understand why but Nancy never attacked you so you were the one to gather the eggs each evening in his absence. You liked to say it was because of the respect between mothers which always had John chuckling.

John realized Lily wasn’t with the group of 10-12 year olds. Taking in the yard John saw his youngest daughter sitting on the tire on the opposite side of the yard. Her head was hung low and she was kicking her feet making them bounce slight against the rubber.

“Can I feed them!?” Ian was about to climb over the fence but Evelyn was quick to grab his shirt tail.

“Sorry Ian, but I don’t want Nancy to go after you.” John gave the boy a kind smile.

Ian was tall for his age and looked like an athletic little boy. He had cropped blonde hair that accentuated his heart shaped face and green eyes. There was a scab on his chin and more on both knees. For such a rough and tumble looking kid he had a natural gentleness about him that John couldn’t quite place.

“How’d you do that?” John pointed to the young boys chin.

A huge smile spread across the little boys face showing off how his canine tooth had fallen out.

“Evie and I were playing chicken on our bikes and we ran into each other so hard I fell off!” The story was shared with a bright laugh that infected both of John’s children.

John looked over to Evie who had matching skinned knees. But that was nothing new. Evelyn was a tough little girl and tended to have scraped elbows and knees, dirty feet from running around outside, and some new stain for you to get out of her clothes.

“And your dad wasn’t upset?” John followed up.

Some of the parents in the neighborhood weren’t Evelyn’s biggest fans. She tended to get into trouble by climbing up something, standing on her handle bars while she rode her bike, or playing in the dirt and getting all muddy. John knew other parents thought she was a bad influence but he saw his little girl as one who just wanted to have fun. She was a child and she acted like it so John didn’t see any harm. Jj was the same way besides the climbing and he was never classified as trouble. It was an unfortunate caveat of being a girl so John tried to teach her to be safe and have some common sense but never dimmed her flame.

“You kidding!? Dad thinks Evie’s brilliant!” Ian’s response had John chuckling with appreciation. It was nice to hear his daughter’s qualities were admired.

“SHIT!” Jj ran for the fence right behind John and frantically climbed over it. Falling to the ground face first John cringed watching how the 12 year olds body twisted awkwardly as Jj fell hard.

“Why’s Nancy such a jerk?” Dusting himself off Jj was getting back to his feet seemingly unphased by the fall.

Jj now had dirt smeared across his right cheek and his hair was a mess. Nancy was clucking loudly trying to square up to the young boy through the fence. Turning around Jj rolled his eyes and walked back over to John.

“She’s territorial. You wouldn’t want someone rooting around your home.” Maybe John and Nancy had something in common. John’s words seemed to bring some perspective to the children because they all immediately burst into conversation about the chickens.

Ruffling Jj’s hair and telling them not to get into trouble John made his way over to Lily to check on her. As he got closer John could hear tiny sniffles and watched as Lily wiped her nose with the sleeve of her shirt. Lily was turned looking into the forest so she didn’t see John coming up behind her.

“You okay peanut?” John’s voice seemed to startle the four year old who slightly jumped.

“I’m fine daddy.” Wiping her eyes quickly Lily tried to pretend like she hadn’t been crying.

“What’s the matter?” John squatted in front of his little girl who looked so much like him. Taking his gloves off John cupped Lily’s round cheeks in his palms and wiped the tears away with his thumbs.

“I wanted to play pretend but Jj said that’s a baby game. So I asked Evie if she’d play with me but she just laughed at me and called me a baby.” The sniffling picked up again as Lily’s lip wobbled.

“Do you want to come spend time with me and your mum?” John’s question had Lily shaking her head in confirmation, and then she was crying and reaching for him.

With a melancholy smile John scooped up his little girl who wrapped herself around him. Rubbing her back soothingly John told her all about how his big brothers could be ‘big meanies’ when he was little like her. John had captivated her when he admitted to crying like she did when they wouldn’t play with him. How he would beg for them to play with him and how they picked on him. By the time John had made it back to the house Lily was giggling and running in front of him with her mood completely turned around.

Before he entered the house John could see you and Tim chatting in the kitchen through the large window. It annoyed John at times at how friendly you could be. It wasn’t a bad quality but sometimes he wanted you to keep to yourself so he didn’t have to be around people. But his grievances never stopped you from becoming acquainted with the entire neighborhood. Claiming you wanted to know who your kids were hanging around and their parents just in case.

“Did you ask the others if they wanted dippy eggs?” You asked seeing John with the basket of eggs.

“Ian can have dippy eggs but the other two can’t.” John ruffled Lily’s hair watching as him sticking up for her had her smile lighting up the entire house.

“What’d they do?” You asked with a chuckle.

“They’re big meanies like daddy’s big brothers were.” Lily explained as if everyone would know what she was talking about.

“They’re excluding her again. Calling her a ‘b-a-b-y’” John spoke more hushed so Lily wouldn’t hear and took the extra measure to spell out baby so she wouldn’t get sad again.

“We gotta do something about that.” You said back.

Jj and Evie weren’t bad kids and they certainly didn’t dislike their sister. The age gap got in the way a lot of the time and Lily was constantly searching for a playmate in her older siblings. They entertained her more than you thought they originally would but being six years younger than Evelyn and eight years younger than Jj made it hard for Lily to keep up. That and she didn’t like getting dirty or rough housing like her siblings. The parameters Lily needed to play and the age gap frustrated Jj and Evelyn and you saw it caused them to be snarky to their sensitive little sister.

“Your brothers exclude you a lot?” Tim asked trying to have a conversation with John since the last one didn’t go too well.

“No.” John spoke curtly.

“Yes they did.” You and Lily corrected John at the same time.

“You just said, you just said, Uncle Harrison use to make you cry cuz he’d tell you to meet him outside to play then he’d lock you out of the house.” Lily had her finger pointed at John and mouth hung agape at his lying.

“And Uncle Grayson made you cry so hard you wet yo-“ Before Lily could finish John gently clamped his hand over her mouth. Her sapphire eyes went wide now being nose to nose with her father.

“I think that’s enough sharing. How about we don’t tell people those things.” John was thoroughly embarrassed that what he just shared with Lily outside to cheer her up was now being broadcasted. Kissing her forehead John took his hand back and motioned for her to run along.

“Big military guy like you wet his pants from crying.” Tim couldn’t help but laugh at the story your daughter chose to share.

You were mortified for John. That was not something he normally shared or you thought he’d ever admit to. You admired he told your daughter this to cheer her up, but now it was backfiring in his face.

“He was a little kid.” You gave Tim a sharp look for laughing but that didn’t seem to deter him.

“Trust me I’ve done worse.” Tim was still chuckling.

John didn’t respond. He simply grabbed a crystal glass from the cabinet and poured himself a glass of whiskey. The eggs he had put on the counter were soon washed and put to use. You and Tim continued to chat about your kids. John found out that Tim’s wife had passed away a few years ago leaving him a single dad with no intention on dating. This put John’s mind at ease that he wasn’t hanging around for your attention. Tim went as far to say that he felt blessed Ian was the exactly like his mother in looks and spirit.

You were a magician at getting people to open up. John could never wrap his head around how you did it so flawlessly. It was probably because you genuinely cared. If John were honest he used some of your tactics at work when doing interrogations. And if they didn’t work he was fine resorting to violence but he wouldn’t admit either of these things to you.

Learning that Tim had lost his wife had John lightening up quite a bit. It had him wondering what he would be like if he ever lost you. Tim mentioned how he felt like a bumbling fool since the day he lost her. That making friends and keeping Ian involved with his peers was a lot harder than he realized. His wife had been so good at doing the social aspect of parenting it never occurred to Tim what a skill it was.

“Dad! You gotta come lift the tire for us.” Ian was at your back door bouncing up and down.

“Okay, okay. I’m coming.” Tim was playful as he followed after his son.

This left you and John alone in the kitchen since Lily had pulled out her dolls in the living room.

“I don’t like him.” John all but blurted out when there was privacy.

“Jesus, John. Is this still about the sink?” Turning a little too quickly you knocked over your wine glass causing it to spill across the kitchen island. You let out a frustrated groan as you went to clean up the mess.

“You inviting him over cuz he’s good looking?” Instead of beating around the bush John got straight to the point. He handed you a few paper towels that you snatched from him in frustration.

“What?” You could only blink at John utterly perplexed and taken aback by the question.

“Look, I get that I’m gone too often. And it might be nice to have someone handsome fixing the house up in my absence. I just want you to be honest about it.” John did his best to not show his annoyance at what he was suspicious of.

“I mean Tim’s good looking I can’t lie about that. But am I having him over to gawk at? Absolutely not. I just needed the sink fixed.” Exasperated, that’s the only way you were able to describe what you felt. You had to take a step away and wipe up the spill because now you were offended on top of annoyed.

“So having him take my place at dinner, baking for him, and fixing things wasn’t you getting the attention I wasn’t able to give you?” John asked now starting to feel a bit apprehensive at his approach. He could see by your posture that you were tense from how angry you were getting.

“Okay, first off, I bake for everyone. You know that. It’s the whole reason we got chickens in the first place.” You waved your hands in the general direction of the chicken coop.

“Second, I’ve got plenty of home movies you’ve starred in to keep myself occupied if I need something to look at. I don’t need some stranger over for dinner or fixing the house so I can have more attention.” You placed your hands on your hips and stared at John who matched your unwavering gaze.

“Daddy’s in a movie?” Lily’s voice joined the conversation.

“Oi, stop eaves dropping.” John shooed Lily out of the room and she quickly scurried back to the living room.

“I just don’t see why you’re being so friendly if you haven’t got a bit of a crush.” Turning back around John regretted the question because of the look on your face. You felt insulted and John could see that by your slightly open mouth and furrowed brows.

“Crush? Did you ever think that maybe I just want to be friends with him because he’s nice? That he’ll be able to help me if the house falls apart while you’re gone. You know I paid him for his help, it’s not like he was here because I batted my eyes and asked all sweetly.” You said waving your hands around all animated.

“That’s the only reason?” John pushed knowing you too well. He knew there was something more but couldn’t put his finger on what it was.

“Okay fine, maybe I can relate to his son because I lost my mum when I was around the same age? Tim asked for some advice and it felt good helping out because I know what it’s like.” You hissed, not wanting to talk about this. It was a sensitive topic to you and not one you felt like hashing out right now.

There it was, the real reason John had been searching for.

“Oh.” John stared at you, who was now fuming mad. It hadn’t occurred to him he was being insensitive but how would he know without you telling him.

“Yeah. ‘Oh.’” Rolling your eyes you tried to busy yourself at the kitchen sink.

“Don’t be cross with me. If I knew that was the reason I wouldn’t have been so harsh.” John’s hardened expression softened greatly. His eyes were locked on you lovingly now having a much gentler side of him coming out.

“Hard to when you think so poorly of me.” You had turned your back to John and busied yourself with invisible dishes. It was one plate that you kept washing over and over.

“I could never think poorly of you.” John had manifested behind you and whispered into your ear.

“Yeah? You think I’d have some guy over to gawk at and have lewd intentions for.” You grumbled, scrubbing away.

John slowly reached around you, his chest lightly pressing against your back. Turning off the faucet his rough fingers slipped the plate from your hands and placed it back into the sink. John’s warmth was radiating off of him as his strong arms wrapped around you and hugged you to his burly chest. Burying his face in the crook of your neck he lightly nuzzled his beard against the exposed skin and left feather light kisses in his wake. Each one was placed with love while his thumb gently ran across your wrist.

“I’m being an ass aren’t I? Get worked up because of how pretty you are.” John’s gravely voice was hot against your ear.

“I know other men see it too.” John’s sultry words had your breath hitching. His body was pressing against you a bit more and strong arms holding you firmly.

“You haven’t done anything wrong, I forget how kind you are. I get so use to the cruelty of work and think that you could be that way when it’s so far from the truth.” John laid open mouth kiss after kiss up and down your neck. It made your hair stand on end. Your shoulders relaxed and you melted into his hold.

“You are being an ass.” You playfully teased. Breathy words and the tiniest moan leaving your parted lips. You had your head tilted back and resting on John’s shoulder as he continued to kiss your neck.

“I’ll play nice. After how you bounced in my lap earlier I know I’m the only one for you.” John purred in your ear sending a shock wave through your body that had your thighs pressing together.

John was right that he was the only one for you. And after babbling like a slag in his lap about how much you missed every part of him, John knew you were just as addicted to him as he was to you. His jealousy was misplaced and he was ready to apologize in every way you craved. It seemed each others bodies were the answer to all your problems today.

“If you ever accuse me of having eyes for someone else I’ll stop putting out.” You threatened John. You didn’t mean it, you knew he was the most insecure when just getting home from deployment.

It was a sad flaw that he thought you would get lonely in his absence and would seek companionship outside of your marriage. He knew it wasn’t true, that you would never do that to him. But that didn’t stop the insecurity getting out of hand sometimes; like it had today.

“Now, now, Darling. We can’t have that.” John’s flirting was driving you mad. You wanted to drag him upstairs and make him apologize for being a jerk in the most sinful ways.

“Ew! Do you two have to be so gross?” Jj voice came from the back door.

All the young boy could see was his father hugging you from behind. It looked completely innocent from his angle but Jj still hated it. Both him and Evelyn gave you and John trouble whenever you two were a little too affectionate in front of them. Whether that be a sweet kiss as you said goodbye or were slow dancing in the kitchen and they walked in.

“Ian’s dad can’t flip the tire and says it’s not possible. You gotta show him how it’s done dad.” Jj motioned with his thumb over his shoulder for John to come outside.

You and John shared a playful look.

“See, no way I could find that guy attractive. He can’t even flip that god awful tire.” You flirted with your husband, feeling his ego grow so large it was taking up most of the room.

“Speaking of. You should workout tomorrow with that thing. Shirtless.” You purred as John chuckled from deep in his chest.

“Treating me like a piece of meat. . . I love it.” And with that said, John kissed you on the cheek and peeled himself off of you to go show off just how strong he was.

~~~~~tag list~~~~~

@exhaustedpotat0 @glitterypirateduck @ivymarquis @crazymela @what-0-life @boredfairy4 @hihhasotherfixations @stephanswhxre @shanjisan @k4es @luvleywrites @kita03-0 @midwesternwitchery @aleynaleia @suckerforbassist @misshoneypaper @theaonlax @blackstar9005 @tooterbutt @havoc973 @maladaptivedaydreamingbum @freshlemontea @cosmoscoffeee @sae1kie @ohworm-writes @ghostslittlegf @fanficwriterlover @arminarlertssword @faceache111 @azu21 @thirstyb-ches @nini-11-08 @sgtgarricks @kiki-is-hyperfixating @mayflysdie

[satellite-evans]

you bring me home

Pairing: Harry Styles x wife!reader

Summary: wherever Harry goes, his family brings him home.

Word count: 3k

Warnings: fluff, little angst, insecure Harry

A/N:

AAAAAAA happy birthday Harry, my favorite babygirl ilysm <3

I can't believe harry is 31 🥹🥹🥹

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

As a person who loved sleeping in, waking up early was one of the things you disliked the most, but for Harry, you would do anything. The air was tinged with the scent of fresh pancakes and vanilla as you carefully balanced a breakfast tray, ensuring nothing spilled. Your twin children, Lily and Theo, stood beside you, their little bodies quivering with excitement as they whispered and giggled, barely containing their enthusiasm.

The tray was a masterpiece of love and effort: a tall stack of fluffy pancakes, perfectly golden, drizzled with maple syrup and a dollop of whipped cream on top. A steaming cup of his favorite tea sat beside it, sending up comforting swirls of steam, and a small vase held a single daisy, freshly plucked from the garden, its petals still glistening with morning dew.

“Be extra quiet,” you whispered conspiratorially, nudging Theo, who was practically vibrating with anticipation. “We don’t want to wake him before we surprise him.”

Lily nodded solemnly, but her eyes sparkled with mischief as she reached up to steady the crown she had crafted the night before, made from construction paper, glitter, and tiny stickers. She had insisted he wear it the entire day.

With one final glance at your giggling children, you took a deep breath and gently pushed open the bedroom door, stepping inside to wake the man you all adored.

“Shhh, you two,” you whispered, pushing the door open with your hip. The sight before you warmed your heart—Harry, still deep in sleep, his curls unruly against the pillow, soft breaths escaping his slightly parted lips.

“Daddy! Wake up!” Theo cheered, scrambling onto the bed with little restraint, while Lily giggled and climbed up more gently. Harry groaned playfully, stretching his arms as he cracked open his eyes, a slow, sleepy smile forming at the sight of his family.

“Happy birthday, my love,” you murmured, leaning down to press a soft kiss to his forehead.

“Happy birthday, Daddy!” the twins chorused excitedly.

Harry sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Well, this is quite the welcome committee.”

“We made you breakfast!” Theo announced proudly, gesturing toward the tray still balanced in your hands. “Mummy helped, but we did most of it.”

Harry chuckled. “That so? Did you two make sure it wasn’t just extra syrup?”

Lily gasped, feigning offense. “No! We made pancakes all fancy. You have to eat it all.”

She carefully placed a handmade birthday crown on his head, adorned with colorful stickers and a glittery ‘31’ in the center. “And you have to wear this all day,” she added with a very serious nod.

Harry laughed, adjusting the crown slightly. “Yes, ma’am.”

As he reached for a bite of his pancake, Theo held up a forkful and grinned. “Nope! We get to feed you first.”

You laughed as Harry playfully groaned. “Ah, so that’s the deal? I just sit here and get spoiled?”

Lily nodded, already scooping up another bite for him. “Yup! It’s the rule.”

Breakfast in bed was filled with laughter and syrupy fingers. The kids eagerly took turns feeding him, their giggles filling the room, while you sat beside him, sipping your tea. You watched him carefully, taking in the quiet joy in his expression.

“You okay, birthday boy?” you asked softly, nudging his thigh with your own.

Harry turned to you, a teasing glint in his eye. “M’being pampered, got my favorite people in the world around me, and I’ve been force-fed pancakes—what’s not to love?”

You raised a brow. “Force-fed?”

Lily gasped, feigning offense. “Daddy, we made those for you!”

Harry chuckled, holding up his hands in surrender. “And they were the best pancakes I’ve ever had, promise.”

Theo giggled. “Even better than Mum’s?”

Harry hesitated dramatically, looking between you and Theo before sighing. “Don’t make me answer that, mate. I still need to sleep in this bed tonight.”

You rolled your eyes, but the sight of his dimples softened you instantly. “Smart man.”

After breakfast, the day unfolded exactly as Harry would have wanted, filled with his favorite activities and the people he loved most.

The first adventure took them to the beach, where the sun glistened off the gentle waves, and the salty breeze tousled their hair. Theo, always a burst of energy, ran ahead, leaving tiny footprints in the damp sand before the waves erased them.

“Daddy, look how fast I can run!” he called over his shoulder before sprinting toward the water, only to yelp and scamper back when the foamy tide licked at his ankles.

Harry chuckled, adjusting the birthday crown still perched on his head. “Not fast enough to outrun the ocean, mate.”

Lily, ever the meticulous collector, was crouched down nearby, carefully selecting seashells. She held up a small, smooth one, its pinkish hue catching the light. “This one’s perfect,” she murmured, before tucking it into the pocket of her dress.

Harry walked beside you, his fingers occasionally brushing against yours. You glanced up at him, noting the way he gazed at the horizon—thoughtful, almost distant. You nudged him gently. “You okay?”

He turned to you with a soft smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

You wanted to ask what was on his mind, but before you could, Theo ran back, dragging Harry toward a tide pool where tiny fish darted beneath the surface. You let the moment slip away, telling yourself there would be time later.

By the time they returned home, the afternoon had warmed considerably. The backyard transformed into an impromptu soccer field, with two overturned garden chairs serving as goalposts.

“Alright, birthday boy,” you teased, tossing Harry a soccer ball. “Let’s see if you still have it.”

Theo, already buzzing with excitement, bounced on his toes. “I’m gonna win this time, Daddy!”

Harry smirked, rolling his shoulders. “We’ll see about that, little man.”

The game was a whirlwind of laughter and determination. Theo had grown quicker, and his footwork had improved, but Harry still had the advantage of skill. He weaved past Theo, kicking the ball toward the goal.

“Noooo!” Theo shouted dramatically, diving to stop it, but the ball rolled past him, bumping against the chair leg.

Harry threw his arms up. “And that’s how it’s done!”

Theo flopped onto his back in the grass. “That’s not fair! You’re too big!”

Lily, sitting cross-legged nearby, shook her head. “You’ll have to train harder, Theo.”

Theo groaned but quickly sat up, determination sparking in his eyes. “Next time, Daddy. Next time, I’ll win.”

After soccer, everyone was covered in grass stains and sweat, so you all retreated indoors, for a bath. The kids requested that Harry washed them, wanting to bond with their dad a little more on his birthday, and who’s he to say no to that? After the bath everyone went straight to the kitchen, where Lily had declared herself head chef.

“Okay,” she announced, tying her apron. “We are making the best chocolate cake ever.”

Theo raised his hand. “Can I lick the spoon?”

Lily sighed. “Only if you actually help.”

Harry chuckled, washing his hands. “What’s my job, Chef Lily?”

She tapped her chin in thought before handing him a whisk. “You mix, but don’t overdo it! We want the cake fluffy.”

With everyone assigned a role, the kitchen soon became a delightful mess. Flour dusted the countertops (and somehow Theo’s nose), chocolate smudged fingers, and laughter filled the air.

When it came time to pour the batter into the pan, Harry carefully smoothed the top, though the uneven distribution almost guaranteed a lopsided result.

“It’s not about how it looks,” Lily said wisely. “It’s about how it tastes.”

After the cake was safely in the oven, Theo tugged at Harry’s sleeve. “Daddy, can we play one more round of soccer while it bakes?”

Harry hesitated, rubbing his neck. “Maybe later, buddy.”

Theo frowned. “But it’s your birthday. You love soccer.”

“I do,” Harry said softly, ruffling Theo’s hair. “I just need a little break.”

The quiet moment didn’t go unnoticed. You exchanged a glance with Lily, who, despite her young age, seemed to sense it too.

Dinner was next—every dish carefully chosen to make Harry’s birthday meal special. The scent of garlic filled the air as you stirred the pasta sauce, the rich aroma blending with the freshly baked bread cooling on the counter.

Harry stood beside you, sipping a glass of wine, watching as you worked. “You know, you spoil me,” he murmured.

You smirked. “That’s the point, birthday boy.”

The meal was a feast. Pasta twirled around forks, laughter bounced between conversations, and the tiramisu at the end was met with eager, chocolate-covered smiles.

Then came the cake—imperfectly shaped, slightly uneven, but undeniably made with love. Candles flickered, their glow reflecting in Harry’s thoughtful eyes.

“Make a wish, Daddy!” Theo urged.

Harry hesitated for just a second before closing his eyes and exhaling, sending the flames dancing away.

Cheers erupted, and as slices were passed around, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. Harry was happy—there was no doubt about that—but his smiles, though present, didn’t quite reach his eyes. There was a quiet hesitance to his laughter, a weight behind his usually bright gaze. After the kids went upstairs to play before bed, you thought it was the perfect time to ask him before it started to eat you alive.

“Alright,” you said softly, settling beside him, tucking your legs under you, feeling the warmth of the couch seep into your bones. You glanced at Harry, his posture tense, his gaze unfocused. “What’s going on?”

He sighed, a long, drawn-out breath that seemed to carry the weight of the world. He ran a hand through his curls, the dark strands falling messily around his face, but there was no playful energy behind the movement. It was a motion you’d seen him do a thousand times, but now it felt heavy, like he was trying to push away something too big to ignore.

“Finished the album,” he murmured, his voice almost flat, like it was an announcement he was struggling to fully accept.

Your heart leaped, a surge of pride filling your chest. “Harry, that’s amazing!” The words felt like they should be the end of a conversation, the punctuation at the end of a happy story. But the air between you both still felt thick, unspoken words hanging just beyond reach.

He nodded, but his eyes never met yours. Instead, he looked down at his hands, those same hands that had made magic in the studio, that had written lyrics that touched the deepest parts of people’s hearts. But now, they looked tired. “It means the next part is coming. The interviews, the promo, the tour…” His voice wavered, breaking ever so slightly as if just saying it made it real. “I’ll be away a lot, more than I am away now.”

The excitement that had been bubbling in your chest froze, replaced by a quiet realization. “Oh.”

His shoulders slumped, and he ran a hand over his face in frustration, like he was trying to rub away the feeling that had settled there. “It’s the first time I’ll be gone for so long since the twins were born.It kills me to go to long meeting or writing sessions how can I bear to be without them or you for months? I—I don’t know if I’m ready for that.” He glanced at you, and for the first time, you saw the vulnerability in his eyes, raw and unguarded. “Knowing you won’t be there either makes it even harder.”

Your heart ached for him. You knew this day would come—the day when the album would be finished, the day when he’d have to step into the spotlight again, but the reality of it hit hard. You reached for his hand, the familiar warmth of his skin grounding you, and intertwined your fingers. You squeezed gently, offering him all the comfort you could muster in that moment. “Harry, we’re always with you. No matter where you are. You could be halfway across the world, and we’d still be right here.”

You lifted his hand and placed it over your chest, where your heartbeat thrummed steady and sure beneath the palm of his hand. “The kids will miss you, yeah, but they’ll also see their dad doing what he loves. You’re showing them that dreams are worth chasing, that it’s okay to follow your passion, even when it’s hard. You’re showing them what courage looks like.”

He exhaled shakily, nodding, but the sadness still lingered in his eyes. “But what if they feel like I’m leaving them?” His voice cracked, barely above a whisper, like the fear was too big to hold in.

You smiled gently, the curve of your lips soft, but with an undeniable certainty. “They won’t. Because they know you always come back. And no matter how far you go, you’ll always find your way back to us.” You nudged him playfully, a small glint of mischief in your eyes, trying to lighten the heavy mood. “Besides, absence makes the heart grow fonder, and we all know you love a dramatic reunion.”

He gave a small chuckle, but it was like the weight on his shoulders had lightened just a little. He shook his head, a fond smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You’re impossible.”

“But I’m right.” You kissed the corner of his mouth, a soft press of your lips that spoke volumes. “And we’ll be cheering you on every step of the way. You’re not alone in this.”

Before he could respond, a light patter of tiny feet interrupted the moment, drawing both of your attention. The soft click of the door opening made you look up, and there stood Lily, clutching a piece of paper in her hands, her wide eyes sparkling with excitement. “Daddy, I almost forgot! Your last present.”

Harry’s brows lifted in surprise, his lips parting in an unspoken question as Lily climbed onto his lap, settling herself with a quiet, determined air. She handed him the drawing with both hands, her little face so proud of her creation. It was a colorful portrait of their family, but something about it felt different from the usual drawings she’d given him. “Daddy” was written inside of her chest, as though enclosed within her heart, surrounded by bright, crayon hues, as if she was keeping him close no matter the distance.

Harry’s breath hitched, and his eyes stung with the kind of emotion that hit you right in the chest. His throat bobbed as he stared at the drawing, blinking rapidly as if to ward off the lump that had formed there. He looked down at his daughter, trying to steady himself, but the love in his gaze was so fierce it took your breath away. It was like she knew her father was going trough a tough time and needed a reminder.

“What’s this, darling?” His voice was thick, strained with the emotion he couldn’t seem to hold back.

Lily beamed, the innocence and purity in her smile lighting up the room. “Well, You go away sometimes daddy and work, but it doesn’t matter because you’re always in here.” She tapped her own chest, and your heart swelled as she looked up at him with all the love in the world. “You are always with me, wherever I go. I love you all the time, no matter where you are.”

Harry’s arms wrapped tightly around her, and he buried his face in her curls, pressing his lips to the top of her head, his hands shaking slightly as he held her. He whispered, his voice thick with emotion, “I love you so much, my little love.”

“ I love you more daddy,” she whispered slightly, like she understood how important this moment for him was, even though she would probably forget it in a few years, it was engraved in Harry’s mind. “ I am happy that you are born.”

You felt a sharp breath catch in your own throat, your eyes welling with tears as you watched the tender, raw moment unfold before you. It was as if time had stopped, the only sound in the room the steady rhythm of their breathing, the warmth of their bond. It was a quiet reminder that love, no matter the miles, would always find a way to endure.

He held her just a little longer, his heart grounding itself in the softness of her presence, as if trying to memorize the feel of her before the world pulled him away. The weight on his shoulders, just moments before so heavy, seemed a little lighter now, a little more manageable. The tenderness in his eyes as he pulled back to look at you spoke volumes. There was no perfect answer, no flawless solution, but for this moment, at least, he was at peace.

“Alright monkey, it’s time for bed.”

As the night drew to a close, and you both lay in bed, the soft hum of the house around you, you rested your head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. He let out a soft sigh, a sound of both exhaustion and relief. “Maybe you’re right,” he murmured into the quiet, his voice full of tenderness.

You smirked, the warmth of his skin beneath your lips so familiar, so comforting. “I usually am.”

A soft laugh escaped him, but this time it felt real, a sound full of ease. The kind of laughter that held both love and acceptance, the kind that made the weight of the world feel just a little bit lighter.

And as he drifted off to sleep, his breath evening out beneath the soft cover of night, you closed your eyes too, knowing, with all certainty, that no matter where the music took him, no matter how far the road stretched ahead, he would always find his way home.

[banzonism]

YOU BELONG WITH ME

one-shot

pairing: jungkook x reader

genre: romance, drama, comedy, angst, fluff, slow burn, love pining

tags: football player! jk, photographer! jk, student leader! reader, high school au, chilhood friend, boy next door jk, bff drama, friends to lovers, yeontan cameo

synopsis: Beneath the light banter and playful teasing of childhood friends lies a deep well of unspoken feelings, simmering just out of reach. Quick glances shared during laughter hold more meaning than anyone dares to acknowledge. But everything shifts dramatically when a heartfelt letter reveals unexpected truths, shattering the carefully constructed lives they have built. Will they find their way back to each other and uncover the truth of their feelings? In the end, they must find out if they really belong with each other.

words count: 10k

notes: hello everyone! here's another one-shot from me, and let me tell you i've been thinking about this fic a lot lot lot bc i'm a sucker of this kind of romance, sorry.... inspired by TS "you belong with me” mv but with a twist! if you’re a swiftie, you’ll probably notice quite a few nods to the iconic mv—incorporated some of its most memorable scenes into the story. hope you enjoy this fun, nostalgic ride <3

p.s. dont come for my girl Sana—she might be a little extra in the beginning scenes, but trust me she’s worth it! & threw a Yeontan moment to honor him... fly high, little one 🕊

The gym buzzed with energy as students rushed around, their laughter and conversations creating a lively atmosphere for the school’s event preparations. Colorful decorations filled the room, and tables were piled high with craft supplies. As the student council leader, you moved through the crowd with a clipboard, checking off tasks and motivating your excited team.

“Hey, Miss Y/N!” called out a freshman, her face showing worry. “Can you help us with this banner? It’s too high!”

“Got it!” you answered with determination, quickly heading to where a sturdy ladder was leaning against the wall. You set it up under the spot where the banner needed to go and felt a surge of confidence as you grabbed the banner in one hand and some tape in the other.

Climbing the ladder, each step brought you closer to the colorful paper reaching up to the ceiling. But as you neared the top, your foot slipped a little on the rung. In that quick moment, everything seemed to slow down. “Oh no—” you gasped, trying hard to steady yourself. Before you knew it, you slipped down the ladder and landed with a thud on the polished gym floor. The loud noise echoed in the sudden silence that followed.

Laughter erupted around you, filling the air with amusement. At the center of it all was Sana , the cheerleading captain and your former bestfriend. Her laughter rang out, almost mocking, as she stood with her friends, arms crossed and a smug smirk on her face, tossing her hair over her shoulder.

"Be careful, Y/N," she mocked, her voice thick with sarcasm. "Being busy might make you grow old faster." Her laughter felt sharp, and it stung even more when you noticed she didn’t offer to help you up.

Heat flooded your cheeks, mixing embarrassment with frustration, but you fought to keep it under control. Taking a deep breath, you stood up and brushed off your shirt, straightening your back. “Alright, everyone, let’s get back to work! We have an event to make special!” you said, putting on a genuine smile that energized the team.

The room buzzed with renewed focus as your enthusiasm spread, pulling everyone back into the excitement of preparing for the event. Sana rolled her eyes and turned away with her group, their giggles trailing behind, but you didn’t let their laughter get you down.

“Y/N, are you okay?” a familiar voice called through the noise. You turned to see Kim Namjoon, the student council secretary and the head editor of the school paper, approaching with a concerned look on his face, a notebook tucked under one arm.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you replied with a grin. “Just stumbled a bit, nothing to worry about.”

“Impressive,” he said, chuckling. “Not many can fall like that and still walk away with confidence.”

"You think?" you grin. "Add it to the school paper column. Speaking of which, I need your help editing later." Namjoon smiles, his warmth reassuring.

While being the heaď of the student council was a big responsibility, you believed that your writing skills were really what helped you lead. Every meeting, every plan for events, and every motivational speech was shaped by your years of writing experience. It wasn’t just a hobby; it was a vital tool that helped define your leadership style.

As the day went on, you guided the team with determination, turning your fall into a funny story rather than a moment of embarrassment. With the gym transforming into a lively celebration of school spirit, you felt a swell of pride in both the team and yourself for staying true to what really mattered.

— ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ —

The following day was the big foundation day event, and it turned out to be a tremendous success. As the sun set, you breathed a sigh of relief, feeling proud of how everything had gone. You had led your team to pull off one of the year's most important events, and now you could finally focus on your studies again, catch up on assignments, and enjoy some much-needed relaxation.

But then, things took an unexpected turn.

That evening, the school's football team had a crucial game against a rival school, which brought a huge crowd to the stadium. At first, you had no plans to go; you were determined to finish your essays and study for your upcoming exams. Just as you were about to dive into your books, you received a call from Namjoon.

“Hey Y/N, I know this is really last minute, but can you come by the office?” he asked, sounding urgent.

Curious and a bit worried, you made your way to the editorial office. Being part of the school publication was something you loved, but tonight, you hoped it wouldn’t mean too much extra work.

When you arrived, Namjoon greeted you with a stressed look. “Y/N, I really need your help. You're one of our best writers, and we’re in a tight spot.”

You raised an eyebrow. “What’s happened?”

“Yunjin, who was supposed to write about tonight’s football game, is sick and can’t make it,” Namjoon explained, urgency in his voice. “We need someone to fill in and write the article for tomorrow’s paper. I know it’s short notice, but you’re our best option. Can you take it on?”

You paused, thinking about all the homework and studying waiting for you at home. “Namjoon, I’m not sure I can do this. Writing sports articles isn’t really my thing.”

Namjoon shot you a reassuring smile. “You just have to write down what happens during the game and maybe ask a few of our players about it afterward. You’re a fantastic writer, Y/N. I know you can handle this.”

Feeling torn, you considered the school, the players who had worked so hard for this moment, and how important it was to share their story with everyone.

“Okay, Joon,” you said with newfound determination. “I’ll do it.”

Namjoon visibly relaxed and handed you a notebook and a press pass. “You’re a lifesaver, Y/N. I know you’ve already put in a lot of effort for the school. I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

You smirked and raised an eyebrow. “You better. I’m counting on you for lunch for a week.”

Namjoon laughed. “Deal. Now go make it a great article. Good luck!”

With that, you headed towards the stadium, notebook in hand, ready to take on another challenge.

Later, under the bright lights of the stadium, you were caught up in the exciting atmosphere of the game. The crowd's cheers surrounded you as you walked along the sidelines, your press pass hanging around your neck. The lights created dramatic shadows over the players as they warmed up, and you could feel their energy in the air. You stopped for a moment, heart racing, to write down your initial thoughts about the buzz surrounding the upcoming match and the rival team's arrival.

Then, you saw him.

The golden boy everyone had been talking about. He was someone you had known since you were kids—the one who always made it difficult for you to hold his gaze for long. Memories flooded back of sunny afternoons spent playing in your backyards, the shy smiles exchanged during those brief encounters, and that unmistakable flutter in your stomach whenever he was near.

He stood in the middle of the field, naturally drawing everyone's attention, with his dark hair damp from practicing, strands sticking to his forehead. His jersey fit him perfectly, showcasing his athletic build. You could see the fire in his eyes from where you stood—a mix of determination and passion that made him even more captivating.

When the game ended with an exciting win for your school, the stadium roared with cheers. A wave of pride swelled inside you—not just for the team's victory but for the chance to capture this moment through your writing.

As you lingered on the sidelines, you felt torn about whether to approach him. You had enough material for your article, but a small voice inside you urged that this opportunity was too special to miss. Just as you were about to decide, a familiar voice broke into your thoughts.

“Hey, Y/N!”

You turned sharply, your heart nearly leaping out of your chest. There he was, striding towards you with that effortless confidence you both admired and envied. His jersey clung to him, damp with sweat, his hair tousled, and that bunny-like smile brighter than the stadium lights surrounding you.

“Hey, Jungkook,” you replied, trying to sound calm even though you felt anything but. “Congratulations on your win!”

“Thanks,” he said, tilting his head with a curious look, making you feel both exposed and energized. “I didn’t expect to see you here. Did you enjoy the game?”

“Of course! For the article tomorrow,” you replied, clutching your notebook like a lifeline. “You know, school paper stuff.”

“How did you find the game?” he asked, his tone light yet genuinely curious as if he wanted your opinion.

“That’s cool. I mean, you’re cool. I mean—you’re great,” you blurted, the words tumbling before you could stop them. Your thoughts were a tangled mess, and the soft chuckle that escaped his lips didn’t make it any easier to compose yourself.

“Thanks,” Jungkook replied, tilting his head slightly as he studied you.

Trying to regain your composure, you cleared your throat. “Could I ask you a few questions about the game?”

“Sure,” he replied effortlessly.

You began asking him the standard post-game questions, scribbling down his answers. But as he spoke, your focus wavered. His voice was smooth and warm, carrying an understated excitement that made you lose track of your notes. You couldn’t help but notice how his eyes sparkled when he talked about the team’s victory, how the corner of his lips curled into a smile that made your heart skip a beat. Your attention drifted, and your writing soon became a mess of half-written sentences.

“Hey, babe,” a voice interrupted, snapping you out of your daze.

You looked up to see Sana, the head cheerleader—of course she would be here—striding over with her usual charm. Her cheer uniform fit her perfectly, highlighting her athletic build. In that moment, the butterflies in your stomach shifted to a sinking feeling.

“Oh, hey, Sana,” Jungkook greeted her, and you noticed a change in his tone.

“Great game! You were amazing out there,” Sana said before throwing her arms around him in a sudden hug. Jungkook’s body stiffened briefly, and his expression showed mild discomfort as he pulled away.

When she finally let go, Sana’s gaze shifted to you, her smile on a sharper edge. “What’s this?” she asked, nodding toward your notebook.

“It’s for the school paper,” you replied, keeping your tone neutral.

“Last time I checked, you weren’t into sports writing, Y/N.”

Her words caught you off guard, and for a moment, you debated whether it was worth responding. You were exhausted from the long day, and the last thing you wanted was to engage in her petty comments. But something about her smug tone lit a fire in you.

“And the last time I checked,” you shot back, your eyes lockig onto hers with a glare, “was a year ago. So, you don’t know much about what I’m doing now, Sana.”

The tension in the air thickened, but before you could say more, Jungkook stepped in, his voice calm yet firm. “Hey, what’s going on?”

You forced a polite smile, snapping your notebook shut. “Thanks, Jungkook,” you said abruptly, needing an escape. “I’ll, uh, I’ll go now.”

“Thanks, Y/N,” he replied softly, his eyes lingering on you. “See you around.”

As you walked away, you couldn’t help but feel a sting. Jungkook and Sana had been linked ever since she became the cheerleading captain, though rumors swirled that they weren’t officially a couple. You tried to convince yourself it didn’t matter, but deep down, it did—just a little. This wasn’t just anyone; it was your former best friend and the boy who had unknowingly captured your heart for years.

Later that night, you sat at your desk, struggling to finish an article you had started. The soft light from Jungkook’s room peeked through your curtains, reminding you of how near yet far he felt. His smile and the sound of his voice echoed in your mind. As you lay there, sleep refused to come, and you found yourself thinking about what could have happened if you had ever had the courage to tell him your true feelings.

— ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ —

After weeks passed and final exams wrapped up, you threw yourself into your studies. It wasn’t just about making your parents proud or keeping your position as a student leader; it was about getting a scholarship to the university of your dreams, something you had worked toward for years. After weeks of sleepless nights and exhausting tests, your final stretch as a high school senior came to a close.

That afternoon, completely worn out, you headed straight to your room and collapsed onto your bed. When you woke up three hours later, it was dark outside, and your mom called you for dinner. Rubbing your eyes, you stretched and turned toward your window. That’s when you saw that your curtain was slightly open, revealing Jungkook’s room across the way.

He was there, his face faintly lit by a desk lamp, talking animatedly on the phone. Even from a distance, you could see the tension in his posture—his brows were knitted together, his jaw tense, and his hand was tugging at his hair in frustration. Concern rose in your chest. Without thinking, you grabbed a notepad and marker from your desk and quickly jotted down a message.

"Are you okay?"

You held it up to the window, feeling anxious as you waited. It took him a moment to notice you, but when he did, his expression softened a bit. He sighed and wrote back:

"Tired of drama."

Unsure of how to reply, you eventually wrote:

"Sorry."

He looked at your note, and a faint, tired smile flickered across his face. He shook his head gently, as if to say it wasn’t your fault. The simple exchange left a strange heaviness in your chest despite the silence between you. You wondered what troubles he was facing, and for a brief moment, you wished you could reach out and help him.

Jungkook then waved at you, a small gesture that felt like a goodnight. You waved back, signaling for him to get some rest. He smiled again, this time it felt more genuine, before closing his curtain. The room immediately fell silent, but thoughts of him lingered long after he disappeared from view.

— ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ —

On a laid-back Sunday afternoon, you decided to take a break from your busy life by diving into a book that had caught your interest. You found a quiet spot on a bench in the park, where the calm surroundings helped soothe your busy mind.

Out of the blue, you were startled by a loud bark. Looking up, you saw a tiny, fluffy Pomeranian running towards you. Its shiny black and brown fur sparkled in the sunlight, and its bright eyes shone with playful energy. A smile spread across your face as the little dog, looking like a cuddly stuffed animal, stopped barking and approached you cautiously.

“Hey there, little buddy,” you said softly, reaching out your hand. The dog sniffed your fingers for a moment and then nuzzled against you, clearly enjoying the attention. Feeling a rush of affection for dogs, you scratched behind its ears and laughed as it playfully licked your hand.

Just then, a voice called out from a distance, “Yeontan!” You looked up to see Jungkook jogging toward you, looking a bit rushed.

“There you are,” he said, picking up the dog and holding it in his arms. “I’m sorry if he bothered you.”

“Oh, not at all,” you replied with a smile, still petting Yeontan. “He’s so cute!”

Jungkook chuckled and scratched Yeontan behind the ear. “He’s not actually mine, though. Taehyung asked me to look after him for a while. He can be quite a handful sometimes.”

“I don’t mind at all,” you said, charmed by the little fluffball. “I love dogs. He’s just too adorable!”

“Right?” Jungkook grinned. “He can be a bit of a troublemaker, though. So, what are you doing here? Just reading?”

“Something like that,” you shrugged. “I needed a break to clear my mind. It helps.”

“That's good to hear. You deserve some time off,” Jungkook replied, his tone growing softer. “So, what’s your plan after graduation? Are you staying here for college?”

You paused, closing your book as you considered your response. “Honestly, I’m not sure. My mom and I haven’t talked much about it, but I’m applying to a few schools that are far away. What about you?”

Jungkook sighed, absentmindedly petting Yeontan. “My dad wants me to stay here and take business classes while focusing on football. He has this whole plan for me to take over his business.”

“Is that what you want?” you asked, tilting your head to study his expression.

“I’m not sure,” he admitted, frustration creeping into his voice. “I don’t want to let him down, but…”

“But what?” you prompted.

“I really loved photography and film,” he said quietly. “I told my dad I wanted to study film, but he wasn’t too excited. He thinks football is my best chance at making it to the national team, and that everything else is just a hobby.”

You frowned, feeling a twinge of sympathy for him. “That sounds rough, Jungkook. It’s great that your dad believes in you, but it’s your life. You should do what makes you happy.”

“That’s what your dad always said, right?” Jungkook remarked, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “I miss Uncle Seojun. He always encouraged me and was so excited about my photography projects.”

“He really was,” you replied, smiling at the memory of your father. “I remember how thrilled you were when you got that camera for your birthday. You couldn’t stop talking about it!”

He laughed softly, nostalgic. “Yeah, those were good times.”

Jungkook’s gaze softened as he looked at you, momentarily distracted by a stray hair that had fallen over your face. Without thinking, he reached out and gently tucked it behind your ear. The unexpected touch made your heart skip a beat.

“There,” he said softly, almost whispering as if the moment needed a certain quiet. “Now I can see you properly.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks, and you scrambled to find words, but your mind went blank. His hand lingered for a brief moment before he pulled away, and the faint smile he gave you sent your heart racing.

In that moment, everything else faded away—the sounds of the park and even Yeontan’s soft breathing seemed to disappear. You wondered if he could hear how loudly your heart was beating.

You both sat there quietly for a while, with Yeontan curled up between you. It felt like a snapshot of the past, a brief reminder of simpler times before life got more complicated.

But before long, the moment was disrupted. A red car pulled up nearby, and you recognized the girl stepping out—Sana. Of course, it had to be her. With her stylish cap and polished look, she approached like she owned the place.

“Hey, Jungkook! What’s taking you so long to grab Yeontan?” she called out, shattering the peaceful moment you had shared with Jungkook.

Jungkook stood up, brushing off his jeans as if to shake off the experience you’d just had. “I’ve got to go now,” he said, a hint of regret in his voice. “It was really nice talking to you again.”

“Yeah, sure,” you replied, trying to keep your tone casual despite the whirlwind of feelings inside you. “Time to go now, buddy,” you said softly to Yeontan, giving the little dog one last affectionate pat.

Jungkook sank back onto the bench, his smile brightening the moment as he gently took Yeontan’s paw and waved it toward you. “Bye, Yeontan,” you said, unable to suppress the flicker of a smile that danced on your lips despite the weight in your chest.

When Jungkook got on the passenger seat, Sana suddenly whispered to Jungkook, making them like they are kissing on your view, which made Jungkook laugh. You quickly dropped your gaze back to your book, pretending not to notice, acting as if it didn’t bother you. But it did. It always did.

The car pulled away, taking them with it, leaving you alone once again with only your book and the lingering ache in your chest.

— ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ —

The office was filled with a low hum of activity, with the sounds of papers being shuffled and keyboards tapping away. You were sitting at your usual desk, surrounded by notes, layout plans, and playlists for the upcoming graduation celebration. It was your last year of school, and as the leader of the organizing committee, you were determined to make the event truly special.

“Hey, Y/N, have you had lunch yet?” a familiar voice cut through your concentration.

Looking up, you saw Namjoon standing there with a warm smile, holding a neatly packed lunchbox.

“I’ll eat later. I was thinking of heading to the cafeteria,” you replied, forcing a tired smile.

“No need for that,” he said, placing the box down in front of you. “I brought you lunch. You’ve been working yourself to the bone lately.”

“Thanks, that really means a lot,” you said, genuinely appreciative.

“Not a problem. You deserve it,” he replied, pulling up a chair to sit next to you. “By the way, have you heard anything about your application to your dream school?”

You leaned back in your chair with a sigh. “No news yet. I’m just waiting and hoping for that scholarship. It all depends on this.”

Namjoon nodded, his expression confident. “You’ll get it. I believe in you.”

“I hope you’re right,” you said quietly, feeling the pressure weighing on you.

“It’s you, Y/N. You’ve been juggling so much—school, committee duties, everything. If anyone can handle it, it’s you,” he said earnestly, and his encouragement brought a small smile to your face.

You talked about school and Namjoon’s plans for college, enjoying the easy flow of conversation. For a moment, the stress you were feeling seemed to lift.

“So… about prom?” he asked casually, tilting his head. “Are you going? Has anyone asked you to go with them?”

You hesitated, playing with your pen. “Not yet. I’m not sure I’ll even go.”

“Why not?” he inquired.

“I’ve been so busy, and I really need to focus on studying for the scholarship. That’s what’s most important for me right now,” you explained, looking away.

Namjoon frowned a little but nodded in understanding. “I get it. But you know… you’ve worked really hard. Maybe you deserve one night to just have fun. Prom is an important event, especially for someone like you who’s given so much to this school. Just think about it, okay?”

You smiled softly, touched by his concern. “Thanks, Namjoon. I’ll think about it.”

He stood up and gave you a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “Good. Now eat your lunch. You need the energy for everything you’re handling.”

As he walked away, you looked down at the lunchbox and smiled to yourself. Namjoon always seemed to know exactly what you needed, even when you didn’t realize it yourself.

— ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ —

Weeks passed, and the gentle light of your desk lamp lit up the messy spread of notes and open textbooks in front of you. You had been studying for hours, going over every possible topic for the entrance exam—a big test that could determine whether you got into your dream school. The clock struck midnight, but you were so focused that you barely noticed the time.

Even so, thoughts of prom kept sneaking into your mind. It wasn’t just that your friend Namjoon had encouraged you to go; it was the fact that prom, the highlight of your senior year, was happening on the same day as your exam. The test was in the morning, and there would be time to get ready afterward, but you wondered if it was worth the rush. Should you focus on your future or let yourself enjoy one night of celebration after all your hard work?

Your thoughts were interrupted when you heard a door open from the other side. You saw Jungkook walked into his room, his hair slightly damp, probably from football practice, and his gym bag hanging over his shoulder. He looked a mix of tired and effortlessly cool.

You quickly turned your attention back to your notes, trying not to seem obvious, but you could sense that he was watching you. When you glanced up again, you noticed him grab a notepad and a marker from his desk. He wrote something down and held it up to his window.

“Are you going to prom tomorrow?”

You froze for a moment, caught off guard by his direct question. Slowly, you grabbed your notepad and wrote back:

“No, studying.”

He read your response and his expression changed—was that disappointment? He sighed and quickly wrote another note, a small smile appearing on his face as he held it up:

“Wish you were"

Your heart skipped a beat. The simplicity of his words affected you more than you anticipated. You smiled back, feeling a mix of flattery and frustration. Prom had only been a distant thought until now, but Jungkook’s quiet hope made you reconsider.

You stood up and waved goodbye, signaling that you were heading downstairs for dinner. Your mom greeted you warmly and asked how your studying was going. You nodded, trying to focus on the meal in front of you, but your mind was elsewhere. Between the entrance exam, the upcoming prom, and Jungkook’s note, you felt like you were at a crossroads, unsure of which path to take.

That morning, your mom took you to the university for an important exam. The car ride felt both long and too short at the same time, with the scenery rushing by as your nerves tightened. This was the moment you had been working towards after many sleepless nights and self-imposed pressure. There was no turning back now.

“I know you’re feeling anxious, sweetheart,” your mom said gently. “But no matter what happens, I’m proud of you. And your dad? He would be so happy.”

You nodded, trying to push down the lump in your throat. Her comforting words eased your anxiety, even as your mind raced with worries about what could go wrong.

When you entered the exam hall, the quietness was almost overwhelming. Other students, just as nervous as you, bent over their papers. Once the exam started, it was just you, the questions in front of you, and your pen. You poured all your effort into each answer, determined to do your best.

As you walked out of the hall afterwards, doubt began to creep in. Did I do enough? you wondered. You took a deep breath and reminded yourself, “I’ve done my best. Now it’s in the hands of fate.”

Back home after lunch, you tried to distract yourself from the exam, but the thoughts kept returning. It wasn’t until exactly 1:00 PM, hours later, that your phone buzzed with a notification. An email awaited you.

Your heart raced as you opened it, and the words “Admission Results” jumped out at you. As you read through the letter, one word stood out: Congratulations.

“Oh my God,” you gasped, and then exclaimed more loudly, “I passed!”

Your mom rushed in, startled by your shout. When she saw the email on your screen, her face lit up with joy. You both started jumping around the room, laughing and crying together.

“I’m so proud of you,” she said, wrapping you in a warm hug. “Your dad would be so proud too. I just know it.”

Later, in your room, you began to imagine the life ahead of you at your dream school. New friends, exciting opportunities, and a fresh place to learn and grow. The possibilities felt endless, and for the first time in a long while, you felt truly excited about the future.

Your daydream was interrupted by a loud knock on your door. Startled, you turned to see someone you didn’t expect: Sana.

— ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ —

She stood in the doorway, exuding her usual confidence, but her face was hard to read. "We need to talk," she said, crossing her arms.

The happiness from your recent achievement quickly faded as you wondered what she wanted. You stood frozen at your door, staring at Sana, completely shocked by her unexpected visit. It felt like ages since she’d last been in your house, let alone your room.

“What are you doing here?” you finally managed to ask, still trying to process her sudden appearance.

Instead of giving a straight answer, she crossed her arms and shot you an intense glare, her voice trembling with emotion. “How could you just leave me in this town? I thought we were going to college together!”

Her outburst hit you hard. “People change, Sana. Plans change. Everything changes,” you replied, trying to keep your voice steady even as your heart raced.

“You didn’t even tell me?” she said, her eyes shimmering with tears that threatened to overflow.

You let out a heavy breath, feeling the weight of this tense moment. “How was I supposed to? We weren't really on good terms.”

Without another word, she walked past you, frustration clear in her body language, and sat down on the edge of your bed. “So what? Just because we weren’t talking doesn’t mean you could just vanish on me. Even if we were both acting foolish, you could’ve at least figured out a way to let me know.”

You followed her, feeling unsure whether to comfort her or give her some space. “How did you even find out I was going to another school? I’m not even sure I could pass the entrance exam.”

Sana wiped her eyes, and her frustration melted into vulnerability. “I overheard your mom mentioning it…and Jungkook told me too. And you think so little of yourself. Do you hate me that much?”

Her words cut deep. “I don’t hate you, Sana,” you replied softly, feeling your heart ache with her pain. “I’m really sorry.”

“I’m sorry too, Y/N,” she responded, her voice shaking. “I know I haven't treated you well this year. I—” Her voice broke as she buried her face in her hands, regret washing over her like a tidal wave.

You paused for a moment but then sat down next to her. “I was going to send you a letter,” you admitted. “To explain everything before graduation.”

“A letter?” she repeated, her eyes widening with curiosity. “Let me see it!”

With a heavy heart, you opened your cabinet and took out a box filled with letters you had written to people who had meant a lot to you. With shaky hands, you handed one to her.

As she started to read the letter, you noticed her expression change. Tears filled her eyes as she processed the words you had written from deep within your heart. “Y/N, I had no idea you felt this way. I’m so sorry for making you feel alone. If I could go back in time... I would give up cheerleading if it meant keeping you in my life.”

“Please don’t say that,” you replied quickly, your voice filled with urgency. “Cheerleading was your dream. I regret not being more supportive. I should have been there for you.”

Sana shook her head, a realization dawning upon her. “And I should have been there for you, too. I had no idea what you were going through with your dad’s illness. I thought you were pushing me away, but really, I just wasn’t paying attention.”

The two of you sat together, unpacking the hurt and misunderstandings that had built up over the past year. You shared how your father's health struggles had taken over your life, creating a distance you didn’t know how to overcome. Sana opened up about feeling lost when you stopped responding to her messages, believing you no longer cared about her.

“Remember that time we were supposed to hang out? I saw you hugging Jungkook, and I… I thought maybe you didn’t need me anymore,” you reminded her, the memory still vivid.

Sana’s eyes widened in surprise. “Jungkook? Oh my God, Y/N, he was just comforting me! I was upset about my parents fighting, that’s all!”

As the ridiculousness of it all hit both of you, laughter erupted, slowly easing the tension that had lingered for so long.

“And then,” you added, “I got a call from the hospital. My dad was in surgery, and I couldn’t stay.”

Sana’s expression softened, guilt showing on her face. “I thought you ditched me. I waited for you until I couldn’t anymore.”

When you finally returned home after your dad’s funeral, you had wanted to explain everything, but seeing Sana laughing with her new cheerleading friends had hurt you deeply. “I thought you’d moved on,” you admitted, trying to hold back the pain you still felt.

Sana groaned and covered her face, genuine sorrow washing over her. “We were so foolish.”

You nodded, a smile starting to emerge despite everything. “Yeah, we were.”

As the laughter faded, the weight of the past year began to lift, replaced by a sense of ease that had been absent for so long. Hours passed as you both reminisced, catching up on everything you had missed in each other’s lives. When you looked at the clock, you were surprised to see it was already 4 PM.

“Wow,” Sana said, leaning back with a playful sigh. “We just spent hours untangling a whole year’s worth of misunderstandings. Classic us.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle, feeling lighter than you had in a long time. “Classic us! So, what’s next? How are things going with you and Jungkook?”

Sana's face shifted to one of mock shock. “Me and Jungkook? Oh, no! I think you mean me and his best friend.”

Your brow furrowed in confusion. “Wait, Kim Taehyung? Jungkook’s best friend?”

A sheepish smile appeared on Sana’s face. “Yep! Don't act so surprised. I was always around Jungkook because Taehyung and I... well, there’s definitely more happening there than with Jungkook.”

Your mouth dropped open. “Really? This whole time I thought—”

“Thought what? That Jungkook and I were secretly in love?” Sana laughed dramatically. “Ew, no! He’s like a brother to me. Gross.”

You felt a wave of relief, though a hint of irritation bubbled up too. “Well, how was I supposed to know? You two always hung out, and there was that time you called him ‘babe’ during the football game!”

Sana grinned mischievously. “Oh, that? Totally just messing with you. I wanted to see if you get jealous.”

“Jealous?” you repeated, feeling heat rise to your cheeks. “Why would I be jealous?”

“Oh, come on, Y/N. It’s obvious. I have known you since we were little, and you have liked Jungkook since middle school, right?”

You groaned, hiding your face in your hands. “You’re the worst.”

“And you’re just in denial about it. It’s painful to watch,” she teased.

Before you could respond, Sana leaned in closer and said, “But honestly, your face every time I was with him? Not subtle at all.”

“Well, excuse me for being human,” you muttered, glaring at her.

Sana just smirked. “Anyway, there’s nothing between me and Jungkook, but there’s definitely something between him and you.”

Your heart raced at her words, but you quickly shook your head. “You’re imagining things.”

Sana rolled her eyes. “Right. I’m the one imagining this. Not the girl who’s been crushing on Jungkook for years.”

“Can we talk about something else, please?” you begged.

“Nope! You can’t get out of this. People always thought we were a couple, but it’s silly because there’s nothing there. The only person I’m into is Taehyung.”

You blinked, trying to grasp all the new information. “So... you and Taehyung?”

“Yep!” she said, grinning. “Don’t worry; I’ll make sure Jungkook knows you’re interested. Not that he doesn’t already.”

“Sana!” you shouted, throwing a pillow at her.

You both burst into laughter, the earlier tension completely gone. For the first time in ages, things felt normal between you and Sana, just like they used to be.

Suddenly, Sana spoke up enthusiastically, crossing her arms like it was settled. “You need to go to this prom!”

You sighed, leaning back against your bed. “No way. I’m not ready for this. I don’t have a dress, I didn’t make plans, and prom starts at 6 PM. Do you even know what time it is?”

Sana rolled her eyes dramatically. “Seriously, Y/N? You know they never start right at 6.”

That made you laugh. “Okay, true.”

“But I still don’t have a dress!” you protested, looking down at your jeans and oversized hoodie. “Even if I did, it's too late to get ready now.”

Sana grinned mischievously and dashed out the door. “Don’t worry! We’re the same size, remember? I’ll grab a dress from my place and be back in no time. Bye!”

Before you could argue, she was gone, leaving you surprised and somewhat amused.

As you leaned back, you reflected on how just hours ago, you wouldn’t have imagined reconnecting with Sana and laughing like old times. Life can be full of surprises.

Moments later, Sana burst through your door, a garment bag draped over her arm, grinning widely. You perked up, but then noticed what she held—a white sparkly long gown.

“Wait a second,” you said, narrowing your eyes. “Where’s the other dress? I thought we were going together!”

Sana winced, her smile faltering. “About that... I actually have plans tonight. With Taehyung.”

Your jaw dropped. “You’re skipping prom for a guy?”

She raised her hands in mock defense, laughing. “I’m sorry! I can’t help it; I’m just a flawed human!”

You couldn’t help but laugh along, shaking your head at her antics. “Fine, but you owe me—big time.”

Sana smirked and shoved the garment bag into your arms. “Deal! Now go take a shower. We have a lot to do to make you look stunning.”

Rolling your eyes, you grabbed the bag and headed for the bathroom. “You better not do anything weird while I’m gone.”

“Me? Weird? Never!” Sana feigned innocence.

But as soon as you closed the bathroom door, you could hear her giggling outside.

Curiosity got the better of her. Her eyes landed on a small stack of letters sitting on your desk, and one in particular caught her attention. It had Jungkook’s name written on the envelope.

She hesitated for a moment, then grabbed it. “Curiosity kills the cat, but satisfaction brings it back,” she muttered as she opened the letter.

As she read, a sly smile spread across her face. “Oh, this is perfect.” With a sparkle of mischief in her eyes, she tucked the letter into her bag, already planning how to make her night—and yours—unforgettable.

When you returned from your shower, wrapped in a towel and ready to get started, Sana was all business. “Alright, sit down. Let’s work some magic.”

The next hour was a flurry of hairspray, brushes, and accessories as Sana worked diligently, turning you into someone who looked ready for a fairytale. By the time she was done, you hardly recognized yourself in the mirror.

“Oh my god,” Sana exclaimed, stepping back to admire her work. “You’re gorgeous! I’m so proud to call you my friend.”

You rolled your eyes, feeling your cheeks warm. “Stop it, Sana. You’re just flattering me.”

“I’m serious, Y/N. You look amazing.”

Before you could respond, there was a knock at the door. Your mom peeked in, her eyes going wide in surprise.

“Wow,” she said, placing a hand on her chest. “You’re... stunning, my darling.”

“Thanks, Mom,” you replied, trying to hide your blush.

“I thought you weren’t going,” she added, tilting her head in confusion.

“Change of plans,” you said casually.

Your mom turned to Sana. “What about you? Aren’t you going out?”

Sana grinned, ready with her excuse. “I have something important to do tonight.”

You smirked, catching onto the little fib. “Yeah, important,” you teased quietly, getting a playful shove from Sana in return.

As your mom stepped out, Sana handed you your sandals, the final touch, and gave you an encouraging smile. “Alright, Cinderella, it’s time for the ball. It’s almost 7 PM!”

— ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ —

Jungkook tapped his fingers on the steering wheel as he waited at a red light. The lights from the cars in front of him blurred as his thoughts drifted back to a note he had received from you the night before. It simply said, “No, studying.” It was straightforward and so very “you.” You were focused on your future and not swayed by a high school dance. That dedication was just one of the many things he admired about you—your ability to stay on track and ignore distractions.

But part of him selfishly wished you would go to the dance. It wasn’t about the glitz and glamour; he just wanted to see you there, enjoying yourself for once. You had worked so hard all year, and no one deserved a moment of fun more than you. And if he was honest, he simply wanted to see you smile.

He laughed quietly to himself, shaking his head at his own thoughts. What was he imagining? He wasn’t your boyfriend or anything like that. He was just your neighbor, your friend—the guy who chatted with you casually and often caught glimpses of you through your room window when your light turned on.

A car behind him honked, snapping him back to reality. The light had changed to green. He pressed the gas and moved forward, only to hear his phone buzz in the passenger seat. He took a quick look at the screen during the next stop—texts from Sana.

Sana: Sorry, I’m gonna ditch you tonight. Sorry not sorry.

Sana: But I’ve got something to give you right now. Please meet me. Thanks.

Jungkook sighed, feeling a mix of frustration and disappointment. He wasn’t surprised that Sana had backed out. It was typical of her behavior, probably running off for some adventure with Taehyung. He didn’t really care; he didn’t have high hopes for the night anyway. The excitement of prom had faded the moment you decided not to attend.

Still, the weight of his disappointment settled deeper in his heart. For a brief moment, he had imagined that tonight could be special—his chance to finally tell you how he felt. It was his last year of high school, and if he didn’t speak up now, he might never get the chance.

With a sigh, Jungkook turned his car toward Sana’s house. His thoughts raced, torn between the reality of you not being there and the small, foolish hope that maybe—just maybe—you might change your mind and show up. Although, he thought bitterly, what were the chances you felt the same way about him?

Yet, there was a little voice in the back of his mind encouraging him to take the risk. To go for it, even if it meant putting everything on the line. Because if not tonight, then when would he ever find the courage to say anything?

It all started when you moved into the neighborhood. Jungkook had heard some talk at school about a new student joining their class, but honestly, he didn’t care much about gossip. That changed one afternoon when Jungkook found himself in a bad mood after spilling his favorite treat—banana milk. As he grumbled about how his day couldn’t get any worse, you appeared, handing him a fresh carton with a simple, “Here.”

At that moment, Jungkook thought you might be an angel. He didn’t know you well yet, but your quiet kindness left a mark on him. It wasn’t something big or flashy, just a small gesture of support that meant a lot. From then on, you became friends—not best friends like you were with Sana, but close enough for him to pick up on little things about you, like how much you loved reading, how your face lit up when you talked about your favorite subjects, and how determined you were in everything you did.

You were one of the few who encouraged him to take photos, aside from his dad. When Jungkook got a camera for his birthday, he was excited that you agreed to model for him. Over time, you became one of his favorite people to photograph. There was something special about the way you carried yourself—elegant yet strong—that made every picture meaningful.

As time went on, Jungkook noticed a change in you. He would see you walking home from school, looking down and seeming to shut the world out. It wasn’t until later that he found out the truth: your father had passed away after being ill for a long time. Jungkook wanted to reach out, but you had withdrawn from school and social life. He understood that you needed time alone to grieve. Still, he couldn’t shake the concern he felt. Things had changed between you and Sana too; you weren’t talking as much anymore, and Jungkook wondered what had shifted.

He thought about asking Sana about it, but hesitated. It didn’t feel right since she had her own things going on. For a while, Jungkook even thought Sana was interested in him because she was always around, laughing and chatting. But soon he realized her attention was focused on his best friend, Taehyung. Ever since he introduced them, Sana had been trying to get Taehyung’s attention, and Jungkook ended up as her unintentional sidekick.

That sometimes frustrated him, especially when Sana interrupted moments he wanted to share with you. Like that one day you were sitting together on a bench while he was walking Taehyung’s dog, Yeontan, who had a lot of energy. Suddenly, Yeontan broke free and darted away, and Jungkook had rushed to catch him, unexpectedly running right into you. At that moment, it felt like fate.

When senior year began, you returned as a new person—stronger and more confident, with a spark in your eyes that caught everyone’s attention. As the newly elected student leader, you tackled every challenge with determination. Jungkook watched in awe. How could someone who had faced so much come back even brighter? When he found out you were watching the school’s big football game, he played like it was the most important game of his life. Every move was made with the thought of impressing you. When the team won, he secretly hoped that you had noticed him.

But it wasn’t just your accomplishments that captivated him. It was the way you hummed while studying, the light in your eyes when discussing your future, and your unwavering determination. The more time Jungkook spent with you, the deeper his feelings grew.

It wasn’t just a crush anymore. It felt complicated and overwhelming, and he couldn’t ignore it. But along with those feelings came frustration. Jungkook often felt unworthy of you. You were amazing in every way, while he thought of himself as just Jungkook. Even when he tried to pull away from his feelings, they would rush back, like waves that wouldn’t stop.

Jungkook arrived at Sana’s house, where she greeted him with a big smile. She held up an envelope, waving it around excitedly.

“Here,” she said, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Make sure you read this at the prom. Or else.”

Jungkook raised an eyebrow. “Or else what?”

Sana leaned in, lowering her voice for dramatic effect. “Or else I’ll share that karaoke video of you singing ‘Baby Shark’ at the top of your lungs last summer.”

Jungkook groaned, grabbing the envelope from her. “Seriously? That was for my little cousin’s party!”

“Yeah, yeah, keep telling yourself that,” she teased, barely holding back her laughter. “Now go! And don’t mess this up.”

— ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ — — ♡ —

After your mom insisted on giving you a ride and your friend Sana decided not to come with you for some unclear reason, you figured a late arrival would be alright. As you walked into the venue, the lively music greeted you, and then you spotted Namjoon, who had a huge, welcoming smile on his face.

“Oh, wow, you actually made it!” he exclaimed, practically lifting you off the ground with his excitement.

“Someone talked me into it,” you replied, thinking about Sana’s enthusiastic pep talk earlier.

“Whoever that is, I owe them one! By the way, how did your entrance exam go?”

You smiled. “I passed!”

His face lit up even more. “Oh my god, I knew you would! I’m so proud of you!”

“Should we celebrate?”

And celebrate you did. The night turned into a blur of music, dancing, and laughter. Namjoon had a knack for making everything feel light and fun. For the first time in what felt like ages, you felt like yourself again—free from stress and the heaviness of the past year.

But even while dancing and singing along to the songs, you couldn’t help but wonder about Jungkook. You remembered Sana saying he was supposed to be here—and even more confusing, that he was going to be her partner. The thought of him with her nagged at you, even though she had assured you there was nothing romantic going on.

Why are you even thinking about him? you thought, scolding yourself. Just because Sana said everything is fine doesn’t mean he feels the same way about you. Your thoughts were interrupted when Namjoon handed you a drink and pulled you back into the moment. “Come on, no sad thoughts tonight!” he said, grinning widely.

You laughed and accepted the drink, allowing yourself to be swept up in the music and the joy of the evening. Whatever happened later, you decided, could wait until tomorrow. For now, you were going to dance the night away.

Meanwhile, Jungkook was sitting away from the dance floor with his football teammates, lazily holding a drink. He wasn’t really paying attention to what they were saying until Jimin leaned over with a cheeky grin.

“Hey, I just saw Y/N on the dance floor,” Jimin said casually, almost like he didn’t just drop a huge surprise.

Jungkook sat up straight, surprised. “You’re not kidding, right?”

“Nope,” Jimin replied, dragging out the word for more suspense. “But... she’s with Namjoon.”

The smile that had started to form on Jungkook’s face vanished. Of course you were with Namjoon. He felt a familiar wave of jealousy wash over him, even though he knew it was silly—there was nothing romantic between you two, right? Still, he couldn’t help his mind from racing.

As he glanced down at the dance floor, he spotted you right away. You were laughing, your face bright in the colorful lights as you danced with carefree joy. Despite the sting in his chest, Jungkook couldn’t help but smile. You looked so happy, and that mattered to him.

“She looks amazing,” he thought, feeling a bit of a ache in his heart.

Jimin leaned closer, grinning playfully. “You’re so down bad, man. When are you going to tell her? Keeping it inside for years is painful to watch.”

“Shut up, Jimin,” Jungkook muttered, grabbing the drink from Jimin’s hand and standing up quickly.

As he walked away, something slipped from his pocket and fell to the floor.

“Uh, Jungkook? You dropped something,” Jimin called out, picking it up.

Jungkook turned around, snatching the envelope before Jimin could look closer and shoved it back into his pocket.

He made his way to the restroom, his thoughts racing. After closing the door behind him, he leaned against the sink and pulled out the envelope again.

He had completely forgotten about it in the excitement of the night. Slowly, he opened it, curiosity bubbling inside him. As he read the first few lines, his breath caught in his throat.

You excused yourself, telling Namjoon that you needed a break and wanted to find the comfort room. He nodded and kindly pointed you in the right direction. As you walked away from the crowd, the noise of the venue faded slightly, and you welcomed the moment of solitude.

But before you could push the door open, you stopped in your tracks. Jungkook was standing there, looking like he’d just seen a ghost. His eyes widened as they met yours. You gave him a small wave, unsure of what to make of his expression, but before you could say anything, he grabbed your wrist and gently pulled you outside.

“Jungkook, wait! What’s going on?” you protested, but he didn’t stop until you were far away from the venue, out of sight and earshot of the crowd.

Finally, you tugged your arm free, your breath slightly uneven. “What’s going on? Why did you bring me here?”

He looked at you, his jaw tightening like he was wrestling with something he couldn’t hold back any longer. Then he blurted out, “Do you still like me?”

You froze. “Pardon?”

“Do you have feelings for me?” His voice was more urgent this time, his eyes searching yours.

“What—Jungkook, I’m confused! What’s happening?” you stammered, until your gaze dropped to his hand. He was holding something—a letter. A very familiar letter. Your heart sank. No, this can’t be happening, you thought.

“Where did you get that?” Your voice was barely above a whisper. It was the letter. The one you wrote when you thought you had no chance with him. The one you hesitated to give because it felt too vulnerable, too raw. And now, he was holding it.

Dear Jungkook,

There’s so much I’ve been meaning to say, but I never quite found the right moment—or maybe I just didn’t have the courage. You’ve been such an important part of my life, and honestly, I can’t imagine it without you.

We’ve known each other for so long, and I still remember the little things—like the time when we were kids, and you cried because your favorite drink spilled. I gave you mine, and you smiled like the world was okay again. It might sound silly, but that moment has stayed with me.

As time has passed, I’ve come to realize that my feelings for you have deepened in ways I didn’t expect. Maybe it was during those awkward moments in middle school when you were there to help me out without making things weird. Your kindness in those moments really meant the world to me and made me like you even more.

I want to assure you that I’m not writing this to complicate our friendship because that means the world to me. I just felt it was time to be honest, especially with all the buzz around you and Sana. Regardless of what’s happening between you two, your happiness is what truly matters to me. She’s great, and you deserve nothing but the best.

Most of all, I want to thank you. Thank you for being my friend, for capturing memories through your photos when I didn’t know how to see myself, and for being there when I needed someone, even if I didn’t realize it at the time. Thank you for being a part of my dad’s life as well—I know he would be proud of the person you’re becoming.

I’m sorry for the times when I pushed you away or made it hard to talk. I know you wanted to connect, and I regret not opening up sooner. You know I’ve had my struggles, but I hope we can still be just like before.

No matter what happens, I hope you always choose what makes you happiest. You deserve that, Jungkook. I hope I’ll get to see you thriving, chasing your dreams, and smiling that smile that makes everything feel okay.

See you around.

Love,

Y/N

You should’ve known better. She always had a knack for getting involved in things she shouldn't, and this time was no different.

“Answer me,” Jungkook urged again, his voice softer now but still serious.

You took a deep breath, your heart racing. “Yes, Jungkook. I did have feelings for you,” you confessed, your voice shaking. “And... I still do.”

Before you could say anything else, Jungkook stepped closer, pressing his lips to yours in a kiss that was gentle yet charged, filled with all the feelings he hadn’t found the words for. It felt like time stopped, the noise of everyone else fading away until there was just the two of you.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, and he smiled—a real, open smile that lit up his face. “I like you too, Y/N. I’ve liked you for so long. I just… didn’t know how to tell you.”

Your breath caught, not in surprise this time, but in the overwhelming realization that maybe, just maybe, this was the moment you had been waiting for.

He kissed you again, and it felt deeper and more passionate, your mouths moving together as if they’d always belonged that way. Jungkook pulled back slightly, both of you catching your breath while still holding onto each other, his eyes shining with joy. "I can't believe this is actually happening," he murmured.

You raised an eyebrow, still reeling from everything. "Neither can I. You dragged me out here, kissed me, and now what? Do we just head back to prom like nothing happened?"

As you stood there with Jungkook, still processing everything, a voice crackled over the speakers from inside the venue.

“Attention, everyone! The moment you’ve all been waiting for—the announcement of our prom king and queen!”

You turned to Jungkook, your hand still in his. “We should probably head back.”

Jungkook shook his head, grinning. “As if I’d win prom king. And there’s no way you'd win, unless you consideration of just how breathtaking you are tonight."

You tilted your head, smirking. “What if I do win prom queen? Don’t you want to be there for my big moment?”

You both laughed at the thought. But before you could say anything else, the emcee’s voice rang out.

“And this year’s prom king is… Mr. Jeon Jungkook!”

You both froze. You stared at him in disbelief. “No way.”

Jungkook blinked, confused. “Did they—? Are we hearing the same thing?”

The crowd inside erupted with cheers, and before Jungkook could react, the emcee continued, “And this year’s prom queen is none other than Ms. Y/N L/N!”

Your jaw dropped as you looked at Jungkook, astonished. “Okay, now I know this is a joke. Sana definitely set this up.”

Jungkook grabbed your hand and began leading you back toward the venue. “Well, come on, Your Majesty. Let’s go claim our crowns!”

As you entered the hall, all eyes turned to you, clapping and cheering. Jungkook’s friends were the loudest, practically bouncing with excitement.

You and Jungkook were brought up onto the stage, where the emcee placed crowns on your heads. Jungkook leaned down and whispered, “I guess we’re more popular than we thought.”

You snorted, trying not to laugh in front of everyone.

As the first notes of a slow song filled the air, the emcee gestured to the dance floor. “And now, the prom king and queen’s dance!”

Jungkook extended his hand to you, his grin widening. “Shall we, Your Highness?”

You rolled your eyes playfully but took his hand. “Let’s not trip over our crowns, Your Majesty.”

As you both danced under the sparkling lights, the crowd faded into the background, leaving just the two of you. This wasn’t just any dance—it was a moment that felt timeless, a memory forming in your heart.

You hadn’t even wanted to come tonight, yet here you were, wrapped in Jungkook’s warm embrace, feeling as if everything had led to this unexpected moment. Looking into his eyes, you understood—this wasn’t just the end of the night; it was the start of something even greater.

For the first time, it all made sense. Like two pieces of a puzzle that had been searching for each other, you fit together effortlessly, naturally, as if this was where you always belong to each other.

end.

[honeyncherry]

we never tell - joe burrow

summary turns out moving on takes exactly eleven months. the twelfth is for remembering why you tried to leave in the first place

content 18+, smut, angst, language, alcohol

part four

JANUARY

Regret doesn’t announce itself.

It seeps in, slow and stupid. Not the knife to the chest you now brace for, but something sneakier. The kind of pain that sits in your bones like cold air and doesn’t leave when the heat kicks on. It’s there when you wake up in a bed that doesn’t smell like pine and aftershave and him. It’s there when your thumb hovers over his contact, then backs away. It’s there when you realize you haven’t told anyone, not really, what happened. 

Maybe because you still don’t know.

The cabin felt too quiet that night, like the walls knew something they weren’t saying. Every creak in the floorboards, every shift of snow off the roof, felt like accusation. You thought maybe they’d all found out—that someone had heard something, maybe Connor said something, passed it along. That the shame inside you had somehow stained the air.

But the next morning, Dom and Caleb wandered in, half-asleep and hungry, asking for pancakes like nothing had cracked. Like the world hadn’t changed while you were busy pretending it hadn’t.

So no, maybe you weren’t dealing with the fallout of them knowing.

You were just dealing with the weight of you knowing.

The final day passed gently, almost too gently, like the house was trying to apologize. The Burrows had left early—flight times and long drives. Connor and Nate didn’t stop by; maybe they’d already said their goodbyes to Dom the night before. Bridget was a ghost, vanishing with the same quiet pride she always carried, as if she’d never been there at all.

But it wasn’t that day that wrecked you.

It was the day after. And the one after that. And the next one, too.

Because the silence doesn’t hit all at once. It builds. It builds in the pauses between texts you don’t send, in the ache of rerunning the last thing he said to you. It builds when you walk past someone wearing his cologne and your body stiffens like a warning. When your Spotify shuffle dares to play a song that played in his truck that second night together.

Can it be heartbreak if it was never real? If there was no claim, no label, no promise?

You don’t know.

But it feels real enough. And so does the way his face won’t leave you alone—flickering behind your eyelids every time you close them, wearing that same expression he had when he walked out.

Not guilty. Not sorry. Just gone.

And that’s when it hits you, really hits you—what regret actually is.

It isn’t the moment you messed up. It’s every minute after. Every morning you wake up and wish you’d said something different, stayed a little longer, walked away a little sooner. It’s the echo of a choice you can’t undo, stretching itself across your days like shadow.

It doesn’t announce itself.

But it never leaves, either.

FEBRUARY

Loneliness wears red this month.

Not the pretty kind. Not the red of candy hearts and roses and lingerie and wine lips and declarations. A different red. The kind that pulses behind your eyes after too many nights of pretending everything meant nothing. The kind of red that coats the back of your throat when you say “I’m fine,” and it tastes like copper. You scroll past his name like it’s nothing. You put on mascara like it’s armor. You laugh when you need to. You bleed in private.

Valentine’s Day falls on a Thursday this year. You wake up late. The sky is gray and spitting snow. The girl across the hall is wearing heart-print pajama pants when you pass her in the bathroom, and someone’s taped a glittery construction paper heart to the inside of the elevator.

You go to class. You wear red. Not because you’re in the spirit of it—just because you like how it looks with your jacket. Someone hands out Hershey’s Kisses in your afternoon lecture. 

You say yes when Maggie invites you out that night. It’s a casual thing for all the lonely singles; beer pitchers, half-priced mozzarella sticks, a handful of people from your program talking about anything but love. Someone passes around a bag of candy hearts, you get one that says “CALL ME” and pretend to laugh.

It’s not a bad night.

When you’re walking home with Maggie, able to do so without feeling sorry for yourself. You unlock the apartment door and kick your shoes off, saying goodnight to Maggie as she rushes off to her room. You brush your teeth. You wash off the mascara. You almost feel normal.

Laying in bed, basking in the comfort of your plush pillows and blankets, you open your phone to do one last scroll for the day. Clicking through stories on Instagram, your mind goes blank as the face in front of you finally registers.

Bridget sits in front of her vanity mirror, dressed in red with a vase of red roses hidden off in the corner. The Steve Lacy song that plays over her picture is almost mocking: 

I haven’t seen you in a while, you know I miss you, babe

When you hear this song, feel flattered, it’s about your face

And how I miss it, and I wish that I could see it more

But you’re in college now, and—

You swipe out fast, mind spiraling before you can stop it. You tell yourself it’s nothing. That it’s just a song, it doesn’t mean anything.

But she looks like she’s loved. Like she’s celebrating. Like the red she’s wearing means something different entirely. And for one second, you wonder if the song was meant for someone. If it was meant for him.

You set your phone down, rolling to your side. You stare at the wall until your eyes adjust to the dark.

Loneliness wears red this month—for you.

But maybe for Bridget, it wears roses. Maybe it wears a pretty dress. Maybe it wears a smile.

You wonder what color red wears for Joe.

MARCH

Memory is not kind.

You don’t get to choose which parts come back. It’s never the softness. Never the way he held you in bed, palm warm against your back, or the way his laugh dipped low when you said something stupid just to make him smile. That’s not what lingers.

What lingers is the door swinging open. Her face—smudged, startled, trying not to cry. Lipstick blurred at the corners, mascara pooling like guilt. His expression, pale and unmoved. Like he didn’t expect to get caught. Like he didn’t care that he had.

That’s the part that loops. Over and over. Not the sound. Not the context. Just the image. That stillness. That nothingness. The moment before you turned around and left, and he didn’t call after you.

And the worst part is, sometimes you wonder what you would’ve done if he had.

Would you have stopped? Would you have listened? Would you have forgiven him?

You hate that you don’t know the answer. You hate that it even matters. You hate how long it’s taken to pull yourself out of the wreckage of someone who never actually said the words you built your world around.

Maybe Connor was right. Did Joe dictate your life?

No.

You won’t let him have all your memories.

So you start reaching for different ones. You think about the morning sunlight in your kitchen, the way it hits the counter just right when you’re making coffee. You think about Maggie, about how she once showed up with flowers and Red Vines after a shitty week, no questions asked. You think about how it felt to walk home from class with your headphones in, coat zipped to your chin, breathing in cold air and not feeling like you were suffocating.

You let yourself remember things that have nothing to do with him. You let yourself feel good in them.

You cook more. Dance around your apartment with a wooden spoon in one hand, music too loud. You call your brother and laugh until your face hurts. You read a book in one sitting, curled into the corner of your couch with coffee gone cold on the table beside you. You forget to check your phone sometimes. You remember to moisturize daily. You take a picture of the sky on your walk to class—not for anyone else. Just because it was pretty. Just because you wanted to remember.

You make space. Not always successfully. Not always gracefully. But you try.

And slowly, slower than you’d like, but steadier than you expect, something shifts.

The memory of the door still comes back. Her face, his silence. But now it’s just one memory.

Not the only one.

And maybe that’s what healing actually is. Not erasing him, just letting more exist.

APRIL

Healing is boring.

It’s not cinematic. It’s not loud. It’s slow and silent and filled with more questions than answers. You drink tea instead of texting him. You go to class. You wear headphones. You almost kiss someone at a party and spend the whole Uber home wondering if not doing so makes you a coward or just human. And when his name lights up your phone for the first time in months, your hands shake like he never left.

joe b: Do you ever miss me

You stare at it until the screen goes dim and you don’t respond. Not because you don’t know the answer, but because you do.

Later that week, Maggie and some other friends drag you out. Somewhere crowded and too warm, where the music pulses like a second heartbeat and everyone smells like sugar and sweat and spilled vodka cran.

You don’t want to be there. You’re wearing a dress you used to love but now feel strangely detached from, like it belongs to someone else. You sip something pink through a straw and nod when you’re supposed to, half-listening to Brynn explain how she’s finally cut things off with that guy from her 8AM.

You feel like you’re not standing in your own body.

And that’s when Jalen shows up.

You don’t notice him at first. He slides into the space beside you like it’s always been his, leaning against the bar, glancing sideways like he’s trying to decide whether you’re worth interrupting.

“You look like someone who hates it here,” he says finally, and it makes you laugh, just a little, more out of shock than amusement.

“I’m just...tired.”

“You and me both,” he says, taking a sip of something brown and overpriced. “This place feels like if Grown Ups was a club instead of a movie. Everyone’s thirty and sad and pretending it’s still funny.”

That makes you laugh for real. The first time all night.

You turn to look at him. Really look.

He’s tall, warm-eyed, loose-limbed. His mouth is a little too pretty, like it’s used to getting what it wants. He doesn’t look like someone trying to impress you. He looks like someone waiting for you to notice him.

And now you have.

You talk longer than you mean to. About nothing. About everything. His childhood dog. Your favorite cereal. The weirdness of getting older and not feeling like it. You don’t flirt. Not intentionally. But something starts sparking underneath the words. A closeness that wasn’t there before. The way his knee brushes yours and doesn’t move. The way he watches your mouth when you speak.

Eventually, Maggie reappears and tugs at your arm, mouthing we’re leaving over the bassline.

You nod and reach for your phone to check the time, but Jalen’s hand is already out.

“Here,” he says, taking it gently. His fingers graze your palm like they’ve been there before. He types something, saves it, and hands it back.

“Let me know if you ever need anything.” He says the words like he means more than a favor. Like he knows something about you you haven’t said out loud yet.

Jalen gives you a once over, really making sure you understand his message before finding his group of friends again. 

Maybe healing doesn’t need to be boring.

MAY

Some silences feel like punishment.

Not from him—though maybe partly. From the universe, maybe. From yourself. Because you were supposed to be over it by now, supposed to be fine, supposed to be laughing at brunch and flirting at bars and deleting the playlists you made in your mourning time without hesitation. But all it takes is someone saying the wrong thing in passing—Joe, Joey, Jalen, whatever, the quarterback—and you forget how to breathe for half a second. You twist up and can’t decide whether to curl into a ball or text him back.

You settle on going through your old messages instead. It starts as a reflex. Just something to check. Something to prove to yourself that you’re over it. That you can scroll through without feeling anything.

You pass by the one you never answered, the words that still haunt you some nights more than others: Do you miss me.

You scroll further, thumb moving slower the deeper you go.

Old messages. Fragments of flirtation. A photo of him on a hotel bed, shirtless and half-asleep, room service untouched in the background. One of you in your kitchen, grinning with a spoon in your mouth. Another—you’re in bed, cropped tight to your lips and collarbone. He’d sent a text that made your heart race after seeing it that first time. You’d pretended not to care.

But you remember exactly how it felt.

Your body does, too.

That slow, molten feeling creeps back in—uninvited but familiar. You shift onto your side. One hand under the pillow, the other slipping low. The screen glows beside you. You’re breathing heavier. You know where this is going and you don’t stop.

Not at first.

But then your eyes catch on a different text—something stupid. Something casual. A joke he made about one of his classes. And just like that, the heat flickers out.

You freeze, pulling your hand away like it betrayed you.

You stare up at the ceiling, chest tight, jaw clenched. You’re not turned on. You’re angry.

Because you wanted to forget and instead you let yourself want.

Again.

You lock your phone and roll to your back. You try to stop imagining what his hands would feel like now, whether he’s thinking of you too. Whether he knew you wouldn’t answer, and sent his message anyway.

You don’t cry. But you don’t sleep either.

JUNE

Desire makes fools of everyone.

It doesn’t matter that you know better. That you’ve played this game before, and lost. That the heat of June makes skin easier to forgive, and voices harder to trust. He walks in and the whole room tilts. 

Like when you were a kid, sitting in the backyard with Dom, each of you placing an ice cube at the top of the picnic table. Watching them melt in the sun, water pooling beneath them until they began to slide. Your parents would yell that you were ruining the wood, that the moisture would warp it, rot it—but you never listened. You watched, and you waited, held your breath as gravity took over.

That’s what this feels like now.

You sit still. You don’t move. You let the heat creep into your skin, let the weight shift in your chest, let the air change around you.

Because for one second, just one, you want to see if gravity still works the way you remember.

And when his eyes land on you, something inside you starts to slide.

It shouldn’t. Not after Tahoe. Not after everything. But your skin remembers. Your body remembers. And even though you break the gaze before it lasts too long, something in you still wants to see how far it’ll fall.

The kitchen’s quieter than the backyard—where someone’s yelling about the grill and Dom’s playlist keeps skipping. You offered to grab drinks mostly because it meant coming inside, away from all that sun. You open the fridge and start stacking bottles against your chest, balancing two sodas in your fingers, one water bottle pinched between your forearm and ribs. Not your best system.

The bathroom door opens just as you’re trying to nudge the fridge closed with your hip. You don’t turn, but you hear him step into the doorway.

“…Figures.”

“You say that like I planned it,” you murmur.

“I wouldn’t put it past you.”

That makes you pause. The weight of his words is heavier than the drinks you’re trying not to drop.

“Charming,” you say, shifting your grip. One of the sodas starts to slip.

One of the bottles wobbles, threatens to slip. You move to catch it, but his hand gets there first. He catches it without effort. 

Joe glances at the bottles, then at you. “You’re gonna drop all of these,” he says flatly.

“You think I don’t know that?”

He huffs, taking them from you one by one like he’s punishing you with helpfulness. You let him. Mostly because you don’t trust your voice if you keep holding eye contact.

When your arms are empty, you finally look at him. “You didn’t have to help.”

He shrugs. “Didn’t want to watch you make a mess.”

Your mouth twitches. Not quite a smile.

He always did say things that made you want to hit him. Or kiss him. Or both.

“You’re still such an asshole.”

That gets him. Just a flicker of something across his face. Annoyance. Memory. Something else entirely.

He nods toward the counter. “You gotta get the last one though.” You reach for the stray bottle, already lukewarm from the heat. When you look up, Joe is already walking away.

Feeling embarrassed, you follow behind him and listen as everyone praises him for carrying all the drinks. You sit through the rest of the evening in a fog, tuning in and out of conversations. He never looks at you again, not that you catch. 

The worst part is that you keep hoping he will. Not for any reason that makes sense. Just to feel chosen in the smallest way. A glance, a flicker of attention. Something that tells you that moment in the kitchen meant more than what it looked like.

It’s not that you want him back. It’s just that wanting hasn’t stopped. And maybe that’s worse. Maybe that’s what keeps catching you off guard—how easily your body confuses recognition with permission. How familiar he still feels, even when he’s indifferent. Especially when he’s indifferent.

The next morning, when Maggie texts about a last-minute trip, you say yes before she even finishes asking. You don’t ask who else is going. You don’t care. Somewhere near the ocean. Somewhere that feels different. Somewhere he won’t be.

You pack like you’re in trouble—shoving things into your bag with no order, no plan. The kind of trip you say yes to just to escape the aftermath of something that doesn’t look like a mistake but still feels like one. You don’t want to be near him if all you’re going to do is hope he looks at you. If all you’re going to do is wait to feel that sick, slow heat under your skin again.

Because desire makes fools of everyone, and you’re not ready to be looked at like one. Not again.

JULY

Some people are best seen from a distance.

Like fireworks. Like wild animals. Like him. Too close and you get burned, or bitten, or worse—disappointed.

You don’t plan to talk to him. You don’t even plan to look at him. But the Fourth of July always blurs lines. It’s the sweat of bare shoulders and bug spray, the sound of glass bottles clinking and flip flops scraping across concrete. Too many people crammed into one backyard, the sun already sinking, turning every surface gold.

You’re leaning against the side of the house, halfway behind a hedge, pretending to scroll through something important. The popsicle in your hand is already dripping, syrupy red pooling along the curve of your thumb. You lick it before it can reach your wrist, tongue dragging slow along the stick. 

Your swimsuit is still damp beneath your jean shorts, clinging in places you’d rather not think about, and your hair is half-dry, curling wild in the humidity. You threw your Birks back on without adjusting the straps, and the soles are gritty from walking across the driveway barefoot.

You don’t know why you’re hiding. You’re not twelve. You’re not the kind of girl who corners herself at parties.

“Hey!” Dom calls out for you, voice carrying from the back porch. “Tell me you didn’t take the last cherry one.”

You glance up slowly, popsicle still resting against your mouth, and spot him through the hedge. He’s standing near the cooler, squinting against the light, shirt wrinkled, backwards cap tugged low. Joe is beside him, one shoulder propped against the rail, beer bottle in hand, half-listening until Dom points at you.

“There she is,” Dom says, mock betrayal thick in his voice. “Took the last one and disappeared.”

You raise your eyes in silent acknowledgment, about to offer something sarcastic back, but your mouth stalls when your eyes catch on Joe. 

He’s watching you.

Not glancing. Not bored or aimless or letting his eyes wander the way people do when they’re just passing time. He’s watching.

Chin slightly lowered, mouth slack, one hand wrapped around the neck of his bottle like he’s forgotten it’s there. The sun catches in the pale strands of his hair near his temple, and the shadow from his cap cuts clean across the top half of his face—but you still feel the weight of his stare. Your skin starts to burn from it. He’s looking at you like you’re interrupting something. Like you are something.

Your legs shift instinctively, adjusting your weight. Not because he’s staring. Because of how he is.

Slow. Unbothered. Bordering on emotionless except for the way his eyes drag down the column of your throat, over the scoop of your chest, to where you still have beading water drying down. 

You feel the sweat start to build behind your knees again. The popsicle in your hand drips noiselessly onto the dirt.

Dominic stops across the yard, jerking your attention away. “You really did take the last one?” he asks as he comes up beside you, mock scolding in his voice.

“Yup.”

He leans against the siding, forehead shiny from the July humidity. “You’re the worst.”

You shrug. “Should’ve gotten here earlier.”

Dom keeps talking—something about sparklers and the battery pack he left in your car. You nod along, but it’s like your hearing’s gone soft. Muffled like your brain’s still catching up.

You can feel Joe’s gaze like it left indents on you.

“Whatever,” Dom says finally, pushing away. “Just be ready to go by eight.” You hum in reply, eyes flicking once toward the porch. Joe hasn’t moved. Not until Dom disappears again, only then does he step down, one slow, measured step at a time.

The popsicle drips again. Sticky, cherry red tracing a slow line down the inside of your wrist. You feel it curl along the groove of bone, catch on the crease of your knuckle. Your fingers twitch slightly in response, and then you lift the stick to your mouth and lick it once, just to keep it from slipping further down.

His gaze moves like it’s walking a tightrope—starting at your mouth, tracing the popsicle, your fingers, the trail of juice that’s already dried sticky in a half-moon across your hand. It drops lower. Over the slope of your collarbone, the red bikini top that hugs our tits just right. Your damp shorts, open at the button. The space between your thighs.

You hold still, but not from confidence. It’s something more precarious than that—curiosity, maybe. Your mouth is too sweet. You can still taste the syrup, the artificial dye clinging to the roof of your mouth. It makes you suddenly aware of your tongue, the shape of your lips, the heat of the sun still trapped behind your knees. You think about your posture, your breath, how long your hand’s been hanging at your side. Too long.

You shift, just slightly, more weight to one leg, a quiet reset. His eyes come back to yours.

“You’re dripping.”

Your breath catches before you can stop it, a stutter in your chest, but you feel it everywhere. In your throat, in your spine, between your legs. Your eyes flick away and then back again, sharp with instinct, like you’ve just been accused of something.

He sees it. He sees everything.

And you know it because of the way he tilts his head, how the expression on his face changes. A half-beat of silence follows, stretched thin and unbearable. Not because of what he said. But because you both know what you thought he meant. 

He cocks his head again, almost amused.

Like: That’s where your mind went?

Like: You still want me that bad?

You feel heat bloom under your skin in an instant, slow and shameful, curling into your cheeks and collarbones. You don’t respond. You can’t. There’s nothing safe to say when your body has already spoken for you.

Joe wordlessly turns and walks away from you, leaving you hanging, yet again. Embarrassed, you turn and throw your half finished popsicle away, using a little more force than necessary when slamming the trash can shut. 

You swipe your wrist against your shorts, smearing the cherry into denim. It leaves a pink shadow above the seam. You stare at it for a beat longer than necessary, just to avoid looking up. Avoiding the realization that he’s gone. Just like that.

You don’t go near him again.

While everyone else filters toward the front yard, claiming coolers and towels and extra sweatshirts for later, you stick inside. And when you’re ushered out of the house by your parents, you stick close to the adults.

At eight, when Dominic yells your name from the driveway, you ask if there’s room anywhere other than the backseat of Joe’s truck.

“No?” he says, like it’s obvious. “Just get in.”

You hesitate, and maybe it's long enough for him to notice this time. Then you nod once, like it’s fine. Like it doesn’t matter. Like your legs haven’t gone hot and restless at the thought of climbing into that seat again.

Dom’s already sliding into the passenger side, fumbling with something in the glove compartment. You open the back door and duck in, keeping your knees close together, hand bracing against the doorframe. You sit carefully, knees angled toward the window, shoulder pressing into the cool glass. The seat is sun-warmed, sticky at the back of your thighs, and you remember too much. 

So you keep your distance.

For the rest of the night, you say only what you have to. You keep more space than necessary between your body and his, and between your thoughts and the temptation to fall back into whatever you used to be. 

You don’t look at him during the fireworks. You don’t sit near him at the bonfire. You don’t stay in the same room longer than necessary. It’s the safest route, probably the only route, before you get pulled even further into a person who’s made it clear he has little care for what happens after he gets his fix.

You stick to that choice through the rest of July.

Even when he shows up unannounced at your house two days later, standing in the kitchen with you while waiting for Dom. Even when you pass him in the hallway and pretend not to notice the way he smells, or how close his hand comes to brushing yours. Even when he stays late on nights you weren’t expecting him, lounging on the couch like he belongs.

There are moments, small ones, where you almost forget. Where you let your guard slip, just for a breath. But each time, you catch yourself and you remember why you won’t let him get close again.

Because Joe is the kind of person who looks better from across the room—where you can still pretend he’s everything you wanted him to be. Where the edges stay clean and the coldness doesn’t sting. Where you can admire the shape of him without feeling the sharpness.

Some people are safest when they’re just out of reach.

And he’s always been most beautiful just before he ruins you.

AUGUST

Discipline frays faster when the body remembers what the heart is trying to forget.

You held the line in July. You were careful, measured, distant. It worked… until now.

It’s not the heat that gets to you. It’s him in it.

Tan like he lives in the sun, hair longer than you’ve seen it, curls damp from the lake or the shower or the sweat at the nape of his neck. Shoulders loose, posture lazy, that half-lidded gaze he tosses around like he doesn’t know what it does to people. To you.

He looks like summer the way movies pretend summer looks—golden and a little wild, like rules don’t apply to him, nothing bad ever sticks. His shirt is off, like always. Swim trunks sit low on his nose, his wrist lay limp over the back of a lawn chair, laughing at something someone said.

You tell yourself not to look. You do anyway. You always do.

It doesn’t matter how careful you were in July. That kind of effort doesn’t hold when he’s tan and sweat-slicked and sprawled out, sunglasses slipping down the bridge of his nose like gravity wants to give you a better view.

And maybe you were strong once. But strength doesn’t last where lust settles.

And lust, this month, is everywhere he is. Which is always too close, and never close enough.

You can only muster enough courage to watch his chest ripple with a boisterous laugh once more, feeling it bloom in your throat before it settles lower, and by the time your thighs draw tight you’re already standing.

Around you, no one notices. They’re sunk into that golden-hour haze, drunk on cheap beer and warm seltzer. It’s the last night before everyone scatters again—to separate towns, separate campuses, separate versions of themselves.

Your dress catches the breeze as you cross the yard, rising just enough to make you glance down, hands smoothing the fabric back into place.

The coolers are half-sunken in melting ice at the edge of the deck of someone’s house, you’re not even sure whose. You crouch and sift through the cans, fingertips brushing condensation, vaguely searching for a flavor that’s probably long gone. Strawberry. Lime. Tangerine. Your hand lingers near the bottom, searching.

Then the fabric tightens against your thighs, the hem of your dress is jerked back into place.

You shoot upright, ice clinking behind you, heart spiking. Turning, you can feel the warmth of him before your eyes really focus. His cheeks are flushed, whether from sun or alcohol or something else you don’t want to name. He looks down at you, head tilted, lips twitching.

“Do you need something?” you ask, more bite in it than you intended.

“Just being helpful,” he says. “You bend over like that, someone’s bound to see what color you got on under there.”

“No one—” you start, but he cuts in, smooth.

“Pink. Not bright. Kind of pale. Little lace at the top, maybe?” His eyes flick downward, hinting. “Real cute.”

Your face burns. The kind of heat that crawls up your neck and settles beneath your skin like a warning. You scoff, because you don’t know what else to do. Because it feels safer than admitting he’s right.

You push him, hand firm against his chest—not hard, but enough. Enough to clear a path and get away. The kitchen is a mess of red cups and empty bottles, someone's abandoned pizza boxes stacked on the counter. You open through the sliding door harder than necessary, the glass rattling in its frame.

The Kirkland vodka bottle sits half-empty next to a tower of solo cups, and you grab both with shaking hands. The pour is too generous, clear liquid sloshing near the half-way point, but you don't care. You tip it back and drink like it's water, like it might wash him away.

It burns. Good. You need something that burns worse than the humiliation crawling up your spine.

"Classy."

You freeze, cup still pressed to your lips. Of course he followed you. Of course he couldn't just let it go, couldn't let you have even this small moment of peace.

"Go away."

"Cute tantrum." His footsteps echo behind you. "Very mature."

You slam the cup down. "I'm not having a tantrum."

"No? What do you call storming off like that?"

"Smart." You turn around and immediately regret it. He's closer than you expected, and the sight of him makes your pulse spike. "Staying away from you."

"Funny. You never were good at that."

Heat flashes through you—anger and something worse. "Fuck you."

"Been there." His eyes drop to your mouth for just a second. "Done that."

Your face burns. "You're disgusting."

"And you're being a brat."

"A brat?" The word comes out strangled. "For what, not wanting you to announce my underwear to everyone?"

"I was helping." He takes another step closer. "But I guess you prefer the attention."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You tell me." His voice drops lower, rougher. "Bending over like that. Real innocent."

"I was getting a drink."

"Sure you were." That infuriating smirk tugs at his mouth. "Just happened to give everyone a perfect view."

"You're unbelievable."

Silence stretches between you, thick and suffocating. You turn away from him, hands fumbling with the empty cups on the counter, stacking them with shaking fingers just to have something to do. Anything to avoid looking at him, to pretend your pulse isn't racing.

Maybe if you ignore him, he'll leave. Maybe if you just focus on cleaning up this mess, he'll get bored and walk away. But then you feel him move closer. The heat of him at your back, the way the air shifts when he steps into your space.

His hand touches your calf first, barely there, fingertips trailing up the back of your leg with agonizing slowness. Your breath catches in your throat as his palm slides higher, pushing the fabric of your dress up with it, and every rational thought in your head evaporates.

"Tell me to stop." His voice is low, rough, spoken against the shell of your ear. 

But you can't. Your whole body is trembling, caught between the urge to run and the terrible, traitorous pull that's been eating at you all summer. It all brings you back to that night before Thanksgiving all those months ago, in the parking lot of some dingy bar but stuck completely in his orbit.

Your body remembers. It remembers the weight of his hands, the way he used to touch you like you were something precious and dangerous all at once. It remembers how he tasted, how he sounded when you made him lose control, how perfectly you fit against him in the dark.

"Don't," you whisper, but even you can hear how broken it sounds.

His hand slides higher, fingers splaying against your thigh, and you can feel him everywhere—his chest against your back, his breath on your neck, the familiar scent of him making your knees weak.

"Don't what?" His thumb traces a slow circle on your skin. "Don't touch you? Don't remind you?"

You can't answer, can barely breathe, because eight months of pretending you don't want him is finally catching up to you, and you're drowning in it.

His hand moves to grip your thigh fully, fingers pressing into the soft flesh, and then he's turning you around. You let him, helpless to resist, until you're facing him with your back pressed against the counter and nowhere left to run.

He's so close you can see the flecks in his eyes, you can feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest. Close enough that when he breathes, you feel it. "I hate you," you whisper, but your voice cracks on the words.

"I know." His forehead drops to rest against yours. "But that doesn't change anything, does it?"

You should push him away. Should remind him about Bridget, about Tahoe, about all the reasons this can never work. Instead, you find yourself gripping the front of his shirt, holding on like he's the only thing keeping you upright.

One second you’re clinging to him like the floor might give out, and the next you’re backing into the hallway, his mouth finding your sweet skin with the kind of reckless urgency that makes everything else fall away.

He follows you blindly, hands on your waist like he’s scared you’ll vanish if he lets go. Your back hits the wall outside the bathroom as he opens the door and nudges you inside.

The bathroom is small, dim, sterile in the way guest bathrooms always are, like no one’s supposed to see too much of themselves in the mirror. But you do. You catch a flash of your reflection as the door clicks shut, and it's dizzying. Kiss-bitten lips, wide eyes, dress askew. Him behind you, his jaw tight, his eyes locked on yours in the mirror like this could be the last time and he’s trying to burn it into himself.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you murmur, even as he crowds you from behind, fingers brushing the inside of your wrist before sliding up your arm.

“I know.” His breath is hot against the side of your neck. “Neither should you.”

You close your eyes when his hands settle on your hips. There’s a second of hesitation. One more second where either of you could stop this. Could walk away. Could pretend it was just a lapse, a mistake, another almost.

But then you feel his lips at your shoulder, the drag of his teeth, the low sound in his throat when you tilt your head to give him more, and that second is gone. Forgotten.

Your hands are at the hem of your dress before you can think, dragging the fabric up with shaking fingers. He helps, wordlessly, his hands replacing yours, pushing it higher until it bunches at your waist and your thighs are bare against the cold counter edge.

With maddening care, knuckles brushing the insides of your thighs. You watch his eyes light up, a faint smirk tugging at his lips as he drags your baby pink, lacy panties down like he wants to feel every inch of you on the way. The fabric peels away from your skin, damp and delicate, and he lets it fall to the tile without looking.

He lifts you onto the counter in one fluid motion, fingers digging into your thighs as he spreads them apart like your body still belongs to him. The marble is cold against your skin, but his mouth is hot, the contrast making you shudder as he sinks to his knees and pulls you to the edge.

His breath ghosts over you once before he presses in, as if he’s been starving for this. His tongue drags through your slick with unbearable slowness, savoring every inch like he wants to memorize the way you taste before the world takes this away again.

You gasp, head falling back against the mirror with a dull thud, eyes fluttering shut as your fingers knot in his hair. He groans when you tug, the sound vibrating through you, hips instinctively canting forward, chasing more.

He licks into you again, deeper this time, and when he pulls back just enough to speak, his voice is hoarse. “I missed this.” His fingers flex on your thighs, pulling you open wider. “Fuck, I missed—”

“Don’t.” You cut him off, sharp and breathless, the word slipping out before you can catch it.

His eyes flick up to yours, unreadable in a way that makes you second guess your words. Your chest heaves.

“Don’t say that,” you whisper, softer now. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

Something flickers across his face—hurt, anger, understanding. You don’t know. Maybe it’s all three, but he doesn’t argue back. Instead, he shoves your legs over his shoulders and buries his face between them like he’s punishing you for the lie.

It’s not slow anymore. Not gentle. His tongue moves with a rough insistence that makes your thighs shake, your breath come in ragged little gasps. His hands are locked tight around your thighs, holding you open and in place, the pads of his thumbs pressing bruisingly into your skin, dragging you against his mouth each time your hips try to lift.

Your fingers claw at the edge of the counter for something—anything—to hold onto that isn’t him.

All you can do is feel. The pressure building, winding tighter and tighter, his mouth relentless. He must be able to tell you’re close between the way your thighs are trembling around his head, your breath breaking apart in tiny whimpers, body so tight you feel like you might snap. One more flick of his tongue, one more second, and you’d fall.

But he pulls back.

Just like that—gone.

Your hips lift instinctively, chasing his mouth, but he stands, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes unreadable and burning. It’s not satisfaction you see there. Not pride. It’s something sharper. Something that carves straight through you.

"Why—" you start, voice hoarse, but you stop yourself. Because you already know why.

Because you told him not to talk. Because you said it didn’t mean anything. Because even if your body begged otherwise, your words cut deeper than you meant them to.

You blink up at him, wide-eyed, your chest still rising and falling like you’ve just been yanked from underwater. For a second, you think he’s going to leave. That this was about control, about proving something.

But then his hand drops to his waistband, pulling down in one firm motion. His cock is already pink and swollen, glistening at the tip from the precum that leaks down his length. He steps between your legs, and for a second, he just looks at you.

And it’s unbearable.

Your dress is still bunched high around your hips, panties discarded somewhere on the tile, your thighs wet from what he started and refused to finish.

His eyes drop to where you’re aching for more, and when he reaches between you and drags the tip of his cock through your folds, your whole body jolts. You feel the slick of it catch against his skin, hear the sharp inhale he can’t quite swallow.

"Still doesn’t mean anything?" he asks, voice rough, almost mean. But his hand trembles slightly where he grips himself, and that’s how you know, he’s not as composed as he pretends to be. Not even close.

You don’t answer. You can’t.

Not when he pushes in, splitting you open with a stretch that knocks the breath from your lungs. You cling to his shoulders, nails digging into his skin, teeth biting down on the inside of your cheek just to keep from making the sound that wants to rip out of you. He fills you too perfectly, too easily because your body remembers him even when you tried to forget.

He hasn’t kissed you.

He leans in, forehead pressing to yours, and stays there—buried deep inside you, unmoving. The air is thick with the sound of your breathing, the way it catches and staggers and syncs. It feels like a countdown. Like the silence before the storm.

Then he pulls back, pushing in again with a choked breath.

And it’s not soft. Not sweet.

It’s all the things you never said. It’s the ache of wanting him every day since Tahoe and hating yourself for it. It’s the sting of seeing him with Bridget. It’s the guilt, the jealousy, the desperation, the need. His hips slam into yours, dragging you forward on each thrust like he’s trying to drive the memory of everyone else out of your skin. His hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise, his mouth skimming your cheek, your jaw, but never your lips.

He still won’t kiss you.

You whisper his name once and his rhythm stutters, but he doesn’t stop.

He just fucks you harder.

And you let him. Because even if it’s not love—especially because it’s not love—it’s still the closest either of you have felt to something real in months.

SEPTEMBER

Shame has a rhythm.

It follows you through crosswalks and crowded hallways. It settles in the bottoms of coffee cups and the breath between text vibrations. It shows up when your roommate says, “You seem lighter lately,” and you smile like it's true.

You should not have let him touch you.

You tell yourself it didn’t mean anything. That your body doesn’t miss him. That your heart is healed enough to not pick at that scab.

But then you find yourself lying in bed at night, replaying it in your head. Just once. But then maybe it’s twice. But is it really only twice if it's all that clouds your mind day by day?

“You sure you’re not feeling it?” Maggie’s voice filters in through the mirror, distorted by the haze of your own reflection. You nod anyway. 

Truth is, you were feeling it. For a second. It felt good to be somewhere loud and alive, to forget for a little while. But like clockwork, he crept in—soft-footed and cruel—until his name was curled around your ribs again, pressing from the inside. You hate how easily he gets in.

“Yeah,” you murmur, rifling through your purse until your fingers close around your phone. “I’m just gonna call an Uber. Head back.” She sighs, one of those deep, knowing ones, and nods without pushing. She always knows there’s more. You just never say it.

You push through the crowd together, the bar thick with sweat and too-sweet perfume and limbs that don’t know their boundaries. Maggie squeezes your arm in goodbye, yelling something about texting her when you get home. You nod again, already pulling away.

Outside, the air hits your skin like a slap. You lean against the brick wall of the building, opening the app. The screen loads slowly, painfully so, and then:

No drivers available.

You tilt your head back, eyes stinging. Of course. Of course.

Could you not catch a single goddamn break?

Other options flash through your mind. Bus, walk, call your parents—but they all shut themselves down. You're a broke college girl with parents who agreed to fund your safety, not your night life. We don’t care if you go out, just get home in one piece.

Sweet, in theory. Tonight it makes you want to scream.

You start walking.

Your boots slap the sidewalk with more anger than rhythm, muttering under your breath about Ubers, the price of gas, the way every man’s eyes seem to follow you just a beat too long. You throw in a curse for good measure—for the cold, for the ache in your feet, for the stupid, stupid boy eight-hundred miles away who still manages to ruin your night.

Tears sting again. You don’t wipe them away. You try to think of a movie. Something warm, something distracting.

What a Girl Wants? No, too wistful.

10 Things I Hate About You? Close. Too on the nose.

Grown Ups?

The title sits in your brain, stubborn. Familiar.

Oh.

Jalen.

The memory hits: lustful honey eyes, crooked smile, the echo of his voice—“Let me know if you ever need anything.”

You shouldn’t, but maybe you will. Blame the tears. Blame the night. Blame everything.

Your thumb finds his name before your brain catches up. You press call. It rings. Once. Twice. The voice that answers isn’t Jalen’s. It says your name—soft, surprised, a little hoarse.

You freeze.

This is not Jalen.

This is not Jalen.

This is not—

“Hey,” he says again, quieter. “You okay?”

Your throat closes. “Yeah. Wrong person.” You go to hang up. You almost do. 

“Wait.” Urgent, a little breathless like he knows. Like he felt you about to disappear. “Where are you?”

You roll your eyes, the burn of tears sharpening again. You bring the phone back to your ear, voice flat. “About eight hundred miles away from you.”

Joe lets out a short laugh and you can feel his eye roll through the phone. “No shit,” he mutters. There’s a shift in the background, the faint rustle of sheets. Was he in bed? On a Friday night? 

“You downtown?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“You alone?”

The word sticks, but you let it out. “Yeah.”

There’s a pause. Not long, but long enough for it to mean something. You hear the pull of breath through his teeth, like your answer displeases him. 

“You can hang up,” you offer quietly.

“I know I can.” Another shuffle. That sound again—cotton on cotton, something heavy creaking beneath him. Yeah. He was in bed. Probably still warm under the covers, one arm slung over his face, already regretting picking up.

Your eyes close for a second, the weight of everything creeping up your throat. That old shame curls tight around your chest. The kind that sinks into your skin and clings to your bones. Is this what the rest of your life is going to feel like? That sinking pit of regret you carry just for sleeping with Joe Burrow?

You don’t even remember how the conversation turned. He’s asking something again, why you’re alone, maybe, and it drags you back from the tide of your own thoughts.

“I wanted to leave, so I left,” you say, and your voice is steadier than it should be.

He hums, a noncommittal sound that makes your stomach twist. “You almost home?”

It hits you wrong. You don’t know why, but it does. Something in the way he asks it, like he’s just checking a box. Like he’s waiting for the right moment to hang up.

You swallow hard. “Goodnight, Joe. Sorry for bothering you.”

You move to end the call but his voice cuts through, harsher than before. “Can you fucking stop?”

It startles you, makes your hand jerk back from the screen. You stare at the phone like it’s betrayed you.

“What?”

He exhales—aggravated and heavy. “How far are you from your place?”

You glance down the road. Your building is in sight, a little washed-out box beneath the glow of a flickering streetlamp. “Not far.”

Silence drags again. You don’t know what he’s thinking. You don’t know what you’re thinking. 

“Who were you trying to call?” he asks eventually.

You hesitate. The answer’s right there, ready to spit out like venom. But instead, you say it plainly. “Someone I met last year. Said to call if I ever needed anything.”

You step through the front door, the musty lobby swallowing the noise of the street behind you. The elevator groans when you press the button, that familiar mechanical cough echoing like it’s about to give out.

He doesn’t say anything at first. You glance at your screen just to make sure the call’s still connected.

It is.

Then his voice rumbles back through the speaker, lower now, like he’s sitting up straighter. Like the question costs him something.

“What’d you need?”

The words catch you off guard. Your breath hitches before you can stop it, and your body betrays you completely—knees softening, warmth pooling low. You hate that he still does this to you, with nothing but his voice.

You lick your lips, lean back against the elevator wall, and let the bitterness curl around your next sentence.

“Nothing that concerns you,” you snap, fingers tightening around your phone as you step into your apartment, the door clicking shut behind you.

There’s a pause, and then his voice comes through, quieter now, but edged with something sharper, cool amusement that wraps around your spine.

“That right?” he murmurs. “Didn’t sound like nothing a second ago.”

You can hear it in his tone, the way it slants downward—dangerous, suggestive, just shy of mocking. Like he’s picturing you. Like he’s already figured out the angle of your hips and the heat in your voice.

You toss your keys on the counter, letting the silence stretch, then ask like you’re bored, like this is nothing: “What did it sound like, then?”

“Sounded like a girl who was two seconds from begging.”

Your jaw tightens. You sink down onto the edge of your bed, the phone still pressed to your ear. “You think everything’s about you.”

“Only when you make it that way.”

He sounds tired. And a little smug. And a lot like someone who’s spent the last few weeks trying to forget how your skin feels under his hands and failing. You shift, thighs tightening together. There’s no point lying anymore. Not when your body’s already moved ahead of your mind.

He exhales, the sound grating, like he’s rubbing a hand over his jaw. You can picture him pacing, shirtless in whatever shitty Baton Rouge apartment he calls home now, hair mussed, boxer waistband rolled down from where he dragged a hand under it but didn’t follow through.

“You touching yourself?”

The question hits hard. Not crude—just honest. Familiar in a way that’s worse than filthy.

You don’t answer right away. You slide your hand down your stomach, the cotton of your panties is already damp, sticking to you.

“I could be,” you murmur. You can hear him suck in a breath. Then nothing. You imagine him gripping the phone harder, refusing to speak. Refusing to give you that. “I didn’t mean to call you,” you add, softer now. “But then I heard your voice and…”

You trail off. Let him fill in the rest. “You drunk?” he asks finally.

“A little.”

“Figures.”

“Does it matter?” You drag your fingers lower, past the waistband. “If I’m the one doing it?”

The silence that follows is long enough to sting—and maybe that’s the point. When his voice returns, it’s quieter, but sharp.

"It does if I have to hear it."

You press your thighs together like that will help. "No one asked you to stay on the phone."

"You called me. Remember?"

"And you picked up."

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Stupid decision.”

But he doesn’t hang up.

You shift against the sheets, one hand still resting low, just barely applying pressure. The room feels warmer now. Maybe it’s you, maybe it’s the voice in your ear. You don’t know why he hasn’t hung up. Maybe he wants to hear you fall apart. Maybe he wants to punish himself for still wanting to.

You let your fingers slide lower, tracing over yourself lightly, just enough to tease. Just enough to make your stomach pull tight.

“You gonna tell me to stop?” you ask.

Another pause. Then—

“You gonna tell me what you’re doing?”

His voice is lower now, not softer, but heavier. Like it’s dragging something with it.

You don’t answer, not right away. You breathe, slow and deliberate, pressing down harder with your fingers until your hips lift slightly into the touch. The friction isn’t enough. Not yet. But it’s starting to pull something out of you. Something slow and burning.

“I’m thinking about your hand,” you say eventually, almost to yourself. “How it felt the last time. How deep you got. How easy it was.”

He groans, sharp and quiet, and you can picture him now—flat on his back, knuckles white around the phone, trying not to touch himself but failing.

“You’re impossible,” he mutters, but there’s no real bite in it.

“No,” you whisper. “You just make it really hard to forget.”

You hear him shift—fabric scraping, a breath sucked through his teeth.

You press the phone between your cheek and shoulder, lifting your hips quick, one hand slipping beneath the waistband. The fabric drags over your thighs, past your knees, and hits the floor softly.

The air against your skin is just sharp enough to make you flinch. “Joe,” you say, just loud enough. “That sound you just heard? That was me being helpful.”

He breathes hard, like that alone costs him.

“You can touch yourself,” he says, “but you don’t finish until I say.”

His words echo through your head. You obey, fingers slipping back down, sliding between wetness and pressure and the memory of what he used to do better than anyone else ever tried to.

You keep your eyes closed. Pretend it’s his hand. Let it feel like that.

“I bet you’re soaked,” he murmurs.

You hum, a sound low in your throat, your back arching into the motion. “Wish you could see.”

“I do too.”

He sounds almost disappointed, like this wasn’t the plan, like none of this was, and he’s just riding it out the same way you are.

“Joe?”

“Mm.”

“Do you still look at those pictures I sent you?”

The question slips out quieter than you meant it to. Almost an afterthought. But not really.

He doesn’t answer right away, and the silence that follows is taut, intimate in the way only silence like this can be. You know him. Know that delay means he’s considering whether to lie.

You circle your clit slower, lighter, letting the stillness thicken in your bedroom while you wait.

“Sometimes.”

It hits harder than yes.

“Late at night,” he adds, voice rougher now, like the words drag up something in him he didn’t want to offer. “When it’s too quiet. When I’ve had a shit day. Or a good one, doesn’t matter. I see your name in my head and I—I look.”

Your breath hitches. The rhythm of your fingers falters for a second before picking up again.

“I think about how you looked that last night,” he murmurs. “In the bathroom. When you had your legs all spread for me, you were dripping for me. But then you told me not to talk. Said it didn’t mean anything.”

Your whole body flinches like he touched you.

“That’s not what I meant,” you whisper, but it sounds more like breath than admission.

“I know,” he says. “But you said it anyway.”

You press your palm harder, try to drown it out with sensation, with pressure, with the way your thighs are already trembling. But the memory won’t let go. Him on his back, your hands on his chest. His mouth silent beneath you. His eyes not.

You’re wetter now. Messier. The slick sounds echo faintly in your bedroom and you wonder if he can hear them, if he’s picturing it—your fingers sliding over skin in the same way his once did.

“Are you touching yourself?” you ask, trying to redirect, to shift the weight of whatever just cracked open between you.

He breathes out, short and low. “Yeah.”

The sound you make in response isn’t quite a moan. It’s something needier than that. “Tell me how,” you whisper. “Tell me what you’re doing.”

You can hear the faint shift of fabric, the subtle friction of skin. He’s quiet for a moment, maybe working through how much he wants to give you, maybe too far gone to hold anything back.

“Got my hand on my cock,” he mutters finally. You can tell he’s holding back, maybe he’s scolding himself for already reaching this point. “Been hard since you started talking.”

Your stomach pulls tight. Heat creeps up the back of your neck. You picture him clearly—sprawled somewhere dark, one hand wrapped around himself, jaw clenched. Hair mussed. Eyes closed like he’s trying not to see your face but can’t help it.

You bite your lip and press your fingers down again, sliding through the slick at your center. It’s almost too much now, every nerve raw and waiting.

“You trying to come?” you ask, not quite steady.

“I’m trying not to,” he says. “But you make it impossible.”

You breathe in through your nose, shaky. “You did this too,” you say. “You didn’t hang up.”

“Don’t remind me.”

You arch your hips, just a little, and your fingers catch that perfect spot—pleasure meeting need in a way that makes your breath stutter out. You shift your weight on the bed, angling deeper. The sound you make is half-moan, half-exhale.

It feels good, yes, but it also doesn’t. Not really. Not in the way it should. Because it's not his hand. It’s not the way he touches you—slow at first, then greedy, like he’s owed every inch of you and plans to take his time collecting. Your fingers are just fingers. His were something else. You burn with it. That sharp, aching, hollow feeling of want that only ever follows the wrong version of closeness.

“Joe—”

“Yeah, baby?” he asks, voice strained.

You hesitate. Not because you don’t know what to say, but because it hurts to say it. Your fingers don’t stop. They can’t. You’re too far gone now, teetering at the edge—but this slips out anyway, softer than you meant it to.

“It doesn’t feel the same,” you whisper.

He exhales hard. You can hear him falter, hear the grip he has on himself weaken. You sink your fingers deeper, try to chase what’s building, even as the words tumble out, cracked and breathless.

“It should feel good, it—does, I guess. But it still hurts.”

Your voice shakes. You hate that it does.

“Because it’s not you.”

There’s silence on the other end, thick and loaded. You can picture him frozen, his hand maybe still, his jaw locked. You imagine his chest rising too fast, his eyes closing like they always did when things got too real.

“Yeah,” he says finally. “I know.”

And that ruins you more than anything else.

The confirmation. The knowing. That he feels it too. That he’s still buried in all the same places you are, and neither of you can do a thing about it except this—except moan into a phone line and pretend it matters.

Your fingers don’t stop. They move faster now, chasing something you don’t want to name. It builds low in your stomach, deeper than before, more painful somehow. Like it’s not just your body tightening—it’s everything else. Every breath you ever took with him in it.

“I hate you for this,” you whisper, not expecting him to answer.

But he does.

“I hate me too.” He swallows. “You can come now, baby.” 

Your orgasm comes sharp, deep, curling in on itself. It doesn’t explode; it implodes, drawing every sound and breath and thought into that one unbearable second where nothing is real except the pain of needing him and the fact that he’s not there. Your back arches. A broken moan claws out of your throat. You choke on his name. It tastes like blood and memory.

You go still. Just for a second, and then you realize he’s still breathing, heavy. Shaky. You hear the slick sound of his hand moving faster now, more frantic, like the sound of you finishing distorted him the way he knew it would.

And you hate yourself for waiting to hear it, you should hang up.

You lie there, eyes shut, hand still caught between your legs, sticky with proof of something that shouldn’t have happened. Your mouth is dry. Your heart is hammering.

Then, through the speaker—so faint you barely catch it:

“Fuck. Fuck—fuck.”

You’ve heard it before. Felt it in your skin, your jaw, your hips. You know that sound like the back of your hand. It crashes through the line like thunder and you feel it everywhere.

Neither of you speaks for a moment. The air hums with breath and static and tension.

“I think about the pictures,” he says then, slower now. “But not the ones you sent.”

You freeze. “What do you mean?”

“I think about the ones I never took,” he says. “You under me. That shirt of mine you always slept in at Tahoe. No makeup, hair a mess. You used to look at me like I was it. That’s what I see.”

Something about that unravels you, makes your chest cave in and your throat burn.

And then, like you always do when the high fades and the shame creeps in, you run.

Only then do you hang up.

OCTOBER

Jealousy wears a crown in October.

It drips down Joe's back, lazy and regal, settles to him like it belongs there. He watches your Halloweekend stories through a cracked screen, thumb hovering, breath caught somewhere between his chest and his throat.

You're dressed as something slutty and ironic—he doesn't even know what, exactly. All he knows is that your skirt barely covers the curve of your ass, your smile is sharp and wine-drunk, your eyes glassy under purple club lights. And some guy's hand is resting on your waist in the mirror picture you reposted, fingers splayed like he owns that piece of you.

His face is half out of frame, but that smug tilt of his jaw is enough to make Joe want to hurl his phone across his shitty apartment.

You look happy. You look free. You look like you've forgotten all about him.

And maybe you have. Maybe you should.

But he still taps through every frame like a man starved, rewatching the same five-second clip of you dancing until his screen burns the image behind his eyelids.

You always were good at pretending.

There's glitter dusted across your collarbones and fake blood streaked down your thigh, and Joe doesn't know if he wants to text you or block you. Doesn't know if he wants to book a flight to Cincinnati just to prove you still go breathless when you see him.

But there it is, out there for anyone. For whoever that guy is, grinning at you like he doesn't know he's standing in Joe's grave.

He shouldn't care. But he does. He cares so much it makes him physically sick, bile rising in his throat as he watches some stranger's hand rest where his could.

Because it's not just jealousy—it's grief. Grief dressed up like ego. Wrapped in what-ifs and laced with things he won't admit, even to himself.

He's tried to convince himself you didn't mean anything. That Tahoe was just lust and bad timing. That Thanksgiving was a fluke born from loneliness and too much alcohol. That none of it ever had a real chance. But every lie tastes worse than the last, because he remembers exactly what it felt like the first time you kissed him in that dark parking lot.

How it felt less like a surprise and more like finally.

The wanting had been there for years, buried under friendship and circumstance. Best friend's sister. Too awkward at first, then too off-limits after. So he forgot it and told himself it was just proximity, just familiarity. When things finally turned physical, he convinced himself that was enough. That having you in any way was better than not having you at all.

But then Tahoe happened. You laughed at his terrible jokes. Fell asleep curled against his chest. Looked at him in those quiet moments like maybe he was worth keeping, worth more than just stolen kisses and a quick fix. And he let himself hope for something he'd never dared to want: not just your body, but you.

You were in his lap in the back of his truck, breathless and desperate. You were sprawled beneath him in bed, saying his name like a prayer. You were whispering dirty things over the phone that made his blood run hot and his chest tight with something that felt dangerously close to love.

But then Connor appeared in that hallway at Tahoe, looking at you with those knowing eyes, and Joe saw the panic flash across your face. Saw how quickly you pulled away, how desperately you wanted to hide what was happening between you. How easily you made him feel like a dirty secret you couldn't afford to keep.

And Joe, jealous and spiteful and suddenly seventeen again in the worst way, did the one thing guaranteed to make it all worse.

Walking into that guest room with Bridget was like a dare he was making with himself. Let her kiss him though it felt like betrayal from the first brush of her lips. Let her hands roam over him though every touch felt wrong, foreign, like his skin belonged to someone else.

It wasn't about wanting her. It was about punishment—for him, for you, for the hope he'd been stupid enough to feel.

Sleeping with her was supposed to prove he didn't care. That he could move on. That whatever the hell had happened between you two didn't matter as much as it felt like it did.

All it did was light the match to everything he actually wanted.

Walking out of that room, seeing your face—the way it crumpled before you turned away—he knew he'd put the final nail in his own coffin. There was no fixing it by explaining how empty it felt, how he'd barely been present for any of it. Couldn't tell you he'd been picturing your face the whole time, your hands, your voice saying his name. That every sound Bridget made felt like a lie his body was telling. That he'd wanted to crawl out of his skin the second it was over.

You were gone in seconds, and part of him stayed frozen in that moment forever.

He could have followed you. Could have called, texted, shown up at your door with the explanation burning in his throat. But that would mean admitting he'd been trying to forget you and failed spectacularly. Would mean confessing that every touch with Bridget was just him trying to prove he didn't need you, only to discover he needed you more than breathing.

So he swallowed his pride and told himself time would fix it. That eventually this ache would fade into something manageable, that wanting someone who didn't want him back was just another phase he'd outgrow.

The semester was hell.

He told himself the distance was good. Better not to see your face, better not to be reminded of how badly he'd fucked it all up. But silence has a way of growing teeth when you're already bleeding, and the absence of you wasn't quiet—it was deafening. It filled every corner of his apartment in Baton Rouge. Followed him to practice, to class, to bed. Made him dream about apologies he didn't know how to make.

By April, drunk and stupid and tired of carrying the weight of it alone, he finally cracked. Typed the words he'd written and deleted a hundred times:

Do you ever miss me?

You didn't answer, but it felt good to finally let the words go.

Summer brought him back to Ohio, and with it, hope he didn't want to feel. He started looking for your car in driveways. Felt lighter when your laugh carried across a crowded backyard. Died a little every time you looked through him like he wasn't there.

But then he started noticing other things. How your eyes would linger on him just a beat too long to be casual. How your breath would stutter when he walked into a room. How you'd disappear the moment it was just the two of you, like you didn't trust yourself alone with him.

You were still in it. Just like him.

August proved it.

All that tension finally snapped. Mouths on skin, desperate and angry and everything he'd been dreaming about. Hands fumbling with the urgency of people who don't know how to say I miss you any other way. The way you felt around him was like coming home and falling apart all at once.

For those stolen moments, he thought maybe this was it. Maybe you'd finally opened the door to let him back in.

But then you looked at him like he was a mistake you didn't want to make again. Snapped at him with words that cut deep, made it clear you were still trapped in Tahoe. He wanted to scream, to tell you it didn't mean anything, that you were the only thing that ever did.

But he didn't. He just watched you walk away. Again.

In September, when you called him—accidentally, you said, trying to reach someone else—he let himself believe it anyway. Maybe you'd changed your mind.

It was stupid. But he stayed on the line, letting the sound of your breathing lull him into old rhythms. He let the silence between your words feel like forgiveness because it felt right again.

Now it's October, and you're posting pictures with fake blood on your thighs and someone else's hand on your waist, and Joe realizes he still hasn't learned how to let you go.

He tells himself you were always meant to be temporary. A moment. A mistake. A lesson in wanting things he couldn't have.

He tells himself you were just lonely, and maybe he was too. That it wasn't about him specifically. That it was never real.

But then he sees you, even through a phone screen, even with glitter in your hair and someone else's fingers on your skin, and his heart beats so loud he forgets how to lie to himself.

You are real.

And he's still completely fucked.

NOVEMBER

Longing is quieter when the leaves start to fall.

It doesn’t thrash. It doesn’t scream. It curls into you instead—slow and soft like the corner of a blanket tucked too tight, pressing into your skin just enough to leave a mark. It moves through the day like breath, like static. You don’t notice it until your fingers still halfway through folding laundry, or your eyes blur at the end of a text you’ve read four times over.

And the worst part is how welcome it feels.

How easy it is to fall back into the thoughts you swore you were done having. The versions of things that never happened. The moments you could’ve changed, if you had just paid better attention. If you’d known what to listen for.

You pull away from them like you would from a hot stove—fast, instinctive, ashamed of the reflex.

But they always find a way back.

Because there’s a particular cruelty to this time of year, when everything is winding down and you’re still wound too tight. When the air smells like memory and the sky keeps offering the illusion of softness. When even your body betrays you by remembering what it once wanted. What it once had.

Thanksgiving without him feels like trying to breathe through gauze.

Dominic mentioned it over dinner—casual, like it wasn’t supposed to sting. Joe’s staying at LSU this year, something about keeping focus, getting ahead on training. Dom said it like it made sense. Like Joe had always been the type to choose football over family.

But you know better.

You know it’s because of you.

The realization hits you low in the stomach, leaving behind guilt, but also something dangerously close to relief. Because if he’s avoiding you, it means he’s still thinking about you. 

It doesn't help that Dan and Jamie couldn’t make it either. Dan’s in Chicago with Carrie’s family. Jamie’s stuck at the office, buried under some end-of-year deadline. The Burrow side of the table feels decimated, just Jimmy and Robin, smiling too much, trying to fill the space where their boys should be.

You catch Robin’s eyes going soft when she glances at the empty chairs. See how Jimmy’s laugh comes out too fast, too thin, when your dad tells the same joke he’s been telling since 2002. Everyone’s pretending not to notice that something’s missing.

And you’re pretending not to notice that it’s your fault.

If you hadn’t played your part in wrecking everything, Joe would be here. Robin would be laughing, dabbing her eyes at some stupid story. Jimmy would be yelling about the Lions. Dom wouldn’t be so eerily quiet beside you, stabbing his green beans like they wronged him personally.

Later, when the dishes are done and your family is passed out in front of a game no one’s actually watching, you slip outside. Wine in hand. Coat forgotten. Just the cold and your silence for company.

The wind is chilling, November at its meanest, but you don’t go back inside.

Your phone buzzes—some guy from class asking about drinks tomorrow—and you delete the message without opening it. No one else’s voice makes your pulse skip. No one else knows how to touch you in the ways you pretend you don’t miss. No one else ever looked at you like you were worth the risk of ruining everything.

The wine makes you bold. Or stupid. Or honest.

You scroll to the thread that hasn’t lit up since April. His last message is still there, waiting like it knew you’d come back eventually.

Do you ever miss me?

You hadn’t answered. Not because you didn’t want to, but because the wanting hurt too much. Because the question felt like a trap, like a door creaking open you weren’t sure you were allowed to walk through.

Your thumb hovers. There are a thousand things you could say. You’ve drafted them all in your head; lines about timing, about mistakes, about how badly you wanted to say yes but couldn’t.

But in the end, the truth is smaller than all of that. 

you: sometimes.

You hit send and you hate how immediately your chest tightens with hope. How quickly your eyes flick back to the screen.

Because deep down, you know: No matter how far you try to push it down, you’re still that girl who would’ve chosen him. Every time.

DECEMBER

Ambiguity sits easier than it should.

You don't feel good, exactly. But you don't feel ruined either. There's something strange in your chest now—not quite the crushing weight of before, but not emptiness either. You imagine it's like soot after a fire that didn't take the whole house. It's in your breath, your bloodstream, the backs of your knees. A hum that doesn't hurt the way it used to, just reminds you of everything that was, like smoke clinging to fabric long after the cigarette is stubbed out.

For two weeks, for the first time in close to a year, you aren't stuck in emotional turmoil.

Well. That's a lie, and your body knows it even when your mind tries to pretend otherwise.

You are. The restless anxiety still pulses beneath your skin some nights, different now but familiar in its relentlessness. Your fingers still search for something to hold when conversation lulls—a pen, the edge of your sleeve, anything to fill the space where certainty used to live.

Just, maybe not the same sort of turmoil. The kind that used to send you spiraling into frantic, desperate acts of self-destruction has mellowed into something you can almost manage, like learning to walk with a limp instead of crawling.

The first text came the morning after Thanksgiving.

Good morning.

You'd stared at it for twenty minutes, your heart doing that complicated dance between hope and self-preservation, fingers hovering over the keyboard like you were defusing a bomb. The simple act of typing back felt monumental, each letter a small act of faith.

morning

From there, it's been careful. Tentative. Like two people learning to walk on ice that might crack at any moment, every step deliberate and measured. He sends you funny videos sometimes. Memes that make you laugh despite yourself, the sound startling in your quiet apartment. You send him pictures of your coffee when it's particularly terrible, complaints about your professor who assigns last minute papers. Normal things. Safe things. The kind of conversation that feels like putting on clothes that used to fit perfectly but now hang slightly wrong.

joe b: This smoothie place spelled my name jow

you: honestly an improvement

joe b: 😕

you: could’ve been worse

you: joey

joe b: Stop while you’re ahead

It's become some unspoken rule between you and Joe; no one mentions Tahoe, no one mentions where it all fell sour. The silence around it has weight, sits heavy in your throat like words you've swallowed too many times.

joe b: You ever finish that paper?

you: barely. used the same paragraph twice

joe b: That’s called resourcefulness 

joe b: Proud of you

It feels almost normal.

Almost.

joe b: Someone walked past me wearing that perfume you used to wear

you: which one?

joe b: The vanilla one

you: lol that doesn’t narrow it down

you: i’ve got like five versions of vanilla

joe b: Nahhhhh it was yours tho

joe b: Knew it straight away

You don't know how to name what's left. There's no label for this, whatever it may be. The rhythm of almost-healing feels fragile as moth wings. The dull throb of things not being broken enough to hurt in that sharp, immediate way, but not whole enough to forget the ache. You sleep better. But not well—still wake sometimes in that liminal space between dreams and memory, your chest tight with the ghost of things unsaid. You feel more like yourself. But not quite. More like who you're trying to become, which is terrifying in its own way.

There are still landmines everywhere, buried just beneath the surface of every exchange. He mentions practice, and suddenly your skin remembers his hands on your waist, the phantom touch sending heat crawling up your neck. You tell him about work, and he asks if you're still at that apartment downtown, and you both know he's remembering that call in September, the weight of everything that went wrong hanging in the digital space between you. The subtext lives in every conversation, humming underneath it all like tinnitus—constant, inescapable, a reminder of damage done.

But it's manageable. This thing you're doing. This careful friendship built on the bones of everything you're not talking about. Some days the effort of it exhausts you in the same way quitting smoking did—that constant vigilance against your own instincts, the deliberate choice to be different than you want to be.

Some days you almost forget why you were so afraid to text him back in the first place. Those are the dangerous days, when the scar tissue feels strong enough to bear weight.

In the library, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like trapped insects, you're scrolling through Instagram, trying to catch more stories people post for Joe's birthday. The screen's blue glow makes your eyes water, or maybe that's something else entirely. You'd already texted him this morning, a simple happy birthday with a cake emoji that felt safe enough. He'd sent back a smiley face and a thank you, and that was that. Clean. Uncomplicated. The kind of interaction that doesn't leave you bleeding.

The notification slides down from the top of your screen, interrupting your scrolling.

joe b: so I know this is random but we play Oklahoma in a couple weeks. The 28th. Big game and all that. Was wondering if you'd maybe want to come? Could be like a birthday present or something lol

Your heart does something complicated—not quite the violent thrashing it used to do, but a stuttering rhythm that reminds you why you learned to be careful in the first place. This would be crossing a line. Moving from safe texts into something that looks suspiciously like real life, with all its messy, uncontrollable variables.

But maybe you're ready for that. Maybe two weeks of easy conversation has healed something you didn't know was broken, the way a bone mends stronger in the place it breaks.

You're about to swipe up to respond when the story timer runs out and automatically flips to the next one.

Two kids bundled up in snow gear, arms thrown around each other like they own the world. Joe's gap-toothed grin. Bridget's pigtails poking out from under a knit hat. Years old, but posted today. The image hits you like a physical blow, air rushing out of your lungs in a way that's becoming familiar again.

The caption makes your stomach drop, that sickening lurch of free fall: happy birthday burrrrow 🎂 can't wait to c u

You stare at the screen until your eyes water, the letters blurring together like looking through tears or smoke.

Can't wait to see you.

Present tense. Future plans. 

The careful balance you've built these past two weeks suddenly feels impossibly fragile. You've been trying so hard to convince yourself you didn't need an explanation. That you could heal around the wound instead of cleaning it out.

Maybe some things are meant to stay broken. Maybe pretending otherwise is just another kind of lie you tell yourself.

Your phone buzzes again, the vibration sharp against the table.

joe b: Is that a yes??

The eagerness in his message makes you want to do something impulsive. Destructive. Watch something shatter against the library wall just to hear it break like everything suddenly did.

Because this is the thing about almost-healing: it only works if you don't look too closely at what's still broken underneath.

You delete the text thread without responding, hands shaking as you hold down his name. All of it disappears—the late night texts, the careful small talk, the invitation that made your chest flutter with a stupid pipe dream.

It vanishes in seconds, all of it, like it was never there to begin with.

[honeytae]

“you refuse to meet his gaze, afraid that your carefully constructed facade will crumble if you do. and it seems like that's exactly what is happening - the walls you've built around yourself are slowly falling apart.”

genre: angst, fluff, comfort

warnings: reader is overworked af and petrified of showing vulnerability, brief argument between reader and jk but only bc he cares, so many tears..like a LOT of crying, descriptions of kissing, make out sesh💋, an unforgivable amount of fluff and L bombs, i really didn’t know what to call this one so it’s just riptide, sorry not sorry you guys

wc: 2k

the air in the apartment is mostly silent, save for the gentle scratch of lead on paper and the muted pattering of rain against the windows in your home office.

jungkook’s teeth play with his bottom lip as he fidgets in his seat, intently observing you from the opposite end of the table.

across from him, your brows knit together in an attempt to focus, lips pursed in concentration as you stop for a moment, then resume moving your pencil across the page.

he cringes at the disruption of his phone vibrating on the table, abruptly snapping you out of your daze.

as your pencil slips out of your grasp, you sit up straight and flex your fingers around in the air to release some of the tension residing in your joints.

jungkook murmurs an apology but you brush it off, glancing wearily at him and providing a small smile. a sigh of relief escapes you as he leans in, taking your hand in his and gently massaging your tired fingers with a few strokes of his own.

“that feels good,” you mumble, shifting closer to the table for more of his touch.

he hums softly, taking another few moments to work his fingers into your skin, creating a small pocket of silence.

"are you bored?" you ask, feeling a twinge of guilt for leaving him essentially alone at the table. "i'm sorry, baby, i'll be finished in just a few more minutes."

jungkook shrugs in response, casual as he moves his arm to gently rub up and down your own. his touch is comforting and helps ease your anxiety, preventing you from spiraling further.

“it's okay,” he reassures you with a gentle smile, “just take your time. i'll be here.”

his eyes shift from your face to your hand, a frown forming as he notices the red mark on your finger, evidence of how tightly you've been holding your pencil.

you watch, endeared, as he leans down to kiss the spot, then replaces his lips with his finger, gently rubbing over the indentation to soothe the redness.

"you work so hard," he says, tutting his tongue as he continues running his thumb over the spot.

you can only manage a sigh in response, feeling drained and unable to speak. plus, tears are starting to form in your eyes, and you’re desperately trying to hold them back. jungkook notices, of course he does.his expression turns into one of concern as he studies your face, trying to assess the situation.

your mouth is set in a deep frown, almost a scowl, and your eyebrows are furrowed in discomfort from holding back your true emotions. you refuse to meet his gaze, afraid that your carefully constructed facade will crumble if you do. and it seems like that's exactly what is happening - the walls you've built around yourself are slowly falling apart.

in a rush, he rises from his chair and rounds the table, your eyes following him through tears.

once next to you, his fingers weave through your hair, leading your head to rest on his stomach. he wraps his arm around you and massages the tension from your shoulders as you nestle into the soft fabric of his t-shirt, taking in the familiar scent of his laundry detergent.

“time for a break?” he muses, watching as you adamantly shake your head in response.

“i just need to finish,” you reply, trying to stifle the lump in your throat.

he watches as you draw your laptop closer while blinking rapidly to chase away any tears.

you’ve always been one to persevere, which he greatly respects. but it also irritates him that at times, you don’t allow yourself to fully feel.

jungkook suppresses a groan as he watches you type something else into your search engine, briefly tilting his head up to the ceiling in frustration and closing his eyes to take a deep breath.

it can be hard, to watch those you love push themselves beyond their limit. he understands, knowing that he often puts you through the same thing.

you and him share an achilles heel of refusing to give up easily, which is both a blessing and a curse.

the sound of your fingers tapping on the keyboard snaps him out of his trance and he reopens his eyes, sneaking another glance over your shoulder.

he’s about to drop it altogether when he sees your bottom lip quiver, his breath hitching in his throat when the first tear makes it over your lash line.

“baby,” he utters softly, nearly tripping over the leg of the chair he pulls out from the table to sit beside you.

you can’t help but let out a throaty chuckle at his clumsiness, swiping the single tear from your cheek and trying to wave him off.

“i’m okay,” you sniffle, but jungkook just shakes his head in disbelief. he leans forward, balancing on his knees as he takes your fidgeting hands in his own, running his fingers gently along your knuckles.

“seriously, jungkook, i’m fine. stop making it bigger than it is,” you attempt to push him away, but he refuses to budge.

“stop making it smaller than it is!” he counters, voice raising slightly as his anger takes over.

he takes a breath, continuing in a softer voice.“baby, i’m not gonna stop until you let me in.”

his brows furrow in frustration, wide eyes pleading with you.

in the heat of the moment, you hate how intrusive he’s being. you hate that he sees you as his responsibility and that your struggles are ruining his day.

“jungkook, if i’m just a burden-“

“a burden?” he interrupts in disbelief, “you could never be a burden,” he reaches for your hand when you try to get up. “hey, all i ever want to do is help you, because i love you,” he stresses.

his words instantly calm your mounting emotions, preventing you from any more self sabotage.

“i love you,” he says again, “and i cannot sit here and watch you ruin yourself.”

you simply blink at him, the last of your resolve shattering when he starts to soothingly caress your arm with his warm palm.

even when you’re so difficult, he’s so unbelievably kind to you.

“please let yourself not be okay,” he begs, eyebrows pulling together, pained, as he watches you stifle a sob. “it’s so hard to watch you be so strong all the time,” he says, “please don’t shut me out.”

and just like that, your wall comes tumbling down.

jungkook’s emotions bubbling to the surface seem to be the final push for you to tip over the edge. tears now stream down your face, features crumbling as you weakly lift yourself from your chair.

jungkook’s arms reach out to pull you into him, intercepting your body as you launch yourself onto his lap. his lips press repeatedly to the side of your head as he wraps his arms around your stuttering back, squeezing you to him.

“let go, baby,” he says, feeling tears well up in his own eyes as you collapse in his arms, “just let go.”

broken sobs wrack your frame as you cling onto him, one of his hands securely holding the back of your head while the other runs up and down your spine.

the dam has finally broken, and its cathartic for both of you.

soothing words are spoken softly into your ear as your breaths begin to even out, your face finding solace in the crook of his neck.

after a few minutes, your cries quiet and the pool of tears starts to dry on his skin.

jungkook leans back to glance over your face, reaching up to swipe at the leftover tear trails on your cheeks with his thumb.

“feel a little lighter in here?” he inquires, dancing his fingers over your scalp as you lift your reddened eyes to lock with his.

“a little,” you sniff, leaning into his touch as he starts massaging the crown of your head.

“hm, good,” he murmurs, “we’re making progress then.”

wordlessly, you stare into his big brown irises, the whites of his eyes showing evidence of his own tears. despite this, his mouth quirks in a small smile, and the guilt from ten minutes ago consumes you.

“fuck, i’m so sorry,” your frown deepens, closing your eyes when his lips press to your temple, remaining against your heated skin. “i’m so sorry for lashing out at you, i’m just,” you sigh, “i’m just overwhelmed and,” you glance up in thought, “in my own head.”

“i understand, baby,” he soothes, warm eyes finding yours to show he’s being genuine. “it’s all gonna work out, i promise.”

you inhale and sit up straighter, cupping his cheeks as you position your face in front of his. you stare at each other for a moment before he cups your jaw, adoringly squishing your cheeks with his fingers.

jungkook laughs as you pucker your lips, sliding his hands down to rest under your jaw when you tilt your head to the side, pressing your mouth to his.

with each pass of his lips over yours, you feel the ache in your head lessen. your heart reaches out for him and squeezes him closer to you.

he hums as you pull back and immediately go in for more, taking turns capturing your bottom and top lip between his. you grip on tighter to him to momentarily stop the world from spinning around you.

breaking apart for air, jungkook giggles as you unattractively sniff with your full nose, your fingers absentmindedly playing with his hair.

“sexy, huh?” you raise a brow, and jungkook’s features warm when the sparkle returns to your eye.

“duh,” he rolls his eyes, and there’s a beat of comfortable silence as you both recover from your breakdown.

“i love you so much,” you murmur, “thank you for everything you do.”

“yah, kiss-ass,” he teases, his high-pitched laugh escaping his mouth when you pinch his side as punishment for his snark.

“ugh, nevermind,” you sigh as you stand up, and he smiles at you in return, holding onto your hand to help you back over into your chair.

“i love you more,” he sings, chortling as you squint your eyes at him in response.

you redirect your gaze back to your notebook, still looking tired but not as weary as you did before.

jungkook lifts himself to reassume his position from earlier and stands behind you, dropping his arms around your neck. you tilt your neck as he plants a kiss onto the top of your head.

sensing your reluctance to go back to work, he leans down further, his cheek pressing against yours. the gesture seems to melt you back into your chair as the both of you stare ahead at your laptop screen.

“okay,” he starts, understanding your process, “how about some tea to get you through this last part?”

he waits patiently as you think it over. his eyes travel from the screen to your features, staring at your lashes touching your cheek each time you blink.

there’s a hint of water clinging to your bottom lashes, and the sight makes his heart squeeze in his chest.

“yeah, actually,” you answer softly, gently craning your neck so that you can press your lips to his, kissing him one, two, three, four times.

“you’re the best boyfriend ever,” you whisper against his lips, some of the tension in your body already subsiding.

his cheeks go pink with your praise, dark eyes catching the dining room light as he puffs air out of his nostrils.

wordlessly, you let your head hang off the back of the chair, closing your eyes when jungkook’s hand comes to support the back of your head, dipping down to kiss you again.

his fingers rub soothing circles into your neck, causing an involuntary noise to rise up from your throat.

you break apart with a “tch,” noise, pouting when he pulls his arms from around you.

“nooo,” you try to grip onto his fingers, jungkook chuckling as he pokes your bottom lip back into place.

meeting your lips one last time, it takes everything in him to step away from you, pointing at your dimmed laptop screen.

“i’ll be right back,” he soothes, “and i promise i’ll sit here with you the whole time.”

you smile despite yourself, because jungkook is simply the light of your life.

“you better. you’re my emotional support human.”

[augustjoy]

That’s Enough

Based on the following ask: An adorable nonnie sent in a 2 for 1 request, allowing me to choose, and I went with this one: “Maybe the reader is trying to control the situation either at home or at a family dinner but no one is really paying attention and it's a bit '🙁😟' and Hotch notices that he's getting a little shy or something so he yells to get attention to her and at the end he leaves a nice kiss on her forehead 🥹🥹” I kinda combined both…but I made some adjustments. So the reader struggles with anxiety – this is why Aaron notices her struggle and steps in.

Aaron Hotchner x Fem Reader Angst/Fluff Word count: 1050

REQUESTS ARE OPEN - not edited - please be kind. Requests are open and feedback is welcome if it's constructive!

Warnings: My blog is 18+, minors DNI, reader has anxiety and takes medication for it, reader and Aaron have children together, explicit language, let me know if I missed anything.

I do not consent to having my work translated or reposted to any other site. That being said I do not own the characters portrayed in this story.

You had always been an anxious person. In childhood it had been about silly things; not climbing trees because you could fall, not riding a bike for the same reason. In your teen years it morphed into something different; not dating because you’d get your heart broken, not getting you license because you’d get into an accident, feeling nauseas before piano recitals and volleyball games, panic studying for all your tests. Anxiety lingered in adulthood too, only now, you were appropriately diagnosed and medicated for it.

You’d been doing well, the anxiety dying down as your children grew older, they no longer needed your constant supervision, they were in middle and high school now. Jack is the oldest, a sophomore in high school, then in 8th grade was Elias and in 6th grade were the wins, Mara and Thalia. Your children were polite and well-behaved, rarely causing trouble within your household and with them all being old enough to handle their responsibilities, you were able to lower your dose of the anxiety meds.

Aaron had been so wonderful throughout everything. He made sure to take note of your coping strategies and what worked best in which situations, and when you decided to go on medication, he helped you research options and monitor your side effects.  He was proud of you for being unafraid to advocate for yourself.

--

This week, you were starting to feel a bit overwhelmed. You’d gotten a promotion at work, thus taking on more responsibilities and working longer hours. Aaron had been away on a case, and so on top of your debilitating workload, you had to manage the kids’ schedules…that also meant facilitating this weekend’s sleepovers.

Mara and Thalia had their friends Audrey and Bri over. Elias had Michael over and Jack had Henry over. JJ had offered to host the boys at hers, but then they were called away, and Will was working nights. You had assured everyone that you were fine, and truthfully, you had been.

You had ordered dinner for everyone; the consensus had been pizza and wings, so once it was delivered you set the table. Opting for paper plates given the chaos that was sure to ensue. Once everything was set on the table, you called the kids for dinner. One rule in your house had been that dinner was eaten together, no matter what, and that didn’t change when friends were over.

--

Dinner shouldn’t have been making you this anxious…it really shouldn’t have, but you were currently trying to tame the children and had been failing miserably. The boys were shouting and talking with food in their mouths – effectively spitting it all over your table. The girls had been gossiping and were now arguing over which cute boy was dating who at school.

You’d been trying desperately to calm them down, asking them to quiet their voices as you were inside. You asked them to finish chewing before speaking but they weren’t listening. Next thing you knew the boys were reaching across the table in attempt to hit one another, causing a two-liter of soda to spill all over the table and onto the floor.

“Guys, please calm down! “Jack, get the paper towels please.” You tried.

“Dude chill! Look what you did!” The boys laughed. “That was you stupid! You made a freaking mess.”

“Guys please, let’s get this cleaned up.” You tried again.

“Ugh boys are idiots at all ages, clearly.” All of the girls rolling their eyes in agreement.

“That’s enough, Jack get the paper towels, Elias go grab the mop please.” You sighed.

The boys made no moves to follow your directions, continuing to argue over whose fault the spill had been and who should have to clean it up.

--

You hadn’t even noticed Aaron come in. He’d set his things down by the door and made his way to the dining room to check out what was going on. Upon turning the corner, he heard you ask the boys to get what they needed to clean up the mess, they surely caused…and when they made no move to do so, Aaron turned his gaze to you.

He quickly noticed the glossiness of your eyes, the mess of your hair, and the way your nails were digging into your palms. You had very clearly been anxious and stressed and the kids acting this way had not been helping you at all. He was feeling incredibly guilty for having gone on this case the week you started your new position. He knew that the best thing he could do for you now was step in.

“Boys please!” You raised your voice, standing from your seat.  

“Mrs. Hotchner, relax, it’s just a little soda.” One of the kids replied.

“That’s enough.” Aaron’s voice boomed throughout the tight space. “Jack, Elias, your mom told you to do something, now move it. And whoever told her to relax, you don’t speak to my wife that way. She has been nothing short of wonderful, welcoming you into our home and getting dinner for you, show her some respect.”

The kids all moved at that point, working diligently to clean up not only the soda but also the rest of dinner. Aaron’s hand had made its way to the small of your back, gently guiding you to your shared room. He began running you a hot bath, being sure to add your favorite Epsom salts and bubble bath. He lit a few candles and played some soft music, only leaving once he had you settled in the water.

He was gone all of five minutes before making his return. He entered the bathroom, sitting on the floor just beside the tub.

“They have cleaned up the dining room and kitchen. I told them it was time to calm down for the night, that they needed to go to their rooms and play video games or watch a movie.” Aaron explained. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here baby.”

Aaron pulled your hand to his lips, pressing his lips to your palm where red crescent shapes were starting to fade.

“Thank you Aar. I really thought I’d be okay…but this new position has been challenging and exhausting honestly.”

“I’m here now baby, let me take some of the weight off your shoulders.”

Taglist: @bernelflo@pastelpinkflowerlife@just-moondust

[holy-puckslibrary]

─ 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐜.

pairing(s) — fwb!MATTHEW TKACHUK x reader wc — 3.2k synopsis — best not-boyfriend boyfriend ever! (read the request here) note — bestie, your brain? marvelous! this was an absolute joy to write, and i hope this captures your vision!!! thank you for the request <3

main masterlist

content warnings under the cut.

cw — hints of a debut-inspired ensemble; complicated, grossly intimate situationship + emotional constipation; angst (not really) to fluffy fluffy; tswizzle references; suggestive section: "heavy petting" but nothing explicit / fade to black; brief alcohol mention + consumption; brief mention of food (no specifics); and ~emotions~ 

I. it’s getting so much clearer… 

Matthew regrets making you a key. 

Majorly.

If he’d known the can of worms he was opening when he unceremoniously dropped them in your lap one night, he would’ve listened to his brother; you don’t give girlfriend privileges to women who aren’t your girlfriend. It only leads to hurt feelings, broken console controllers, and unnecessary trouble. 

However, it’s highly unlikely this is the “trouble” to which Brady was referring. 

Rooted in the entryway, he surveys the damage. 

Beads of all shapes, sizes, and colors sit in a sea of jars. Some have spilled out under the coffee table and couch, others have made it all the way into the kitchen. Knotted balls of elastic are sprinkled throughout the chaos, as are multiple pairs of scissors, skeins of embroidery floss, and shards of construction paper. There are markers everywhere, but for some unknown reason, the crayons and sticker sheets are in nice, neat piles. A white feather boa is draped over the entertainment center and there’s a pink one curled by his feet. And, in the eye of the storm, is an anxious lump frantically stringing together DIY jewelry and muttering along to the megamix blaring through the room; he doubts you even heard him come home. 

“Sweetheart, is there a reason it looks like a craft store threw up everywhere?” Matthew shouts as he gingerly braves the hurricane. 

Something crunches under his shoe, and from the sound alone, he knows it would’ve been worse than stepping on a Lego if his feet were bare. 

He also knows that if the music were even a decibel lower, you would be pissed beyond belief. How dare he move freely through his own home without first checking for rogue pieces of plastic? His ears are ringing, but he’s grateful for it. From many years of mistakes and misadventures, he's learned you won’t get on top if you’re mad, regardless of how much groveling he does. And he's got one foot in the doghouse after last weekend as it is. 

“T-minus two days ’til Taylor, Matthew,” you grumble from the floor. “What do you think?” 

You’ve been at this for weeks. It gets worse the closer the concert gets. The mess and your mood. 

Matthew isn’t stupid, and he knows you better than he lets on. You panic under the weight of your own (often unrealistic) expectations. You need everything to be perfect, or the entire world crumbles. This, Night One of the Florida dates of the Eras Tour, is, understandably, no exception. If anything, the pressure’s dialed up to eleven. 

In stressing over every little detail, you’ve made yourself miserable. Watching you unravel makes his chest feel strange. 

You won’t ask for help. You don’t want it, either.

But, he can’t let you flounder. For his own sanity, he can’t do it. And he does care about you. Maybe not in the way everyone assumes or hopes, but he does. He’d do almost anything to lighten your load. 

Yet, Matthew treads lightly. If he’s too forthcoming, you could get the wrong idea. He doesn’t want to spook you, and he can’t have any wires getting crossed. What’s so good about your situation is how markedly uncomplicated it’s been. He refuses to be the one who fucks it up for everyone. 

So, he does what he can, and he does it without making a big deal about it. 

After a quick shower and a change of clothes, he sinks down onto the floor beside you. You’re perched on one of the obnoxious throw pillows you insisted he order to “spruce up” the space and make it look less “bachelor pad-y." As if that’s not exactly what it is. He takes this as rare permission to do the same, placing one under his hips and cuddling another to his chest as he stretches out on his stomach, phone in hand. 

Well, as stretched as a person can be in the middle of an obstacle course. 

Between the second play of “cowboy like me” and the third of “Tim McGraw,” his various feeds dry up, and he’s spammed his contacts into oblivion. You're still chugging along, like a Sad Girl automaton locked in an endless glittery assembly line. 

At one point, you murmur, “Give me your wrist." 

And he does. 

Matthew’s taken aback when you loop elastic around it to get a measurement.

He’s confused, but not for the reason one might assume. He’s painfully familiar with the friendship bracelet phenomenon and the giddy exchanges, having been force-fed hours' worth of tour content over the past year, but he never thought you’d rope him into it.

The buzz under his skin is oddly auspicious, watching you clip the appropriate length before reaching for the pile laid out near his head. 

It’s not long before you make the same request again. However, this time, you slide on a custom creation. You fiddle with it for a moment, then turn back to your station to begin the next one on the list. 

“And in which era does she cosplay as a camp counselor?” Matthew teases as he thumbs the letter beads.

They spell out a moniker he’d honestly find offensive if you hadn’t looped the song one too many times. He wonders if you’ve made yourself the matching one. 

You emit a sound that haunts his nightmares and side-eye him in a way that would’ve made a lesser man disintegrate. 

“If you don’t want it, give it back so I can give it to someone who will appreciate my time and effort,” you bite with your hand outstretched, palm up and open expectantly. 

Matthew shoves it away, suddenly defensive. “I never said that.” 

The sun slips behind the fence an hour later, and the sky bathes the house in purple-pink hues. As he gathers ingredients in the kitchen, Matthew watches the slow-moving clouds absentmindedly. He hasn't felt this content in a while.

Arms full, he wades through the arts and crafts on the way to the backyard. 

You’re still in the den, still hunched over in the same place he found you in. He shakes his head when he passes you, knowing he’s got an hour (at least) moonlighting as a masseuse in his future. 

You don’t startle or acknowledge him until the grill set you bought for his birthday clatters to the floor. 

“Why’re there two cowboy hats getting glitter all over my patio?” he asks, despite knowing the answer. And hating it. Vehemently. 

You fix him with an unamused glare. Your brow quirks, and your hands still. Then, you blink at him very slowly. Like he’s an idiot. Like he just asked a stupid question—because he did. 

Matthew’s head wags so intensely that his neck cracks.

“Oh, hell no.” 

II. it’s coming undone…

Matthew scowls at his reflection. 

“—looks so fucking stupid.” 

He can’t tell if he looks worse with or without the fur-trimmed, shimmery cowboy hat. And, honestly, it's a little distressing. After temporarily ditching it, he tugs at his curls. Then, the hem of the jersey. 

Resigned, he reaches across the bed for the homemade accessory. Wearing it will make you smile—and it gives his dignity something to hide behind. 

Twitter’s going to have a fucking field day. 

Your panicked voice spills out from the hotel bathroom, “Really?” 

“Of course, it fucking do—” 

His tirade of vanity grinds to a screeching halt at the sight of you, backlit and wilting. 

“That’s not—ah, fuck.” Matthew digs the heels of his palms into his eyes. “What I meant was—me, it looks stupid on me. Not you. On you, it looks… It looks…” 

“It looks, what?” 

It looks like he’s glad none of your friends were available because he won’t have to pretend you’re less than you are.

No lectures, no goading, no scrutiny. Just you. 

“Right.” That’s the word he settles for. “It looks right.” 

The emphasis chips away at what little believability the underwhelming affirmation had. That much is evident from the insecurity bleeding through your makeup. 

“Right,” you parrot. Skeptically, you drag out the vowel long enough that it disappears into the bathroom with you. 

Before the door clicks shut, Matthew’s already berating himself for whatever just happened. For acting like a complete doofus with a foot shoved down his throat. 

His mind is as quick as his tongue is sharp. He’s got confidence for days and a cocky demeanor primed and on-call, one that most women find endearing. Yourself included. He’s never had an issue dishing out pretty words or flirting before, especially not with you. 

With you, banter came easy. Sweet or salacious, it didn’t matter. The bob and weave, from platonic chatter to something charged and suggestive, is effortless. And it’s been that way for as long as he can remember. It's innate. He should be able to uphold his reputation in his sleep. 

What’s gotten into him? 

(You’d say the power of Taylor Swift, or some shit. Which is why he doesn’t open the floor for discussion. Among other reasons.) 

Matthew makes the executive decision to put things right. To redeem himself, to feel more like himself. 

His palms are hot and tingling as he sets off to do what he does best. Something fool-proof. Something that’ll erase the past ten minutes from the collective consciousness. Something to scratch an itch...

He won't make it through three and a half hours without catching a public indecency charge. 

Not with you looking like that.  

“I was thinking,” Matthew trails off as he comes up behind you in the en suite bathroom. His hands land on the counter, one on either side of you. “We should fool around a little bit before we leave.” 

With his chest flush to your back and his chin propped on your shoulder, he blatantly checks you out.

You, albeit begrudgingly, find it flattering. On principle, you roll your eyes. 

You snort. “Funny." 

Sarcasm pinches his face as he unintelligibly mocks you. 

Whatever witty retort he had died on his tongue when you lean forward to put some eyeliner in your waterline, inadvertently pushing the curve of your backside right into his growing bulge. 

Matthew turns you to face him without warning. 

The kohl pencil goes flying, dotting the pristine space as it tumbles to the floor. Its final resting place is unknown; you’ll follow the smudge-crumbs later. 

Later, when he doesn’t have you pressed tight between the harsh edge of the counter and his chest. 

Later, when the dull ache in your arched back dissipates. 

Later, when his attraction isn’t so painfully tangible. 

Later, when he isn’t looking at you the way he is now.  

You’re sinking in a shade of blue you don’t recognize. It’s stormy, vast and disquieting. Like any collision, you’re unable to tear your eyes away even though you know you should. It betrays an aura of foreboding, yet somehow, Matthew’s charged gaze carries a soothing effect. It's hypnotic in an stomach-twisting way. 

“I’m not laughing, sweetheart.” He breathes the words through the slight part in your lips, his voice rich and thick like honey. 

“W-We need to be quick—” 

Matthew buries his face in the sweet-smelling crook of your neck. Intent on shutting you up, he succeeds with infuriating ease once he’s latched onto your throat. He nips and sucks whenever you protest, and soon, you don’t even bother trying anymore.

Why lie and deny when what you want feels this fucking good? 

When your nails dig impatient little half-moons into his forearms, Matthew bares his teeth with a triumphant hiss.  

He grins against your skin, humming atop your erratic pulse. 

“Better hurry up and spread ‘em, then.” 

Matthew’s between your dangling boots as soon as you’ve hoisted yourself onto the counter. Kneading the soft skin of your thighs, inching up and in with eager hands, he doesn’t slow or stop until the white Self-Titled sundress is bunched up in the hinge of your hips.

“That’s my girl.” 

III. it’s delicate…

“All Tequila, No Crime” isn’t as diabolical of a cocktail as it sounds. 

Spending $100+ to taste test it and three other signature mixed drinks is. 

A robbery, if you ask him. 

What's downright criminal, though, is your inability to finish a single one. A “Last Great American G&T” with a few sips missing, a half-finished “Midnight Mule,” and a watered-down “Blue Debut” sit abandoned amongst an assortment of sweet treats and small bites. 

As he waits for what he ordered, Matthew picks at the vibrant fruit salad. He’s about to pluck a honeydew star from the pile stacked high in a bowl fashioned from a watermelon rind when the back of his neck prickles. 

“Knock it off.”

You blink, bemused. 

Matthew, having watched your reaction in a reflection, rolls his eyes. 

Back still to you, he clarifies. “You promised you wouldn’t make this a whole thing.”  

“I'm not.” 

“You've never been a good liar.” 

“Isn't that a good thing?” you deflect. 

You turn your attention back to the lively stadium, watching as it fills with laughter and anticipation. You're hoping he'll take the hint and drop it, that he won't pull the night apart at the seams. 

He abandons the sprawling buffet table in favor of the plush recliner beside yours. Once settled, Matthew slides a plate of your favorites across the small table between you. 

“Don't change the subject.” 

The cement under your boots makes for a captive audience as you sail into dicey weather. “I know—I know what I said, and I'm really trying my best, but can you blame me? I mean, c’mon, Matty. Look where we are.”

“A Taylor Swift concert?” Matthew does what he does best.

You know his tells and his tricks. You indulge neither. 

“My first Taylor Swift concert. Ever. I came out of The Queue From Hell empty-handed and shit out of luck, yet here we are. The Eras Tour. And not way up the nosebleeds or side-stage with an obstructed view. A suite. A private, fifteen-person suite—for just us. You did that.” 

Matthew shifts uncomfortably. He scratches the shadow clinging to his jaw. He looks everywhere, at everything. Everything except you. 

“So?” 

The probe is firm yet reluctant but not inherently dismissive. 

“So,” you heave a labored sigh of unease. “—so, how could I not? This ‘whole thing’ is the kindest, most thoughtful gesture anyone’s ever done for me. It means the absolute world, and I know you know that.” 

A thick, paralyzing quiet descends on the balcony. 

He does know that, which is what makes it so terrible. He knows, he knows, he knows. Matthew knows; he wishes he didn’t. For years, he successfully kept it at bay because… because you can’t just un-know something like that. Even entertaining the thought felt too big a risk. It jeopardizes the delicate peace only willful ignorance can safeguard. 

“Alright, alright. Jesus, sweetheart. Can't have you emptying the tank before the show even starts,” Matthew teases as he thumbs the tears away. “How d’ya know I didn’t pull some strings just to put an end to your perpetual pity party?” 

He’s trying to lighten the mood. Hoping to inch away from the emotionally dense zone of uncharted territory, hoping you’ll have mercy—or take pity—on him and his plight of avoidance. 

And you do.  

Ever the benevolent people-pleaser. 

You take your foot off the gas. You retreat to the status quo. You yield, but for a good cause.

Good and right aren’t synonymous. And we can’t will them to be. So, instead, we choose our battles and bide our time. 

There’s no reason to rain on tonight’s parade. 

“Thank you,” you acquiesce.  

Mathew smiles. 

This ceasefire, this tacit truce, is as fragile as rice paper. It feels as though, if someone pushed too hard from either side, they'd go right through it unchallenged. But, for now, it's enough. 

He takes your hand and squeezes. “And for the hundredth time, you’re welcome.” 

IV. it’s been a long time coming…

He gets it now. 

Truthfully, he understood after the very first bridge of the night. There’s just something about the intimacy of the spectacle; it's… indescribable. With thousands from all walks of life gathered in a single stadium to celebrate nearly two decades of singing, crying, and growing up together, it wasn't difficult to get swept up in the magic. 

For someone who’d consider themselves fan-adjacent at best, he wasn’t expecting to feel much of anything, let alone goosebumps, misty-eyed. 

He can’t even imagine how extraordinarily special it must’ve been for you, a lifelong fan, to partake in the world’s most cinematic sing-along. To luck out with your opener of choice, to be surprised with your favorite song during the acoustic set—you could probably die happy. Matthew can still feel your tear-streaked cheek against his shoulder and your shakey hand clasped in his. And he’ll remember the warmth of your joy for the rest of his life. 

He, however, doesn't have to imagine how much the experience took out of you. 

“Hey, hey. Don’t pass out on me yet, sweetheart.” 

You’re one minute into a five-minute Uber ride, and he’s already had to nudge you twice. 

Curled against the cool window like a cat, you groggily protest, “I’m not. My mind is alive, promise.”  

He snorts. “Then why’re your eyes shut?” 

“They aren’t!” 

They absolutely are. 

Matthew tugs you across his lap with a smile pulling at his cheeks. 

“Sounds like you need to get yours checked, Matthew Brendan,” you quip into his chest before drowning the backseat in delirious giggles. 

In the golden glow of the streetlamps, his smirk rests against your temple. 

Here is the moment. There have been hundreds like it in the years since you met. Lighthearted banter and late night laughter spill over into the early morning hours, all of it utter nonsense he wouldn’t trade for anything. It should be perfectly ordinary, but it's music to his ears. 

The cowboy boots he swore he wouldn’t carry home rest against his similarly sore calves. The ziplock bag, once bursting at the seams with bracelets, is empty and folded in his back pocket, and his arm is full from elbow to wrist. The glitter he contested clings to him like a second skin, there to stay. 

And he doesn’t hate it. 

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[fairyhaos]

❖ moonstruck // kim mingyu

mingyu x f!reader, 2.2k+ words

tags: sculptor!mingyu, muse!yn, pining, ambiguous relationship, fluff, angst, mingyu is Down Bad

notes: title + vibes taken from moonstruck by enhypen cz it fits the feel that i was going for :P forgive me bc i know nothing ab sculpting/muses but i just had to write a fic where yn is devastatingly gorgeous and this js fit so well <3 happy valentines day!

summary: mingyu is a sculptor, and you are his muse.

When Mingyu arrives at his studio that morning, he finds you already there, lounging around like you own the place.

"Oh, sweetheart, you're late again. What's it gonna take for me to make you finally come on time? A kiss, maybe? A promise of a date?" You smile at him mischievously, eyes glittering in the morning light.

You're watching him amusedly, arms tucked behind your head, resting comfortably on the sofa on the other end of the studio. This is not necessarily a surprising sight: despite the fact that you do not, actually, own the place, it’s still common for you to be there before he arrives, playing with the various clay creations lining the walls or dangling your feet over the edge of the sofa, waiting for him to clock in for the day.

Mingyu scrunches his nose, and does not respond to the latter half of what you said.

“I’m really not late,” he says, setting down his bag and hanging his coat up by the door. “You’re just early.”

You hum contemplatively, kicking your feet out and crossing your ankles over the armrest on the other end of the sofa. The cracking, coppery leather grumbles discontentedly at your movement, but you hardly notice, stretching leisurely like a cat.

“Maybe. Or maybe time is a construct, and neither of us are early or late.”

Mingyu blinks at you, tilting his head. “It’s not even 10. Let’s not talk philosophy until at least 3 in the afternoon, please.”

You laugh at that, silvery and light, watching from your place on the sofa as Mingyu begins setting up his sculpting supplies for the day. 

“Whatever pleases you, my dear Mingyu,” you say, words lilting melodically with teasing. “As your muse, it’s my duty to be as pleasing to you as possible, after all.”

Mingyu just rolls his eyes, used to your teasing. “Of course,” he says dryly. “Though I’m afraid it’s debatable just how good you are at that, though.” He laughs when you huff in indignation, before pulling out his sketchbook. “You saw the sketches I sent you last night, right? Is there anything you want to comment on, or should we start right away?”

───────────── 🏛

You are Mingyu’s muse.

It sounds horribly cheesy, and definitely makes you sound like the romantic interest in some sort of historical-royal-heart wrenching-romance-novel, but he literally means you’re his artistic muse.

This wasn’t always the case. You weren’t always solely his—a few years back, you’d simply been one of the hired models for a class he’d taken back at university. But he’d been utterly mesmerised by you, and so in awe of your beauty that it must have shown on his face, because you’d always catch his eye as he worked, an elusive little smile in your eyes, like you knew exactly how he felt. 

And then one thing led to another, and suddenly he was meeting you outside of classes, and then he was seeing you even when that particular project had finished, and then he was still sculpting you after he’d graduated, and then, and then, and then…

And then here he is, now. 

It’s still something he can’t wrap his head around, even so many years later. How these one-on-one sessions started. How you became his official muse.

“This better turn out amazing, because my arm’s cramping up really badly right now,” you say, voice strained from having your head tilted back for so long, and Mingyu laughs.

“You’re the one who suggested this position,” he says, pencil lightly tracing your form onto paper. “I don’t think you get the right to complain.”

“I have plenty of right to complain,” you argue, opening one eye to glare at him. Mingyu just grins toothily back. “Ugh, whatever. Just hurry up, okay?”

“Hey, you can’t rush art,” Mingyu teases, but he finds his fingers complying anyway, taking longer, sweeping arcs of graphite against the page. He’s almost finished, anyway, with this pose being a lot easier than some others that he’s put you in before. Yet in some ways, it’s going to be even harder for him to complete.

He has you wrapped in swathes of silk, sat on the floor with your legs out in front of you, the cream fabric slipping off your shoulder slightly. You’re leaning back on one arm, the side of your head resting on your shoulder, face tilted upwards as if soaking in the sunlight, eyes shut and eyelashes fluttering gently against your cheeks.

The long, horizontal line of your body makes this a relatively easier art piece than ones he’s attempted before, and while the folds of silk are going to be tricky, that’s not what he’s worried about.

You look so… delicate. 

“Okay, let’s take a break,” Mingyu says, when he sees your arm beginning to shake. It’s not a hard pose, but he knows that keeping one position for too long puts strain on the best of people.

You groan with relief, relaxing your arm and flopping to the floor. “Thank God. Any longer and I would’ve definitely collapsed. Turned into a heap on this floor.”

Mingyu hums, adding further details to his sketch. “I think you already did. Don’t worry, sweetheart, you look pretty even as a heap on the floor.”

He can almost hear your eye roll, and he laughs, looking up from the paper to take in your disgruntled expression, only for the laughter to catch in his throat.

There’s no sign of annoyance on your face, and now he’s looking at you, he doubts you rolled your eyes either. Instead, your expression is strangely unreadable, eyes half-lidded, strands of hair falling across your face like curls of ribbons, lips softly pursed. Lying on the floor like that, hair and silk pooling around you as you blink slowly at him, you look like some sort of nature deity, watching him and observing countless things that Mingyu can hardly even begin to understand.

You’re gorgeous. 

Mingyu knows this—it’s why you’re his muse—but the realisation always makes his heart stick in his throat when he remembers. 

You’re still looking at Mingyu, gaze as dark as molasses, smoky and sweet and pulling him in, making his hands shake and his pulse sound loudly in his ears.

And then you smile, cheeky and playful once more.

“Oh, thank you so much, I’m glad you think so, honeybun,” you say, full of mock-relief, and Mingyu has to blink to remember what you’re thanking him for. “I knew I could always count on you to find me beautiful.”

You dramatically fling your arm over your eyes as you say this, the perfect image of a romantic, distressed maiden having their feelings reassured by the hero, before peeking out from under the back of your hand to flutter your lashes and smile at him.

And Mingyu knows this is an act, that this is just you teasing, but it’s a lot more difficult to tell that to his heart.

“What’s for lunch, by the way?” you ask, taking your arm away from your face. “I’m hungry.”

Mingyu swallows thickly, avoiding your gaze, not wanting you to see every thought written across his face. “It isn’t even lunch time yet. Why are you already hungry?”

“Hey, don’t deny me my right to eat,” you complain, subconsciously smoothing down the silk that’s wrapped around your body. Mingyu sighs internally, already anticipating the hassle he’s going to have to go through to get the folds to sit how they were before. “Modelling for you is hard work, you know.”

Mingyu just hums dryly. “Whatever you say. Unfortunately, break time’s up now, so you’re gonna have to eat later.”

You whine in annoyance, but make no move to resist when Mingyu stands up, walks over and begins rearranging the silk around you again. “Fine. For the sake of art, I guess I’ll go hungry. I’ll be the true tortured artist, or something.”

“Quit the dramatics. We’ll eat when it’s actually lunch time.”

“How about in ten minutes’ time?”

“No.”

“Twenty?”

“No.”

“Fine. You drive a hard bargain, Kim Mingyu.”

───────────── 🏛

So what exactly is it about you that made you his muse?

It’s a question that Mingyu gets asked a lot. By his parents, by his customers, by his friends: none of whom can ever truly understand what a muse is when it comes to art.

You’re not just a really pretty person. To Mingyu, you are—everything. You are beauty, passion, vivacity, intricacy, warmth, cold, colour, light, dark, fear, danger, happiness, love. Looking at you makes his heart twist in his chest, makes his head feel faint and dizzy, makes his eyes burn like he’s been staring right at the sun.

He doesn’t know why. He doesn’t know how. But being with you, looking at you, makes him feel so heart-wrenchingly alive, skin buzzing with the need to carve your visage onto paper, into clay, into stone, to keep you with him forevermore.

It shouldn’t be possible for one simple human to make him feel like this. And yet…

Mingyu has to pause from where he’s bent over your face, the proximity and his thoughts making his hands begin to shake. It’s not actually your face that’s in front of him right now—rather, it’s your face that he’s currently chiselling out of marble—but even just thinking of you and being inches away from something that he’s making to look just like you causes him to act like this. 

But there’s just something so terrifyingly intimate about his craft, about bringing your features out from cold stone, breathing life into the lifeless. 

“Why do you do what you do?” you’d asked him once, back when he was still at uni, back before you were his official muse, and he was struggling through charcoal sketches for an assignment he’d been putting off for days. That was, until you’d offered to model for him, and suddenly, the ideas flowed smoothly onto the page. 

(You’ve always been his muse, since day one.)

He’d looked up from his smudged fingers, watching you sit in front of him, backlit by the soft sunlight streaming in from the window. It made you look like you were glowing, gentle light emanating from your skin in a delicately beautiful way. Not as blinding as the sun, but something softer.

Moon-like.

You take his breath away, and Mingyu had ended up stuttering out some ridiculous answer that he can’t even remember anymore, but thankfully, you seemed to accept it, going back to posing in the pensive position you’d been in before.

If he were to answer the question now, without you here to steal all his words, the answer would be rather simple.

Because he loves it.

Carefully, Mingyu brushes a dusty finger over the jagged profile he’s carved into the marble. The edges are too sharp, the slope of your cheek too unrefined, but Mingyu’s heart only swells in anticipation and adoration for what he knows the finished product will resemble. 

It’s electrifying, seeing what he can bring to life. Like a mad scientist, an obsessed genius, he wonders how far he can go. What things he can make with his bare hands.

Whether he can truly make something that is so very you.

You’d been here earlier to model some more, but you’re gone now, busy meeting up with friends. You don’t normally come in to pose once he has a project fully underway, but he always asks you to come when he starts doing the face properly. Just in case he gets anything wrong.

(It’s all an excuse to spend more time with you, however. He knows your face so well from how often it’s appeared in his dreams, and from how it's carved in his brain.)

���Please try to make it a little bit like me, this time,” you’d teased, eyes shining like twin stars. 

Mingyu had simply laughed, waving you off. “Come on, my sculptures always look plenty like you.”

“Nonsense. None of them ever come close to the absolute perfection that I am.”

It had been a joke, but Mingyu had found himself looking up as you gave him a wave and then walked out without a second glance. He’d watched you go, watching the trail of moonlight you left behind in your wake, soft-scented and silver-lined.

There’s some truth to your words, however. Nothing he’s made has ever come close to perfectly replicating the warmth of your skin, the sweetness of your smile, the light that you exude just by simply being.

You’re so magnetic, a bewitching push-and-pull he can't back out of, endlessly drawing Mingyu in towards you like he’s hopelessly locked in your orbit and cannot even think of breaking away. 

That kind of thing is near-impossible to replicate. But, if it’s for you…

“This time, I’ll get it,” he promises to the empty studio. His words ring about the room like a bell, reverent and full of conviction.

Mingyu looks down at your half-finished face, still rough around the edges, but the curve of your lips looking oh-so smooth. With a shaking hand, he traces over the shape of your mouth, imagining how soft your real lips would be, how the tip of his thumb would press into the plushness of it.

Would you let him press his lips to yours in this way? Would you accept such an act of devotion?

Or would you slip away from his grasp, elusive as moonlight, ghosting over his senses before disappearing without a trace?

He doesn’t know. He really doesn’t know.

Swallowing down his heart, Mingyu takes his hand away from your face, avoids your eyes, and carries on with his work.

fics tags: @jeonginssa @weird-bookworm @minhui896 @slytherinshua @haowrld @belladaises @moonlitskiiies @mirxzii @zozojella @kawennote09 @a-wandering-stay @abibliolife @wonranghaeee @icyminghao @sweet-like-caramel @your-yxnnie @odxrilove @kyeomyun @crackedpumpkin @kellesvt @eightlightstar @onlyyjeonghan @aaniag @starshuas @raevyng @isabellah29 @hrts4hanniehae @mcu-incorrect @dokyeomkyeom @suraandsugar @tulsa24 @melodicrabbit @dokyeomkyeom @hopeless-foolery

[le-fruit-de-la-passion]

Press One for Love, Two for Regret

Chapter 3

Summary: Proper confessions should never happen over the phone. Viktor knows that. So how did he get here?

Pairing: Viktor x Reader

Word Count: 5.3K

Warning: Mature (mentions of explicit content, explicit in last chapter)

Notes: Yup, this started from a silly lil 1K prompt, don't ask me what happened, I wouldn't be able to say either. This chapter is pretty heavy on feelings, self-reflection and angst, but I think y'all will find it enjoyable ❤️. There's one more chapter left (the SMUT yeehawww), but I've written chapter 3 in a way where you could technically stop reading the story here if you didn't want to read the smut, and it would still be a satisfying conclusion. I know most of you are in it for the smut too, so don't worry my beloveds, it will come 😛💕

(Chapter 1) (Chapter 2) (Chapter 4/End)

The humanities faculty room always smells horrible.

It's hard to tell where the pungent scent even comes from; it feels like it's in the air, in all the furniture, in the walls themselves. There's no window to even attempt to vent it out either; it’s in the oldest wing of the university, built at least sixty years prior to the construction of every other unit. Most teachers avoid it like the plague, preferring to work in any other available space on campus, so it's almost always empty.

But it isn't today.

“Melllll,” you moan, shoving your face into the leather couch’s pillows. The smell is somehow worse, imbued into the fabric. If you had to describe it, you would just call it old. Like rancid coffee forgotten on the kitchen counter for too long, or ancient damp books abandoned in an attic. Old. “Why do I always mess up everything I do?”

Mel looks up from the paper she's grading with a sigh, adjusting the small reading glasses on her nose.

“You don't mess up everything you do,” she argues softly. “You wear your heart on your sleeve, and you say what you think without feeling ashamed. That's not something for everyone, but it's not a flaw, either.”

You can only groan into the odorous leather as an answer.

Viktor had been your very first friend at work, but he had been a lot more. Without him, you would have never met Jayce, and without Jayce, you would have never met Mel. And you would have no one to cry your woes to on a Friday evening, a whole two weeks after the most disastrous phone call of your life.

“And I believe Viktor is equally at fault here. He knows better than to play hide and seek with you forever,” Mel hums pensively, crossing her legs. Her olive eyes narrow, her nose scrunching up slightly in thought.

“He's stalling, trying to figure a way out without confronting his feelings or yours. He's smart enough to know there isn't one, but he's stubborn,” she points out, tapping her manicured nails on the wooden table. Tic, tic. Like **the sound of seconds passing on the clock, never-ending and all-consuming.

At first, both Jayce Talis, mechanical engineering PhD and researcher, and Mel Medarda, political science PhD with five peer-reviewed books published under her name, had been two extremely imposing people to interact with. You already felt unworthy enough talking to Viktor, but after learning of the kind of people he usually hung out with, you felt like an absolute loser. Jayce and Mel are both unreasonably attractive and accomplished, and when Viktor joins them, there's no denying he belongs to their world, and not yours.

In those moments, the differences between the two of you seem much more glaring: the university professor with a collection of awards and a PhD in biomechanical engineering, who is dedicating his life to creating life-altering prosthetic limbs and transmitting his knowledge to a whole new generation of scientists… and you.

The guidance councillor who can't shut up.

It’s not that you're ashamed of your job; you love what you do. You love being able to help people figure themselves out, and orient them toward what will make them happiest.

But when you stand in the same space as Viktor, it's hard to see anything other than how much greater of a person he is than you will ever be. He's like a star in the sky, shining brighter and brighter every day, and you get the privilege of watching him through the lens of a telescope. That should already be enough for you to be satisfied.

But it isn’t, not anymore. It hasn't been for a long time. And you want to do so much more than look at him. You want to touch him. You want to kiss him. You want to be someone worthy of shining alongside him; but you never believed that would ever happen.

And for so long, it felt so much easier to just date people whose very existence didn't make you feel like you would never be enough to reach their ankle. People who just wanted something casual and meaningless, some sex, maybe the semblance of a romance. And that's how you ended up with a string of disastrous relationships with men you barely even liked.

You contort your body uncomfortably on the couch to face Mel; it squeaks awkwardly under you, like it's threatening to break.

“Did you know? Did everyone but me know?”

She rests her head on her hand, the hint of a smile on her lips, seemingly slightly amused by the question:

“Depends on who you mean by everyone. No one outside his circle of close friends, for sure. He's not the type to scream about his love life over the phone,” she adds with a teasing glim in her eyes. “No offence.”

You groan, shoving your face back into the roughed-up leather. God, it still smells.

“But Jayce did know,” she confirms, and you hear her straighten her chair to return to work. The comforting sound of her fountain pen starts up again, but you know she's still giving her conversation with your full attention. Mel is like that, able to carry on a hundred tasks at once without breaking a sweat; you wish you had an ounce of her composure.

“Viktor told him after he got drunk last year at the faculty cookout. I believe his exact words were…”

She pauses to do a dramatic imitation of Viktor's voice and tone, “‘Jayce, she is wearing that dress just to put me into an early grave’.”

Not only is it pretty accurate, but God, you know exactly what dress.

The skimpy little sunflower dress that you knew showed way too much chest for a work-related event. You had worn it in the hopes of eliciting any sort of reaction from Viktor; but he had barely spoken to you that afternoon, constantly vanishing every time you entered a room. You assumed you made him uncomfortable with something you said, like you always ended up doing with everyone else.

So you had left the party on the arm of some nameless T.A. from the law department, hoping it would help you forget Viktor, just for a while.

It hadn't.

“And I knew,” Mel continues smoothly in her regular voice, “because I know what it's like to want someone to notice you so badly. To want someone to love you back.”

You detect something very personal in the way she pronounces the word ‘love’, almost like it's painful to even say.

Mel rarely talks about herself, preferring to listen to the stories of everyone around her. Everything about her gives an air of mature confidence and independence, and if she ever has any issues in her personal life, she never shares them with you, or anyone that you know of.

She's not cold by any means, and she helps everyone with genuine care, that, you are absolutely certain of. But you can feel there's a side of her she desperately wants to keep to herself. She's only ever mentioned her mother once, in a drunken haze, muttering something under her breath about never being enough for her.

You wonder if that's the person who’s love she’s longing for.

When she speaks again, there is something akin to nostalgia lingering in her voice:

“You get that special look in your eyes. You both looked at each other just like that, but neither of you ever noticed.”

You open your mouth to say something, but nothing comes. Fucking ironic. You can never seem to stop talking, but now, the words you want to tell her just won't come.

Mel doesn't seem to mind, though, and the sound of pen scrapping paper picks up again. You force yourself out of your leather cavern, sitting up on the couch to look at her directly.

“…Why didn't you say anything?” you ultimately settle with, but it rings much more fragile and hurt than you wanted it to.

She gives a small shrug without looking away from her documents:

“Not my place to. Viktor needed to confront his feelings head-on, and you needed to realize you were never not enough or too much for him,” she states matter-of-factly, “It's that simple.”

Everything always seems so easy when it comes from Mel's lips. But in your mind, thoughts are jumbled, emotions are running wild, and everything you thought you knew about the last four years is falling apart.

Maybe, that time on New Year’s Eve when he told you there was no other place he'd rather be, he hadn't meant at the party. He had meant with you.

Maybe, when he had taken your hand, it wasn't just because you were excitedly counting down the last seconds until midnight. It was because he wanted to touch you just as much as you wanted to touch him.

Maybe, at the end of that night and in those early morning hours, when he had said you would make someone really happy one day…he was asking if it could be him.

“Maybe,” you **exhale bitterly, enunciating the world like a curse, “it would actually be simple if he just answered my texts, or my calls. Or anything I do to try and reach him.”

Yeah, you're to blame for being so blind for so long. For noticing the smallest things about everyone else, but missing all the signs when it came to him.

But so is he for refusing to talk about it now that you finally see it.

“At this point, I’m seriously starting to consider lock-picking their apartment,” you grumble, more in tiredness than anger; you can't even manage to stay mad at him for longer than a minute. “He’s the one who showed me how to do that, did I ever tell you that?”

She lets out a soft laugh at that; but when she glances over to you, there's a hint of something new in her eyes.

“I'm sure he would enjoy seeing you put your training to use, but there might be another way to see him. I think he's had more than enough time playing hide and seek.”

You know that glint in her forest-green stare; she knows something you don't, and she’s chosen to reveal it to you. You almost jump off the couch with your eyes wide, so quickly you almost lose your balance:

“Mel, what do I do?”

She snorts as she motions for you to sit back down with a calming wave of her hand, amusement clear on her face.

“Calm down. I wouldn't tell anyone about this normally,” she begins, lowering her voice in secrecy, as if you’re not the only two in the room, “and I want to make it very clear you did not receive this information from me.”

You nod eagerly in agreement, hanging on to her every word.

“Go to their apartment,” she declares with certainty. “If you keep going after their door and to the end of the corridor, there's a big potted plant on the window sill. An orchid.”

You frown in confusion.

You've only been to Viktor and Jayce's apartment a few times in the couple of years you've known them. Usually for relaxed group hangouts, or an occasional game night. You remember very little about it other than the all-consuming childish excitement of being in Viktor’s home, and the absolutely not innocent thought of his bedroom being barely a few feet away.

Why don't you ever remember the important things?

You try to muster every memory you have of the apartment complex itself instead; they live on the third floor, and their door is the second one on the right after the elevator. The hallway is a straight, narrow line, and you've noticed how dark it always is every time you’ve visited.

Dark, yes, that's right, because aside from a cheap light fixture, there’s only one window that lets any light into the hallway, at the very end of the corridor. One window, that is almost entirely blocked by the world's most decrepit potted plant.

“The… really ugly one?” you ask with uncertainty.

Mel snaps her fingers in confirmation, a hint of perfect pearly white teeth shining between her lips.

“I think you may find something of interest under it. Jayce told me about it for whenever I want to…” she hesitates on her next word, uncharacteristically a little bashful, “visit.”

Oh, you fucking knew it.

“I totally-” you start triumphantly.

“Yes, I know, you knew it for months,” she interrupts, waving her hand in dismissal. Her lower lip sticks out slightly, almost like she's pouting. You've never seen her this embarrassed. “It's incredible how you notice everything about everyone else, but when it's about you, you suddenly forget how to use your own eyes.”

Touché.

You've sensed it for at least a year now, the unspoken electricity between the two of them. How her arm sometimes lingers just a second too long on his shoulder, how his hands seem to always accidentally brush her waist. For as subtle as they were being, there was no mistaking the fire when they looked at each other.

Did Viktor ever look at you like that, too?

Why hadn't you ever noticed?

“Wait, wait,” you interrupt your own train of thought. “The orchid. Why is the orchid…”

You pause when the realization hits you like a bucket of cold water.

Oh.

Oh.

“Do… do they have a set of keys under the orchid?” you ask slowly.

“I didn't say that,” Mel says, bringing her two hands up in self-defence; but the smile lingering on her lips tells another story. “And if you say I did, I will deny it and throw you under the bus with every inch of my power as the advisor for the debate club. Are we clear?”

You could kiss her.

You settle with a tight hug, holding her with as much force as you can muster. The scent of her perfume, bitter and floral, masks the decrepit smell of the room for just a moment. Is there any problem Mel can’t solve?

“Mel, you're the best,” you grin against her ear.

“So I'm told,” she hums. She gently detaches herself from the hug, giving you an encouraging pat on the shoulder. “Now go. I don't like seeing you mop around my teacher's lounge, and I can't stand when Viktor performs his little disappearing act instead of talking things out.”

She picks her pen back up, giving you one last genuine look of support, voice soft, sincere: “You two are really meant for each other. Give him hell.”

—

Viktor is much less attentive than people give him credit for.

That’s not to say he’s oblivious or careless. In fact, when it comes to his work, he could instantly notice a tenth of a millimeter discrepancy from a mile away. He could hear the slightest abnormal murmur in the heart of any machine, and pinpoint its exact origin within seconds. Throw a blindfold on top, and he'd still know exactly where to place each and every single component of his prosthetic models.

But when it comes to the world outside his lab, his attention to detail just plummets.

If a bomb went off right outside his apartment, he probably wouldn't even look up from his notes. Jayce usually has to call his name thrice to pull him out of the trance-like state he gets into when he's sketching up a new idea, and that's only because he's used to Jayce's voice; for someone else, he might not hear it at all.

Even walking home from campus, he pays no attention to his surroundings, lost in his thoughts of valves, hydraulic cylinders, and flexion plates. He mechanically follows the same path he's walked thousands of times, a habit so ingrained in him it allows him to fully disconnect and think of nothing but work.

He's glad he has such a strong grip on his own mind, because if he didn't, he would let his practical ideations slowly morph into thoughts of nothing but you. You, who he hasn't seen in two weeks, because he likes to pretend change can't happen if he simply refuses to acknowledge it. It's much better to focus on what he actually has control over, to lose himself entirely in the things that make sense to him. To forget the world burning around him.

And that's exactly why he doesn't realize you’re in his apartment, sitting on his couch about ten feet away from him, until you make a pointed cough to signal your presence.

“Ah,” is the only thing he manages to get out.

He wishes he'd be surprised, but then again, he knew you would find your way to him eventually. He could keep trying to bury himself in work and avoid you with every inch of his power, you would not stop until you got answers to your questions. You’re just as stubborn as he is. That's part of why he fell for you.

So, there's nothing he can do, but let out a defeated sigh.

“I would ask how you got in here,” he starts flatly, taking off his coat robotically to place it on the hanger, “but I have a feeling it doesn't really matter.”

You don't react to his distant, tired tone, your expressive face unusually devoid of emotion when you speak.

“I didn't use your lockpicking lessons, if you're wondering.”

He can't help but snort at that:

“Disappointing.”

You both stay silent as he slowly takes off his boots and removes his wool scarf. The atmosphere isn't exactly awkward, but it's not comfortable either. Like a cheap, stiff version of the warm intimacy you usually share.

You've always been so easy to read, and anything that didn't show on your face always came from your lips. He always knows how you feel: he's observed every single expression on your face, from the slightest pout to the biggest grin, and committed it to memory with the dedication he only ever puts into his projects.

From the day you literally crashed in his life four years ago, utterly drunk and analyzing him with astonishing accuracy, he's felt the need to analyze you, too. To decipher every part of you, understand each component, each reaction. He craved the idea of knowing you like a cartographer knows the maps of the world, like an astronomer knows the place of every star. To understand you as you had understood him, with a single glance.

Right now, he has no idea what you're thinking.

In typical fashion, you're the one who ultimately breaks the ice first:

“You could kick me out,” you declare, staring him down almost challengingly. “I'll leave if you really want me to.”

There's clear apprehension and hurt in your voice, a bitterness you're trying your best to hide, but failing. He despises being the one to make you feel that way. He's become no better than any of your exes.

“We both know I won't do that,” he exhales. He's still standing in the entryway, just a few steps away from the threshold of the living room. There's no hiding anymore, no backing out. You're here, and he has to face you. Even if it breaks him.

“In the kitchen, second drawer on the left,” he says, making his way inside resignedly. “There's a rather large bread knife inside it. It hasn't been sharpened in a while, but it should do.”

Your passive expression falls for a second and you stare at him in confusion.

“Do for what?” you ask, eyebrow raised.

“Killing me to spare us both the embarrassment of this conversation,” he answers unenthusiastically.

You're the one who snorts, this time. If he could forget why you're here, he could almost pretend this is just a regular talk between close friends. Almost.

You get off the couch without hurry, stretching your limbs lazily; he wonders if you've been waiting for him for a while. You're still in your usual work clothes, but your hair is dishevelled, and your makeup is a bit smudged. Had these been different circumstances, this would be the kind of look he would imagine you in when he's alone in bed, but that's exactly the kind of treacherous impulse that's led him to this situation in the first place.

There's a strange shimmer in your eyes when you look at him again:

“You got any booze in that kitchen ?”

He’s starting to realize no matter how many years you give him, he’ll probably never be able to completely figure out what's going on in that brain of yours.

“You want to drink. Right now,” he states in disbelief.

You shrug:

“Seems like you listened to me when I was drunk last time. Maybe that'll get your attention again.”

There's an undeniable bitterness under the light sarcasm. It's deserved, frankly. And maybe a drink would make what's inevitably coming less difficult.

“First cabinet to the right. You can take the clear unlabeled bottle,” he offers.

You hum in approval, making your way to the kitchen without looking back at him. He makes his way to the couch, sitting at the opposite end of where you had been.

You come back with the bottle in one hand, and two mismatched shot glasses in the other. One is his, a souvenir from an academic conference in Marseilles; the silver lettering simply states ‘Ainsi va la vie’, ‘such is life’. He has to wonder if you chose it on purpose, to taunt him.

Although, the other one is Jayce's, and it's shaped like the torso of a woman with huge breasts in a bikini top with the colours of his old college. So it's equally as likely you just grabbed the first ones you found.

He always overthinks when he's anxious.

You put the three items down on the rectangular table in front of him, before sinking into the couch next to him. Your bodies aren't touching, shoulders an adequate distance from each other, but the proximity is still unnerving. The smell of your perfume, usually so comforting, makes him feel slightly ill.

You pour the alcohol into the shot glasses unhurriedly, progressively filling them both to the brim.

“Did you know Mel and Jayce are together?” you ask, not looking up from your task.

“Unfortunately so,” he mutters sourly.

You pause at that, perplexed.

“No, that is not what I meant, I am very happy for them,” he clarifies quickly. “But their decision to keep it a secret has been rather… precarious for me.”

You slide a glass towards him and give him a smile; the first one of the day, the first one in two weeks.

“You walked in on them fucking, didn't you?”

He groans, and you laugh. God, he missed that sound.

“I have never been more embarrassed in my entire life,” he complains, wrapping his hand around the shot glass. He notices with gratitude it's the plain one and not its heavily endowed sibling. “Being able to run had never seemed more appealing.”

You grab your own glass, the smile on your lips genuine, but fragile. The words still left unsaid hang above you both, and he's forced to remember this is but a moment of respite before everything falls apart.

“Maybe a drink will help you forget,” you joke, holding up the glass in his direction.

How he wishes it would.

“Maybe, maybe not,” he simply answers, bringing his glass to yours until they hit with a light clink. “Cheers.”

Your gaze holds his captive as you speak, like you're reaching into the depths of his very being.

“Na zdravià.”

You throw your head back and down the shot before he has time to voice his surprise, so he does the same, not wanting to break the unspoken rules of the toast; his ancestors would roll in their graves.

The liquid burns his throat almost instantly, the familiar warmth of alcohol settling into his body. It’s strong, powerful, but there’s a recognizable hint of plum and almonds that's comforting to him.

He can’t help a discreet, fond smile as your face scrunches from the sharp taste.

“I-I don't think I've ever had that before,” you cough out, your eyes slightly watery. It's endearing that no matter how much you drink, you never seem to build a tolerance to the sting of strong spirits.

“Slivovice. Plum brandy. The homemade ones are noticeably sharper than what they sell in stores here. Although… perhaps not as legal.”

You let out an amused cough, wiping away any tears before they get the chance to fall, smudging your mascara even more. But you're still smiling at him, decided, bold, never letting yourself be defeated by anything. It's like he's falling for you all over again in that single moment, outside of time and space.

Even in his darkest moments, when all else crumbles, you remain the unwavering light he can always find in the sky.

“I am a little surprised you remembered how to say that,” he admits softly.

What he had meant as a compliment seems to come off as a reproach in your eyes, and the smile falls, ending the magic of the instant.

“It may not always look like it, but I listen to you, Viktor,” you mumble, hurt. “I'm not an idiot, either.”

“I did not mean to imply-” he protests, but the words die in his throat. He opens his mouth by reflex, before closing it again; the sentence lingers incomplete in the air.

“…Why did you hang up?”

Here it is.

“Ah, so we're jumping into the questioning already. Alright,” he sighs. He chooses to stare at the bottom of his empty glass to avoid seeing your reaction. It's pitiful, but it'll spare him some of the pain and embarrassment. “I did not want to listen to what you would say, this once. I was scared if I heard your answer, it would all be real. Unchangeable.”

Change. Viktor had never been scared of the concept before. Change means something new, passing from one state to another, an evolution. It means progress. Nothing could ever be as gratifying, as glorious, as making the changes you want to see in the world.

But he didn't want you to change. He wanted you to stay just as you are, always excitedly talkative and brilliantly observant. Always shinning. A star brighter than any other, that could never fade no matter how the world treated her.

Revealing his feelings for you would have put that in harm’s way. You might think he had never truly been interested in your conversations, in all those ideas and words you feel so self-conscious about, and lose the trust you had in him as a friend.

He couldn't take that risk.

“So… you avoided me for two weeks ?” you scoff in disbelief.

He lets out a short, bitter laugh:

“I would have attempted longer if you did not break into my apartment.”

The poor attempt at a joke doesn't seem to land very well with either of you. The atmosphere feels still and heavy, the strange tension palpable.

“Ok,” you exhale, leaning your head back against the back of the couch. “You can ask me a question now.”

He glances at you in surprise:

“A question? Why?”

“So it's equal. I ask you one, you ask me one,” you explain simply, like it's the most basic rule of conversation in the world. “I haven't been attentive to what you were trying to tell me, for a long time. I need to change that.”

He hesitates for a second. There's a lot he wants to ask you. Had things been different, would you ever have considered him as someone you could fall for? If he could change the timing, the place, the words, would anything have made it so you could have loved him?

“You read people so easily,” he almost whispers. “I always assumed you knew how felt for you, but were too nice to tell me off. That you did not want to break what we had.”

It’s time. It's time for change. There is no other choice than to move forward. He continues:

“I am… sorry that I fell in love with you.”

Ah…

The weight seems slightly lighter on his chest. It's not a good feeling, exactly, but there's a certain peace that comes with finally having said it.

The expression on your face is yet again one he doesn't recognize.

“I'm not. I’m not sorry, Viktor,” you breathe out, hardly any louder than his respiration.

Your hand touches his, just barely, and he flinches, pulling away. But you refuse to back off. You reach for him again, your fingers timidly touching his own.

“Maybe I did know, in a way,” you reflect, a single digit moving across his knuckles, the ghost of a caress, “but I wouldn't let myself believe it. I didn't want to lose the only person I’ve ever felt wanted to listen to me. So… I stopped listening to my instincts, I guess.”

You let out a shaky laugh.

“I talk all the goddamn time and I don't even listen to myself.”

He turns his hand around, letting your index trace the lines of his palm instead.

“A fortune teller who can't read her own cards,” he teases gently. “Ironic.”

You scoff with a smile; your fingers intertwine, tentative.

“You're one to talk, asshole,” you huff playfully, “the big smart professor who can't figure out when someone is in love with him.”

His heart stops beating in his chest.

“Ah. You... you lo-” he stops himself before finishing his sentence, scared of pronouncing the word. He takes a shaky breath before he attempts again: “You feel the same way I…?”

He leaves the question open. He's still hesitant to make it real. Of saying the words that'll shift things. Because damn it, yes, Viktor is scared of change when it comes to you.

“I’m in love with you, Viktor,” you smile, like it's the most natural thing in the world. “Did the part where I broke into your apartment just to talk to you not give that away?”

What a strange feeling. He's dreamed of hearing those words from your mouth for so long, never believing they would, and yet it feels so right. As if you had told him a thousand times before this moment.

Maybe you had, in your own way.

He squeezes your hand, the sensation of your skin against his making it all feel impossibly real.

“I suppose we're both idiots,” he sighs gently, eyes locking into yours. “The blind oracle, and the clueless teacher. What a dynamic duo we make.”

Your forehead meets his, your nose just barely tickling his.

“I'd say we make a good duo. You and me,” you grin. You're so close he can feel the warmth of your breath on his lips. He smiles.

“I'd say so as well.”

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