#equal parts dread and excitement!! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

seospicybin · 4 months ago

Text

TASTE.

CHAPTER I: PIQUANT.

Lee Know x reader. (s,a)

TASTE MASTERLIST

Synopsis: When Minho is hired as the head chef of Farfalle, a prestigious Italian restaurant, expectations are high for him to elevate its reputation and bring it to new heights. However, no one anticipates the drastic changes he implements in the kitchen—including his strict rule that that there'll be no women and no romance in his kitchen. (15,3k words)

Author's note: It's my first fic series this year so pls enjoy it and don't be shy to share your thoughts on it ♡

Piquant. /ˈpikənt/ , /piˈkɑnt/ adj. 1. having a pleasantly strong or spicy taste 2. interesting and exciting, especially because of being mysterious.

Farfalle was more than a restaurant—it was an institution.

Nestled in the heart of city’s bustling upscale district, the Italian fine dining establishment stood as a beacon of culinary excellence. With its pristine white façade adorned with golden lettering, it was a destination where food enthusiasts and critics alike gathered to experience the extraordinary. Inside, chandeliers sparkled like constellations above the polished marble floors, while the soft hum of conversation merged with the clinking of crystal glasses and the soothing notes of classical Italian music.

For years, Farfalle had been celebrated not just for its impeccable dishes but for its unwavering commitment to authenticity. Each plate told a story—one of passion, precision, and tradition. The handmade pastas, aged Parmigiano, and imported olive oils were matched only by the artistry of the chefs who brought them to life.

Yet, behind the glamour of the dining room, the kitchen was a battlefield. The restaurant’s reputation rested on a relentless pursuit of perfection, and the pressure to uphold its Michelin star weighed heavily on the staff. Every dish was scrutinized, every garnish meticulously placed, and every mistake unforgivable.

But this year marked the start of something new—a transition that sent ripples through the culinary world. Farfalle’s long-time head chef had retired, leaving behind a legacy that seemed impossible to surpass. The news of his replacement had been met with equal parts excitement and trepidation.

Enter Lee Minho.

The name alone was enough to spark both awe and dread. A man renowned for his uncompromising standards and fiery temper, Chef Lee’s reputation preceded him. Some called him a genius; others called him impossible. And now, he was poised to take Farfalle into uncharted territory.

As the restaurant prepared for his arrival, the staff whispered in hushed tones, speculating about what the new head executive chef would bring—or destroy. Would he preserve Farfalle’s legacy? Or would he tear it apart to rebuild it in his own image?

Only time would tell.

Minho adjusts the cuffs of his tailored coat, standing across the street from Farfalle. The restaurant glows like a jewel in the night, its golden lettering catching the soft light of the streetlamps. A small line of well-dressed patrons stretches from the door, their faces a mix of excitement and impatience. Even from here, he hears the faint hum of life—clinking glasses, muted laughter, and the occasional burst of chatter.

He doesn’t need to step inside to know the kind of experience Farfalle offers. The meticulous exterior, the perfectly aligned tables glimpsed through the window, the hushed efficiency of the servers—it all speaks to a restaurant accustomed to excellence. Yet, as his sharp eyes scan every detail, his mind already races with ideas.

The plating could be more dynamic. The menu, from what he’s seen online, needs innovation without losing its roots. And the staff? Well, he’ll find out soon enough if they can match his standards. If not, he’ll shape them into what he needs—or replace them altogether.

Minho crosses his arms, the corner of his mouth twitching in thought. He can see why Farfalle is revered, but to him, it’s still just a canvas. A blank slate ready for his brushstrokes. He has no intention of simply maintaining its legacy; he intends to redefine it.

A gust of wind sweeps through the street, carrying the aroma of freshly baked bread and roasted garlic. The dinner rush is in full swing, and the kitchen must be at its peak intensity. His fingers itch to walk in, to observe the chaos, to see how the staff functions under pressure. But he knows better than to intrude during service.

“Not the time,” he mutters, shoving his hands into his coat pockets.

He lets his gaze drift down the street. The nightlife in the area seems just as vibrant as the restaurant itself. Neon signs flicker above bars and clubs, and the sound of music spills out into the crisp evening air.

With a final glance over his shoulder at Farfalle, Minho makes his decision. “Let them have their dinner rush. I’ll see it when it matters.”

He strides down the street, blending into the flow of people, his thoughts shifting to the possibilities awaiting him in the city’s nightlife.

Minho wanders the streets for nearly an hour before he finds what he’s been looking for—a bar tucked away from the chaos of the city’s nightlife. The dimly lit sign above the door reads Ambra, and the soft jazz drifting from inside piques his interest.

Stepping in, Minho instantly knows he’s made the right choice. The bar is intimate, with low lighting and leather seating that exudes understated elegance. The hum of quiet conversations fills the space, blending seamlessly with the music. Shelves stocked with an impressive selection of liquors line the wall behind the counter, and the bartender moves with practiced precision.

Minho takes a seat at the bar, orders a beer, and leans back to absorb the atmosphere. It’s rare for him to feel this at ease, but tonight, he allows himself to indulge. The first glass goes down quickly, a refreshing antidote to the brisk evening air. By the time he’s nursing his second, he feels a satisfying warmth settle over him.

After a while, he slides off his stool and heads to the restroom. When he returns, however, he stops in his tracks.

Someone’s taken his seat.

You.

You’re perched on the stool, casually sipping a drink, your posture radiating effortless confidence. Minho narrows his eyes as he approaches.

“That’s my seat,” he says, his tone clipped and direct.

You glance at him, unfazed. With the faintest of smirks, you take another sip. “So what if it is?”

Minho raises an eyebrow, the intensity of his gaze sharpening. Most people would flinch under the weight of it, but you remain completely indifferent, your calm demeanor only intriguing him further.

He stares at you for a moment longer, his mind tugging at a strange sense of familiarity. “Have we met before?” he asks, tilting his head slightly. “You’re not an actress or a model, are you?”

The corner of your mouth twitches, and you let out a soft chuckle. “Why? Do I look like one?”

“Something like that,” he replies, his voice steady, his gaze unwavering. “Or maybe I’ve seen you somewhere.”

You lean in, just enough for him to catch the faint scent of your perfume and the warmth of your breath. Your voice drops to a playful murmur. “Maybe you saw me in your dreams.”

For a moment, Minho blinks, caught off guard by the audacity of your response. Then, to his own surprise, he laughs quietly.

“Is that so?” he says, his lips curving into the faintest of smirks.

You lean back, returning to your drink as if nothing happened. But Minho doesn’t take his eyes off you. There’s something about the way you carry yourself that keeps him hooked, an unshakable confidence that challenges him in a way he’s not used to.

“What’s your name?” he asks, his voice soft but insistent.

You glance at him, taking your time as you swirl the liquid in your glass. “Why? Do you need it to keep dreaming?”

His smirk deepens, his curiosity growing. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m interested in making it a reality.”

You study him for a moment, your gaze unwavering as you sip your drink. Then, with deliberate slowness, you set your glass down and tilt your head. “What exactly are you suggesting?”

Minho doesn’t hesitate. “Come with me. Let’s see if your theory holds up.”

The corner of your lips curves into a smile. You take another sip, letting the moment stretch out. Finally, you set your glass down and rise from the stool, brushing past him as you head for the door.

Minho follows, his interest piqued more than ever.

The elevator ride is quiet, but the air between you and Minho crackles with unspoken tension. Minho keeps his hands in his pockets, stealing quick glances at you when he thinks you’re not looking. You, however, seem entirely at ease, leaning casually against the elevator wall, your lips curved in a faint, knowing smile.

When the doors slide open on his floor, Minho leads the way, his steps purposeful but unhurried. His hotel room is at the end of the hallway, and the sound of his keycard beeping against the lock breaks the silence.

He glances at you, the faintest flicker of uncertainty crossing his sharp features, but it’s gone in an instant. The door clicks open, and he steps back, gesturing for you to enter first.

You flash him a smile—one that’s more challenging than polite—and step inside. The room is spacious but sterile, the kind of impersonal luxury that defines high-end hotels. Warm, ambient lighting softens the edges of the modern furnishings, and the faint hum of the city outside seeps through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Minho trails behind, quietly closing the door as his eyes follow your every movement. You take in the space, walking slowly, your fingers grazing the back of the leather armchair by the window. It’s a room meant for passing through, a temporary refuge, but tonight, it feels charged with possibility.

Turning around, you face him, your gaze locking onto his. The intensity in your eyes mirrors his own, and for a moment, neither of you speaks.

The silence stretches, taut and electric, until you break it. Your voice is low and laced with challenge. “So… are you ready to make your dream come true?”

Minho exhales softly, his lips curving into a slow, deliberate smirk. He takes a step closer, his eyes never leaving yours. “That depends,” he says, his voice rich with quiet confidence. “Are you?”

You hold his gaze, letting the tension simmer between you, a charged pause filled with unspoken promises. You move toward the bed, each step deliberate, each motion radiating quiet confidence. You climb onto the bed without hesitation, settling back against the pillows with an air of unshakable ease. His eyes follow the slow arch of your movements as you stretch out, your gaze locking onto his with an almost defiant intrigue.

You tilt your head slightly, one leg bending at the knee as your skirt shifts, revealing a whisper of lace beneath. The soft, seductive curve of your lips carries a challenge as you murmur, “Come. Make your dreams come true.”

A faint smirk tugs at the corner of Minho’s lips, sharper on one side than the other. His dark eyes glimmer with something dangerous, something intent, as he steps forward with measured precision. His gaze never wavers, a simmering intensity that would make most crumble—but you hold it, your calm composure only fueling his fascination.

He reaches the bed and leans down, his hands braced on either side of you, caging you in without touching. His breath is warm against your cheek, the closeness of his presence a magnetic pull. You feel the weight of his gaze as it lingers on your face, searching, daring you to falter.

But you don’t.

Minho leans over you, bracing one hand on the mattress beside your head, the other sliding gently along your jaw. His thumb brushes your skin, a touch that sends sparks down your spine. He’s so close now that his breath mingles with yours, warm and tantalizing.

You don’t break the gaze, your lips curving into the faintest of smiles as if to challenge him further. Minho takes the bait, his smirk fading into something darker, something more intent. He closes the distance, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that’s slow at first, deliberate, testing.

His mouth moves against yours with a growing fervor, each kiss deeper, more demanding than the last. His hand shifts, trailing down to your waist, pulling you closer as his weight settles beside you. The heat between you builds, your breaths quickening as the world outside the room fades to nothing.

You feel his fingers brush against the fabric of your skirt, his touch firm yet unhurried, as though he’s savoring the moment. His lips leave yours briefly, trailing down to your jaw, then your neck, each kiss igniting a fire that spreads through you.

Minho lets the silence stretch for just a moment longer before his hand trails down, finding your bent knee. With a touch that’s both deliberate and unhurried, he lifts your leg slightly, tilting it closer to him. His lips graze the soft skin of your thigh, leaving a slow trail of kisses that climb higher with every breath.

The air between you grows heavier, the atmosphere charged and electric. You sense the shift as his focus sharpens, his movements deliberate yet unspoken, the tension between you nearly tangible.

Minho finally dips his head lower, the closeness of his breath on your clothed core igniting a fire along your skin. You close your eyes briefly, caught in the moment, every action a silent promise of what’s to come.

Taking you off guard, Minho tugs the fabric of your underwear between his teeth and drags it down your legs until it's off of you. Nothing is getting in his way now but before that, he shot you a menacing look before planting his mouth on your cunt, taking the first step in making his dream comes true.

Minho is wrong to think that he's the one who won't be easily satisfied tonight. You're on all fours, taking it well even though he is going as hard as he can, the skin slapping sounds echoing in the room louder than the lewd noises spilling out of your parted mouth.

“Harder, harder,” you repeatedly say between your moans. You're barely holding on, your hands are gripping the sheet under you, your legs trembling, a sheen of sweat coated your skin yet Minho finds it hot that you're asking for me.

Minho grabs a fistful of your hair and gently tugs at it, using it to tilt your head to the back, allowing him to plant ferocious kisses on your neck. He then presses his mouth to your ear and whispers. “Harder, huh?”

You slightly turn your head to the side to meet his gaze. “Harder,” you simply say back to him.

Hearing you saying that with a commanding yet seductive tone, he feels challenged. He grips each side of your hips, hard enough his nails digging into the flesh and he takes a second of break before launching himself into you, harder than before.

Your moans grow louder so you plant your head onto the pillow to try muffle it, your hands are now holding the side of the pillow like it's your lifeline.

Minho lowers his mouth on your back shoulder, placing kisses with his teeth faintly scraping your skin. “Isn't it what you want, huh? I'm giving it to you.”

He adds speed to his thrusts and the intensity of his movements make the bed quakes along with it. At first, he thought you were just being greedy but fuck, you're taking it so well.

“You're close, huh?” Minho murmurs with his eyes fixated on the way his cock slipping in and out of you.

He lowers himself until his chest meets yours and putting his arms around your waist, he plants his mouth on your shoulder as he takes you with him, kneeling on the bed. His muscular, veiny arms wrapped around you, keeping you steady as he keeps thrusting into you despite you're on the brink of climaxing.

You tilt your head to the back, letting it drops onto Minho’s shoulder, your moans grow low and hoarse as you're closing in on your high.

Minho silently holds back himself from getting carried by the way your fluttering around him but he likes it, oh, the way you sucking him deeper into you. There’s nothing like it, he's enjoying every second of being inside you. His hands wander your sensuous body as you're relishing your orgasm. He catches you smiling with your eyes closed and satisfaction painted on your face, nothing arouse him more than realizing that he made you like that.

“That good, mmh?” his lips graze your ear as he speaks.

When he thought that you couldn't impress him more, you turn around and push him hard until he collapses onto the bed. He props an elbow but your hand pressed to his chest, gesturing him to stay down.

You slyly smile as you hover above him, your eyes filled with mischief as you say. “Now, I'll make your dream comes true.”

It's like you’re not tired or spent at all from the previous session. You're bouncing on his cock with both of your hands firmly resting on his chest as support and when you get tired, you're switching to rolling your hips back and forth at a painstakingly slow motions.

“I can see that you like that more,” you murmur, now rolling your hips in circular motions, earning low grunts from Minho.

He thinks it's not just about the way you're fucking him but it's also the way you're enjoying doing it to him. The sly smile never strays away from your face, provoking him but at the same time, arousing him so much that he knows his high is close, too damn close that it happens without him realizing it.

By the time he knows he’s cumming, he finds himself gripping your thighs as you keep moving, slowly and deliberately, teasing his sensitive cock as it's filling the condom with his seed.

Throwing all of your hair to the side, you lower yourself on him until your lips meet in a rapturous kiss that keeps Minho floating on cloud nine. You continue peppering his face and neck with kisses, you prop an elbow next to his head, just staring at his face with that crooked smile lingering on your pretty face.

“So, how does it feel now that you dream came true?”

Minho closes his eyes and blissfully smiles, he then shakes his head. When he opens his eyes, they instantly found yours. He hastily kisses your lips before speaking, “But it’s not the end of the dream yet.”

The soft shuffle of footsteps pulls Minho from sleep, his body reluctant to stir. He groans quietly, his eyes heavy with the weight of lingering exhaustion. Cracking them open, he squints at the faint glow of the city lights filtering through the curtains. It’s still dark out—far too early for his liking.

He turns his head, catching sight of you moving around the room, your bare silhouette outlined in the dim light. You’re bent slightly, picking up your clothes from the floor, the soft rustle of fabric filling the quiet space.

Minho watches, saying nothing, his gaze following the fluid movements of your body. There’s a magnetic pull in the way you carry yourself, confident and unhurried. He wants to call out to you, ask you to come back to bed, but the words stay lodged in his throat.

You step into your underwear, sliding the fabric up with practiced ease before reaching for your bra. Minho’s eyes trace the lines of your figure as you fasten it behind your back, your fingers deft and steady. Next comes your skirt, which you pull up with a casual swing of your hips.

Turning around, you catch his gaze, a flicker of amusement dancing in your eyes when you realize he’s awake.

He shifts slightly, propping himself up on one elbow. His voice is rough with sleep as he asks, “So when can I see you again?”

Your lips curve into a playful smile, your demeanor coy as you tilt your head slightly.

“Do you have plans tomorrow?” Minho tries another way.

You remain coy and continue buttoning up your blouse, a small smile tugging at your lips as you look at him.

“Why are you hesitating? You're supposed to refuse on the first time,” he teases.

“I'll be working,” you simply answer.

“What time you get off work?”

You tuck your shirt into your skirt. “I would only be free at night.”

Minho tilts his head to the side, slightly narrowing his eyes as he asks you, “At what time?”

“Around midnight.”

Minho’s eyes narrow slightly, his curiosity piqued, but he doesn’t press further. He can tell you’re not one to be cornered easily, and there’s something about the mystery that only draws him in more.

“There's only one thing a man and a woman could do together at that time,” his voice filled with playful lilt as he's sitting up on the bed and sending the duvet slides down his shoulders, exposing his bare upper half body.

Getting no response from you, Minho scoots closer to the edge of the bed. “I guess you find me attractive. You didn't turn me down once.”

His eyes are commanding as he searches for yours and won't stop until you hold his gaze. “I'll see you around midnight at the same bar then. Not tonight or tomorrow, but the day after. Let's say you turned me down for tonight and tomorrow. Okay?”

You slip on your jacket, adjusting it with a quick, practiced motion before walking toward the door. Pausing with your hand on the handle, you glance back at him, your smile softening just a fraction.

“You’ll see me soon enough,” you say simply, your voice carrying an ease that lingers in the air long after you’re gone.

The door clicks shut behind you, leaving Minho in the quiet stillness of the room. He exhales slowly, running a hand through his tousled hair. A faint smirk tugs at the corner of his lips as he stares at the spot where you stood, already thinking of the next time he might see you again.

The faint hum of kitchen appliances fills the early morning quiet at Farfalle. Minho arrives even earlier than expected, the weight of his position settling into his steps. He walks through the restaurant as if already claiming it. His first stop is the dining hall.

The soft morning light filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the elegant tables adorned with pristine white linens. He takes note of the layout—the alignment of tables, the polish of the silverware, and the sparkle of the glassware. It’s all flawless, but Minho already imagines ways to elevate it further.

His steps lead him to the heart of the restaurant: the kitchen. The air inside is cool, the silence only broken by the occasional clatter of utensils and the low murmurs of the few staff already prepping for the day. Heads turn as he strides in, his presence commanding attention even without an introduction. He doesn’t offer a word of explanation, his sharp gaze enough to unnerve those caught staring too long.

Minho moves through the space, examining the stations, the organization of the pantry, the sheen—or lack thereof—on the stoves. Every detail is cataloged in his mind. A few whispers ripple through the staff.

“Who is he?”

“Is that the new head chef?”

“He looks... intense.”

By the time the morning briefing begins, everyone is assembled in the main kitchen. The restaurant manager, Mr. Oh, clears his throat to silence the chatter.

“Good morning, everyone. As you all know, we’ve been in search of a new head chef to lead this kitchen. Today, I’m pleased to introduce the person who will be taking Farfalle to new heights.” Mr. Oh gestures to Minho, who steps forward with a composed, almost cold demeanor.

“This is Chef Lee Minho.”

Minho scans the room, his gaze sharp and assessing. “Good morning,” he says, his voice low but carrying an edge that commands respect. “Before we begin, I’d like to get to know the team I’ll be working with. Introduce yourselves—name and position.”

One by one, the staff steps forward.

“Seo Jun, Sous Chef, Meat Station.”

“Ha Yura, Sous Chef, Pasta Line.”

Each introduction is met with a brief nod from Minho, his expression unreadable.

Then it’s your turn. Dressed in your white chef’s attire with your hair tucked neatly under a bandana, you look like any other member of the team. Minho’s gaze briefly skims over you before moving on, but when you step forward and speak, something halts him.

“I'm in the pasta Line.”

Your voice is calm, but there’s a teasing lilt to it. His eyes snap back to you, narrowing slightly as recognition flickers across his face. You meet his gaze, a knowing smile tugging at your lips. The same lips he kissed the night before.

Minho’s jaw tightens imperceptibly. He feels the faintest twinge of disappointment—mixed with intrigue. You’re not just someone who caught his attention for one night. You’re one of his chefs. His interest deepens, but it’s complicated now, tangled in a dynamic he can’t control.

You hold his stare with a confidence that unsettles him. It’s clear you’re enjoying his momentary lapse, the way his usually steady composure falters just slightly.

“Welcome to Farfalle, Chef Lee,” you say smoothly, the faintest hint of amusement in your tone.

Minho recovers quickly, masking his thoughts behind his usual cold demeanor. “Thank you,” he replies, his voice clipped. He moves on to the next introduction, but the tension lingers, thick and unspoken.

The rest of the briefing passes without incident, but as the team disperses to begin their tasks, Minho’s thoughts remain on you. He can’t decide whether this is a cruel twist of fate or a challenge he’s strangely eager to face. Either way, it’s clear to him: working in this kitchen just got a lot more complicated.

The kitchen hums with quiet activity, a low symphony of clinking utensils and running water. The scent of freshly chopped herbs lingers in the air as you wipe down your station, the stainless steel gleaming under the fluorescent lights. You’re focused, meticulous, ensuring every corner of your workspace is spotless before the chaos of service begins.

From the corner of your eye, you notice Minho entering the kitchen. Dressed in his crisp chef's coat, he radiates authority, his steps deliberate and measured as he takes in the environment he now commands. He doesn’t say anything at first, but you can feel his gaze on you.

You glance up, catching his eyes. His expression shifts, a playful smirk curling the corner of his lips.

“When you said we’d meet again soon,” he begins, his voice low and teasing, “I didn’t think you meant here. In this kitchen of all places.”

You lean casually against the counter, resting a hand on your hip. “And here I thought you’d be glad to see me again.”

His smirk deepens, but his eyes remain unreadable. “Should I be?”

“You tell me,” you counter, tilting your head slightly. “Or did you regret meeting me that night?”

Minho pauses, letting the silence stretch. His gaze lingers on you, as if weighing his response carefully. Then, with a faint chuckle, he shakes his head. “How could I regret it?”

You raise an eyebrow at his answer, sensing there’s more he’s about to add.

“But,” he continues, his tone dropping just enough to send a subtle chill through the air, “something tells me you’ll regret meeting me here.”

His smirk turns sharper, more menacing, as he flashes a smile that feels like a warning. He doesn’t give you a chance to respond before turning away and walking to the chef’s table at the center of the kitchen.

Minho surveys the area, his sharp eyes missing nothing as he settles into his position of authority. The chef’s table, positioned strategically for both observation and action, will serve as his command post. Every dish will pass through him, every detail scrutinized to ensure it meets his exacting standards before it leaves the kitchen.

One by one, the rest of the kitchen staff begins to trickle in. The chatter picks up as stations are claimed and preparations continue. Knives flash as vegetables are diced with precision, and the air grows warmer as the stoves are fired up.

By the time the restaurant opens, the kitchen is a hive of activity. Minho stands at the helm, his arms crossed as he observes his team. His sharp gaze flicks from one chef to the next, silently assessing their movements and demeanor.

“There’s this nervousness when waiting for the first order. But there’s always happiness when empty plates return so just relax and continue what you have been doing before.”

“Yes, chef!” everyone replies in unison with a hint of excitement in their voices.

The sound of the printing machine cuts through the hum of the kitchen, signaling the arrival of the first order. The staff pauses, their eyes darting to the small slip of paper as it prints out.

“Shall we start?” Minho’s voice cuts through the tension like a knife, steady and authoritative. “Table number four. One Grancio, one porcini, two fettuccine and one vongole.”

“Yes, chef!” Everyone answers in response to Minho’s order.

The kitchen springs to life, the rhythm of Farfalle's service beginning in earnest. Minho’s eyes linger on you for just a moment longer before turning his attention to the plates coming his way, ready to set the tone for the day—and for his reign in the kitchen.

The faint aroma of freshly baked bread still lingers in the shared apartment as you sit at the small kitchen table, peeling apples for a late-night snack. Yura and Minji, your roommates and fellow chefs at Farfalle, chatter animatedly in the living room. Their excitement fills the quiet space with a buzz of energy.

“I swear, he’s like a fresh bottle of olive oil,” Yura gushes, her eyes practically sparkling. “Sleek, refined, and expensive.”

Minji giggles, her tone dreamy. “Not to mention, he’s so handsome. Those sharp features... and the way he walks? Confident, but not cocky.”

You stay silent, focusing on the rhythmic glide of the knife over the apple’s skin. Their words echo in the background as you continue peeling, occasionally flicking the pieces into a small bowl.

Yura’s gaze suddenly shifts to you, curiosity lighting up her features. “Hey, didn’t you say you and Chef Lee went to the same culinary school in Italy?”

The question makes you pause, if only for a fraction of a second. You quickly resume peeling, keeping your expression neutral. “Yeah, we did.”

Yura leans forward, resting her chin on her hand. “So? What was he like back then? Was he always this good?”

You slice the apple cleanly, avoiding her eager gaze. “He was... impressive,” you answer, keeping your tone even. “He was one of the best students and won a lot of cooking competitions.”

Minji’s eyes widen. “Wow, really? That’s amazing! Did you guys ever talk or hang out?”

You shake your head, carefully cutting the apple into thin slices. “Not really. He was focused on his work, and I was... just trying to keep up. I doubt he’d even remember me.��

Minji frowns slightly, clearly unsatisfied with your response. “But you must have crossed paths, right?”

“Sure,” you reply casually, placing another neatly sliced piece into the bowl. “But Minho wasn’t exactly the type to stop and chat.”

Yura sighs dreamily. “Well, he’s certainly something now. I mean, did you see how sharp he looked in his chef coat? And the way he handled the kitchen today? So commanding!”

Minji nods enthusiastically. “I wouldn’t mind getting scolded if it’s from someone like him.”

You suppress a smile, the corner of your lips tugging upward briefly. Their admiration feels almost innocent, a sharp contrast to the memories quietly tucked away in your mind.

Instead of commenting, you place the knife down and start arranging the apple slices on a plate. Yura and Minji continue gushing over Minho, their excitement filling the room with a warm, almost naive energy.

You glance at them briefly, observing the way their faces light up as they talk about him. You don’t say a word, letting their admiration float freely in the air. The stories you could share stay locked away, hidden behind the veil of your quiet demeanor.

It’s not your place to ruin their perception, not yet. So you offer the plate of neatly sliced apples to them with a small smile, pretending you know nothing about the man they’re so smitten with.

The sound of laughter echoes faintly through the apartment as you shuffle out of your bedroom, still bleary-eyed from sleep. In the living room, Minji is curled up on the couch, glued to the television. She’s watching her favorite cooking show—the one with Chef Sara, her idol—her expression full of admiration.

“Minji,” you call, your voice heavy with morning grogginess, “How about breakfast?”

She glances over her shoulder, her innocent smile catching you off guard. “But it’s the episode where Chef Sara visits Florence. You know how much I love this one!”

You sigh, dragging a hand through your hair. It’s not like you expected Minji to be in the kitchen; she rarely helps with breakfast. As the youngest in the apartment, she’s grown comfortable letting you take on the responsibility.

The clinking of utensils draws your attention to the kitchen. Yura’s sitting at the dining table with her hair wrapped in a towel, sipping coffee while scrolling through her phone. She doesn’t even look up as she says, “Good morning. Breakfast ready yet?”

You suppress a groan and trudge into the kitchen, tying your apron over your pajamas. It’s always like this—Minji caught up in a show, Yura leisurely sipping coffee, and you stuck cooking for the three of you. You start peeling eggs and slicing fruit, your mind wandering as you go through the motions.

By the time you finished getting ready for work, you rush out of your apartment, nearly tripping over your untied sneaker in your haste. The morning routine has become a battlefield of time with Yura and Minji monopolizing the bathroom and leaving you scrambling to get ready after them. The faint echo of the apartment door slamming shut behind you accompanies your hurried footsteps down the hallway.

Reaching the elevators, you frantically jab the button and bounce on your toes, silently pleading for it to arrive before you’re late for work. The elevator dings, and the doors slide open to reveal Minho standing inside, his hands casually tucked into the pockets of his sleek black coat.

You freeze for a second, caught off guard by his presence. Regaining your composure, you step in and flash him a faint smile. “Good morning,” you murmur, keeping your tone neutral.

Minho acknowledges you with a brief glance, the corner of his mouth twitching as though he’s amused by something. The doors close, and the elevator begins its descent, the silence stretching between you like a taut string.

You focus on the glowing numbers above the door, counting down to the lobby. Your heartbeat quickens, though you’re not sure if it’s from the rush or his proximity.

As the elevator hums softly, Minho’s voice breaks the quiet. “Don’t forget. Midnight.”

You turn your head slightly, your brows furrowing in confusion for a split second before his words click. The bar. The unspoken rendezvous.

You glance at him, catching the faint smirk tugging at his lips. His tone is casual, but the way his dark eyes linger on you hints at something more.

The elevator dings open, and the cool morning air from the lobby filters in. You step out, pausing just long enough to glance back over your shoulder. “I’ll see you there,” you reply, your voice steady despite the subtle thrum of excitement coursing through you.

Without waiting for a response, you stride toward the exit, leaving Minho behind as the promise of midnight lingers in the air like the taste of something forbidden.

Minho strides into the kitchen, his polished chef coat pristine, and his expression unreadable. He takes his usual place at the chef's table, positioning himself so he can observe every station in the kitchen. His eyes sweep over the staff like a hawk surveying its territory, lingering just long enough to unsettle.

Leaning casually against the table, he crosses his arms. “Is everyone excited for the first order?”

Next to you, Minji perks up, her voice carrying a coquettish lilt. “Yes, Chef.”

The kitchen momentarily halts as all eyes turn toward her, some raising eyebrows, others hiding their amusement. You keep your gaze down, focusing on your pasta dough, but you can feel Minho’s sharp stare shift toward her.

A faint smirk touches his lips. “Let’s see if you can live up to that enthusiasm.”

The printer by the wall whirs, and the first ticket slides out with a soft beep. Minho snatches it and glances at the list, his voice cutting through the quiet. “Table number two. Three Caesar salads, two fillets, one pasta primavera.”

“Yes, chef!” Everyone responds in unison.

The kitchen bursts into life, the clatter of pans and the hiss of flames filling the air. You focus on your station, expertly tossing fresh pasta in a creamy sauce, the rhythm of the kitchen taking over.

Not long after, Seungwan approaches the pass with a plate of Caesar salad. The portion towers on the plate, the croutons precariously stacked like a culinary Jenga. Minho’s brow furrows as he steps forward, his gaze fixed on the dish.

“What is this?” he asks, his voice deceptively calm.

“It’s the Caesar salad, Chef,” Seungwan replies, a nervous edge creeping into his tone.

Minho picks up the plate, holding it at arm’s length as if inspecting it for flaws. Then, in one swift motion, he sends the plate crashing to the floor. The shattering sound reverberates through the kitchen, freezing everyone in place.

“Does this look like a Caesar salad meant for a fine dining restaurant?” Minho’s voice rises, sharp and unforgiving. “This isn’t a family buffet! Start over, and this time, don’t make it look like a joke.”

Seungwan stammers, his face flushed with embarrassment as he scrambles to clean up the mess and start again. The rest of the kitchen watches in stunned silence, hands momentarily still, as if afraid to move.

Another ticket prints, and Minho retrieves it with unnerving composure. “Table number eight. Two more fillets, one minestrone, one ravioli.”

He glances around, his voice cutting through the tension. “Why is no one responding?”

The silence stretches painfully until the staff collectively murmurs a hesitant, “Yes, Chef.”

You tighten your grip on the handle of your pan, throwing yourself into your work to avoid his scrutiny. Next to you, Minji fumbles with her sauce, her earlier confidence replaced by nervous energy.

Minho’s gaze sweeps over the kitchen again, his lips twitching into a smirk. “Good. Now, let’s see if you can keep up.”

The atmosphere is heavier now, every move calculated, every dish triple-checked before reaching the pass. The truth is clear to everyone—this is Minho’s kitchen now, and no one is safe from his exacting standards.

The atmosphere in the kitchen is strained, the tension palpable as every chef rushes to perfect their dishes under Minho’s watchful eyes. Minji approaches the chef’s table, her plate of risotto carefully balanced in her hands. She sets it down with a nervous smile, stepping back to let Minho inspect it.

Minho glances at the dish, his expression unreadable. For a brief second, it seems like he might pass it, but then his hand moves with unexpected force, shoving the plate back toward Minji.

“This isn’t a risotto,” he says coldly, his voice cutting through the hum of the kitchen. “Do it again!.”

Minji’s face flushes with embarrassment, but she nods quickly, snatching the plate and retreating to her station.

Minho straightens, his sharp gaze sweeping over the kitchen. He steps away from the table, moving with purpose toward Hyunwoo’s station, where the younger chef is carefully garnishing a bowl of soup.

“Stop,” Minho orders, his tone laced with authority. He picks up a shrimp from the garnish and holds it up for everyone to see. “Is this a joke? You didn’t even bother to devein it.”

Hyunwoo stammers, “I-I didn’t think it was necessary for this dish—”

“Do I need to devein your brain too?” Minho interrupts, his words laced with sarcasm. Hyunwoo’s face turns red as he mumbles an apology and quickly begins redoing the garnish.

Minho moves on, stopping next to Seojun’s station. The sous chef’s cooking is impeccable, but Minho’s attention is drawn to the trash can beside him. He picks it up, examining the contents with a grimace.

“This,” Minho says, lifting the can higher, “is worth months of your salary.”

Before anyone can react, Minho dumps the contents of the trash can in front of Seojun, creating a mess of perfectly good ingredients discarded unnecessarily. The room goes silent, all eyes on Seojun, whose jaw tightens in suppressed anger.

“Next time,” Minho continues, his tone icy, “if you feel the urge to waste food, do it at home. Not in my kitchen.”

“Yes, chef,” Seojun weakly respond, his hands gripping the edge of his station, but the fury in his eyes is unmistakable. Minho smirks, satisfied, and strides back to his chef table.

The uneasy calm is broken when a dish is returned from the dining hall. The staff member hesitates before approaching Minho, holding the plate carefully.

“The customer said the lobster is too tough,” they report nervously.

Minho’s eyes narrow as he glances at the dish, then shifts his gaze to Yura. “Redo it. Now.”

Yura, already simmering with frustration, nods sharply and returns to her station. Minutes later, the same dish comes back to the kitchen, the dining hall staff once again bearing the plate.

“The customer still says the lobster isn’t right.”

Yura’s temper snaps. Without a word, she storms out of the kitchen, ignoring the stunned silence of her colleagues. She marches into the dining hall, her face flushed with anger, and approaches the table where the complaint originated.

“Excuse me,” she says loudly, placing her hands on her hips. “What exactly is the problem with this dish? Do you even know what properly cooked lobster is supposed to taste like?”

The customer, a middle-aged man with a calm demeanor, raises an eyebrow. He sets down his fork and looks up at her, his expression unreadable.

“Actually, I do,” he replies evenly, pulling out a business card and placing it on the table. “I’m a food critic for Culinary Gazette. This restaurant is being reviewed for next month’s issue.”

Yura’s eyes widen, the weight of her mistake crashing down on her. The rest of the kitchen staff watches through the small window, horrified. Minho, standing at his table with his jaws tensed.

Yura walks back into the kitchen, her face pale and her usual fiery confidence replaced by dread. The moment she steps through the door, she’s met with Minho’s piercing gaze. He’s standing near his chef table, arms crossed, his expression unreadable but undeniably intimidating.

The silence in the kitchen is suffocating as everyone watches the exchange, their work forgotten. Minho doesn’t waste time. He strides toward her, stopping just a foot away, and lifts a finger to point at her.

“You’re fired,” he states coldly, his voice carrying an air of finality.

Yura’s shock quickly turns to indignation. Her face flushes, and her temper reignites as she begins protesting. “Fired? For what? For defending my work? That critic doesn’t know anything—”

Minho interrupts her with a dismissive shrug, stepping around her and returning to his chef table. He casually picks up a spoon to inspect a sauce from a nearby plate, tasting it as if the argument isn’t worth his attention.

“Defending your work?” he says, not even looking at her. “You stormed out of the kitchen and embarrassed this restaurant in front of a food critic. If you think that’s defending your work, then you’re not cut out for this industry.”

Yura clenches her fists, her voice rising. “This is ridiculous! I’ve been working here longer than you. You can’t just walk in and—”

“Enough.” Minho’s voice slices through her tirade like a knife. He looks at her then, his dark eyes locking onto hers. “This is my kitchen now. And in my kitchen, there’s no room for your temper or your excuses.”

The finality in his tone leaves no room for further argument. Yura stands there, breathing heavily, her defiance wavering as she realizes there’s no changing his mind. The rest of the staff exchange nervous glances but remain silent, unwilling to draw Minho’s ire.

Satisfied, Minho turns back to the dish in front of him, as if the conversation never happened. “Someone clean this station,” he says over his shoulder. “We have orders to get out.”

Yura stands frozen for a moment before storming out, slamming the door behind her. The tension in the kitchen lingers, but everyone quickly gets back to work, unwilling to be the next target of Minho’s wrath.

Minho tastes another dish and smirks faintly, his voice low but audible enough for those nearby. “Let this be a lesson—anyone who steps out of line will face the same fate.”

The room is silent except for the sound of knives against cutting boards and the faint hum of the kitchen appliances. Minho’s authority is unquestionable now, his control over the kitchen absolute.

Minho steps out of the kitchen freezer with Taesoo following close behind, their breaths visible in the cold air as they finish inspecting the frozen stock. He closes the freezer door and turns to speak, but his attention snaps to an unexpected scene at the far corner of the kitchen.

Minji and Seungwan are leaning against a counter, locked in an intimate embrace, completely oblivious to the two men’s presence. Their quiet murmurs and soft laughter fill the otherwise silent kitchen, unaware they have an audience.

Taesoo clears his throat deliberately, and the sound jolts them apart. Minji and Seungwan freeze, their faces paling as they register Minho's cold stare.

“I-I’m sorry, Chef,” Minji stammers, stepping back from Seungwan. “We—uh—it won’t happen again.”

Seungwan nods quickly, his face a mix of guilt and fear. “It was a mistake, Chef. We weren’t thinking.”

Minho says nothing, his sharp eyes flicking between them before he turns on his heel and walks away.

“Gather everyone in the dining hall after service,” he says to Taesoo, his voice low but commanding. “We have some things to address.”

The dining hall is eerily quiet, the usual warm glow of its chandeliers casting an ominous light over the small group of kitchen staff seated at one of the larger tables. Minho stands at the head of the table, arms crossed, his expression unreadable.

“Let’s start with the lobsters,” he says, his gaze settling on Yura. “The issue lies in how they were stored in Styrofoam boxes, making it impossible for the freezer to maintain the correct temperature.” He pauses, letting the weight of his words sink in. “That’s your responsibility, Yura. You failed to ensure the proper handling of the seafood for your station.”

Yura opens her mouth to argue, but Minho raises a hand, silencing her.

“You embarrassed this restaurant in front of a critic, and now I find this. You’re fired.”

Yura’s temper flares immediately. “You can’t just—”

“I can,” Minho cuts her off, his tone cold and final. “This is my kitchen, and you’re no longer part of it. Pack your things.”

The room feels heavy with tension as Yura storms out, slamming the door behind her.

Minho’s attention shifts to Minji and Seungwan. “Now, about you two.” His voice is calm, but his words are razor-sharp. “The kitchen is a sacred space. It’s where we create, where we work, where we respect the craft. It is not where we indulge in personal relationships.”

Seungwan swallows hard. “It was a mistake—”

Minho cuts him off again. “There are no excuses. Romance has no place in my kitchen. For that, you’re both fired.”

Minji’s eyes widen, and she steps forward quickly. “Wait! Chef, it’s my fault. I—” Her voice falters slightly, but she pushes through. “If someone has to leave, it should be me. Seungwan is a great chef. Don’t take this opportunity away from him because of me.”

Minho studies her for a long moment, his cold gaze flickering with something unreadable. Finally, he nods. “Fine. Seungwan stays. But you... you’re fired.”

Minji’s shoulders sag, but she nods in resignation. “Yes, Chef,” she says quietly before walking out of the dining hall without looking back.

As the door swings shut behind her, Minho allows himself a faint smirk. Everything is falling into place. No women in his kitchen, just as he intends.

But then his eyes land on you, standing quietly at the end of the room, your expression neutral. Minho’s smirk falters for just a moment before he turns away, heading for the door.

“This kitchen isn’t for the weak,” he says over his shoulder. “I hope the rest of you can keep up.”

As the door clicks shut behind him, you feel the weight of his unspoken challenge settle over you. Minho’s plan might be working for now, but he hasn’t dealt with you yet—and that, you realize, makes you his next obstacle.

Minho pushes open the door to the locker room, his steps echoing faintly against the tiled floor. He walks toward his locker, his focus seemingly on the lock in his hands. The metallic clang of the lock twisting open echoes, but it’s quickly overshadowed by the soft rustling of clothes behind him.

Glancing out of the corner of his eye, Minho freezes. Two lockers away, you’re standing half-dressed, your black lace bra visible as you methodically pull on your shirt. His breath hitches for just a moment, though his expression remains neutral.

He doesn’t say a word, instead quietly observing your movements. The way you move—unhurried, deliberate—strikes him as oddly familiar. But he can’t place where he’s seen it before.

You button your shirt, unaware of his watchful eyes. Finally, you grab your bag and sling it over your shoulder, sparing a brief glance in his direction. Your expression is unreadable as you walk out of the locker room, leaving Minho behind in the lingering silence.

Moments later, Taesoo enters, a casual grin on his face. “Hey, Chef,” he calls out, leaning against a row of lockers. “So… you really don’t remember her, huh?”

Minho frowns, closing his locker with a sharp click. “What are you talking about?”

Taesoo chuckles softly. “You and her went to the same culinary school in Italy. Everyone thought you two were close.”

The words hit Minho like a puzzle piece snapping into place. His eyes narrow, and for a moment, he doesn’t respond. Memories flash through his mind—bits and pieces of a classmate who rarely took things seriously, who was more interested in fleeting romances than perfecting recipes.

“Oh? She’s the one who was always slacking off,” Minho mutters, almost to himself.

Taesoo gets confused. “Huh? She still graduated, didn’t she?”

Minho stands still for a moment, letting the realization settle in. That’s why you seemed so familiar. That’s why he couldn’t quite figure you out until now.

With this newfound knowledge, Minho’s lips curl into a faint smirk. He shuts his locker with finality, grabs his coat, and walks out of the locker room without another word.

The night air is cool as Minho steps out of the restaurant. The city buzzes around him, but he doesn’t pay it any mind. His destination is clear.

The bar isn’t far, just a short walk away. As he approaches, the faint hum of music and chatter grows louder. Minho pauses at the entrance, running a hand through his hair.

He pushes open the door, stepping into the warm, dimly lit space. His eyes scan the room, searching for you. Tonight, he plans to uncover more than just a drink.

It's midnight and you're here at the bar where you met Minho. You sit at the same spot, quietly sipping your drink as the faint hum of music and chatter fills the space. The warmth of the liquor burns your throat, grounding you amidst your swirling thoughts. The door creaks open, and you feel a presence slide onto the stool next to you.

You don’t have to look to know who it is.

“Funny,” Minho says, his voice low and teasing. “That’s quite a face for a girl who came to meet a guy.”

You glance at him, raising an eyebrow but saying nothing. His smirk is as sharp as ever, his eyes glinting with something unreadable.

“I wonder if you're still dating around like you did back in culinary school?” he asks casually, tilting his head as if he’s genuinely curious.

The comment stings, and you clench your glass tighter. So, he recognizes you now.

“Finally remembered me, huh?” you retort. Then, leaning slightly closer, you counter, “What about you? Still traumatized by your past experience, I see? Is that why you fired all the female chefs?”

For a moment, Minho’s smirk falters, but he recovers quickly. “Is this how you treat a guy on a date?” he asks, brushing off your words like dust on his coat.

You scoff but don’t respond. Instead, you press forward, determined to get answers. “You planned it, didn’t you? Firing all the women in the kitchen because you don't want women in your kitchen.”

Minho doesn’t answer right away. His silence feels heavier than the music playing in the background. Then, suddenly, he leans in. His face is inches from yours, his breath warm against your skin.

“Let’s do it,” he says, his voice dropping lower, more intimate. “You and me. Go out. Date.”

The words catch you off guard, and you blink at him, trying to read his expression. He’s serious, but his seriousness feels like a challenge rather than a confession.

You hesitate, weighing the implications. To say yes would mean leaving the job—leaving the kitchen you worked so hard to be in. As if reading your thoughts, Minho adds, “You can’t work in my kitchen. There’s no place for women there, and you know it.”

The bartender interrupts the moment, sliding closer to ask, “Another round?”

Minho seizes the opportunity, turning to you. “Well?” he asks, his voice smoother now, almost seductive. “What’s it going to be? Another drink with me or...?”

He leans in closer, his lips just brushing the shell of your ear as he whispers, “Stay. Have another drink. Let’s see where this goes.”

You feel the heat rise in your chest, but you don’t look away. Instead, you drain the rest of your drink, the glass making a soft clink as you set it down on the counter.

Still holding his gaze, you rise from your stool. You say nothing as you turn and walk out of the bar, your decision clear in your mind. If Minho wants to get rid of you, he’ll have to try harder.

Minho watches as you disappear into the night, the sway of your silhouette fading into the city’s glow. You didn’t look back, not even once, and yet he knows—he knows—you’ve accepted the challenge he silently laid at your feet. A smirk tugs at his lips, though his chest tightens with an unfamiliar ache he refuses to name. This isn’t just about control or proving a point anymore. There’s something about you that unnerves him, something that stirs a dangerous mix of irritation and intrigue. You’re a complication he didn’t plan for, and complications, Minho thinks, always have a way of unraveling the best-laid plans.

The kitchen is chaos. Orders spill from the printer at an unrelenting pace, each ticket a stark reminder of the restaurant’s packed lunch service. Farfalle is fully booked, and the staff can barely keep up. The tension is palpable, the air thick with the mingling aromas of simmering sauces and stress-induced perspiration.

At the pasta line, you’re barely holding it together. Seungwan has stepped in to help, his movements quick but clumsy as he fumbles with the pasta portions. It’s clear he’s unfamiliar with the intricacies of the station, but there’s no time to complain. With fewer hands in the pasta line, the pressure feels insurmountable.

“Move faster!” Minho’s voice cuts through the cacophony, sharp and biting. He stands at his chef table, watching every station like a hawk, barking orders that keep the team on edge. “Don’t just stand around like electrical poles.”

Your hands ache from tossing pasta, the boiling steam stinging your face as you strain spaghetti and toss it into the pan. Beside you, Seungwan drops a ladle, cursing under his breath as sauce splatters onto the counter.

“Pick it up!” you snap, your patience thinning as the next order comes in. You’re already juggling three pans, but the thought of falling behind propels you forward.

Minho’s footsteps echo as he approaches. “What’s taking so long on that linguine?”

“It’s coming!” You shout over your shoulder, refusing to meet his gaze.

You can feel his eyes boring into you, assessing every move you make. The weight of his scrutiny is suffocating, but you push through it, your focus unwavering. You can’t afford to falter—not now, not ever. Not when proving yourself means everything.

“Faster, faster!” Minho demands, his tone clipped. “The customers are screaming in hunger.”

The words sting, but you bite them back, tossing the finished linguine onto the plate and sliding it onto the pass. “It’s done,” you say, your voice steady despite the fire burning in your chest.

You won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you falter. No matter how overwhelming the orders, no matter how loudly he shouts, you refuse to let him believe—even for a second—that you can’t handle this.

The weight of the frying pan, clams, broth, garlic and pasta is 1,5 kilograms. Since you're holding two pans, that's 3 kilograms combined. That's almost the weight of a newborn baby so right now you're practically rocking a baby in your hands and Minho is trying to say is that in the kitchen, men are better with babies? Not a chance.

This isn’t just about the pasta or the orders. It’s about proving him wrong, about showing him that women can not only survive in his kitchen but thrive.

By the time the rush subsides, your arms feel like lead, your body drenched in sweat. But when Minho glances your way, his face unreadable, you meet his gaze head-on. You don’t say a word, but your silence speaks volumes: I’m still standing.

The kitchen is eerily quiet after the lunch rush, save for the faint clinking of utensils and the hum of the exhaust fans. Most of the staff are resting their arms on counters or sipping water, their faces etched with exhaustion. You stand by the pasta station, massaging your sore wrists discreetly, hoping no one notices.

But Minho notices.

From his position at the chef table, his sharp eyes catch the subtle movements of your fingers rubbing against the tender skin of your wrists. His expression doesn’t change, but something flickers behind his eyes—a brief, almost imperceptible calculation.

Without a word, Minho leaves the kitchen, disappearing into his office. A faint murmur of conversation filters out from the slightly ajar door, his voice low and measured as he makes a phone call.

Dinner service looms, and the staff are back at their stations, bracing themselves for another storm. The tension is palpable, a collective anxiety that builds with each passing second. You’re adjusting your mise en place when the kitchen doors swing open.

Minho strides in, a commanding presence as always, but it’s the figure trailing behind him that draws everyone’s attention.

The new guy is tall and lean, with long, bleached hair pulled into a loose bun. Freckles dust his cheeks and nose, softening his sharp features. He’s beautiful, almost too pretty to be real, and for a moment, everyone wonders if Minho’s broken his own rule about women in the kitchen. But no—there’s no way.

Minho stops in the center of the kitchen, his eyes sweeping over the staff.

“Let me be clear,” he begins, his voice cold and biting. “Today’s lunch service was a disaster. I overestimated all of you—thought you could at least prepare one meal correctly without fumbling like amateurs. Clearly, I was wrong.”

The staff exchanges uneasy glances, the air thick with unspoken tension.

Minho turns his gaze to Seungwan. “Get back to your station,” he orders, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Seungwan nods stiffly, retreating to his corner of the kitchen.

Then, Minho gestures to the newcomer. “This is Felix. He’ll be taking over the pasta line.”

Felix steps forward, his expression calm but focused as he positions himself beside you. He gives you a brief smile—warm and genuine, a stark contrast to the cold indifference that permeates the kitchen.

Before everyone can process the change, the first order for dinner service comes through.

Minho wastes no time. “Table number six. Two risottos, one linguine with clams, one carbonara!”

The kitchen springs to life, knives chopping, pans sizzling, and voices calling out orders. Felix moves with practiced ease, his hands deft and precise as he takes over part of your workload.

For the first time all day, you feel a flicker of relief. But as you glance at Minho, watching him observe the chaos he’s orchestrated, you know this is far from over.

The bar is dimly lit, the warm glow of amber lights reflecting off the rows of bottles behind the counter. Minho sits at a corner table, nursing a glass of whiskey. Across from him, Felix sips a cocktail, his relaxed demeanor a sharp contrast to Minho’s brooding intensity.

Felix sets his glass down, his freckled face tinged with amusement. “I’m still surprised you called me. What’s it been? Two years?”

Minho tilts his glass, the liquid swirling lazily. “I didn’t have a choice,” he says bluntly. “The kitchen is chaos. Everyone’s far below my expectations.”

Felix leans back in his chair, a teasing smile playing on his lips. “Sudden desperation, huh? Not very Minho of you.”

Minho gives a short laugh. “I should’ve called earlier, but you know how it is. Didn’t think I’d need help.”

Felix raises a brow. “Well, I’m here now. But I gotta say, I was surprised to see her there.”

Minho’s grip on his glass tightens ever so slightly, but his expression remains neutral. “Who?”

Felix smirks knowingly. “You know who. The girl at the pasta line. What’s her name again?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Minho replies dismissively, waving a hand.

Felix chuckles, leaning forward. “So, you’re letting women in your kitchen now? Never thought I’d see the day.”

Minho lets out a low, sinister chuckle, shaking his head. “Don’t get the wrong idea.”

Felix’s teasing fades, replaced by curiosity. “You haven’t moved on from it, huh?” he asks, his tone quieter, more serious now.

Minho doesn’t answer right away, his eyes narrowing slightly as he stares at his glass.

Felix continues, “You know, Italian kitchens demand commitment and adaptability. Times are changing. There are tough female cooks these days, and some are damn good at what they do.”

Minho smirks, finally meeting Felix’s gaze. “You don’t need to worry about it,” he says, his voice smooth and composed. “My kitchen isn’t just any kitchen. It’s not meant to be easy-going.”

Felix studies him for a moment, his expression unreadable, before taking another sip of his drink. “Fair enough,” he says, though there’s a hint of something—disapproval or resignation, perhaps—in his tone.

Minho downs the rest of his whiskey, the ice clinking against the glass. “Thanks for stepping in, Felix. Just do your job, and don’t get too comfortable.”

Felix laughs lightly, raising his glass in a mock toast. “With you around? Never.”

The conversation shifts to lighter topics, but the weight of Felix’s words lingers in the air, unspoken yet undeniable.

The soft hum of the coffee machine fills the small apartment as you shuffle into the kitchen, still groggy from the night before. The scent of freshly brewed coffee mingles with the faint aroma of cinnamon, a small comfort in an otherwise tense atmosphere.

Yura and Minji are already seated at the kitchen table, their postures slouched as they stare at their laptops. Each of them clutches a steaming mug of coffee, their expressions tired and resigned. Yura is the first to glance up at you, offering a half-hearted smile.

“Morning,” she mutters, her voice hoarse.

“Morning,” you reply, moving toward the fridge. The silence is heavy, save for the occasional click of keys as Minji scrolls through job listings.

You decide to make breakfast, a small gesture to lighten the mood. Pulling out eggs, bread, and vegetables, you get to work, the sound of chopping and sizzling breaking the quiet. You carefully avoid mentioning Farfalle or Minho, knowing it’s a sore subject for both of them.

Yura breaks the silence first, her tone hesitant. “We’ve been talking,” she starts, her eyes fixed on her screen. “Minji and I… we’re going to have to move out soon.”

Your hand stills on the spatula for a moment before you force yourself to keep flipping the eggs. “Oh?”

“We just… we can’t afford rent anymore,” Yura continues, her voice tight. “Especially without jobs lined up. And, uh, we’ll need to take the deposit money too.”

The words hit you harder than you expect. You knew this was coming, but hearing it aloud makes the reality sink in. Living alone will be expensive—rent, bills, groceries—it’s a lot to shoulder on your own. You might have to find a roommate sooner rather than later.

You take a deep breath, steadying yourself. “I get it,” you say, your voice calm. “You’ve gotta do what you’ve gotta do. I hope you both find something soon.”

Yura gives a small nod, though her eyes are still glued to her screen. Minji doesn’t say much, just takes a long sip of her coffee.

You finish plating breakfast and place the dishes in front of them. “Here,” you say, managing a smile. “Eat up. And good luck with the job hunt.”

“Thanks,” Minji murmurs, finally looking up.

As they start eating, you sit down with your own plate, your mind already racing. The weight of their impending departure looms over you, but you push it aside for now. You’ll figure it out—just like you always do.

The dining hall buzzes with low murmurs as the kitchen and service staff assemble for the morning briefing. You stand in your line, feeling Taesoo’s presence lingering just behind you, a quiet support in the tense environment.

Felix strides in moments later, his presence like a burst of sunshine cutting through the cloudy atmosphere. His bleached hair glows under the morning light, and his freckled face radiates a kind, unbothered smile. “Hey,” he greets, his voice soft yet carrying a note of warmth. “It’s nice to see another familiar face here.”

You offer him a polite smile. Of course, Minho would call Felix. The two were practically inseparable back in culinary school, despite Felix being a year below Minho. Felix had always trailed after him, eager and wide-eyed. It doesn’t surprise you in the least to see him here, undoubtedly Minho’s protégé by now.

“Nice to see you too,” you reply with a small smile. “Looking forward to working with you in the kitchen.”

Felix grins, his gaze sweeping the gathered team. He greets the others with the same warmth, extending his hand as a gesture of goodwill. The service staff respond with polite nods, but the kitchen team barely acknowledges him, their faces etched with stony indifference.

Felix leans closer to you, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Why are they acting like that?”

You glance at the kitchen crew, their tension palpable. “Probably because they think the Italian grads are taking over the pasta line,” you murmur back.

Before Felix can respond, the manager enters, followed closely by Minho, who radiates authority with his sharp, no-nonsense expression. The low hum of conversation dies down as the manager clears his throat and begins the briefing. He details the full lunch and dinner bookings, emphasizing the need for efficiency and teamwork.

When the manager finishes, Minho steps forward, his presence commanding the room. “There’ll be further restructuring in my kitchen,” he announces, his voice calm yet laced with an edge.

The manager blinks in confusion. “Restructuring? You fired people yesterday, and we barely managed the orders. We need more hands, not—”

Minho cuts him off with a raised hand. His gaze sweeps the room before landing squarely on you. His finger points in your direction, sharp and accusatory. “You,” he says, his tone cold. “From today, you’ll share the locker room with the service staff.”

The words hang in the air, heavy with implication. You stiffen, refusing to back down. “No, chef,” you flatly refuse.

Minho’s brow arches, his lips curling into a faint, mocking smile. “Why not?”

“Because I’m part of the kitchen staff,” you reply firmly, meeting his gaze head-on.

The room holds its breath as the two of you lock eyes in a silent battle of wills. Minho’s jaw tightens, his gaze never wavering, but you refuse to look away. After a moment that feels like an eternity, he looks elsewhere, a faint flicker of annoyance crossing his face.

“Fine,” he mutters, his voice dripping with disdain. “Do whatever you want.”

Minho pivots, addressing the team again. “Moving on. First, Farfalle will no longer serve foie gras.”

“But that provides us a lot of sales,” someone from the service team blurts out.

Minho’s eyes snap toward the entrée line where the most resistance is coming. “Foie gras is made by shoving a funnel down a goose's throat and force feeding it until its liver becomes the size of a fist. I don’t support animal cruelty, and this restaurant won’t either.”

A ripple of shock and murmurs sweeps through the room. Sous Chef Seojun steps forward, his face twisted in disbelief. “But foie gras is our VIP customers' favorite.”

“I’m not here to pad your wallets with unethical practices,” Minho snaps, daringly gazes into Seojun’s eyes.

Before Seojun can argue further, Minho barrels ahead. “Second, spoons will no longer be served with pasta dishes.”

Hyunwoo mutters under his breath, loud enough for the room to hear, “This is ridiculous.”

Minho’s gaze snaps to him, sharp as a blade. “From now on, we're going to use half as much sauce on our pasta. Pasta should soak up the sauce so that you don't need a spoon to eat it. In other words, pasta shouldn't be so watery. You should be able to to chew it and enjoy the nutty texture, instead of slurping it down. It should be served on a flat plate without a spoon and watery sauce. So that means, there'll be no more bowl type dishes as well.”

The air is thick with tension, animosity brewing among the staff. Minho, however, stands unshaken, his stance firm, his eyes daring anyone to challenge him further. Felix shifts beside you, his expression caught somewhere between amusement and unease.

You can feel the kitchen’s collective resentment bubbling beneath the surface. And though you don’t agree with Minho’s methods, a part of you can’t help but admire the sheer audacity with which he holds his ground.

This is Minho’s kitchen, and everyone is learning that the hard way.

The lunch rush descends upon the kitchen like a storm. Orders pile in, each ticket a new test of patience and precision. But today, the storm is harsher. The absence of foie gras and spoons from the menu seems to have lit a fuse among the patrons. Complaints echo from the front of the house to the kitchen, carried in by the servers who are met with Minho’s unflinching glare.

“Table six wants to know why there’s no foie gras,” a server stammers, holding the ticket like it’s a shield.

“Because we’re not barbaric,” Minho snaps without looking up from the plated pasta he’s inspecting. “Next question.”

Another server rushes in. “Table three says there’s not enough sauce on their pasta.”

“It’s a sugo, not a soup,” Minho barks, flicking his hand dismissively. “If they wanted a bowl of tomato water, they came to the wrong place.”

The kitchen vibrates with tension. Even the sous chef, who usually keep his grumbling to a minimum, can’t mask their irritation. Seojun’s jaw tightens as he works the grill, his movements sharp and mechanical. Across your station, Hyunwoo mutters curses under his breath, his hands trembling as he reduces yet another sauce to Minho’s exact specifications.

You stand at your station, hands moving on autopilot as you toss a pan of pasta, the repetitive motion grounding you. The complaints weigh on you too, but you keep your head down. You’ve made it this far; you’re not about to let Minho—or anyone else—see you falter.

“Focus!” Minho’s voice cuts through the chaos like a whip, directed at no one and everyone. “If I hear one more plate leaves this kitchen without my approval, someone’s going home early. And not in a good way.”

“Yes, chef!” Despite the chaos, the kitchen soldiers on. Plates go out, tables are cleared, and somehow, the lunch service marches toward its conclusion. By the time the last order is fired and plated, an exhausted hush falls over the team.

The other cooks exchange glances, their disdain for Minho unspoken but palpable. Felix, ever the optimist, claps Taesoo on the shoulder and offers a reassuring smile.

Minho surveys the room, his sharp eyes taking in every detail. “Good work,” he says, his tone begrudging, like the words physically pain him. “But don’t think for a second this means you’re keeping up. Dinner service starts in five hours. Clean up and get back to prep.”

As the team disperses, you take a deep breath, the ache in your wrists flaring as you stretch. Another day in hell, you think. And yet, you can’t help but feel a flicker of pride. Against all odds, you finished the service.

But you know this is just the beginning. With Minho at the helm, there’s no such thing as smooth sailing. Only storms.

The dining hall is crowded as all of the staff are taking their break and having lunches, indulging in the rare peace before dinner service. But you have other plans. Quietly slipping away, you make your way to the cashier’s terminal, your heart thumping with anticipation.

The order history is your goal—a record of the Italian consulate’s dining habits. Scrolling through the list of past reservations, you start to see the pattern. Each visit showcases a different dish, meticulously selected as though the consulate is sampling the entire menu, piece by piece. One glaring omission stands out: Vongole.

The realization lights a spark of determination. Heading to the freezer, you prep the clams with care, imagining the dish that might just win over one of the most discerning palates to grace Farfalle’s dining room. But as you emerge with your bounty, Minho appears, as if conjured by your audacity.

“What are you doing with that?” he asks, his voice laced with curiosity and skepticism.

You straighten your back. “The Italian consulate will order Vongole tonight,” you reply confidently.

Minho’s expression shifts into a cynical smile. “And what makes you so sure?”

“I checked his previous orders,” you explain, meeting his gaze without flinching. “He’s ordered everything on the menu except Vongole. It’s the only dish left.”

For a moment, Minho simply stares at you, as though debating whether to dismiss you outright or acknowledge your boldness. Then, a sly smirk tugs at his lips. “We’ll see,” he says, brushing past you.

Dinner service is in full swing, the clamor of the kitchen almost deafening. Minho’s sharp commands ring out above the noise, each order executed with mechanical precision.

Then comes the moment everyone has been waiting for—the consulate’s arrival. The manager sweeps into the kitchen, a nervous energy radiating from him as he announces their presence.

Minho’s expression remains unreadable. “Focus,” he orders, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife.

The anticipation is palpable as the consulate’s table lingers over their menu, debating their options. When the order finally comes through, all eyes turn to Minho as he reads the slip of paper. His gaze flicks to you, holding it for just a second longer than usual before he barks out the order.

“Vongole!”

Felix raises his hand immediately. “I’ll make it,” he volunteers, his enthusiasm earnest.

But Minho ignores him, his attention fixed on you. “You,” he says firmly, pointing in your direction. “Make the dish.”

Your heart pounds, but you give no outward sign of hesitation. “Yes, Chef,” you reply, moving to your station with purpose.

As you work, Minho hovers nearby, his presence both unnerving and oddly reassuring. Halfway through your preparation, he approaches, holding a bottle of wine.

“Use this,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You hesitate, glancing at the label—it’s an expensive bottle, undoubtedly his personal stash. “Chef, this is—”

“It’ll elevate the flavor,” he interrupts, his voice steady. “Use it.”

Swallowing your nerves, you nod and accept the bottle. The addition of the wine transforms the dish, the aroma wafting through the kitchen as you plate the pasta with precision.

The staff exchange glances—some envious, others suspicious. But Minho ignores them all, his focus entirely on the dish in front of you.

“Serve it,” he orders once the plate is finished.

As the dish is carried out to the dining hall, a charged silence falls over the kitchen. All that remains is to see if your gamble—and Minho’s faith—will pay off.

The dinner service nears its end, the kitchen quieting as the last orders are plated and sent out. You’re tidying up your station when the manager steps in, his expression unreadable.

“The consulate wants to meet the chef,” he announces, then adds, “and the one who cooked his Vongole.”

Your heart skips a beat, an icy wave of anxiety washing over you. Did you mess up? Did it fail to meet his standards?

“Let’s go,” Minho says, already heading toward the dining hall.

You fall in step behind him, nerves gnawing at your composure. Minho walks with his usual confidence, his back straight and his presence commanding. It’s only when you reach the consulate’s table that you notice someone unexpected seated beside him.

Chef Choi Sara.

Recognition hits like a slap. Sara isn’t just a famous culinary star; she’s Minho’s ex from culinary school. They were inseparable back then, both as a couple and as rivals, constantly pushing each other to excel. Stories of their relationship are almost legendary in the culinary world—a whirlwind of passion, competition, and ambition. But something happened between them, and whatever it was, it ended both their romance and their partnership.

You glance at Minho, searching for a reaction. His face remains as unreadable as ever, but there’s a tension in his posture, a flicker in his eyes that betrays his composed demeanor.

The consulate rises with a warm smile, shaking Minho’s hand first. “Congratulations on your new position,” he says. “The food tonight was exceptional, as always. You’ve truly elevated this restaurant.”

“Thank you,” Minho replies, his voice steady and professional.

Then the consulate turns to you. “And you,” he says, his tone lighter but no less sincere. “The Vongole was exquisite. You’ve got a remarkable talent.”

You bow slightly, your voice soft with humility. “Thank you. I’m flattered you enjoyed it.”

Before the conversation can continue, Sara interjects, her smile sharp and knowing. “Well, it’s no wonder the food is so good,” she says, her voice laced with confidence. “The three of us went to the same culinary school, after all.”

Her words hang in the air, pointed and loaded. It’s as if she’s reminding Minho—and perhaps you—of their shared history, of the heights they reached together and the tension that pulled them apart. Minho doesn’t respond, his focus remaining on the consulate, but the air between him and Sara is thick with unspoken words.

The consulate gestures to a box beside his chair, lifting a few bottles of wine. “A gift,” he says, handing them to Minho. “I hope you’ll enjoy them as much as I’ve enjoyed your cooking.”

Minho accepts the gift with a polite nod, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes, a glimpse of memories resurfacing. You can’t help but wonder what this exchange is stirring up for him.

“Shall we take a picture to commemorate the evening?” the consulate suggests, already standing to pose.

You barely have time to process the request before you’re lining up beside Minho. As you smile for the camera, you feel the faintest brush of movement. Glancing down, you see Sara’s arm looped through Minho’s, her posture relaxed and confident, as though she belongs by his side.

Your smile falters for a split second before you force it back into place. The flash goes off, but your mind is already racing.

As you walk back to the kitchen, questions swirl in your mind. What’s the nature of Minho and Sara’s relationship now? Did their rivalry ever truly end, or was it just another layer of their complicated dynamic? And more troublingly, does Minho still harbor feelings for her? The possibilities unsettle you, leaving you to wrestle with a mix of curiosity and unease.

The kitchen is less hectic as the only sounds that can be heard is the low hum of post-service cleanup, exhaustion settling into the faces of the staff. Minho stands in the center, a bottle of wine in hand, his expression unreadable. With a sharp twist, he pops the cork and pours glasses for everyone.

"Here," he says curtly, passing out drinks. "Celebrate while you can."

The team exchanges wary glances before lifting their glasses. Minho's tone is brusque, but his actions are a rare acknowledgment of their hard work. You sip the wine in silence, watching him walk away with the second bottle tucked under his arm.

Minho heads toward his office, his steps measured and deliberate. He’s halfway to the door when he freezes, his sharp eyes catching a figure leaning casually against the wall near his office—Sara.

"Minho," she calls, her lips curling into a knowing smile. "Still the last to leave, I see."

“What do you want?” he asks coldly, brushing past her toward his office door.

Sara pushes off the wall and falls into step behind him. “I just wanted to check on you,” she says breezily, her tone too light to be genuine. “Word is that Farfalle’s sales are plummeting since you took over. Not exactly the success story everyone expected.”

Minho stops abruptly, turning to face her. His eyes are dark, his patience clearly thin. “Mind your own business.”

She tilts her head, feigning innocence. “I just hate to see someone who used to be the best… fall so far.”

Minho doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he steps into his office, setting the bottle of wine down on the desk. He gestures toward it, his lips curling into a bitter smile.

“Recognize this?” he asks.

Sara’s gaze flickers to the bottle, and for a moment, her confident facade cracks.

“It’s just wine, Minho,” she says, though her voice is quieter now.

“Not just wine,” he counters. “It’s a reminder. A reminder of the moment you ruined everything. Of how you planned to take me down.”

Her expression hardens, but she doesn’t deny it.

“It was a mistake,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “A shameful, momentary mistake.”

Minho laughs, though there’s no humor in it. “A mistake?” he repeats, his disbelief cutting through the room. “You planned it, Sara. Every step. And now you’re trying to rewrite history?”

Sara looks away, her silence speaking volumes.

Minho steps closer, his voice low and laced with disdain. “The real mistake wasn’t trusting you. It wasn’t even competing with you. The real mistake was falling in love with you.”

His words hang in the air, heavy and final. Without waiting for a response, he grabs his coat and strides past her, leaving Sara standing alone in the dim light of the office. Her carefully constructed poise falters, her hands clenching into fists at her sides as the door closes behind him.

The soft ding of the elevator echoes in the quiet corridor as you wait, exhaustion heavy in your limbs after a long day. Your mind drifts to the task you’ve been putting off—informing the property agent about listing your apartment for a roommate. Just as the thought settles uncomfortably, you hear footsteps approaching.

Minho steps into view, his arms crossed and his expression unreadable. He takes a spot beside you, his presence commanding the space as you both wait for the elevator in silence.

The doors slide open, and the two of you step inside. The hum of the elevator is the only sound until Minho finally breaks the silence.

“You must be happy,” he says, his tone laced with mock indifference. “I let you keep your job, I let you cook for the consulate, and I even let you use my wine.”

You glance at him, a small smile playing on your lips. For the first time in a while, this feels like the Minho you’d met that night, not the cold, sharp-edged chef from the kitchen.

“Thank you, chef,” you say softly, your smile widening. “You really are the best.”

Minho’s lips twitch as though he’s fighting a grin. “Flattery does not work on me,” he mutters, his gaze fixed straight ahead.

Amused, you turn slightly to study him. His jaw is set, his expression stoic, but there’s a flicker of something softer in his eyes. Acting on impulse, you step closer and gently cup his jaw, tilting his face toward you. His eyes widen in surprise, but before he can react, you lean in and press your lips to his.

For a moment, he freezes, but then he relaxes, his hands finding your waist as he returns the kiss. The warmth of his lips, the way he pulls you just a little closer—it’s electrifying, and the rest of the world fades away.

The elevator chimes, signaling your floor. Slowly, you break the kiss, a playful smile on your face as you step back.

Minho leans in as though to capture your lips again, but you quickly place a hand on his chest, teasingly stopping him. “Goodnight, Chef,” you say, your tone light and mischievous.

His lips part, as if to protest, but you’re already stepping out of the elevator. Glancing over your shoulder, you catch the look of longing on his face before the doors slide shut, leaving him standing there, wanting more.

Ever since that kiss, Minho can’t stop thinking about it. The memory keeps replaying—the warmth of your lips, the way your breath hitched right before it happened. It wasn’t supposed to happen. It can’t happen. And yet, he can’t deny how much he still wants to pursue whatever this is.

If only you weren’t working in his kitchen...

Stepping out of his apartment, Minho sighs quietly, raking a hand through his hair. He presses the elevator button and stares at the numbers lighting up as the lift ascends. The soft creak of your door opening makes him turn, and he sees you stepping out, adjusting the strap of your bag.

You spot him and offer a faint smile. “Morning,” you say, your voice light but cautious.

The elevator doors slide open, and you both step in. The space between you feels charged, the silence heavier than it should be. Minho shoves his hands into his pockets, debating whether to say something. This is his chance, but he knows he has to tread carefully.

Finally, he speaks, his voice low but steady. “Listen to me carefully.”

You glance at him, waiting for him to continue, your expression unreadable.

“I don’t want to fire you,” he says firmly. “But I need to remind you… you’re just a chef in my kitchen. Nothing more.”

The words land heavier than he expects, and he watches as your expression shifts. A flicker of something he can’t quite place crosses your face before you mask it again.

You stay silent for a moment before nodding.

Minho frowns slightly, uneasy. “Understood?” he asks, needing confirmation—for himself as much as for you.

“Yes, Chef,” you reply, your voice calm and unwavering.

The formal response makes his chest tighten. It’s what he wants to hear—what he needs to hear. But it feels like a wall has gone up between you, colder and more impenetrable than before.

The elevator dings softly, and the doors slide open to the ground floor. Minho steps out first, reminding himself of his own rules. No women in his kitchen. No romance in his kitchen. Even if he wants to break them.

The dining hall hums with quiet conversation as the service and kitchen staff gather for the usual morning briefing. You stand among them, arms crossed, waiting for Mr. Oh to arrive. It's strange—he’s never late for these meetings.

The minutes stretch, and impatience grows. Finally, Minho steps into the scene, exuding authority as he takes charge. “Let’s not waste time,” he says, his voice cutting through the murmurs. “We’ll start—”

The double doors to the dining hall creak open, silencing everyone. All heads turn toward the entrance, and a collective murmur ripples through the room as a figure strides in.

Dressed in a tailored black suit that seems to absorb the light, the man’s presence is magnetic. His pale skin contrasts sharply with his dark attire, and his piercing gaze sweeps over the staff, commanding their attention without a single word.

He moves with an air of calculated confidence, each step echoing in the hushed hall. Reaching the front of the room, he turns to face the gathered crowd, his lips curling into a faint, enigmatic smile.

“I apologize for the disruption,” he begins, his voice deep and smooth, laced with a subtle edge of authority. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Chris, and as of today, I am the new manager of Farfalle.”

A wave of whispers breaks out among the staff, curiosity and unease blending in their expressions.

Chris doesn’t waver. He clasps his hands behind his back, his sharp eyes scanning the room with an intensity that makes your pulse quicken. “I look forward to working with each of you.”

His words hang in the air like a challenge, leaving an unspoken tension that prickles at your skin. Without waiting for a response, Chris gives a final nod and steps aside, his presence lingering even as he moves.

Minho watches him with a subtle narrowing of his eyes, his jaw tight. The air in the room feels heavier, charged with the dramatic shift Chris's arrival has brought.

“I'll make it short,” Chris begins, his tone steady and authoritative. “I'm closing down the restaurant.”

And just like that, the briefing takes on an entirely new weight, ending not with words, but with the undeniable realization that change is here—and it wears a sharp black suit.

Support my writings by kindly reblog, comment or consider tipping me on my ko-fi!

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afantasyoffiction · 2 months ago

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ppl keep asking me if i’m ready for my bday in the next few months and im just like nuh uhhhhh can’t think abt anything past march 6, actually. time is divided into before 911 episodes and after

It's march 3rd and i'm worried that i'm not ready for march 6th

#911 season 8b #911 on abc #911 on hiatus #for not much longer!!!#who else is filled with equal parts excitement and dread #anyways it’s march 6 here yall #how’s everyone else doing

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wholoveseggs · 3 months ago

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Huhu, it's me again :) Happy New Year to you and Eggs. I have another idea once you are through with what must be a very long list <3 - So, Reader and Elijah had a romantic whirlwind encounter while she was extensively traveling Europe, living her best life. They agreed to keep it on a first name basis and on keeping things casual. One morning, she just disappears on him. Back in the US, she is taking up a new job/ studies where she meets Klaus, and they start dating (semi casual). Once he introduces her to his family for Thanksgiving, she sees Elijah again, and whatever happens after is completely up to you :) Thanks in advance.

Serendipitous

18+ ---- {Masterlist} {Tag-List}

{Elijah Mikaelson x f!Reader && Klaus Mikaelson x f!Reader } When your new life in New Orleans collides with the past you tried to outrun, you come face to face with the man you never stopped thinking about. And worse? You are sleeping with his brother.

♡♡ Once again you give me the most brilliant ideas @originals23~ thank you and I hope you enjoy! ♡♡

8.4k words {whoops} - Warnings: so much smut (there are THREE scenes in this one ~lol I may have gone overboard), unprotected sex (I know, I know, vampires can't reproduce... but reader doesn't know they are vampires...) fingering, oral (f!recieving), casual sex with Klaus, little but of angst, lot's of unresolved sexual & emotional tension, reunion sex, semi-public sex, Elijah being intense and possessive in the hottest way, Klaus being a messy but well-meaning && inappropriate use of a side table...

Your arrangement with Elijah was simple. Or at least, it was supposed to be.

You met by chance on a sunny afternoon in Florence, your tables at a café so close your elbows nearly touched. A passing comment about the wine turned into a two-hour conversation about art, history, and the fleeting beauty of life. His voice was velvet, his presence magnetic, and by the time the waiter brought the check, you were hopelessly charmed.

Keeping things uncomplicated was your idea. First names only. No talk of the future. Just two people indulging in the moment. But there was something about Elijah. His poised elegance, the way he made you feel seen. Made sticking to those rules harder every time you saw him.

Tonight was no different. Except for one thing. This was your last night in Europe, and he didn’t know. You hadn’t told him you were leaving and that the version of yourself he had come to know. The carefree traveler. The woman with no roots… she would disappear as soon as the sun rose. A part of you wanted to tell him, but the words caught in your throat every time you thought to speak. You couldn’t bring yourself to ruin the fragile perfection of what you had, even if it was destined to end.

Now, standing outside the door to his suite, you felt that familiar pull, equal parts excitement and dread. The lock clicked, and the door swung open before you could knock. Elijah stood there, immaculately dressed as always, his dark eyes glinting with amusement.

“Second thoughts?” he asked, a teasing smile on his lips.

“Never,” you lied, stepping inside.

The suite was extravagant, warm and rich, but it was his presence that filled the room. He gestured for you to sit, though you barely made it to the sofa before he pulled you into his lap, the contact sending sparks dancing under your skin.

“I was going to ask how your day was,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your ear, “but I know you don’t tolerate small talk.”

“Not when there are better things we could be doing,” you breathed, pulling him in for a kiss.

A soft sigh escaped you as your lips met, his strong hands holding you steady, your heart beating in time with his. You were in freefall, tumbling down the rabbit hole of his affection, and as he deepened the kiss, the last shreds of your resolve fell away.

He was so, damn, crushingly good in bed. He knew how to take his time, to read the smallest shifts in your body and adjust his rhythm. When he touched you, the whole world faded away, until all that was left was the two of you, wrapped up in each other.

You tugged his shirt out of his pants, pulling on the buttons of his vest in an effort to undress him faster. He chuckled, sitting back, watching you fumble.

"I can do it," you muttered, blushing as you undid his buttons, his skin hot under your fingers.

He shrugged off his jacket, and you ran your hands up his arms, across his chest, his muscles firm and taut under his crisp shirt. He was always so impeccably dressed, his clothing clearly expensive and well-made. You’d noticed it from the start, how he carried himself like a man born to luxury, but never flaunting it—just letting it linger in the details. It made you wonder what he did for a living, how did he earn his money? You knew so little about him, yet you were about to have his cock inside you.

You quickly peeled off your dress, watching his reaction as you tossed it aside. You loved how he looked at you. As if you were the only woman in the world, his gaze filled with admiration.

"I like it when you watch me," you admitted softly.

"I'd rather have my hands on you." He replied, running his palm along your thighs, his fingers trailing dangerously high, stopping just short of where you needed him.

You let out a quiet moan, and he chuckled at your response, moving his hands under your hips and picking you up, placing you underneath him on the bed. You watched as he slid his belt from its loops, tossing it onto the floor.

"Can you keep the rest on for now?" you asked, your voice quieter than intended. "You look so good in a suit.”

"As you wish." He grinned as he unbuttoned his pants, freeing his erection, and your heart fluttered. He reached over to the bedside table, retrieving a condom.

"No," you protested, your brain-to-mouth filter long gone. "I want to feel you."

The moment the words left your lips, you knew you had gone too far. The two of you never talked about this. Hell, you didn't even know if he wanted kids. Or had kids. Or birth control. Or anything personal at all. Yet, there was a part of you that didn't care. A reckless, desperate part that wanted to feel him come inside you, to take whatever piece of him he was willing to give.

He studied your face, and you were certain he would tell you no. Any reasonable man would. But then, he dropped the condom and kissed you, a slow, lingering kiss that made you squirm.

"If that's what you want." He murmured, pulling you even closer.

You nodded, clinging to him. Your hips rose to meet him, and his hands gripped your thighs, spreading you wider, as he slowly entered you.

This was such a bad idea. Having raw sex with a stranger. It was the kind of decision that would've gotten you a stern talking-to from your mother. And yet, you'd never been so turned on in your life.

He moved inside you, a languid roll of his hips, and a whimper escaped you. You wrapped your legs around him, urging him closer. You felt drunk, delirious, overwhelmed by the feeling of his skin against yours, his hard length filling you, stretching you, pushing deeper with each thrust.

It was different this way, more intense, the intimacy heightened. You suddenly regretted asking him to leave his suit on. You wanted more, the need for closeness clawing at your chest. You tugged on his shirt, until he took the hint, leaning back to shed it, his hips still moving, keeping a perfect, maddening, rhythm.

"You don't know what you want today, do you?" he said, his tone playful.

You always enjoyed a bit of dirty talk, but the sound of his voice now. Soothing and authoritative, the slightest edge of teasing… had your head spinning.

"Hush," you chided, trying to regain your composure.

He chuckled, his hands sliding up your sides, his fingers intertwining with yours. "I'm sorry," he said, though he didn't sound sorry at all. "Tell me what you want."

You moaned, the warmth in your belly coiling tighter. The way he held your hands, steady and sure, felt too intimate, too personal. But you didn’t pull away. You couldn’t.

"Do you want me to go harder?" He leaned forward, his lips brushing against yours, curling into a teasing smile. "Deeper?"

You nodded, closing your eyes as he adjusted his angle, his cock hitting the spot that made your toes curl. You were close, and he seemed to sense it, his hips rocking into you harder, the bed creaking under his weight.

"Do you want me to come inside you?" he whispered, his voice rough, his words sending a fresh wave of desire through you.

It was a foolish, insane, stupid idea, but lord, did you want it. You wanted to feel his release, the heat of him filling you.

Your eyes fluttered open, meeting his, the intensity of his gaze overwhelming.

"Yes," you breathed, "please."

The look in his eyes changed, as if a switch had flipped, the gentle teasing replaced by something deeper. It was the thing you were both trying to avoid, the emotion lurking just beneath the surface.

He let go of your hands, bracing himself on the mattress, his thrusts slowed, his pace deeper, drawing out the pleasure, the air between you charged, thick with anticipation.

"Say it again," he commanded.

"Please," you moaned. "I need-"

He silenced you with a kiss, your hands moving to his hips, clutching his ass, urging him deeper, faster.

He buried his face in your neck, his breath hot against your skin, his thrusts growing uneven.

"Please," you whispered, your fingers tangling in his hair, "come inside me."

A groan escaped him, and his body stilled, the feeling of him pulsing inside you making your whole body tense, a white-hot pleasure surging through you as you both came undone, clinging to each other as if the world would fall away without the other to anchor you.

He collapsed next to you, and you curled against him, resting your head on his chest, his heart beating fast and strong under your cheek.

You weren’t sure what this was, the two of you tangled together, basking in the afterglow. He wasn’t usually a cuddler. In fact, he’d never asked you to stay the night. Yet, here he was, running his fingers through your hair, his arms around you, holding you close.

You could hear the traffic outside, the bustle of the city. It felt surreal, as if you were watching yourself from above. The woman who’d begged him to come inside her, who craved his touch, wasn’t you. She was a stranger. A shadow of the person you pretended to be.

The thought sent a jolt through your chest, and you pulled away, sitting up and reaching for your clothes.

“It’s getting late,” you said. “I should-”

“Stay,” he said softly, his hand trailing slowly down your back. His voice was quieter than you had ever heard it, almost hesitant, and the word stuck in your chest like a splinter.

Your eyes darted toward the door, the urge to flee overwhelming. What the hell were you thinking? Reckless. Stupid. You’d never planned for this to go so far, to feel so real. Yet, when his hand slid down your back, the warmth of his touch anchored you, quieting the chaos in your mind.

You found yourself nodding, cuddling back against his chest, as if the heat of his embrace could fix everything.

“Just for a little while,” you said, trying to quiet the voice in your head.

“Mmm,” he murmured, and you could feel him smiling against your hair.

The sun had set, the sky turning a dusky purple, the streetlights casting a warm glow on the buildings below. And the two of you had fallen asleep in each other’s arms, feeling safe, content, and hopelessly in love.

The first rays of dawn spilled through the windows, painting the room in soft hues of gold and pink. Elijah lay beside you, his features softened in sleep, one arm draped possessively across your waist.

You had been watching him for a while, a bit of a creepy thing to do, but he was just so handsome, even with his hair disheveled. You let your mind wander, imagining him being yours, waking up next to him every day, sharing meals and adventures. You wondered what his favorite color was, if he liked cats, his thoughts on politics. All those small details that would help bring him to life.

You also wondered what his life was like, who his family was. Maybe he was married? Cheating on his wife with you? The thought was a cold splash of reality. Of course, he was probably married. A man like him would never be single.

You sighed, running your fingers through his hair. This was such a mistake. You didn't know a damn thing about him, yet, here you were, fantasizing about a future together.

Carefully, you slipped out from under his arm, your heart aching with every movement. You dressed in silence, the weight of what you were about to do pressing down on you. Standing at the door, you glanced back at him, your chest tightening at the sight of him sleeping so peacefully.

You wanted to stay. You wanted to whisper the truth, that he was like something out of a dream. But you couldn’t. Because dreams didn't last. They didn't have roots. And you had a life to get back to.

So, instead, you turned and walked out the door, not letting yourself look back.

The New Orleans heat was relentless, thick with humidity, wrapping around you like a second skin. The streets buzzed with music and conversation, and even after months of living here, the city's energy still caught you off guard. It was a stark contrast to Europe, where everything felt steeped in quiet history. Here, everything moved fast. Loud, unpredictable, alive.

You had built a life here, found a job you actually enjoyed, and for the first time in a long time, things felt normal. A fresh start. And yet, no matter how far you ran, how many new routines you built, the ghost of the mysterious Elijah still lurked in the quiet moments. Not often. Not intentionally. But in the space between thoughts, his presence would slip in. His hands, his voice, the way he had looked at you…

You didn’t dwell on it…

Or at least, you told yourself you didn’t…

Instead, you threw yourself into your new life. And a big part of that life was Klaus.

Not in a romantic, sweep-you-off-your-feet way. That would be a disaster, and you knew better. Klaus wasn’t a boyfriend, he was more of… a friendly force in your life. Someone you got drinks with, argued with, occasionally rolled around in bed with. He was charming in a way that made people want to orbit around him, and somehow, you had ended up in that orbit.

You met him at an art gallery downtown, where he had been swirling a glass of red wine and smirking at a particularly ugly modern piece like it had personally offended him. You had made some offhanded joke about abstract art being a scam, and he had laughed, a sharp, knowing laugh, like he was having the exact same thought.

After that, he had a way of showing up. Inviting you out, dragging you into conversations about history and art over whiskey, introducing you to the chaotic energy of the city’s nightlife. You got along. He was fun. He had a mean streak, but you knew how to handle men like that. It was easy.

And maybe, if things were different, you would’ve let something more happen between you. But you both understood what this was…Just company, just passing time. Just a friendly hookup until real love came along… If it ever did.

The soft breeze drifting through the open window did little to cool the heavy heat of the room. The sheets were a tangled mess, kicked aside during the night’s events, and beside you, Klaus lay sprawled out, one arm thrown over his face, his body lazy and sated.

You stretched, the slow ache between your thighs a familiar, satisfying reminder of last night. It hadn’t been anything deep or meaningful, just fun. Easy. No expectations, no promises.

Klaus was good company, someone who understood the unspoken rules of this arrangement: pleasure, no strings. He was charming, sure. Attractive, obviously. But you both knew what this was.

As if sensing your eyes on him, he stirred, his hand sliding absently across your stomach. “Mmm, already awake?” His voice was thick with sleep.

“Fortunately, for you,” You smirked, shifting to straddle his hips, your palms pressing against his chest.

He grinned, eyes still heavy-lidded. “Eager thing, aren’t you?”

“Only because you’re so damn easy.” You dragged your nails lightly down his torso, reveling in the way he tensed beneath you.

Klaus chuckled, but it turned into a low groan as you rocked against him, teasing. His hands settled on your hips, fingers digging in just enough to let you know he enjoyed it.

“If you’re going to keep teasing, love,” he murmured, voice rough, “you better be prepared to finish what you started.”

“I always finish what I start.” You reached for the bedside drawer, rolling on a condom before sinking down onto him, the feeling of your bodies connecting making you both exhale.

The rhythm was familiar, something you both knew well by now. You took what you needed, moved together in a way that was more about chasing pleasure than anything sentimental. Klaus let you take control, his hands gripping your thighs, guiding your movements but never demanding.

It was good. The kind of effortless chemistry that kept you coming back to him.

But then. It happened.

One second, it was Klaus beneath you, his sharp smirk, his blue eyes watching you with hunger.

And then. The stranger that you couldn't get out of your mind. Elijah.

His face flickered into focus like a mirage, his dark eyes holding you in that way that had once made your breath catch.

You froze, a jolt of panic hitting your system like ice water.

No. No.

Your pulse thundered in your ears as you blinked hard, trying to shake it. When you opened your eyes again. Klaus. Just Klaus. Watching you with mild confusion.

"Are you okay? Do you want to stop?"

"N-no."

"Are you sure? We don't have to keep going if-"

"No. Just give me a minute," you said, swallowing the knot in your throat, your mind scrambling.

This had never happened before. Never. But there it was. An image of him burned into your memory, overlaying Klaus, taking the place of your reality.

Klaus halted your hips and sat up, his brows knitting with concern. "You're trembling."

"Sorry." You shook your head, forcing yourself to meet his gaze, though it felt like your whole world was shattering. "Just... got distracted."

"By?" He was giving you a look, somewhere between concerned and amused, his curiosity obvious.

You sighed. He was going to push this.

"Promise you won't get weird about it?"

"Of course not, love."

You swallowed, trying to ignore the sick feeling in the pit of your stomach.

"Someone else."

Klaus chuckled, a warm, rumbling sound. "Don't tell me, the thought of me alone isn't enough to satisfy? That will hurt my ego."

"Don't be ridiculous." You rolled your eyes, fighting the urge to squirm. "It's not about you. It's... an old fling."

"Oh?" His expression shifted, his tone more serious.

"Yeah, someone from when I was traveling. Just... popped into my head, that's all." You shrugged, a feeble attempt to make it seem unimportant.

"I see," He studied your face, his gaze unnervingly steady.

You braced for him to ask more questions, maybe to get jealous or offended, but instead, he flipped you onto your back, a wicked grin on his face.

"I guess I must not be doing my job correctly," he murmured, pressing a kiss to the spot on your neck that always made your toes curl. "I think we can remedy that."

He was a bit rougher with you this time, a bit less playful, his movements filled with a purpose. Like a challenge. He wanted to keep your mind from wandering. And, hell, it worked for a while. The way he was kissing you, moving inside you, touching you, it was so intense. So present.

You moaned, tangling your fingers in his hair, and he pulled away, his gaze searching.

"Is that good?" he asked, his voice softer than usual, the hint of a smile on his lips.

"Yeah," you breathed. "Very."

His hips picked up their pace, his lips hot on your skin, the tension building inside you with each thrust.

You came undone, Klaus following not long after, collapsing onto the mattress beside you, his breathing ragged.

"Still thinking about that old fling?"

You chuckled, swatting his shoulder. "Shut up. Don't be jealous,"

"Me? Never."

You sighed, glancing at the clock. "I need to get ready for work,"

Klaus shrugged, rolling out of bed, stretching, and pulling on his clothes. You watched him, the way he moved, the confidence he exuded.

He was handsome, of course. He was the kind of guy you'd notice immediately, his features chiseled and striking, the perfect amount of scruff. But it wasn't just that. There was something else. A certain... charisma. A presence that made you feel as if he could command a room, the whole city, without even trying.

"Are you coming out tonight?"

"Hmm?" You blinked, his question catching you off guard.

"Tonight, to the dinner party." He cocked his head, looking at you expectantly. "Unless, of course, you've decided to spend your evening pining after someone who isn't here."

"Oh. Yeah, sure."

"Well, don't sound too enthusiastic, love."

You laughed, swatting his arm. "Stop, you know I'm going. I'm actually looking forward to meeting your siblings, mostly to get dirt on you."

"That's a dangerous game, darling." He smirked, leaning over to kiss your forehead. "But, if it makes you happy, I'll see you tonight."

"See you."

He gave you one last grin, the door clicking softly as he left.

You flopped back against the pillows, letting out a shaky breath. Trying to erase a specific pair of haunting brown eyes from your memory. You weren't the type to be hung up on anyone, especially a stranger you hooked up with months ago. Yet, here you were, feeling like an absolute idiot.

You shook your head, getting out of bed, ignoring the way your legs trembled.

This was stupid. A minor setback.

You would move on.

You had to move on.

Right?

You knew Klaus was rich. But you were aware just how insanely wealthy he truly was. It was something that should've been obvious, considering the way Klaus threw around his money, but seeing his ridiculously lavish compound in person was a completely different experience.

The place was huge, sprawling, elegant in a way that only an ancient estate could be. The architecture was stunning, and you were fairly certain the entry hall alone was the size of your apartment.

"You live here?" You glanced over at Klaus, taking in his nonchalant expression.

He nodded, "It's not too shabby, is it?"

You laughed, "Not too shabby? This is insane."

You took in the artwork hanging on the walls, the ornate furniture, and the grand staircase that seemed to stretch on forever. It was the kind of place people only saw on tv. You felt underdressed, almost as if you had stepped into some kind of dream.

"Come, the food is almost ready, and I want to introduce you to my family."

Klaus led you through the winding halls and corridors, until you finally reached a large dining room. There was a massive table, laden with food, and sitting around it were a dozen or so people, chatting and laughing.

Klaus cleared his throat, catching the attention of the room. "Everyone, this is Y/N, my... friend."

A chorus of greetings echoed through the room, and Klaus gestured to a particularly attractive group sitting at the far end of the table.

"These are my siblings, Rebekah, Kol, and Elijah."

You froze, the blood draining from your face as they turned to face you.

It was him.

The man you had been trying so hard to forget, the one whose presence had taken over your life. The same dark eyes, the same gentle smile, the same strong, capable hands. Those hands.

The memories hit you in a dizzying wave. The feeling of his skin, the taste of his lips, the way he held you, the way he looked at you, memorizing every detail.

Elijah was a ghost. A shadow. Someone you would never see again.

Until now.

His face paled, his expression mirroring your own shock. The two of you stood there, staring at each other, the rest of the room falling away.

Your heart hammered in your chest, your mind reeling. How? How the fuck was he here? Was this a dream? Some cruel joke the universe was playing?

You opened your mouth, then closed it again, unable to find the words.

The silence stretched on, growing heavier and heavier, until Klaus finally cleared his throat, breaking the spell.

"Sit, please. I have more guests coming soon."

You sank into a chair next to you Elijah, your hands visibly trembling. This was a nightmare. An absolute nightmare.

Klaus walked away to greet some more guests, leaving you with his siblings. You snuck a glance at Elijah, taking in his stiff posture, his jaw clenched, his eyes fixed on the wall in front of him.

The tension was palpable, the air thick with unspoken words. You couldn't bear it, the weight of the silence, the way his presence was overwhelming, intoxicating.

"Y/n, that's a lovely name. How did you meet our brother?" Rebekah asked, her voice slicing through the silence like a knife.

You blinked, struggling to compose yourself. "We met at a gallery. I was, um, critiquing some of the art, and he agreed."

Rebekah chuckled, "Sounds like Klaus."

Elijah remained silent, his expression unreadable. Rebekah gave him a strange look, then turned her attention back to you.

"How long have the two of you been together?" she asked.

"Oh, we're not. Together. We're just friends." You managed a small laugh, trying to hide the panic in your voice.

"Klaus? Friends? Impossible," Kol interjected, his tone teasing.

"Well, we're friendly," you said, avoiding the subject entirely.

A waiter came by and filled your wine glass, and you thanked him, downing half the glass in one go. The alcohol was a welcome distraction, burning a warm path down your throat.

"How are you liking New Orleans?" Rebekah asked, her tone a little more casual.

"It's amazing, honestly. The energy here is unlike anything I've ever experienced. The people, the music, the history." You paused, the corner of your mouth lifting into a small smile. "I can see why people fall in love with this city."

Rebekah smiled, "It does have its charms."

Klaus returned, settling into his seat beside you, his hand resting on the back of your chair.

"So, what have you been discussing?"

"Oh, just the usual. How we're all shocked you've found a friend," Kol said.

Klaus snorted, "Hardly. I have plenty of friends."

"Yes, but they're not usually women," Kol retorted.

"That's not true Kol, he also has Cami," Rebekah chimed in.

Klaus removed his hand from the back of your chair, his cheeks growing slightly pink. He looked down, busying himself with filling his plate, his posture defensive.

Kol let out a laugh and pointed down to the other end of the table. "What's wrong Nik, don't want her to hear?"

You followed his gaze, landing on a pretty blonde who was chatting animatedly with some of the other guests.

"You didn't tell us Camille was coming," Rebekah said.

"It didn't seem important," Klaus muttered, not meeting anyone's eyes.

You had no idea who this girl was, but clearly, Klaus had a thing for her. You could practically feel the awkward tension radiating off him.

He was sweet, but a little rough around the edges. It made sense that he'd be a bit of a mess when it came to his love life.

You couldn't help but smile at that.

"She's beautiful," you said sincerely, nudging him playfully.

Klaus sighed, finally meeting your gaze. "You think?"

"Definitely." You paused, watching his face soften a little. "Why don't you go talk to her?"

Klaus shook his head, a wry smile playing on his lips. "You're not supposed to encourage me, love."

"Why not? Isn't that what friends do?" You grinned.

His eyes narrowed, his expression playful as he leaned in close, his lips brushing your ear. "If I'm with her I'm not with you. Where would that leave us, hmm?"

Before you could respond, Elijah abruptly stood, his chair scraping against the floor. "Excuse me."

All of you watched him walk out of the room, his sudden departure startling everyone.

"Is he alright?" Rebekah asked, her tone worried.

Kol shrugged. "He's been in a mood lately."

"You know how fussy he can get about dinner parties," Klaus said, his tone dismissive.

The rest of the dinner was a blur. You tried your best to engage in conversation, but the weight of Elijah's presence was suffocating, drowning out the noise. He had returned halfway through the meal, his expression stony, his movements stiff and calculated. He didn't look at you, not once, but you could feel his gaze on you, heavy and intense, every time he thought no one was paying attention.

Klaus had taken your advice and made a point to speak with Cami, his body language betraying how flustered he was. He was trying so hard, and it was equal parts amusing and heartwarming.

It was almost enough to distract you from the fact that Elijah was in the same room.

Almost.

As the meal came to an end, the crowd started to thin, people milling about the room, talking and laughing.

Klaus was engrossed in conversation with Cami, his eyes never leaving her face. You smiled to yourself, happy to see him making progress.

You scanned the room, noticing that Elijah was nowhere in sight. Without thinking, you excused yourself, walking through the grand hallways, searching.

You didn't know what you were looking for, or why. But the thought of him being so close, yet out of reach, was too much to bear.

The house was enormous, and as you wandered the hallways, you realized just how impossible it would be to find him. You went up a few floors, finding rooms filled with more art, more artifacts, more history. It was mesmerizing, a window into a world you had never experienced.

Finally, you reached a hallway lined with bedrooms, each one as opulent as the last. You were about to turn around and head back downstairs when a door opened, and Elijah stepped out, freezing as soon as he saw you.

A long silence stretched between the two of you, the air thick with tension.

He was even more handsome than you remembered, his dark hair slightly disheveled, his face flushed. He looked upset, his jaw clenched, his posture stiff.

You swallowed hard, fighting the urge to run. To flee and never look back. But you couldn't. Something in his expression kept you rooted in place.

"Hi," you said softly, your heart pounding in your chest.

"Hello," he replied, his voice smooth, but laced with an emotion you couldn't quite identify.

"I'm, um, sorry to bother you. I was just... looking for the bathroom." You winced, realizing how flimsy the excuse was.

"Right." His eyes searched your face, his brow furrowing.

"Sorry," you repeated, shifting uncomfortably under his gaze.

"There's no need to apologize," he said, his expression softening a little. "I'm sure this is all... unexpected."

"Yeah, it is," you breathed.

Another tense silence passed between the two of you. Elijah looked conflicted, his eyes filled with an emotion you couldn't decipher.

"You didn't tell me you had a brother," you said, the words tumbling out of your mouth before you could stop them.

Elijah's eyes narrowed, but there was a hint of amusement in his voice. "We didn't exactly do a lot of talking about our personal lives,"

Your face burned. "Right, yeah. Sorry, I wasn't... trying to accuse you of anything," you stammered.

Elijah sighed, running a hand through his hair. "No, I'm sorry… That was a poor choice of words."

You nodded, chewing on your lip. The two of you were both obviously uncomfortable.

"Look, I... I don't know what to say, really. This is... weird. Like, insanely weird," you said.

Elijah laughed, a sound that was a mix of relief and nervousness. "Agreed."

You took a deep breath, steeling your nerves. "I... honestly didn't think I would ever see you again."

"I didn't either."

"And now..."

"And now."

You hesitated, your heart thumping in your chest as you took a tentative step forward. "What are the odds, huh?"

"Quite low, I imagine."

You laughed, a soft, breathless sound. "I guess the universe had other plans."

Elijah's expression shifted, a hint of vulnerability breaking through his mask. He looked conflicted, as if he wanted to say something, but couldn't bring himself to.

Instead he took a deep breath, his voice softer, gentler, "I'm glad you're doing well,"

"You too," you managed, fighting the urge to reach out and touch him, to close the distance between the two of you.

"I should probably get back," you said, not really wanting to.

"Of course," he murmured, not moving away from you, his gaze intense.

You lingered for a moment, neither of you willing to break eye contact. It was strange, surreal. A feeling you couldn't put into words. It pulled you in, and before you knew it, you were moving towards him, drawn by some invisible force.

His hand came up, wrapping around your waist, pulling you closer. His lips met yours, soft, but urgent, and you melted into him, the familiarity of his touch making your heart ache.

You weren't sure how long you stood there, kissing him, holding him, your hands tangled in his hair, his body pressed against yours. It was like no time had passed, the two of you falling back into the same pattern, the same rhythm.

He guided you backwards until you hit a side table, your back pressing against the polished wood. He lifted you, his lips never leaving yours as he sat you on the edge, his body caging you in.

His hands slid up your thighs, pushing your dress up, his eyes darkening as his fingers brushed the lace of your underwear.

You pulled back, just enough to look into his eyes, your hands grasping the front of his shirt, needing to feel the warmth of his skin, the beating of his heart.

"I haven't been able to get you out of my mind," he murmured, kissing down your neck.

"Me neither," you admitted, a small moan escaping your lips as his teeth grazed your collarbone.

He lifted your thighs, planting your feet on the edge of the table, spreading your legs wide, his hips pressed flush against yours.

You could feel the hardness of him, the proof of his desire for you, and it sent a wave of heat straight through your core.

You wanted him. Badly. More than you could ever remember wanting anything.

"We shouldn't do this here," you breathed, his lips tracing the shell of your ear.

"I don't care," he whispered, his fingers tugging at the hem of your dress, sliding the fabric up to your hips.

"Someone might see."

"Good," he said softly, his lips curling into a smirk, just inches from yours. "Let them see."

You gasped, arching your back as his fingers found the wetness between your legs, his movements slow and deliberate, teasing you. He slowly circled your clit, drawing lazy patterns, his gaze fixed on your face, taking in every detail, every reaction.

You tugged on his shirt, trying to anchor yourself, to keep from getting swept away. Your heart was hammering, the heat building in your core, the anticipation making you dizzy.

He pushed a finger inside you, then another, his movements firm and steady, his thumb circling your clit. He was taking his time, drawing it out, his eyes never leaving yours, his gaze filled with something raw and intense.

It was that same feeling as before, the one that made you do things you wouldn't normally do. The one that made you feel alive.

Your legs trembled, your body trembling as he brought you to the edge, only to pull back. His fingers teased your entrance, before sinking deep inside you, curling and hitting that spot that made your vision blur.

"Fuck," you gasped, gripping his shoulders, trying desperately to hold on.

He grinned and moved to his knees, his eyes locking on yours, and it was almost too much. The sight of him, kneeling before you, his dark gaze burning into yours, his fingers still buried inside you.

He pulled his fingers from your core, the emptiness almost unbearable, and his tongue flicked over your clit. You cried out, a strangled, broken sound, and he chuckled, the vibrations making your toes curl.

He licked and sucked and teased, his movements perfectly measured, knowing exactly what to do, where to touch. He devoured you, his lips and tongue working in tandem, his fingers sinking back into you, stretching you open, filling you.

You felt yourself hurtling towards the edge, the pressure building, your legs shaking, your fingers tangled in his hair. He looked up at you, his eyes blazing with a mixture of desire and hunger, and it was all too much.

You came, your vision whiting out, his name a strangled cry on your lips. He kept going, working you through the aftershocks, his touch gentle, coaxing, until finally, he stopped, pressing a kiss to the inside of your thigh.

"Beautiful," he murmured, his voice hoarse.

He stood, and you caught a glimpse of the bulge straining against his trousers, before he leaned down, his lips meeting yours, the taste of yourself lingering on his tongue.

He kissed you, deep and slow, and you felt the loss of his touch acutely, the emptiness inside you almost unbearable. You reached for him, fumbling with his belt, desperate to feel him, to have him inside you.

"I can't believe we are doing this," you muttered, laughing nervously as his zipper came down. "Again," you added, the word barely a whisper.

"Neither can I," he admitted, a small, wry smile on his lips.

"This is insane."

"I'm well aware."

You slipped your hand inside his trousers, the feel of his bare skin against yours sending a jolt of pleasure straight through your core. He let out a soft groan, his hips pressing against yours, his body urging you on.

"Don't get me pregnant," you half joked, your voice a strained whisper.

He laughed, the sound rich and deep, the warmth of his breath fanning across your cheek.

"I won't."

You tugged at his trousers, pulling them down just enough to free him. His cock sprang free, hard and throbbing, and you wrapped your fingers around his shaft, stroking him slowly, the velvety skin sliding under your palm.

He pressed the head of his cock against your entrance, teasing you, his lips brushing yours.

"Do it," you breathed, the need coursing through your veins.

He thrust forward, filling you completely, his fingers digging into your thighs. You moaned, the feeling of him inside you, stretching you, consuming you.

He set a slow, deliberate pace, trying not to cause the table to creak and rock. It was sensual and maddening, the feeling of his cock easing in and out of you, his breathing ragged, his hands holding onto you for dear life.

The pleasure was overwhelming, your body tightening around him, drawing him in, trying to keep him there. He pressed his forehead to yours, his lips grazing your jaw, his hips snapping into yours, harder and faster, the filthy sounds of your bodies colliding echoing through the empty hall.

He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot and labored, his hands moving down your back and under your ass, pulling you flush against him.

Your fingers twisted in the fabric of his shirt, your eyes squeezed shut, your entire world focused on the feel of him inside you.

It was like nothing else mattered, nothing existed except the two of you, joined together in the most intimate way.

He held you, his movements growing more frantic, his thrusts uneven and jerky, and you could feel him coming apart. He bit down on your shoulder, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your ass, his cock pulsing inside you as he spilled his release.

The two of you stayed like that, awkwardly settled on the table, trying to catch your breath, to come down from the high.

After a moment, he straightened, tucking himself back into his trousers and running a hand through his hair, his cheeks flushed.

"That was..." he trailed off, searching for the right word.

"Intense," you offered, as he helped you stand.

"Indeed," he murmured, a small, satisfied smile on his lips.

He pulled you in for another kiss, his fingers tangling in your hair, his lips soft and warm. You melted into him, losing yourself in the feeling of his body against yours.

After a long moment, he pulled back, his eyes filled with an emotion you couldn't decipher. He cleared his throat, the moment breaking, the reality of the situation crashing down around you.

"Well, I should... um, get back," you said, the words hanging in the air, awkward and stilted. "Before anyone notices we're gone,"

"No need, we all heard you two," Klaus' voice echoed through the hall, startling you both.

You turned to see him leaning against the door frame, his arms crossed over his chest, a smug grin on his face.

Your cheeks burned with embarrassment, and you hastily fixed your dress, Elijah stepped in front of you, blocking the sight from his brother.

Klaus let out a laugh, "oh no need for all that Elijah, it's nothing I haven't seen before," he drawled.

"What are you doing here?" Elijah demanded, his tone laced with annoyance.

"Well, I was looking for my Y/n. You wandered off and then I heard these distressing sounds coming from the hallway. So naturally, I came to investigate," he paused, his eyes roaming over your body, his gaze filled with a mixture of amusement and curiosity. "And here you are,"

"I, uh, got lost," you offered weakly, still a little stunned.

"In his pants?" Klaus smirked, his gaze traveling between the two of you.

You were speechless, not quite sure what to say. It was humiliating, being caught like this, exposed and vulnerable. There were clearly a lot of complicated feelings between the two of them, things that had nothing to do with you.

Elijah wrapped his arm around your waist, it surprised you, the way he pulled you against him, as if he was claiming you. You glanced up at him, the look on his face unreadable. He seemed unfazed by Klaus' accusation, his expression carefully neutral.

"If you must know, we ran into each other," Elijah said evenly, his hand stroking the small of your back. "We know each other from... Another city."

"Oh, really? How serendipitous," Klaus replied, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

"Yes, it is," Elijah said simply, his posture relaxed.

Klaus shook his head, his eyes darting between the two of you, the realization slowly dawning on him. "Wait... That hook-up you were telling me about? The old fling you couldn't get out of your head? That's... Elijah?"

You nodded, your cheeks burning so hot they could melt ice.

Klaus began to laugh, a deep, genuine belly laugh. He wiped at his eyes, his whole body shaking with amusement. "This is too much. This is... I don't even know what to say."

Elijah sighed, his jaw clenched, but his eyes amused. "I would prefer it if you didn't say anything."

"Oh, come on, this is funny," Klaus said, taking a step closer. "You're the reason she was all hung up and miserable,"

"Miserable?" Elijah frowned, glancing down at you.

"Klaus, stop," you pleaded, the humiliation making your chest ache.

"What?" He shrugged. "I'm just stating facts. You were a mess because of him."

Elijah's eyes searched yours, his expression conflicted. His hand was still on the small of your back, and he rubbed it in small, soothing circles.

"Niklaus, if you don't mind, I wish to have a private conversation with her," Elijah said, his tone firm.

"Alright, fine, but do try to keep it down, hmm? We have guests," Klaus winked at the two of you, turning on his heel and heading down the hallway.

You watched him walk away, then you leaned up and kissed Elijah on the cheek. "I'll be right back, okay?"

He nodded, his gaze following you as you walked down the hallway after Klaus.

"Nik!" You called, catching up to him.

"Yes, love?"

"Look, I'm sorry," you said, trying to gauge his reaction.

"For what?" He looked genuinely confused.

"For... sleeping with Elijah," you said, a little unsure.

Klaus laughed, his expression light and teasing. "We were never going to work out, love. Our hearts belong to others,"

"I know," you shrugged. “But still... He's your brother,"

"And you love him," Klaus said simply, a small, knowing smile on his lips.

"What? No, I... I don't even know him, not really," you protested.

"You will, and he'll love you, too," Klaus said, his voice surprisingly gentle.

"It doesn't matter. It was just... sex," you tried to explain.

"Was it, though?"

"Yes," you insisted, trying to ignore the nagging voice in the back of your head, the one that knew he was right.

Klaus shook his head, his gaze softening a little. He pulled you in for a hug, his arms wrapping around you, holding you close.

"Listen, it's none of my business. But if there's something between the two of you, some spark or whatever... Don't let it go. Life's too short for regrets,"

You pulled back, looking up at him, surprised by the sincerity in his voice. "Thank you, Nik,"

"Of course," he replied, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "And do try to be a bit more discreet, hmm? You two aren't exactly quiet."

You groaned, burying your face in your hands, trying to hide the blush creeping across your cheeks. "I'll try."

He laughed, and then headed back downstairs to rejoin the party. Off to find Cami, no doubt.

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself, and made your way back to Elijah, his eyes fixed on you, an intensity in his gaze that made your heart race.

You reached out, taking his hand, his fingers lacing with yours, and he led you to his room, the door closing softly behind the two of you.

You stood in the middle of his bedroom, the air thick with tension, everything was happening so fast.

"So," he began, his voice low and soft.

"So," you echoed, a nervous smile tugging at your lips.

Elijah exhaled, slow and measured, but there was no hiding the tension in his posture. “Are you going to run again?”

The question hung between you, weighted with more than just tonight.

You swallowed hard, your fingers twitching at your sides. You owed him the truth.

“Elijah…” You took a step closer, your voice unsteady. “I ran because I was scared.”

His jaw clenched slightly, but he stayed silent, letting you speak.

“I told myself that what we had was casual. That it didn’t mean anything. But then you started looking at me like I was something more.” Your throat tightened. “Like I mattered. And that scared the hell out of me.”

His expression softened, just a fraction, but his silence pressed against you like a weight.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to keep going. “I didn’t know how to handle the way you made me feel.” Your voice was quieter now, raw. “I thought if I ran, I could outrun it. But I didn’t. I never did. Because no matter where I went, no matter what I did, you were always there.”

A beat passed. Then two. And then his hand was cupping your cheek, his eyes searching yours.

“And now?” he asked softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

“And now…” You took a deep breath, your heart pounding in your chest. “I’m standing here. With you. And I don’t want to run anymore.”

His thumb brushed against your cheek, his touch gentle but firm. “Good,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “Because I’m not letting you go this time.”

You leaned into his touch, your eyes closing as his lips met yours in a kiss that was both tender and desperate. It was a promise, a commitment, a declaration of everything you’d both been too afraid to say.

When you finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath warm against your skin. “Stay,” he whispered, his voice rough with emotion. “Not just tonight. Always.”

Your heart swelled at his words, and you nodded, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “Always,” you echoed, your voice steady despite the emotions threatening to overwhelm you.

You kissed him again, slow and sweet, the familiar taste of him flooding your senses. He was everything you'd been missing, everything you'd needed. There was so much more left to say, but it would have to wait. In this moment, there was only the two of you, tangled together, a promise of something more. This was where you were meant to be, you were sure of it.

~Epilogue

The first thing you registered was warmth. The kind that seeped into your bones, wrapped around you like a quiet reassurance. You stirred, blinking against the soft glow of morning light filtering through the curtains. The sheets were tangled around your legs, the scent of him lingering in the fabric.

Elijah's arm was draped over your waist, his breathing deep and steady against the back of your neck. The weight of him, the solid presence at your side, was grounding in a way you hadn’t expected. You hadn’t realized how much you missed waking up with someone... not just anyone, but him.

For a moment, you didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Because this felt… real. Permanent.

And for the first time in a long time, the thought didn’t terrify you.

You shifted slightly, your fingers ghosting over his forearm where it rested against your stomach. He stirred behind you, his grip instinctively tightening, pulling you closer.

“Second thoughts?” His voice was husky with sleep, laced with quiet amusement.

You smiled, a warm flush spreading through you.

"Not a single one," you murmured, turning in his arms, your gaze meeting his.

"Good," he murmured, his hand sliding up your back, pulling you flush against him.

It felt... Right. Like you'd always belonged here, in his bed, his arms. Like he'd always been the one, waiting for you.

There was no more running.

No more fear.

Just this.

Just him.

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solvyn · 2 months ago

Note

A new anon here! I was wondering if you could do a LaMelo Ball fic where reader is a singer and Melo and reader were in a long term relationship but recently broke up and reader releases a break up album about it

track seven - l.ball

summary: after releasing an album about your breakup with lamelo, you struggle with the weight of your emotions and the quiet aftermath, only to find that some things left unsaid might still find their way back word count: 1.1k warnings: angst (a/n: i left this as a cliffhanger because i wasn't sure whether to give them a happy ending or not. should i write a part two?)

you don’t check your phone when the album drops.

it’s not that you don’t care. god, you care too much. but you know if you pick up your phone, you’ll see his name. and right now, you can’t handle that.

instead, you sit in your apartment, curled up in the oversized hoodie you stole from him months ago—back when everything was good, when you thought forever meant forever. your hands are curled around a mug of tea that’s gone cold, your mind buzzing with anticipation and dread.

it’s out now. the world knows.

your pain, your heartbreak, your sleepless nights and empty mornings, they’re all out there, woven into melodies, laced between lyrics that tell the story of love and loss. of him. of you.

lamelo ball was your first love. your greatest love. and now he’s your greatest heartbreak.

it’s been four months since the breakup, but it still feels raw, like an open wound that won’t close. you’re doing what you do best—turning your emotions into music—but you know it’s going to hurt him. it’s going to hurt you, too. but this is how you heal. or at least, how you try to.

when your best friend calls, you hesitate before answering.

“girl, have you been online?” they ask, their voice buzzing with equal parts excitement and nerves.

you sigh, pressing your fingers to your temple. “nope. avoiding it.”

“well, you might wanna start preparing yourself because it’s trending. everywhere.”

of course it is.

you exhale slowly, forcing yourself to stay calm. you knew this was coming. you just didn’t expect it to happen this fast.

“what are they saying?” you ask, barely above a whisper.

“mostly good things,” your friend says. “they love it. they’re calling it one of the best breakup albums of the year. some are even comparing it to s.o.s. and red.”

that makes you smile, even if it’s small. you poured your heart into this album, and to see people resonate with it, to see them feel it, means everything. but you know that’s not all there is.

“and?”

your friend hesitates. “and… he posted.”

just like that, your stomach drops.

“what did he say?”

“it’s a story. just a black screen with a caption. ‘damn.’”

your heart clenches. that single word carries so much weight. you can picture him saying it, the way he does when something catches him off guard. you wonder what he’s thinking. if he’s angry. if he’s hurting as much as you are. if he regrets the way things ended.

but you can’t afford to think like that. you wrote this album for you. not for him. not for closure. not for revenge. for you.

so you don’t respond. you don’t reach out. instead, you let the music speak for itself.

three days later, he calls.

you shouldn’t answer. you know better. but your fingers betray you before your brain can catch up.

“hey.”

his voice is deeper than you remember, raspier. like he hasn’t been sleeping much either. there’s a beat of silence before he speaks again.

“so that’s how you really feel?”

your throat tightens. you close your eyes, trying to steady yourself. “melo…”

“nah, i just—” he exhales sharply. “i didn’t know it was like that.”

“what did you expect?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper. “we broke up. i wrote about it.”

“yeah, but—” he pauses. “some of those songs… you made me sound like the villain.”

your chest aches, because part of you knows he’s right. but the other part? the part that spent nights crying over him, over the way things ended, over the pieces of you he took with him when he left? that part doesn’t regret a damn thing.

“if that’s how you heard it, maybe you should ask yourself why.”

he’s quiet. too quiet. you can hear his breathing, uneven like he’s trying to hold something back.

“i never wanted to hurt you,” he says finally. “you know that, right?”

you swallow the lump in your throat. “i know.”

he sighs, a heavy, uneven breath that crackles through the phone. “then why does it feel like i lost you all over again?”

because maybe he has.

maybe you’ve lost him, too.

silence lingers between you, thick with words unsaid. you could tell him that you still think about him when certain songs play, that sometimes you reach for your phone only to stop yourself, that you still sleep in his hoodie because it’s the only thing that makes your bed feel less empty. but none of it changes the fact that you’re here, on opposite sides of something too broken to fix.

“melo…” your voice wavers. “i don’t—i don’t know what to say.”

“yeah.” his voice is barely above a whisper. “me neither.”

there’s a pause, a second where you think he might say something else, something that could undo the space between you. but then the line goes dead.

and just like that, he’s gone again.

time moves forward. the album continues to climb the charts. the songs that once felt too personal to share are now being sung by strangers, their voices carrying pieces of your story. of his. of yours, together.

you don’t know if he listens to it anymore. if he still thinks about you when certain lyrics play. if he regrets calling you that night. you don’t reach out. neither does he.

but sometimes, in the quiet moments, when the world is still and your heart aches just a little bit less, you wonder if he’s out there listening, remembering, missing you the way you miss him.

and maybe, just maybe, he is.

because one night, long after the world has quieted and your apartment is bathed in the soft glow of the city lights, your phone buzzes.

a text.

it’s him.

“i heard track seven.”

just five words, but they knock the breath out of you. because track seven is the one song you almost didn’t put on the album. the one where you weren’t angry, or bitter, or drowning in sadness. the one where you admitted, in soft harmonies and raw lyrics, that you still loved him, in some small, stubborn way. that a part of you always would.

your fingers hover over the keyboard. you could ignore it. you probably should. but instead, you type.

“yeah?”

his response comes quickly.

“yeah.”

#lamelo ball #lamelo ball fic #lamelo ball imagine #lamelo ball x yn #lamelo ball x reader

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blog-o-meter · 5 months ago

Text

Making Room - Nicholas Alexander Chavez x fem!reader

summary: (Y/N) follows up on her promise of visiting Nicholas in Los Angeles after their fateful weekend together, excited to see him again, but increasingly finds herself doubting her place in his world.

warnings: 18+, implied phone sex, cunnilingus, unprotected p in v, blowjob, cursing, pls let me know what else

required listening: Islands by The XX

word count: 30, 568

a/n: ok ik technically this is a continuation to room 5, but you honestly don't even have to read it, unless you'd like to understand the occasional reference to the beach weekend (I'll link it below). I thought 17k words was long for room 5, but this one had me in a doozy!! this one was mostly for my enjoyment, just to see where the story would take me, but if you happen to enjoy it, awesome!! pls pls pls let me know what you guys think <3

Room 5 (Part 1) | Room On Fire (Part 3) | Room To Breathe (Part 4)

reblogs and likes are appreciated and lets me know if you'd like to see more!

Four months. It had been four months since I last saw Nicholas — in person, that is. Since that fateful weekend at the beach, we had been messaging and calling almost every day, which is absolutely insane to think about. Could you imagine what would’ve happened had I not booked that specific hotel on that specific weekend? I’d probably be staring at my phone for a completely different reason, doom scrolling, bored out of my mind. But, now, Nicholas was my reason.

God, we’d text, FaceTime, and call any chance either of us got. I was afraid our conversations would be surface-level at first, like they are with almost every guy I’ve tried to talk to on Tinder or Bumble or Hinge, but I was equal parts surprised and relieved to find that all our talks seemed natural and easy, as if we were best friends in a previous life. It was like we had skipped all of the awkward stages and landed right in the middle of something real, which I hoped would happen, especially after how we met. I think I’d die if Nicholas ended up being a one night stand or failed budding relationship.

It scared me, as much as it thrilled me, to find just how easily Nicholas could get me to open up about anything. He didn’t ask the typical questions one would ask when getting to know someone. We all know the ones, the ones everyone dreads to ask or answer for the millionth time with those potential matches on dating apps that end up going nowhere: what’s your favorite color? What do you do for fun? And the one that personally makes me want to bite my phone in half: wyd?

No, he wouldn’t ask those questions. First, he’d lead in with an anecdote of his own, explaining to me his personal lore as a way to soften me up before he’d ask me the hard-hitters: What were you like as a kid? What is your concept of love? Do you regret anything? All of his questions kept me on my toes, and I mean that in the best way possible. I found myself answering every question he had about me in an unfiltered and honest way, which I don’t think anybody has gotten me to do in years, possibly since the one free therapy session I went to during my first semester of college.

But my favorite question he would ask me on certain late nights was, “Is everyone asleep?,” his voice low and intimate through the phone.

It was a question that made my skin flush, one that made the heat pool low in my belly. My toes would curl under the sheets the moment I’d hear his breathing become deeper and deeper, pressing my ear to the phone as close as I could so I could hear every idiosyncrasy in his breath.

“Yeah, why?” I’d innocently ask, though I knew exactly where his question would lead to.

“Good,” he’d murmur, his voice dropping to a whisper that made my heart race. “Then it’s just you and me, right? No interruptions?” I could almost hear his hand graze down to the waist of his jeans through the phone.

If phones still had cords at the end of them, I’d be twisting the hell out of it around my finger. “No interruptions,” I’d whisper back.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he’d confess softly, the words almost tangible through the phone.

“I can’t stop thinking about you either,” I’d reply, my voice barely audible as I’d reach for my underwear under the sheets.

“You have no idea how much I want to be there with you right now, (Y/N),” he’d continue, his voice rich with longing, “To touch you… to feel you….”

The words would send a jolt through me, a wave of heat rushing to my skin as I’d shift around in bed, biting my lip at his voice. It was hard to hold back when he knew all the right things to say.

The killers, though, were the selfies he’d send. It had started innocently enough: a picture of him holding up his coffee one morning with the caption, 'Good morning, beautiful.' But then it escalated. Tousled hair and sleepy eyes at the end of a long day, shirtless mirror selfies after a workout; he knew exactly what he was doing, and he wasn't shy about it.

>> just something to tide you over

He’d tease over text. I couldn’t feel his muscles taut under my fingers through the phone, but I’d look at the shirtless picture he’d sent and my face would flush all the same. And every time, l'd reply:

> You’re torturing me, you know that?

To which he'd say:

>> Good. Now you know how I feel every time I hear your voice but can't touch you.

Somewhere between the steamy exchanges and long, deep conversations, I found myself trusting Nicholas in ways I hadn’t trusted anyone in years. And yet, the more I opened up to him, the more terrified I became. This wasn’t some casual crush I could move on from after a few weeks. Nicholas had become something more; he mattered to me deeply, and I ached for him in ways I couldn’t possibly fathom. There was only so much back-and-forth I could take until one day, when I finally told him:

> I can't keep doing this, Nic. I need to see you.

I watched as the typing dots appeared, then disappeared, then reappeared. Finally, his reply came through.

>> I’m booking you a flight to LA.

> like actually?

>> yes. I need you here with me. No more waiting.

Some part of me thought that he was still joking, but when he sent me a screenshot of my digital boarding ticket just a few minutes later, I could’ve sworn my heart didn’t just skip a beat — it stopped completely. The ticket was dated for the next week, an early morning non-stop flight from my hometown to LAX Airport with a return date of just a few days later. 4 days in LA. Nicholas was dead serious.

A smile tugged at my lips, but it was quickly followed by a wave of nerves. After months of teasing such a trip, it was happening. I was going to fly across the country to see him, really see him, for the first time since that weekend at the beach. I felt a mix of excitement, anxiety, and anticipation settle in my stomach. Though, I was most excited to be able to feel Nicholas again.

Thankfully, my boss was a pretty understanding guy. I never really had to ask for “permission” whenever I wanted a day off; I just had to let him know a few days in advance that I’d be out so he could adjust tasks accordingly. And so, I let him know that I’d be out on Thursday, and that was enough to cover my bases. What stressed me out, though, wasn’t missing a day of work, it was the packing.

I had never been to California, let alone fly to another state to meet up with a guy. What does one even pack for that? What would we even been doing on said trip? Museum dates? Beach dates? We did meet at a beach. And then there was the lingerie situation — should I even pack it? Would that make me look presumptuous? Though, Nicholas had been more suggestive over text lately…

By the time Wednesday night rolled around, I’d somehow managed to stuff four days worth of clothing into a single carry-on while convincing myself I’d forgotten something essential. Toiletries, toothbrush, extra underwear, passport, wallet. Toiletries, toothbrush, extra, underwear, passport, wallet. Toiletries, toothbrush, extra underwear, passport, wallet. I double-checked my bag about three times before deciding I was overthinking it. Still, my nerves didn’t settle.

All I kept thinking about, kept counting down to, was the moment I landed safely in Los Angeles and had Nicholas in my arms again. I had been thinking about the way he held me, his teasing, and his beautiful smile ever since we met. Thankfully, we existed in an era of smartphones, and I could just wait for a FaceTime call from him to satisfy my desire for a moment.

Nicholas made sure to express the same sentiments any opportunity he could, too. The night before my flight, he called me while I was lying in bed, my heart racing too fast to be able to properly wind down.

“Are you packed?” he asked, his voice smooth and reassuring, but with an underlying excitement that matched my own.

“Since yesterday,” I said, rolling onto my side and staring at tomorrow’s outfit neatly folded on my desk chair, my luggage zipped and ready to go. “I feel like I’m forgetting something, though.”

“Even if you did, don’t worry too much. Just bring yourself; that’s all I need,” he said softly, and my stomach flipped at how sincere he sounded.

I smiled, burying my face in the pillow to hide the ridiculous grin I was wearing, even though he couldn’t see it. “I swear, it’s like you get all your lines straight from a romance novel.”

I could hear his smile through the phone, “Maybe I’m just a romantic.”

“Yeah, booking a flight for a girl you met four months ago might’ve given that away,” I teased, rolling over to the other side of the bed.

“Hey, you’re the one who said you needed to see me,” he shot back, a playful lilt in his voice. I could hear him shuffling items on the other side, the clank of something on a wooden surface followed by the occasional spray of some liquid, “I’m just being accommodating.”

“Oh, so now it’s my fault,” I replied, laughing softly into the receiver.

“Absolutely,” he said, the smirk in his voice unmistakable. “If it were up to me, I would’ve booked that flight for you the moment I was back in LA, but I didn’t want to push. I wanted you to feel ready.”

He always seemed to know the right thing to say, the perfect balance of sweet and thoughtful without crossing into saccharine. “Well, I’m definitely ready now,” I admitted, my voice softer now.

“Good,” he sighed, “because I don’t think I could’ve waited any longer.”

“Just a few more hours, and I’m all yours,” I murmured through the phone, daydreaming about the moment I could be with Nicholas again.

He sighed longingly, mumbling, “All mine.”

I’m not sure how it would be the moment we saw each other. Yes, we had a wonderful day together that weekend at the beach, but a part of me thought what if we lost that in-person magic we had back then? There was so much riding on this trip. What if things felt… different once we were in person again? I mean, this would be our first time staying an entire weekend together.

I had planned on staying at a nearby hotel, but Nicholas insisted on him hosting me so he could spend every second, both waking and sleeping, with me. After all, it would only be a few days and it would save us some time from waiting around in traffic driving back and forth, so he said. As much as I loved our night together at the beach, that was exactly it — just one night. This was three nights and four days at his place.

The line went quiet for a moment, the kind of silence that wasn't awkward but charged. It was the kind of silence that let you feel every unspoken word, every unsaid thought hanging in the air. I could hear him breathing on the other end, the sound steady and rhythmic, and it somehow soothed the storm of emotions brewing inside me.

That next day couldn’t have been any more stressful for me, and I didn’t particularly appreciate the universe’s sense of humor. The security line at the airport looked short but was taking agonizingly long to get through. I’d glance down at my watch almost every minute thinking that would magically help pass the time. And it wasn’t just me. I could see everyone else in line starting to get anxious, too. You’d think an airport in a small town would be easier, faster, and less stressful, but no, it wasn’t.

And of course, once I did get through, my tray of items was randomly checked. It was like the TSA agent knew my stomach was in knots about today, taking their precious time to open my luggage and sift through my stuff. I stood there helpless, trying not to fidget as the agent meticulously examined my bag. Finally, the agent gave me a curt nod, zipped up my bag, and handed it back to me.

I didn’t even bother to politely smile back like I usually do; I just grabbed my things and power-walked toward my gate, which, of course, was all the way at the opposite end of the terminal. My heart felt like it was about to leap out of my chest as I weaved through the small crowds of fliers. When I finally reached my gate, I was out of breath and sweating, but I had made it just in time with the final group starting to board.

Just as it was my turn to scan my boarding pass, the gate agent halted me, politely smiling, “It looks like we just ran out of cabin space. We’re going to have to check in your carry-on.”

I sighed, one of resignation more than anything else. At least I wouldn’t have to worry about looking for any cabin space and carrying this heavy hunk of clothes over my head. Nodding my head, I said, “Of course,” smiling politely.

I watched as one gate agent scanned my ticket while the other wrapped a paper tag around my luggage. As I walked through the gate and boarded the plane, my nerves didn’t let up, and they didn’t dissipate the entire four hour flight either. I tried to nap, I tried watching a movie, I tried listening to music, I tried reading a book, and I even tried to distract myself with the in-flight snacks. Nothing could get me to calm down, and it didn’t help that the flight was particularly bumpy.

However, when the plane began to descend down into Los Angeles, some of my nerves started to let up just a tinge. I had never been to Los Angeles, so flying over the city was a treat. The sprawling cityscape stretched endlessly beneath the plane, glittering under the bright California sun. The ocean sparkled in the distance, a deep blue that reminded me of back home, reminded me of that weekend I met Nicholas. It also reminded me that somewhere amongst those highways and palm trees, he was waiting for me. I made sure to take some pictures of the skyline before the plane descended further.

My stomach flipped as the plane wheels hit the runway, the vibrations jolting me out of my thoughts. This was it. I was here, in his city, and in just a few minutes, I’d be wrapped in his warm embrace again. Yet, as much as I tried to hold on to that comforting thought, I couldn’t quite shake the nagging voice in my head questioning how I fit into all this. His city. His world.

As I disembarked, the nerves came rushing back in full force. I fiddled with the strap of my purse, glancing around as I entered the terminal. LAX was as chaotic as I’d expected from seeing so many movies — crowds of people swarming the gates, families reuniting, fashionable friend groups all excitedly walking to their gates, the occasional couple running across the terminal trying to catch their flight, businesspeople striding purposefully to their next destination. The energy in the air was frenetic, and for a moment, I felt swept up in it.

But beneath the excitement, a strange unease crept in. By sheer law of probability, I knew it might also be their first time in Los Angeles for some of these people, but try as I might, I still felt out of place. Everybody seemed so important here, as if they were meant to be part of something bigger — chasing careers, dreams, or maybe just the California sun. It made me wonder about myself. Nicholas was fond of me enough to invite me out here, I knew that much, but was I just tagging along for the ride? Or could I fit in, truly fit in?

I tried to follow the arrows to baggage claim, but my mind was so out of whack that I couldn’t even remember what direction the arrows pointed at once I had passed the large signs. I ended up having to follow a group of people from the same flight and pray they were making their way to baggage claim, too. Thankfully, though, my gamble paid off, and I ended up at the carousel watching the luggage trickle out of the abyss in the wall. My tiny carry-on stuck out like a sore thumb, an obnoxious flurry of colors in a sea of huge black and gray suitcases.

The hum of conversation and the screech of suitcase wheels filled the air, but I couldn’t focus on anything but finding my bag and, beyond that, finding Nicholas. My heart thumped in anticipation. I pulled my bag out of the carousel and looked around for Arrivals, finding my way to a set of glass doors that led outside. I fished for the phone in my purse, my hands shaking as I looked for Nicholas’s contact and tapped on ‘Call.’

The phone rang once before Nicholas picked up, his voice immediate and warm, cutting through the noise of the bustling airport. “Are you here?” he asked, his excitement palpable. “Do you see me anywhere?”

I glanced around, the bright California sun blinding as I stepped out of the terminal and onto the curb. The air was warm and carried a faint scent of jet fuel mixed with something floral, almost citrusy. “I’m looking,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady despite the nerves threatening to make it crack. “Where are you?”

“I see you,” Nicholas said, and before I could process what he meant, I caught sight of him walking toward me.

The world seemed to blur around me, slowing down as my focus narrowed to solely him. He was taller than I remembered, or maybe it was just the setting that made him feel larger than life. His dark sunglasses couldn’t hide the grin on his face as he wove through the crowd, his casual outfit — a fitted white t-shirt under a brown leather jacket and baggy light-washed jeans — making him look effortlessly put-together. The jacket clung to his broad shoulders, and the way his shirt skimmed his chest made my heart race faster than I’d like to admit. His hair, a little shorter than the last time I’d seen him, caught the sunlight in a way that made him seem almost unreal, each strand gleaming like something straight out of a movie still.

Even in the chaos of the airport, he moved with a calm confidence that was magnetic. His walk was quick and purposeful, choosing the perfect opportunities to weave himself between the people bustling past him, his long strides closing the distance between us in seconds. The faint scruff along his jawline was new, a rugged addition that only added to his allure. He looked like he belonged here — in this city, in this moment — and the closer he got, the harder it was to remember to breathe. I was in utter awe.

And then he smiled — a full, radiant grin that reached his eyes and made me weak in the knees. He pulled off his sunglasses as he approached, his piercing gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that made the noise of the airport fade into nothingness. I missed seeing those big, brown eyes of his in person. Our video calls could never quite capture the shimmer in his eyes properly.

“Nic,” I breathed, smiling, barely able to get the word out before he closed the distance between us.

I expected a hug, but when he pulled me close by the waist and picked me up off my feet and spun me around in his arms… God, I felt like a princess. The chaos of the airport faded into white noise as I buried my face in his shoulder, breathing him in; he smelled like cedarwood and a hint of something sweeter, maybe vanilla. His arms around me were firm, safe, and for the first time in months, the ache of longing I’d carried with me felt like it had finally eased. All that trouble going through the airport was absolutely worth it.

He set me down gently, his hands gripping my waist as he lowered his head for a kiss. The moment his lips met mine, I melted into him. His kiss wasn’t tentative or questioning; it was sure, full of longing and unspoken promises. It was the kind of kiss that said, Fuck, I’ve missed you. My hands instinctively found their way to his shoulders, holding on as if I might float away if I let go. The warmth of his palms on my waist grounded me, his touch both possessive and reassuring.

I moaned quietly into the kiss, running my fingers through the back of Nicholas’s head, his hair soft under my fingertips. The kiss deepened for a moment, his lips moving against mine like we had all the time in the world, like we weren’t standing on a bustling curb at LAX with people rushing past us. But right then, none of it mattered. It was just us, lost in the feeling of being together again.

When we finally pulled back, his forehead rested against mine, his breath mingling with mine in the small space between us. “Hey,” he whispered softly, smiling, his voice low and rough with emotion as he continued to peck my lips.

“Hey,” I almost sang. My heart was still racing, my cheeks flushed from more than just the California sun. “You’re even more handsome than I remember.”

Nicholas grinned, his thumb brushing a stray strand of hair from my face. “And you’re even more beautiful than I remember. How’s that possible?”

I rolled my eyes playfully, blushing at his comment. We stayed there holding each other for a moment. Truthfully, I couldn’t believe this moment was real. Was it real? My hands rested on his chest, slowly moving across to his shoulders under his jacket, like I was trying to make sure Nicholas was really here with me.

Nicholas stifled a quiet chuckle, kissing me again. His laugh sent a comforting warmth through me, melting away the last traces of stress from the flight. I bit my lip to keep from smiling too wide, but it was impossible not to.

He smiled, kissing my forehead, his lips warm against my skin. “Let me take that bag,” he said, nodding toward the carry-on that I had abandoned behind me in the flurry of our reunion.

I shook my head, smiling. “No, you don’t have to—”

“It’s ok,” he interrupted, already reaching for it. “You’re here visiting. Let me take care of you now.”

I let him, because honestly, it felt nice to let someone else handle things for a change. As he grabbed the bag, he reached for my free hand with his other, lacing his fingers through mine. His grip was firm yet gentle, the kind of hold that made me feel steady even as my heart still raced from his kiss.

He led us toward the ragtop car parked nearby. I stood awkwardly off to the side as I watched him open the passenger side door and reach in for something on the seat. When he pulled himself out, he turned around, a huge bouquet in his hands.

The flowers were stunning — an array of vivid colors that seemed to mirror the vibrance of the city around us. Almost every flower under the sun was intertwined with delicate sprigs of baby’s breath, creating a bouquet so large it practically swallowed his hands. The scent wafted toward me, sweet and intoxicating, and I couldn’t help the gasp that escaped my lips.

“Welcome to LA, babe,” he smiled and gave me another kiss as he handed me the bouquet. “I should’ve asked what your favorite flower was before I decided to buy a bouquet, so I just asked them to put as many different ones as they could. I’m hoping one of them is your favorite.”

I smiled, reaching for the pink peony in the middle and placing it behind Nicholas’s ear, “Peonies,” I said as I caressed his cheek.

He leaned into my touch, his hand coming up to gently wrap around my wrist as he closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, they were softer, warmer, and full of something I couldn’t quite put into words. “I’ll remember that for next time,” he murmured, his voice low and full of affection.

He kissed my hand, grabbing hold of the carry-on again and walking around to the trunk. I climbed inside the car, clutching the bouquet in my lap as I heard Nicholas move stuff around in the trunk. The nerves started to creep back in as the reality of the situation hit me again. This wasn’t just another FaceTime call or text conversation. I was here, with Nicholas, for an entire weekend. Everything we’d talked about, teased, and imagined over the last few months was about to become real.

I looked around the car, having never been inside a ragtop before. The interior was sleek and classic, a mix of polished leather and chrome details that gave it a timeless charm. The seats were a deep caramel color, slightly worn in a way that made them look comfortable rather than aged. The dashboard gleamed under the sun, a testament to Nicholas’s attention to detail — or at least, to whoever he had take care of his car.

I ran my fingers along the edge of the seat, trying to ground myself. The bouquet in my lap was vibrant against the neutral tones of the car, and I stared at it for a moment, a nervous energy bubbling in my chest.

The trunk slammed shut, jolting me out of my spiraling thoughts. I looked up just as Nicholas slid into the driver’s seat, his movements effortless and smooth. He turned to me with a smile that instantly calmed my nerves.

“I figured you might want to head straight to my place, settle in a bit before we do anything,” he spoke calmly as he buckled himself into the seat and pulled down his sunglasses over his eyes. “I have so many things planned for us — dinner reservations tonight to start. It’ll just be you and me all weekend,” he smiled as he squeezed my knee lightly before starting the car. The engine roared to life, a low, satisfying rumble that matched the energy of the city around us.

We quickly pulled out of the airport, earning a quiet yelp from me every time Nicholas revved the engine and drove just a few miles over the speed limit. The wind blew against us, my hair flowing back and forth as the car cut through the wind. The sun pierced into my eyes, triggering me to reach into my purse for a pair of sunglasses.

As I looked out into the city, admiring the palm trees and all of the Instagram-perfect shops and restaurants on the way, I felt Nicholas’s hand rest on top of mine. His touch was reassuring, grounding me as the city unfolded around us like a living, breathing postcard. Los Angeles was everything I’d imagined and more — a chaotic mix of glamour and grit, sunshine and shadow, all wrapped up in the hum of traffic and the distant buzz of life happening everywhere at once. As Dorothy said, “We’re not in Kansas anymore.”

The car ride to his place was a blur of cityscapes and conversation. He asked about my flight, teased me about my airport mishaps, and filled me in on some of the plans he'd made for the weekend. It felt easy, natural, like no time had passed since that weekend at the beach.

I turned to him, momentarily losing myself in his profile — the way his jaw tightened as he focused on the road, the way the sunlight caught the edges of his sunglasses. I so desperately wanted to something, anything,, but I held myself back, instead opting to bring his hand up to my lips and gently kiss his knuckles. He smiled, squeezing my hand gently as his eyes focused on the road, bringing my hand up to his lips and doing the same.

I couldn’t deny it. As overwhelming as this moment was — the city, the trip, him — it felt right. I glanced out at the skyline again, letting the rhythm of the car and the warmth of Nicholas’s hand calm my nerves.

As we wound through the streets, the neighborhoods shifted, transitioning from the bustling downtown to quieter, artsy districts filled with murals and trendy coffee shops. The chaos of LAX felt like a distant memory, replaced by a sense of anticipation as Nicholas navigated the narrower streets with ease. The flowers in my lap swayed slightly with each turn, their scent mingling with the faint leather smell of the car’s interior. I stole glances at Nicholas, marveling at how natural he seemed in this city.

When we finally pulled up to a mid-rise apartment building, my breath caught in my throat. The building was modern but understated, like the apartment complexes that seem to be popping up everywhere now. A few potted plants flanked the entrance, giving it a welcoming vibe. It was exactly the kind of place I’d imagined Nicholas living in — stylish, yet approachable.

Nicholas pulled into the parking garage, making his way to a reserved spot near a building entrance, turning to me with a proud but slightly nervous smile as the car’s convertible roof started to close. “We’re here,” he said with a lilt, slipping off his sunglasses and tucking them into his jacket pocket.

We both exited his car. He quickly retrieved my luggage from the trunk and took me by the hand, the sound of the plastic wheels echoing through the concrete structure as he walked us to the entrance. I expected for us to board the elevator, but we continued walking, turning a corner and arriving at his front door. I was so jealous that Nicholas lived in an apartment on the ground floor and so close to the door that led to the parking entrance. Talk about luck. When I lived in an apartment back in the city, I had to settle for a five-story walk up. I will say, though, my calves were killer that year.

Nicholas pulled out his keys, glancing at me with a little smirk as he unlocked the door. I stifled a chuckle, rolling my eyes as I walked in, but my jaw nearly dropped as I took in the space. The apartment was gorgeous — not ostentatious, but carefully curated, with an effortless charm. The open-concept kitchen flowed into the living room, where you could barely tell the walls were a millennial grey from all the colorful posters and furniture that adorned the space. Music posters, some action figures, books on top of books, and the occasional fine art print, nothing flashy but all very thoughtful. A few plants were scattered around, their leaves adding a touch of life to the space.

I shook my head, smiling to myself as I set the bouquet and my purse carefully on the granite countertop near the entrance. I was quiet, looking around and trying to learn as much as I could about Nicholas through all his little trinkets. Careful not to step wrong, I approached the bookshelf, awed by all the things he had on display. There were a few pictures of him on different production sets. There was a Terry McGinnis Batman action figure still in its box. There were so many books that the shelves were starting to warp, most of them fiction with a handful of autobiographies. That’s when I noticed White Oleander sticking out a bit. I turned around to glance at Nicholas, finding him to be leaning against the kitchen counter, eyeing me all over with a smirk.

I smiled, pulling the book out of its spot, “You read it?” The book seemed to be already falling apart.

Nicholas slowly walked over to me step by step, “And I bought the movie.”

“Really?” I asked, pleasantly smirking as I put the book back on the shelf.

I felt his hands settle on my waist as he stood behind me, his breath warm against the shell of my ear as he pulled me closer. My breath hitched slightly, the pit of my belly starting to ache.

“This amazing girl told me that the writing was… poignant,” he smiled against my ear, pressing a kiss.

As I trailed my fingers across the row of books, Nicholas slipped his under my shirt and brushed over my stomach, my abdomen slightly twitching involuntarily. His touch was gentle, almost tentative, like he was testing the waters. A shiver ran through me as his fingertips brushed against my skin, leaving a trail of warmth in their wake. I closed my eyes for a moment, leaning back slightly into his chest, the weight of him grounding me as his arms circled around my waist.

"Did you like it?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper, fighting to keep my composure. The ache in my belly grew stronger with every second his hands lingered on me, and it was becoming impossible to ignore the way my body responded to his presence.

Nicholas smiled, his lips grazing my ear as he spoke. "I loved it." He placed a kiss on my neck, sending a jolt of electricity through me.

A soft gasp escaped my lips as Nicholas's kiss deepened against my neck, his breath warm and steady, the scrape of his light stubble adding a tantalizing roughness to the tenderness of his touch. My fingers instinctively gripped the edge of the bookshelf for support, my knees threatening to buckle as he pressed himself closer to me.

The scent of him — that intoxicating mix of cedarwood and vanilla — was heady, making it hard to think clearly. Every nerve in my body seemed to hum under his touch, each caress of his fingertips against my skin leaving a burning trail that made me crave more. His hands slid slowly upward, tracing the curve of my sides as his lips trailed along the column of my neck, lingering in the hollow just below my ear.

"I missed you," he murmured against my skin, his voice low and rough, sending a shiver racing down my spine, “so fucking much.”. He held me like I was something precious, his movements careful yet filled with purpose, like he didn't want to miss a single moment of this.

I tilted my head to give him better access, my breath hitching as he gently nipped at my earlobe. My own hands moved without thought, one reaching back to tangle in his hair, the other bracing against his arm as if anchoring myself to him. His hair was soft between my fingers, and I found myself threading through it, pulling him closer as my body melted into his. His hands rested on my waist again, fingers splaying wide as if to hold all of me, his thumbs brushing gently over the bare skin just above the waistband of my jeans.

"Nicholas," I breathed, my voice shaky and filled with want.

"Hmm?" His lips curved into a smile against my neck before he turned me around to face him. His ability to pretend he wasn’t being a devious little thing was something to admire.

His hands slid to my hips, gripping just firmly enough to keep me steady, and I finally met his eyes. They were dark and full of something raw. His gaze flicked down to my lips, lingering for a beat before returning to my eyes.

I bit my lip, trying to keep from smiling too much, but it was useless. He leaned down, closing the distance between us in a heartbeat, and kissed me. This time, it wasn't just a reunion kiss; it was deliberate, deeper, and filled with an aching intensity that made the room spin. His hands gripped my hips tighter, pulling me flush against him, and my own hands flew to his chest, feeling the rapid rise and fall of his breath beneath my palms.

I pulled away to catch my breath, “Didn’t you say we had a dinner reservation?”

A smirk played on the corner of his lips as he stepped closer, cornering me against the bookshelf. He slowly kneeled down, his gaze never faltering away from my eyes as his hands traveled down the sides of my legs.

“We do,” he mumbled, his voice thick with desire. His gaze fell to my groin, “but there’s still some time left. This is more important.”

I swallowed hard, my breath catching as his hands undid the button of my jeans and pulled the zipper down. He hooked his fingers around the waistband of my pants and slowly, he pulled the denim down.

"Nic," I managed to whisper, my voice trembling as I reached for his head, tangling my fingers in his hair.

He smirked up at me, mischief dancing in his eyes. "(Y/N)," he said innocently, though the way his hands wrapped around my bare hips betrayed his intentions, “Let me spoil you, baby,” he said as he started to shower my thighs in slow kisses, spreading my legs apart as he settled between them.

I couldn't help it; my head fell back against the bookshelf, and I closed my eyes, overwhelmed by the sensations coursing through me. I could feel myself throb harder the closer his mouth inched to my inner thighs. He took his time, his hands and lips moving with a careful deliberation that was both maddening and intoxicating.

My heart was racing, every inch of me on fire as Nicholas's lips trailed lower, brushing against the sensitive skin of my inner thighs. I bit my lip to keep from moaning, but my body was betraying me — my back arching ever so slightly, my hands gripping the edge of the bookshelf, fingers trembling with anticipation.

He paused, his lips hovering just millimeters from where I needed him most, and he looked up at me with that damnable smirk of his — a mix of devilish amusement and raw desire that made my stomach flip. His fingers played at the trim of my underwear, kissing the hem as he pulled them down and let them fall around my ankles.

He knew exactly how to play with me, how to stretch the tension until it was almost unbearable. I bit back a whimper, wanting him so much but also knowing I had to let him have control of this moment - and, god, it was so hard to surrender.

I shifted slightly, my hips lifting involuntarily as his kisses trailed over the crease between my leg and groin, inching closer. His smirk deepened, and he placed another kiss on the soft skin of my thigh, a slow, deliberate action that sent a shiver through my entire body. I couldn't look away from him, the look in my eyes desperate.

"Please, Nic," I breathed, barely able to recognize my own voice, raw with need.

He paused for a moment, looking up at me through darkened lashes, that smirk still playing on his lips. He was savoring the control, the power he had over me in this moment.

"Say it again," he demanded, his voice soft but commanding.

I swallowed hard, the tension in the air almost unbearable. "Please," I repeated, my voice barely above a whisper, aching with desire.

Finally, his mouth found me, and I cried out, my head falling back as his tongue worked magic against my most sensitive spot. He moved with precision, alternating between soft flicks and firm strokes, driving me higher and higher. His hands held my hips firmly, keeping me grounded as my body writhed in pleasure. He was driving me to madness, his tongue creating waves of pleasure that crashed through me, leaving me breathless and helpless. Every sound, every sensation, was magnified, echoing around the apartment as if the rest of the world didn't exist.

"Fuck," I moaned again, my body trembling under his tongue. I clutched at his hair, pushing his head deeper into me as I bucked my hips forward.

Nicholas responded with a low growl, the vibrations sending shockwaves through me. He didn't relent, his movements growing more urgent, more insistent, as if he wanted to pull every last ounce of tension from my body. The pressure built in me, tightening like a coiled spring, and I could barely hold on.

His grip on my hips tightened, his hands now braced against my skin with a possessive heat that matched the fire burning between us. I couldn't think straight. I couldn't focus on anything but the overwhelming sensations he was drawing from me, each flick of his tongue bringing me closer to the edge.

I gasped, eyes fluttering shut as the heat in my body started to build, coiling tighter and tighter. I couldn't think, couldn't focus on anything other than the way he was making me feel, like I was on the verge of completely unraveling under his touch.

"Nic..." I managed to breathe out again, my voice trembling with need. My breath hitched when I felt him pause for a moment, looking up at me with those dark, heated eyes that burned with a hunger I couldn't ignore.

"You're so beautiful like this," he murmured, his lips brushing against my skin as he spoke, sending a wave of heat through my already burning body. "So desperate for me."

I felt the heat rush to my face, embarrassment mixing with the overwhelming desire that flooded me. My body was betraying me, trembling in ways I couldn't control. He smirked, sensing my hesitation, but instead of teasing me further, he pressed forward again, his mouth returning to me with a renewed urgency.

The sound of my soft moans filled the room, and I could feel my body slowly spiraling toward release. My grip on his hair tightened even more as my hips moved instinctively, chasing the pleasure he was so skillfully drawing out of me.

“Nic, I can’t—“ I could barely utter a sentence, shutting my eyes as I cried out for mercy. My entire body was tight, every muscle coiled as I teetered on the brink.

He didn't respond with words this time. Instead, he increased the pace of his movements, his tongue and lips working relentlessly to push me toward the edge. And just as I thought I couldn't take anymore, it happened — my body snapped, my breath caught in my throat as the tension finally broke, and waves of pleasure crashed over me.

I cried out, my hands desperately clutching him as my body trembled with the intensity of the release. I tried to stay standing, but my knees buckled under me, my vision becoming blurred as I crumbled down into Nicholas’s embrace.

We stayed for a moment on the floor together as I tried to catch my breath. Nicholas held me close, amused to see me gasping for oxygen. My body was still trembling, waves of aftershocks pulsing through me with every movement he made. And just as I thought it was over, I felt Nicholas shift under me.

His hands traced the curve of my hips before gently pulling me to my feet, “Up," he commanded softly, his voice still thick with need. As he guided me to the couch and urged me to lay down, I watched as he removed his jacket and slipped off his shirt. “We’re not making it to dinner,” he tossed his top aside and climbed on top of me. I smiled, welcoming his weight as he settled on top of me and devoured me in a kiss.

I didn’t expect for Nicholas and I to have sex so soon. Honestly, I thought it would happen at the end of the day, maybe after dinner once we had our bellies filled with food, suggestive conversation, and a glass of wine, but this was perfect, too. I had missed the feeling of being in Nicholas’s embrace. It was more than just physical; it was the way he made me feel seen, cherished, and utterly consumed in the best way possible. There was an intimacy in the way he touched me, how his gaze never left mine as though he could unravel all my insecurities with just a look. It terrified me how easily he could undo me.

Afterwards, I comfortably laid bare on the couch, blissful and entertained by watching Nicholas fiddle around in the kitchen in nothing but his briefs and an apron. I watched him, half-dazed and smiling like an idiot as he hummed to himself, utterly at ease in his own skin. I still couldn’t believe I was with him again.

I stretched my body out, my head resting on a pillow, eyes following his every movement. His hair was still slightly messy from our earlier antics, and the way his apron hugged his waist made me laugh to myself. He turned around with a grin, catching me staring, and raised an eyebrow.

“What?” he asked, playing it cool as he stirred something.

I grinned back, sitting up slightly. “You’re so domestic.”

Nicholas let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head as he set the spoon down. He walked over to the couch and lowered himself beside me, his hand resting on my thigh. “Well, you know, I like to spoil my lady.” His smile was playful, but there was a certain possessiveness in the way he spoke that sent a thrill through me.

“Home-cooked meal after generous sex,” I smiled and twiddled with the hair near his ear, “You definitely know how to spoil me.”

Nicholas grinned, his eyes softening as he leaned closer, brushing his lips against my temple. "I plan on spoiling you in every way I can. This weekend is all about you and nothing else.”

Whatever he was cooking started to bubble in the pot, prompting him to whip his head toward the stove and walk back over to tend to the food before it was ruined. I smirked, leaning back again, letting my body relax into the cushions and silently thanking the universe for sending me a man like Nicholas into my life. After so much time alone and having my time wasted by unfruitful conversations on dating apps, I told myself I’d give up on finding love. And just when I thought I did, I met Nicholas.

He finally turned off the stove, plating something that smelled amazing. His back was still turned as he set the food on the table, removing the apron and draping it over the back of one of the chairs. I lifted myself up from the couch, reaching for my underwear and Nicholas’s jacket, slipping into both. As I made my way over to the table, the cool fabric of Nicholas’s jacket hanging off my shoulders, I felt a wave of warmth from within. It wasn’t just the physical heat from our earlier moments; it was the emotional pull, the connection I hadn’t realized I’d been craving for so long. As I sat down, I watched him with a smile tugging at my lips, his movements slow and deliberate as he set the dishes down.

He caught my gaze again, his lips curling into a soft, satisfied grin. “Hope you’re hungry,” he said, sitting across from me, a playful glint still in his eyes. His bare chest and tousled hair made him look effortlessly gorgeous, and I couldn’t help but admire him as I picked up my fork to dig into the rotini.

I took a bite of the food he’d made, and my eyes widened. “This is incredible,” I said, genuinely impressed. The flavors were perfectly balanced, comforting yet exciting. Or maybe that was just me being nice to the guy that could manage to make me orgasm multiple times. I think Nicholas could serve me burnt toast and I’d still say it was incredible.

Nicholas leaned back in his chair, watching me with a small, pleased smile. “I’m glad you like it.” His voice softened, the flirtatious edge fading a little as he continued, “I want everything tonight — this whole weekend — to be… perfect.”

I swallowed, meeting his gaze, the warmth between us still undeniable. I reached across the table for his hand, “Tonight is perfect, and I know this weekend will be even more perfect.”

He smiled, grabbing his plate and switching over to the chair next to me, planting a kiss on my cheek as he continued to eat. We ate in comfortable silence for a while, the soft clink of utensils filling the cozy apartment. I felt a deep sense of contentment, something I hadn't experienced in years — or maybe ever. The combination of Nicholas's warmth beside me, the delicious food he'd made, and the intimate glow of the dim lighting felt surreal. I kept sneaking glances at him, marveling at how natural this felt. Though, there was a slight pang in my stomach thinking about how him and I would be out there together for the world to see.

The following morning, I awoke in Nicholas’s bed, tangled in his bedsheets. The morning sunlight streamed through the curtains, casting soft golden light across the room. I blinked slowly, my body still heavy with sleep, and turned my head to see Nicholas beside me. He was lying on his stomach, one arm draped possessively over my waist, his hair adorably mussed. His face was so peaceful, his lips slightly parted, quietly snoring, and I couldn’t help but smile at how boyish he looked when asleep.

Initially, I had told him the guest room was fine, so it didn’t feel like I was completely invading his personal space, but he wasn’t having it. He wanted me to invade his space, any way I could. His persistence had made me laugh, but it also warmed me. It was a little overwhelming, but also thrilling in a way I couldn’t quite put into words. Now, waking up next to him, I realized how glad I was that I’d let myself give in.

For a few moments, I just lay there, listening to the sound of his steady breathing and the faint hum of the A/C. It felt surreal to be here, in his bed, wrapped up in his warmth. The events of the night before played on a loop in my mind, bringing a flush to my cheeks and a soft ache of contentment to my chest.

I tried to slip out of bed quietly, not wanting to disturb him, but the moment I moved, his grip on me tightened. "Don’t even think about it," his voice was raspy with sleep, a little amused, as he cracked one eye open.

I laughed softly, brushing a hand through his hair. "I was going to make some tea."

He groaned dramatically, burying his face in the pillow. "Stay. Tea can wait."

I rolled my eyes but obliged, settling back into the bed and snuggling against his side. He let out a satisfied sigh, pulling me closer. His embrace was addicting, like I never truly knew what an embrace really was until I found myself in his.

"You're too good at convincing me," I teased, running my fingers lightly over his back.

"One of my many talents," he murmured, pressing a lazy kiss to my forehead. "Did you sleep ok?"

“Like a rock,” I smiled softly. “You?”

"Best sleep l've had in months," he said without hesitation, his hand rubbing gentle circles on my back. There was something so genuine about his tone that it made my heart ache in the best way.

We stayed like that for a while, wrapped up in each other and the quiet morning. But eventually, the promise of coffee and breakfast coaxed us out of bed. Nicholas, ever the gentleman, insisted on taking the lead in the kitchen again, though I managed to convince him to let me help this time. We moved around the space with an easy rhythm, stealing kisses and teasing each other as we worked. I’d reach under him; he’d reach over me — it was like we were partners in some choreographed dance. It felt like we had been doing this for years instead of days.

When we finally sat down with our warm mugs of drink and plates of scrambled eggs and toast, I felt an almost overwhelming sense of contentment. "What's on the agenda for today?" I asked, taking a sip of my green tea and eyeing him over the rim of my mug.

Nicholas leaned back in his chair, a mischievous grin tugging at his lips. “Well,” he began, setting down his coffee mug, “I was thinking we could start with a walk through the park, have a picnic. There’s this little spot that I go to sometimes that I think you would absolutely love. I also know this café we could go to afterwards, and they make a mean cup of tea.” He reached across the table to take my hand, his thumb brushing over my knuckles. “And then,” he continued, his tone softer now, “there’s this party tonight, but we’ll go only if you’re up for it.”

I squinted my eyes, thinking about it. It was Los Angeles; wasn’t it obligatory to attend at least one party while one was in town? Did you ever truly visit if you didn’t? Plus, it could make a heck of a story to share with my friends back home.

“Alright,” I nodded my head slowly, “A party sounds like fun.”

Nicholas’s grin widened, and his thumb stilled for a moment as he studied my face. “I’ll make sure it’s fun,” he promised, his voice brimming with confidence. “But if it gets too much, just say the word, and we’ll leave.”

I gave his hand a small squeeze, appreciating his thoughtfulness. “Deal.”

After breakfast, we moved through the morning in a relaxed, almost effortless rhythm. Nicholas lingered at the table, finishing his coffee while I went to gather my things for the day. I found myself standing in front of my luggage, deciding on what to wear and Nicholas slipped by and made his way into the bathroom, the scent of his cologne and natural musk lingering in the air, mixing with the warm sunlight streaming through the window.

I scanned my options in the suitcase, feeling a little spoiled for choice. We were heading out the entire day, so I wanted to be comfortable but still look put together. After all, this was our first full official day together. The day would most definitely be filled with pictures, selfies, and videos together. Maybe I should wear something he wouldn’t be able to forget. I pulled the lingerie I had packed out from under the folded clothes, and stared at it for a moment. It was a black, floral lacy bra and underwear with a pair of matching stockings, one I had bought over a year ago and hadn’t had the opportunity to wear until now.

Upon hearing the water shut off, I hid the lingerie under the romantic, plum dress I decided on for the day and sat on the bed, waiting for Nicholas to walk out of the bathroom so I could step in. The sound of the shower running had been a constant hum in the background, but now the air was filled with the sound of Nicholas moving around inside.

The door creaked open, and Nicholas stepped out, his hair damp and messy in that effortless way, holding a towel in front of his crotch as he used his other hand to dry his hips off. His gaze met mine, the usual glint of mischief ever present. “All yours,” he smiled, walking over to his closet and loosely wrapping the towel around his hips before reaching in to choose an outfit.

I couldn’t help the smile that tugged at my lips, watching the droplets of water trail down his sides. I reached for my travel bag inside my luggage, “Finally,” I replied, trying to downplay the sudden warmth spreading through me, making my way to the bathroom.

As I showered, the air was filled with the sound of the water streaming out of the shower head and Nicholas moving around in the bathroom, getting ready. The soft rustle of a towel, the occasional clink of items being set down, the sound of a cabinet door or drawer opening and closing — all of it felt so… domestic, like a tiny glimpse of a future I didn’t think was possible for me to have. But with Nicholas, suddenly everything was possible. I bit my lip, trying to ignore the flutter of butterflies in my stomach at the thought of how quickly things between us were unfolding. I’d known Nicholas was someone special the moment we met, but the way he had slipped into my life, so effortlessly… Well, let’s just say I never expected it.

Squeaky clean, I shut off the water, wringing the water out of my hair and brushing off the excess water off my arms with my hands. I slowly pulled back the curtain, knowing Nicholas was still getting ready in the bathroom. My jaw almost dropped at the sight of Nicholas in a loosely buttoned shirt and slacks, looking as sexy as ever. He was standing at the sink, running his fingers through his damp hair, his shirt half-tucked in, showing off the lean lines of his torso. The casualness with which he moved, the effortless coolness of the moment, made my heart skip a beat.

I caught his eye in the mirror, his lips curving into that familiar smirk. I wasn’t sure if it was the cold air hitting my wet skin or his look that made me shiver, but I hugged myself, trembling. He turned to face me, looking me up and down as he grabbed the neatly folded towel atop the toilet tank, stepping closer. I reached my hand out to grab it from him, but he unfolded the towel and reached out for my arm, beginning to dry me.

I stood still, my breath catching at the tenderness in his touch. His fingers were warm against my damp skin as he gently patted my arms, my shoulders, then down my back. His touch felt like more than just drying off — it felt intimate, like he was taking his time to care for me in a way that left me speechless.

He rested his hand on the small of my back and he slowly patted my tummy dry, doing slow, downward strokes as he got down on one knee , his breath tickling my mound, motioning for me to pick up my leg. Shivering, I obliged, watching him dry my foot off before he set it down on his knee, continuing to dry my leg ever so gently.

The intimacy of the moment settled over us like a soft blanket. Nicholas was so focused, his eyes on my skin, his touch so deliberate and delicate, that I felt a shiver run through me. His closeness, the warmth of his hands, it made me feel seen in a way I wasn’t used to. It was like every gesture — no matter how simple — held a deeper meaning, and it was all just for me.

I couldn’t find the strength to say anything in this moment, not wanting to ruin the moment, so instead, I reached out to take my fingers through his hair, slowly and carefully. His gaze flicked up, meeting mine as he finished drying my leg. There was a soft smile tugging at his lips, but his eyes were full of something deeper. My heart thudded in my chest as he reached for my other leg, lifting it with just the gentlest of touches. I sucked in a breath, not sure how to respond, but he didn’t seem to need any words — his actions spoke volumes.

As he finished drying off my legs, his face hovered over my groin for a beat, sending a shiver up my spine. He continued upward, standing straight and wrapping me in the towel, his eyes full of that knowing glint. “There,” he said softly, his voice a little rough. “All dry now.”

I stood there, wrapped in the towel, my skin still tingling from his touch. Nicholas’s eyes met mine, and for a moment, neither of us spoke.

“Thank you,” I whispered, not entirely sure if I was thanking him for drying me off or for something more. For making me feel cherished, for showing me a side of him that felt so intimate and tender.

Nicholas smiled softly, stepping closer, his hand gently cupping my cheek. “Of course,” he murmured, brushing a strand of wet hair behind my ear. “Anything for you.”

I closed my eyes, leaning into his touch, letting the words sink in. They weren’t just kind words; they were genuine, filled with a sincerity that made me feel like I was exactly where I needed to be.

His thumb traced over my lips before he pulled away, giving me just enough space to breathe. “Now, go finish up. We’ve got a whole day waiting for us,” he said, the playful tone returning.

I nodded, finally feeling like I could breathe again. I quickly wrapped the towel tighter around me, stepping past him and making my way back to the bedroom. The room still smelled of Nicholas’s cologne, mixed with the faint trace of my shampoo. I paused for a moment, gathering myself, before I quickly slipped into the outfit I’d picked out earlier, making sure Nicholas hadn’t taken a peek as he finished fixing up his hair in the bathroom.

We then switched shifts; Dressed up, I made my way to the bathroom to finish up everything else while Nicholas stepped out and made his way to the living room. When I emerged from the bedroom, fully dressed and ready to go, Nicholas was already waiting by the door, a tote bag packed to the brim on one hand and the other on the door handle. He glanced over at me, his eyes lighting up in that way that made my stomach flutter.

“Ready, beautiful?” He asked.

I nodded my head, stepping closer to him and kissing him on the lips, “Always.”

By the time we headed out for the walk he’d planned, the city had fully come alive. The park was buzzing with energy — joggers weaving through the paths, families playing with their children, and couples strolling hand in hand, us hopefully being one of them.

As we strolled through the park, Nicholas’s hand wrapped around mine, his thumb absentmindedly brushing against my skin. It was such a simple gesture, yet it felt grounding in a way I couldn’t quite explain. And while the park was vibrant with life, I was hyper-focused on him — on us.

It was four months of midnight phone calls and whispered promises to make the distance work. And yet, the one thing we hadn’t said to each other lingered unspoken between us like a quiet secret.

I love you.

I repeated the words in my head, testing their weight, wondering what it would feel like to say them out loud. As much as I wanted to hear the words spill out of Nicholas’s lips, I wasn’t sure if I was ready to. And though I felt that love for him, I didn’t want to say it either, afraid that somehow this dream might be ripped away from me as soon as I made myself vulnerable to somebody other than myself. What if, to him, I was just a temporary escape from his Hollywood life?

I glanced up at him as we walked, his profile illuminated by the golden afternoon sun. He looked so carefree, so perfectly at ease in this moment. Maybe the same thoughts were running through his mind. He did go through all this trouble for me to be here with him. There must be some part of him that felt love for me, but maybe he was too afraid to say it, too.

Maybe I was overthinking. Maybe it was enough that we were here, together, in this moment. Nicholas had flown me across the country, planned this day, made me feel like the center of his world. Actions speak louder than words, right?

Nicholas led me to a quieter section, shaded by tall oaks and dotted with colorful wildflowers. “This is it,” he said, gesturing to a secluded spot with a perfect view of the lake.

He pulled out a blanket from the tote bag and spread it out under a tree, and we settled in, the soft rustling of leaves and distant sound of the lake water creating a peaceful backdrop. The sun was perfectly striking through the branches, sprinkling us with dots of light.

As we sat there, sharing light snacks he’d packed in advance and peacefully reading our books, I couldn’t help but feel a deep gratitude for moments like this, where it’s just Nicholas and I, nobody else — not a fan, not somebody we know interrupting us, and certainly not strangers. I wished him and I could exist in a space outside of time where we didn’t have to worry about anything else. Los Angeles, for all its glamour and reputation, felt distant and strange to me. I’d never imagined myself here, surrounded by the buzz of celebrity and the weight of expectations that came with it. The sprawling city with its perfect weather, glitzy events, and endless opportunities seemed like a dream to most. But to me, it felt like an illusion. It was a strange land. Perhaps I’ve just been so used to home.

I glanced down at Nicholas, who was settled between my legs, the back of his head resting on my stomach as he read his current book, The Great Gatsby. He hovered the book on top of his face, blocking out the bright sun as he read, quietly whispering as he read. He looked so at ease, like this city had embraced him fully. And maybe it had. After all, he was an actor, a rising star. He’s meant for bigger, grander.

Being with Nicholas felt so natural, yet I couldn’t help but wonder how long this bubble of peace and simplicity would last. What would it feel like when I had to face the full weight of his world? The flashing cameras, the probing questions, the unrelenting scrutiny from strangers who would never truly know me or us.

I repeatedly brushed my fingers through his hair, mostly as a way to soothe myself, absentmindedly, the warmth of his body pressed against mine grounding me. I had taken Nicholas’s copy of The Auctioneer for me to read, and I did end up reading the first couple of chapters before abandoning it completely, instead focusing on my fingers raking through Nicholas’s hair and his quiet reading. Being here with him like this, in a quiet corner of a bustling city, was almost enough to make me forget my worries. Almost.

Nicholas turned a page in his book, the faint rustle of paper breaking the tranquil silence. He shifted slightly against me, adjusting his position so the sunlight no longer peeked through the edges of the pages. I continued running my fingers through his hair, letting the motion calm my restless thoughts.

Then, he spoke. Not to me, but softly to himself at first, the words spilling out with the rhythmic cadence of someone lost in the beauty of a line.

“‘So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past,’” he read aloud, his voice low and thoughtful.

The words hung in the air between us, settling over the moment like a warm blanket. I hadn’t read The Great Gatsby since freshman year of high school, but I recognized the line immediately — it was the ending. Hearing Nicholas recite it now, his voice tinged with both awe and introspection, made it feel different. Weightier.

He tilted his head back slightly, glancing up at me from his position in my lap as he closed the book. “You know, I think about that line a lot,” he said, his lips curving into a small, wistful smile. “It’s one of those things that sounds beautiful, but also kind of sad.”

I nodded slowly, unsure of what to say. “Yeah… No matter how hard you try to move forward, something always manages to pull you back.”

“Exactly,” he said, sitting up now, turning toward me with a look of quiet intensity. “Sometimes I feel like that’s me. Like no matter how much I try to live in the moment or look ahead, there’s always something pulling me back. Expectations… I don’t know. Maybe that’s why I love acting so much. I get to lose myself, utterly drown myself in a part for a little while.”

His words hit me harder than I expected. I had spent so much time wondering about his world, about whether I could fit into it, that I hadn’t stopped to think that maybe he had doubts too. Maybe he wasn’t as at ease in all this as he seemed.

I reached out, placing a hand on his cheek, drawing his gaze back to mine. “You know, sometimes it’s okay to let the current carry you, as long as you’re steering toward something that’s worth it.” I was saying the words to Nicholas, but part of me thought that maybe I should be listening to my own advice, though I do have a habit of ignoring my own words.

He blinked, studying me for a moment before his expression softened. “And you’re worth it,” he murmured, leaning in to press a soft kiss to my forehead.

The words settled in my chest, warm and reassuring. They weren’t the three little words I was waiting for, but they were enough for now.

I stayed quiet, letting his words sink in. I wanted to believe him, to trust that the weight of his career wouldn’t drown out these quiet moments. The thought of being swept into the whirlwind of his life both thrilled and terrified me. And what terrified me most, right now, was the thought of showing up to a party at Nicholas’s side. Could I learn to carve out a space for myself in his world?

That evening, the party was in full swing by the time Nicholas and I arrived. The house was grand, perched in the hills with a breathtaking view of Los Angeles sprawling below, glittering like a thousand tiny stars. Inside, the crowd was composed of people who looked like I should recognize but didn’t, but they looked so well-put together that my mind doubted itself and wondered if maybe I should recognize them. Though, I’m sure I hadn’t seen them anywhere else before.

I looked down at my outfit, thinking to myself that maybe I showed up a little underdressed. But Nicholas said that I looked amazing, and I chose to believe him, for now.

Nicholas, ever the perfect guest, greeted everyone with the same warm charisma that had drawn me to him in the first place. His hand rested lightly on my back as he introduced me to some of his friends, his voice laced with pride when he said my name. For a moment, I felt confident, secure even. If he believed I belonged here, maybe I did, but the bubble burst quickly.

Nicholas had stepped away for just a moment; a friend had asked him to help unload his car with the cases of wine he had gone out to buy, leaving me alone in a huddle of some partygoers, some of them his friends and others some strangers. As I stood in the small huddle, the conversation shifted to some store I had never heard of before.

“Their new smoothie is so good,” a woman in a sleek black jumpsuit and nails for days said, swirling her glass of white wine as she scrolled on her phone with the other hand. She looked effortlessly beautiful. She turned the phone to her friend to show her the smoothie she was talking about, but she didn’t turn it enough for me to earn a peek. I didn’t want to seem like I was invading, so I chose to imagine what the smoothie might look like. Maybe it was some sort of berry concoction with some magical healing powder.

“Right?” another chimed in, laughing. “God, I’ve been going there almost every day just so I can order one.”

I forced a polite smile, pretending to sip my drink, but internally, I was scrambling. What were they talking about?

“(Y/N), what’s your go-to order at Erewhon?” the woman turned to me, her expression friendly but curious.

I stammered, nervous, “What’s Erewhon?”

The question hung in the air for a beat too long, and I felt the energy shift almost imperceptibly. The woman’s perfectly shaped eyebrows raised just slightly in surprise, and the others exchanged subtle glances, their smiles frozen in place before they all erupted into soft giggles, amused mostly.

“Oh, my god. You don’t know what Erewhon is? You absolutely have to go ASAP!” She quickly tapped on her phone and pulled up the brand’s Instagram. “It’s the cutest grocery store. They have the best smoothies. Totally worth the price,” she turned her phone towards me and let me swipe through the account.

“You’d totally love it,” the other girl chimed in, smiling from ear to ear.

I felt my cheeks flush, realizing how out of place I seemed. I took a deep breath, forcing myself to focus on the phone screen rather than the growing sense of discomfort in my chest. Erewhon. A grocery store. I hadn’t even heard of it before. It sounded fancy, cool, nothing like the names of businesses back home.

I managed a small smile as I flicked through the images on her phone, trying to act like I wasn’t completely lost in this world. “Looks… fancy,” I said, unsure if I was trying to convince them or myself.

The brightly lit shelves of health foods and fancy bottles of water didn’t seem like something I’d gravitate towards. Or maybe it was just something I wasn’t used to seeing. After all, my hometown happens to be about two decades behind on all the trends. The fanciest store we have is Target and even then, it hasn’t been updated from its early 2000s red interior. Seriously, it��s like a time capsule compared to the Target in the city.

Another man in the group, dressed in a designer jacket and sneakers that probably cost more than my rent, chuckled lightly. "It's definitely a vibe. You'll have to go. It's kind of a staple here."

I nodded quickly, swallowing my embarrassment. "Yeah, I'll have to check it out." Note to self: research Los Angeles-based health food stores to avoid further cluelessness.

They smiled politely and moved on, their laughter and banter resuming as if l'd never been there. I felt invisible, standing on the periphery of a world I didn't fully understand. A part of me wished I could connect with these people on a more personal level past surface-level smoothies. Maybe then, I could fit in. But how would I even approach such conversation with people I barely knew?

The conversation picked back up, the clinking of glasses and the hum of idle chatter feeling like background noise in my ears. I could barely focus on anything other than the creeping feeling in my stomach, that sense of being an outsider, always trying — and failing — to catch up.

Every topic — from boutique Pilates studios to obscure art galleries — seemed designed to remind me I wasn't one of them. It wasn't their fault, really. They weren't being cruel. It was just a difference in culture.

I had never been good at blending into new circles, and this wasn’t the first time I felt like I was straining to keep up with conversations that seemed so far removed from my own experiences. And yet, I so desperately wanted their approval. I wanted Nicholas to see that I could fit in seamlessly into his life, just as he did mine. I didn’t want my reluctance for new experiences to hinder me, not tonight.

As I scanned the group, I saw an opening. A slight shift in the conversation. Someone mentioned the latest box office hit, a movie that was playing in theaters now. My heart skipped a beat. Movies. I could do movies.

I cleared my throat, trying to gather some courage, and leaned into the conversation. “Has anybody seen The Substance yet?” I said, the words feeling a little foreign in my mouth but carrying a hint of excitement.

Immediately, the conversation turned lively, everybody excitedly talking over each other, and I breathed a sigh of relief. I felt the knot in my stomach loosen just a little. The conversation flowed naturally from there. More opinions were shared, theories thrown around, and I found myself truly engaged in the discussion. I was no longer the outsider who had been fumbling for the right thing to say. I was just another movie lover in the group, exchanging thoughts about a shared passion.

I caught Nicholas out of the corner of my eye, returning with a crate of wine in his arms, a small smile playing on his lips as he set it down near the bar and approached. He paused, scanning the group before his eyes landed on me. I could see the relief in his face, knowing I was fitting in and enjoying myself. It made me feel more at ease.

As I continued to talk with the group, I glanced at Nicholas once more. He gave me a subtle nod, a silent affirmation that I was doing fine, though he was completely unaware of the quiet storm I had managed to keep at bay just barely.

I spent the rest of the evening flitting from conversation to conversation, doing my best to keep up, trying to shift the conversation in my favor, and it worked a few times, but it was tiring having to muster up all the energy I had to pick out the precise moment to do. As much as I wanted these people’s approval, I just wanted to be with Nicholas, alone, without any of them by our side. I didn’t want the thought of their possible opinions on me to linger at the back of my head any longer. I didn’t want to perform for them anymore. I wanted to be with him.

When I saw Nicholas cross my line of sight on his way to the bar, somehow my brain switched gears, immediately forgetting about the other people in the room. No matter the doubts running through my head, he always managed to soothe my anxieties, even without trying. If I just had him in my grasp, if I could just escape with him for a moment, maybe all of the tension inside me would disappear.

I excused myself from the huddle and crossed the room, making my way over to Nicholas. He was pouring himself a glass of wine, his profile lit warmly by the soft glow of the chandelier overhead. For a moment, I hesitated, watching him swirl the wine in his hand and taking a small whiff. The way he carried himself, so confident and at ease, was mesmerizing. He turned slightly, as if sensing me before he saw me, and when his eyes landed on mine, his face lit up.

“Hey, you,” he said, his voice low and warm, his smile a perfect mixture of relief and affection. “How’re you holding up?”

I returned his smile, taking a deep breath as I reached his side. “Surviving. But I was starting to miss you,” I trailed my fingertips down his arm, my voice quiet and needy.

His eyes darkened slightly at the touch, a flicker of something deeper flashing across his face. He set his drink down and turned his full attention to me, his body angling just enough to block out the rest of the room. His lips curved into that soft, knowing smile I adored, and he reached out, his hand brushing lightly against my waist. “Were you?” he murmured, his tone teasing.

I nodded, leaning in slightly, letting the faint buzz of the party fade away. Mischievously, I looked around the room to see if anybody was looking our way as I placed my hands above Nicholas’s and moved them down from my waist for him to grip my ass.

His breath hitched slightly, clearing his throat, as his hands instinctively settled on my hips, his fingers covertly squeezing. He glanced around the room, making sure nobody was watching, before his gaze locked with mine, the air between us thickening with something far more intimate than the casual conversations happening all around us.

“(Y/N)," he whispered, voice dropping lower as he leaned in close, his lips brushing against my ear. "Here?”

A shiver ran down my spine at the sound of his voice, and I pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. There was that spark — playful yet full of desire — and suddenly, the rest of the room didn't matter anymore.

“Mhmm,” I nodded my head, my gaze falling onto his lips. I was surprised at my sudden boldness, a mixture of excitement and nerves pushing me through. I just wanted to forget about the conflict inside me, any way I could.

Without missing a beat, Nicholas’s hand slid lower, a quiet promise of things to come, before he gently cupped my face, pulling me toward him for a kiss that was far deeper than the ones we’d shared earlier. This kiss was hungry, needy, and filled with a silent question: Are you sure? And I was. I kissed him back with equal intensity, giving into the moment, knowing that no matter how out of place I’d felt earlier, with him, I was exactly where I needed to be.

When we finally pulled apart, both of us breathless, Nicholas’s hand found mine again, his fingers curling around mine like they were meant to be there. “Let’s go,” he said, his voice low, laced with a quiet urgency.

I didn’t hesitate. At that moment, I wasn’t thinking about the awkwardness I’d felt earlier, or about the glossy crowd that surrounded us. I was only thinking about him, about us, and how we seemed to exist in a world of our own.

We navigated through the crowd, the sounds of laughter and clinking glasses growing louder as we walked further into the house, finding an unoccupied bathroom. Nicholas pushed open the door to the bathroom, glancing over his shoulder to ensure no one was following us. As soon as the door clicked shut behind us, he turned to face me, his eyes dark with desire. Without a word, he closed the space between us, his hands finding my waist and pulling me closer.

My breath hitched as I felt the heat of his body pressing against mine. His lips captured mine again, this kiss more urgent, more possessive, as if he couldn't get enough. I responded in kind, my hands moving up to his chest, feeling the solid warmth of his body beneath his shirt. The moment felt charged, the world outside forgotten, just the two of us in this tiny, private space.

The cool bathroom air contrasted with the heat building between us as he moved me toward the sink. My pulse raced, the tension in the room palpable as he lifted me effortlessly, setting me on the countertop. The kiss deepened, our bodies coming together in a rush of heat and need. I wrapped my legs around him, pulling him closer, desperate for the connection, for the feeling of his body pressed against mine. Nicholas groaned softly, his hands roaming up to tug at my hair, tilting my head back to kiss me with a newfound intensity that earned him a moan from my lips.

He pulled back for just a moment, his breath ragged. "We might get caught," his voice was hoarse, a tinge of amusement in his words.

I panted, smiling, “That didn’t stop you back at the hotel,” I spoke, tugging him closer by his collar.

Nicholas grinned at my boldness, his hands running up my back, pulling me closer as his lips found mine again. There was no hesitation now, no room for doubts or second thoughts. The faint sounds of the party drifted from the other side of the bathroom door, but in this small space, it felt like everything had fallen away. It was just us, lost in each other.

His fingers brushed the hem of my dress, tugging it gently, as if asking for permission. I didn't need to think twice before lifting my arms, allowing him to slip it over my head, revealing the lacey set l had chosen to wear.

Nicholas's gaze darkened even more, his eyes tracing every inch of me as though he couldn't get enough. He stepped back slightly, his breath shallow as his eyes traveled up and down my body. I sat on the counter, loving the way he was admiring every inch of me with just his eyes. I could feel my heart racing, the pulse of excitement thrumming through my veins as he slowly lifted my leg toward him by the ankle, his touch trailing over my stocking, exploring upwards. His hands were deft and gentle, as if he was savoring the moment.

He made his way closer, settling between my knees and wrapping my legs around his waist, slipping his finger under the strap of my bra and snapping it against my skin, “God, you’re gorgeous.” His other hand grazed my underwear, tracing the lace detailing, “You wear this for me?”

I nodded, my hands sliding up his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin through the fabric. I could sense how much he wanted me, and that only heightened the tension building between us. With a teasing smile, I slid my hands down to the waistband of his pants, slowly undoing the buckle and zipper, making sure to catch his eye the entire time.

"Every inch of me is for you, Nicholas," I whispered, my voice shaky with the intensity of the moment.

His breath caught in his throat, and for a moment, he just stood there, watching me. Then, with a low growl, he cupped my face, bringing me in for a kiss that was both desperate and possessive. He pulled back, brushing his thumb over my lips, watching me as my hands pushed his pants down just enough to free him. I softly sucked on his thumb, brushing my teeth against the tip of his finger.

His hands moved with purpose, each touch a promise, as his fingers brushed along the curve of my thigh, sending a jolt of heat through me. My body arched toward him instinctively, wanting more, needing more. I tangled my fingers in his hair, pulling him back up to meet my lips. "Now," I whispered, my voice barely audible but full of urgency. I needed him — needed to feel him close, connected in a way that words couldn't express.

He looked at me for a moment, eyes searching mine, and then, without a word, he pulled me by my waist toward the edge of the counter, and pulled off my underwear. He looked down at me, licking his hand and rubbing it against my throbbing self to prepare me, not that I needed it. I was plenty wet.

He didn't waste any time, his lips finding mine as he positioned himself between my legs. The tension in the room thickened as he entered me, slow at first, giving us both time to adjust. My breath hitched, and he groaned, his forehead resting against mine as we both struggled to hold onto control. Every inch of him was an overwhelming sensation.We both moved together, the rhythm building, faster, deeper, until there was nothing left in the world but us, lost in the heat and urgency of our bodies. The sound of our desperate breaths, the soft slap of skin, was all we could hear, the rest of the world long forgotten.

Though the music playing on the other side of the wall was somewhat loud, I’m sure anyone who could pass by would be able to hear us. I’m not sure I cared much, but still, I buried my head into his shoulder as he thrusted himself in me, trying to bite back my moans. So focused on being quiet, I accidentally nipped him near the skin of his collarbone. He groaned, tilting his head back, one hand threading into my hair as the other reached for the mirror behind me, bracing himself. Nicholas's breath was heavy, his chest rising and falling in sync with the movement of his body.

As his hand was still tangled in my hair, he pulled me closer, his lips brushing against my ear as he continued to thrust, whispering, "You feel so good around me, baby."

My fingers dug into his shoulders at his words, anchoring myself to him as the intensity of each thrust pushed me further into the edge of my own pleasure. I gasped in response, the sensation of him so deep, so close, that I couldn't form words. Every nerve in my body was on fire, and I wanted him even more. He seemed to know exactly what I needed, his movements becoming more deliberate, coaxing me closer to the edge.

"Nicholas..." I gasped, barely able to keep my voice steady. I moaned softly, my hands gripping him tighter as I felt the heat build between us.

He leaned in, pressing his forehead against mine, steadying his upper body as his hips moved back and forth with urgency, and the pressure inside me intensified. I felt myself teetering on the brink, every inch of my body yearning for release. He intertwined his fingers with mine, pinning my hand against the mirror as he continued to fuck me.

Nicholas looked at me through his eyelashes, his eyebrows knitted together in pleasure, “I-” he started to say, his voice hoarse and raw, but stopping himself, instead closing his eyes.

Then, I opened my mouth to say something, maybe the words he was going to say, but before any words could spill out of me, he kissed me again, his lips devouring mine with a desperate urgency. The world seemed to stop, and I could feel myself falling further into him.

The tension in the room swelled again as I felt my body start to unravel, the pleasure building to an almost unbearable level. With one final, deep thrust, the tension in my body snapped. I closed my eyes and buried myself into Nicholas, letting go, and with a final, desperate cry, I let the world fade out as the release surged through me.

Nicholas followed shortly after, his name slipping from my lips, pushing the both of us up against the mirror over the counter as the intensity of the moment washed over both of us. He held me tightly against him, his breath ragged, his body still trembling as he pulled me in, kissing me softly, as if trying to anchor both of us in this small, fleeting moment.

For a moment, we stayed like that, tangled together on the edge of the countertop, the heat between us still lingering even as we both tried to catch our breath. It was quiet now, the sounds of the party outside muffled by the thick walls of the bathroom, but in that silence, there was something profound and comforting in the way we held each other.

When Nicholas pulled away slightly, he brushed a stray lock of hair from my face, his eyes filled with affection. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest, the vulnerability in his eyes mirrored by the overwhelming feeling in my own. A smile tugged at my lips as I leaned into his touch, pulling him in for a kiss. Nicholas kissed me back softly, pulling me in closer, his hands gently caressing my back as if grounding us both in the quiet intimacy of the moment. We didn't need to say anything more; everything was already spoken in the silence that enveloped us.

Finally, he pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against mine, his breath still shallow, but steady. "We should probably get out of here before someone comes looking for us," he said with a small chuckle, but his voice was still laced with the same raw intensity as before. “We can continue this at home,” he whispered in my ear.

I nodded, my hands running over his chest once more, savoring the warmth of his body.

"Yeah," I whispered, reluctantly shifting off the counter. My legs felt a little weak, my knees buckling slightly, but I steadied myself by placing a hand on his shoulder.

We both took a moment to recompose ourselves, straightening our clothes and smoothing our hair, but even as we tried to act casual, I could feel the electric tension still sparking between us. The connection we shared was undeniable, and I was glad I was able to forget about all those badgering thoughts, even for a moment.

As we stepped out of the bathroom and back into the noise and bustle of the party, it felt almost surreal. The laughter and chatter resumed in the background, but Nicholas and I moved in sync. His arm never left my waist for the rest of the night, a small but constant reminder of what we had just shared.

We said our goodbyes to some of Nicholas’s friends. I was completely in a blissful daze as I watched him do a quick conversation. In that moment, with Nicholas beside me, I knew there was nowhere else I wanted to be. The doubts that had clouded my mind earlier seemed distant for now, but it was a distance I was sure to savor. I wanted to exist in that space as long as I could.

As he finished up a conversation with a friend, he squeezed my hand lightly, reminding me that we would leave in a bit and that he hadn’t forgotten. Once he bumped fists with them, he turned his attention to me, smiling.

He leaned down to whisper, “Let’s go, baby,” his warm breath sending a shiver down my spine, and led me toward the door.

We stepped out of the house and into the cool night air, I felt an almost giddy relief wash over me, grateful to finally be out of that house and be with Nicholas alone, without worrying about how I may present myself in front of his friends.

The muffled music and chatter of the party faded behind us, replaced by the quiet hum of the city in the distance. Nicholas kept his hand firmly intertwined with mine, his thumb brushing small circles against my skin as we walked to the car. He opened the door for me, always the gentleman, and waited until I was settled before rounding the car to the driver’s side. Once inside, he reached for my hand again, letting it rest between us as he started the engine. The drive home was quiet, but not uncomfortable. Every now and then, Nicholas would glance over at me, his lips curving into a soft smile that made my chest flutter. The city lights cast fleeting shadows across his face, accentuating the sharp angles of his jaw and the quiet intensity in his eyes. It was hard not to stare.

When we pulled into the parking garage at his apartment complex, Nicholas cut the engine and turned to face me fully. For a moment, neither of us moved, the silence between us filled with unspoken words and lingering desire.

“Come here,” he said softly, his voice low and inviting.

I leaned across the console, meeting him halfway as his hand slid to the back of my neck, pulling me in for a slow, lingering kiss. It wasn’t rushed or urgent like before, but filled with an intimacy that made my heart ache in the best way.

When we finally broke apart, he smiled. “I have a surprise for you,” he murmured, his voice steady and sure. “C’mon,” he nodded his head out.

I nodded, already unbuckling my seatbelt.

The air between us buzzed with anticipation as we made our way up to his door, his hand finding mine as he unlocked it and led me inside. The door clicked shut behind us, and in the dim light of his entryway, Nicholas turned to face me, smiling, before continuing to lead me to his bedroom.

He motioned for me to sit on the edge while he walked over to his nightstand, pulling something out. He hid it behind his back and he turned around, sitting down next to me. “I was going to wait until our last day together, but tonight seems appropriate,” he quietly chuckled to himself as he brought whatever was behind his back in front of him.

He dangled the most beautiful and delicate gold chain in front of me. The chain sparkled softly in the warm light of the room, its delicate design catching my breath. A small charm dangled from the center — a tiny, flat heart with an N engraved on the back of it. It was elegant, understated, and undeniably beautiful.

“I saw this a while ago,” Nicholas began, his voice quiet, almost shy, “and it just… reminded me of you.” He smiled, his cheeks tinged with a faint pink.

My heart swelled, the words hitting me with a warmth that spread through my entire body. I reached out to gently touch the charm, my fingers brushing against his as I did. Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, and I blinked rapidly, not wanting to cry but unable to stop the overwhelming rush of affection I felt for him. I opened my mouth to respond, but before I could, his lips captured mine in a kiss that stole all my thoughts away. It was tender and deep, a perfect blend of passion and reassurance, and I melted into him, my hands finding their way to his chest

“Nic..." I whispered between kisses, my voice barely audible.

“Let me put it on you,” he said, unclasping the chain and gently turning me so my back faced him. His hands were warm and steady as he brushed my hair aside, the light touch sending shivers down my spine.

The necklace settled lightly against my skin, the charm resting just above my collarbone. He leaned forward, his lips grazing the back of my neck after he fastened it, sending a jolt of electricity through me. “So perfect,” he murmured, his voice low and intimate.

I reached up, my fingers lightly brushing the charm as I turned back to face him. The way Nicholas looked at me in that moment made my chest tighten — like I was the only person in the world who mattered to him. His eyes held so much tenderness that it was almost overwhelming.

I leaned in, pressing my lips to his in a soft, lingering kiss, letting the thought of the three words I couldn’t quite bring myself to say float around in my head, debating if now was the right moment. The truth was, I wanted to say it then. I wanted to tell him everything I felt, that every moment with him made me feel more alive, more connected to something real. But the thought of allowing myself to fully fall, when I had never done so before with anybody else, was still holding me back.

His arms came around me, pulling me onto his thighs as if he couldn’t bear to be even an inch apart. I rested my forehead against his, my fingers tangling in his hair as my lips parted.

“Let me show you how much I really love it, Nic,” I whispered, my voice thick with desire.

I could feel the tension shift between us, the weight of the moment thick with anticipation. His hands tightened on my waist, his touch both grounding and electric as he looked up at me, his lips parted slightly, his eyes dark and unreadable.

"Show me," he whispered, his voice low, almost pleading.

I leaned in slowly, brushing my lips against his, teasing him, savoring the way his breath caught and his fingers flexed against me. I kissed him, completely showering him with my love — the corner of his eye, the apple of his cheek, his lips, the edge of his jaw, the stubble under his chin. There wasn’t an inch I forgot to kiss. My lips moved to his neck, trailing kisses along the skin under his collar, tasting him, drawing soft groans from deep in his chest.

I delicately pushed him down against the bed as I unbuttoned his shirt, ripping it open and trailing my fingertips down the valleys of his muscles. His hand gently traced patterns on my back, the other reaching up to brush my hair away from my face, watching me intently.

I moved lower, taking my time, letting my lips explore every inch of his toned chest and abdomen. He let out a soft, approving hum, his eyes half-lidded but focused on me, absorbing every sensation. The softness of his skin under my lips, the way his breath hitched when I found a sensitive spot — it was exhilarating. As I continued, his hand drifted down to rest on my shoulder, a subtle encouragement, though his breathing told me he was trying to keep himself in check. I felt a thrill rush through me, knowing he was at my mercy.

I climbed off of him and continued to kiss him down his abdomen as I moved to kneel on the floor. Nicholas, curious, shifted to prop himself up by the shoulder, but I stopped him, pushing him back down on the bed before I continued to move to the floor.

Feeling the warmth of his skin and the subtle shivers beneath my touch, I lowered my lips to the place just above the waistband of his pants, kissing the hairs that sprinkled up toward his navel. His grip on my shoulder tightened.

"Mm," he squirmed, his voice a little hoarse, and I could hear the raw need in it.

His fingers threaded deeper through my hair, his chest rising and falling heavily as he struggled to keep his composure. It made me feel powerful, and I wanted to keep him on that edge for as long as I could. With a small smile, I pressed my lips just below his navel, feeling the way his muscles tensed under me. His lips curved into a smirk, though his eyes were smoldering, almost desperate.

I brushed my fingers along his thighs, taking in the warmth radiating from under the fabric separating us, relishing in the way his breath hitched at my touch. I pressed a gentle kiss right above his belt buckle, feeling his muscles jump beneath me. He was barely holding it together, and I could see the tension building, the control slipping away as he let out a soft, helpless groan. His eyes met mine, and there was something different in them now — a quiet kind of surrender that made my heart race.

He hesitated to reach for his belt buckle, instead moving his hands to the bed sheets and clutching the fabric in his fists. Nicholas looked down at me, his chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths, his face a perfect blend of desire and anticipation. I held his gaze, watching as his expression softened and his lips parted, almost as if he wanted to say something but couldn't find the words.

I reached for his belt, letting my fingertips brush against his skin just enough to make him squirm as I unbuckled the leather and undid the button of his pants. He shut his eyes and exhaled sharply, his breath quickening. I smiled, enjoying this rare sight of him being completely unguarded, just... waiting.

I unzipped and tugged down at his pants and briefs, pulling them to his ankles and pressing kisses all the way down his legs, slowly making my way up again. I felt him twitch the closer I got to his hard, throbbing member. I took my time, brushing my tongue against the sensitive skin of his inner thigh, hovering over him.

Slowly, I leaned in, pressing a soft kiss along his length, feeling him pulse beneath my lips. His body tensed, and he bit down on his lip, stifling a groan as I continued my languid exploration, leaving a series of slow, teasing kisses, each one eliciting a sharper intake of breath.

He opened his eyes, looking at me with a hunger that made my stomach flip. "Please, (Y/N)," he murmured, his voice low and rough, sending a shiver down my spine. It was all the encouragement I needed.

With that, I spit on his length and took him fully into my mouth, swirling my tongue around the tip before pulling back slightly to suck gently. His head fell back against the bed, and I could feel the tension radiating off him like heat from a flame. I knew l had him right on the edge, and it made me feel invincible.

Nicholas's hands tangled in my hair, guiding me but never forcing me, a silent agreement that allowed him to enjoy the ride while still being lost in the moment. He breathed out deep, guttural sounds as I continued, moving with a slow rhythm that matched the way his body responded. I could feel him begin to lose control, his hips instinctively bucking into my mouth as I picked up the pace.

In that moment, I focused on every sensation — the warmth radiating from him, the soft, urgent sounds he made, the taste of him on my tongue, and the way his body reacted to my every move. I felt powerful, alive, and utterly consumed by him. As I picked up the rhythm, the intensity between us built to an almost unbearable pitch. Nicholas's breathing became erratic, and I could feel the tension coiling tightly in him. His eyes locked onto mine, filled with a raw need that made my heart race.

"I'm close," he warned, his voice a mix of desperation and pleasure, and I could see he was teetering on the brink.

With one last teasing swirl of my tongue, I pulled away just enough to let him feel the loss, a playful smile on my lips. "I know," I replied, leaning in to press soft kisses along the sensitive skin of his inner thighs, relishing the way his body reacted to my touch.

He groaned at my words, his body trembling beneath me. "Nonono," he gasped, his hips shifting as he fought to hold on just a little longer, “Don’t stop,” he cried softly, clutching at the bedsheets. “Please, baby.”

I wrapped my hand around him once more, stroking him slowly as I looked into his eyes. With a low growl, his eyes darkened with need as he bucked his hips against my hand. I engulfed him again, taking him deeper into my mouth, swirling my tongue around him in a way I knew would send him over the edge.

"Fuck," he gasped, throwing his head back.

He shut his eyes closed, his voice trembling with pleasure. My hand was wrapped around his length as I bobbed my head, focused on my rhythm. I felt Nicholas’s fingers reach for my hand, intertwining his with mine as if I was the only thing tethering him to reality. As I picked up the pace, I felt him squeeze my hand tighter and tighter, his legs tensing on either side of me.

“(Y/N),” he groaned, like he was begging for mercy.

I pulled away quickly, kissing his tip with a smile before continuing and pressing his length to the back of my throat, taking him in completely. Nicholas's whole body jerked in response, his fingers gripping my hair as his breath grew more frantic. His chest rose and fell rapidly as he groaned deeply, his voice barely a whisper but filled with raw emotion.

"(Y/N), I can't... I..." He couldn't even finish the sentence, his hips jerking as he surrendered to the pleasure.

I didn't stop. Instead, I kept moving, feeling him quiver under my touch, savoring the moment as he fell apart in front of me. It felt like time had slowed, each second stretching into eternity as I took him deeper, giving him everything he wanted and more. I could sense his struggle to hold onto control, but I could also tell he was beyond the point of no return.

His breathing hitched one final time, his entire body tensing as he bucked up into me, the final wave of release crashing through him. I felt the warmth of him filling my mouth, a sensation that made me dizzy with desire. I drank him in, savoring every moment as he surrendered completely, letting the waves of pleasure wash over him.

As he finished, I pulled back slowly, licking my lips and looking up at him with a satisfied grin. Nicholas lay there, breathless and vulnerable, a stunned expression on his face as he tried to catch his breath. His grip on my hair loosened as he let out a long, ragged exhale.

Nicholas's chest heaved as he tried to steady himself, his hands trembling slightly as he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. The silence between us was heavy, filled with the aftermath of everything we had shared. He looked at me with a mixture of awe and something darker — a depth of feeling that made my heart race all over again.

I stood up from the floor and slowly removed my clothes, Nicholas watching intently. I felt vulnerable but all the more powerful under his scrutiny. Climbing back onto the bed and straddling him, I watched as he struggled to regain his breath, his eyes never leaving mine. I lowered myself, letting my new necklace dangle over his lips.

Nicholas's eyes locked onto the charm resting above his lips, his gaze soft but intense, like he was drinking in every moment. He reached up, his fingers brushing against the necklace, tracing the N with a reverence that made my chest tighten. "You're mine," he murmured, his voice low and filled with conviction, as though he was staking a claim, marking me as his in a way that went deeper than anything physical.

I leaned down more, the charm resting between his lips. Slowly, Nicholas parted his lips and let the charm fall between his teeth, biting the necklace and tugging me down to him, careful not to snap the chain off my neck. The act was both possessive and tender; I was mesmerized.

He softly spit out the charm from his mouth and pulled me in a deep kiss, hard and hungry, his hands roaming over my skin like he couldn't get enough of me. It wasn't the tenderness from earlier — this was raw, urgent, and driven by something deeper than mere desire.

"Tell me you're mine," he whispered, his lips brushing against mine, his voice a rasp of need.

I could barely catch my breath as I stared down at him, feeling his hands grip my sides as he leaned up, his body against mine. "I'm yours," I breathed, the words coming out almost like a plea. "I'm yours, Nicholas."

He kissed me again, this time slower, his lips lingering as if trying to memorize the taste of me. I felt his heart pounding beneath my palm, its rhythm matching my own. It was just us, tangled together, our breaths mingling, our hearts beating as one.

I felt his hand make his way between our groins, grabbing his shaft and slipping himself inside of me. I collapsed onto his chest as he entered me, feeling him slowly start to thrust.

His breath hitched as he eased into me, his grip on my hips tightening as if grounding himself in the moment. I gasped, the sensation of him filling me overwhelming, and yet all-consuming. My body molded to his, every movement drawing us closer, deeper, as though we were meant to fit together this way.

Nicholas's hands roamed my back, his touch gentle yet possessive, and the contrast sent shivers through me. "I’m yours," he murmured against my ear, his voice hoarse with emotion. His lips grazed my neck, leaving a trail of kisses that seemed to set my skin on fire.

I rolled my hips slowly, matching his rhythm, the intensity building between us. Each thrust sent a wave of pleasure coursing through me, and I couldn't hold back the soft moans spilling from my lips. The sound seemed to spur him on, his movements growing deeper, more deliberate.

His hands slid to my waist, guiding me as I rode him, his eyes locked on mine with an intensity that made my heart race. "Look at me," he said softly, his voice a command and a plea all at once.

I obeyed, meeting his gaze, and what I saw there made my breath catch. It wasn't just desire; it was something deeper, something that made me feel raw and exposed in the best way.

"I’m yours," he said again, his words breaking through the haze of passion. "Yours."

The sincerity in his voice made my chest tighten, and I leaned down to kiss him, pouring every unspoken word into it. Our movements grew more desperate, more frenzied, as we climbed higher together, the room echoing with our shared breaths and muffled cries.

I felt the tension building within me, coiling tighter with each thrust, until it finally snapped, a wave of ecstasy washing over me. I cried out his name, my body trembling as I clung to him, the intensity of my release leaving me breathless.

Nicholas followed moments later, his grip on my hips almost bruising as he buried himself deep within me, his head falling back against the pillow as he groaned my name. His body shuddered beneath mine, and I could feel every tremor, every pulse as he found his own release.

We stayed like that for a moment, tangled together, our bodies slick with sweat and our breaths mingling in the stillness. Slowly, Nicholas rolled us gently, his body hovering over mine as his hand trailed down my side, sending shivers through me. His eyes never left mine, his gaze holding a mixture of adoration and desire that made me feel both cherished and wanted in a way l'd never experienced before. He lowered his head, pressing soft kisses along my jawline, down my neck, and across my collarbone, his lips worshipping every inch of my skin.

The necklace shifted slightly as he moved, the charm catching the faint light in the room, a reminder of the promise we had just exchanged. Nicholas's lips paused just above it, his warm breath grazing the delicate chain. He pressed a kiss over the charm before lying down next to me, caressing my cheek.

I turned my head to meet his gaze, his hand still cradling my face, his thumb gently tracing along my cheekbone. His expression was soft now, a stark contrast to the intensity from moments before. He looked at me like I was a masterpiece, something to be admired, protected, loved.

His arms wrapped around me, pulling me close, and I rested my head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. It was calming, grounding, as though the world outside didn’t exist anymore — just the two of us, tangled together in the quiet aftermath.

He pressed a kiss to the top of my head, his fingers stroking lazily up and down my back. I smiled against his chest, feeling safe and cherished in a way I hadn’t thought possible.

We lay there in a comfortable silence, the only sounds the faint rustling of the sheets and our synchronized breathing. I tilted my head up to look at him, his eyes already on me.

“Thank you,” I said quietly, my voice barely above a whisper.

“For what?” he asked, a hint of confusion crossing his features.

“For the necklace. For flying me out here,” I replied, my fingers trailing along his jawline.

Nicholas caught my hand in his, pressing a kiss to my palm. “I’d do anything for you,” he said, his voice steady and sure.

I felt my heart swell at his words, and I realized in that moment just how deeply I was falling for him — no, how deeply I’d already fallen. This wasn’t just passion or fleeting infatuation. This was something real, something profound, and it terrified me as much as it thrilled me.

He pulled the blanket over us, cocooning us in warmth, and held me closer, as if afraid I might slip away. As I drifted off to sleep in his arms, the necklace resting lightly against my skin, I knew this moment was why I was here. It was moments like these that so perfectly explained how I felt, even if my words couldn’t.

I stirred awake to the smell of freshly-brewed coffee, suddenly feeling the empty space next to me. Fluttering my eyes open, I shifted my arm in bed, searching for Nicholas to find he wasn’t there.

The faint murmur of activity came from outside the bedroom, a soft hum of life that felt both foreign and comforting. The smell of coffee was rich and inviting, and I stretched lazily, letting the memory of the night before wash over me like a warm wave. My lips curved into a smile as I turned onto my side, my hand brushing against the spot Nicholas had occupied just hours ago. It was still faintly warm, a lingering trace of him that made me ache to see him again.

I pulled the blanket tighter around me, savoring the comfort of the bed for a moment longer before finally deciding to get up. The necklace he’d given me lay cool against my skin, a constant reminder of the way he made me feel and how I made him feel. Running my fingers over the charm, I couldn’t help but grin like a fool.

Slipping out of bed, I grabbed one of Nicholas’s shirts draped over a nearby chair and slipped it on. The fabric hung loosely on me, his scent wrapping around me like a hug. Padding barefoot toward the kitchen, I followed the sound of soft music playing and the occasional clink of dishes.

When I stepped into the kitchen, my heart melted at the sight before me. Nicholas stood at the stove, his hair still tousled from sleep, wearing only a pair of sweatpants that hung low on his hips. His movements were fluid and relaxed as he flipped something in a pan, humming along to the music playing softly in the background.

“Good morning,” I said, my voice slightly raspy from sleep.

He turned at the sound of my voice, his face lighting up with a smile that felt like sunshine. “Morning, beautiful,” he replied, his voice warm and full of affection. He set the pan down and crossed the room in a few long strides, wrapping his arms around me and pulling me into his chest. He pulled away then, his eyes falling onto the necklace around my neck. He brushed his fingertips over the engraved charm, then down to the shirt draped over me, “You look sexy in that,” he said as he walked back over to the stove. “You should keep it.”

I laughed softly, tugging at the oversized hem of his shirt as I leaned against the counter. "Oh, don't worry. I was already planning on it.”

Nicholas glanced over his shoulder, smiling.

I watched him for a moment, the way the morning sunlight streamed through the windows, catching on his skin and making the whole scene feel like a dream. He looked so at ease, like this was the most natural thing in the world — us, together, sharing a quiet morning. My heart clenched with the realization of how much I wanted this, not just for today, but for always. It ached me to know how this time tomorrow, I would be back home without him in my arms.

Nicholas plated the last pancake and turned to me with a proud grin. He carried the plates to the small dining table, setting them down before pulling out a chair for me. I sat down, the simple gesture making my chest warm. He poured himself a cup of coffee and poured me a cup of tea, then settled across from me, watching as I took my first bite.

“I got us tickets to this super cool exhibit at the Academy Museum,” he spoke, taking a bite of his pancakes. “‘Color In Motion: Chromatic Explorations of Cinema,’” he recited dramatically.

I smiled, taking a sip of my tea, “Are you gonna act as my personal museum docent? Tell me every interesting fact about movies stored in that handsome head of yours?” I teased.

Nicholas chuckled, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “Of course. But be warned, I might go a little overboard. I’ve got some serious movie trivia in here.” He tapped his temple with a playful grin.

I laughed, feeling lighter than I had in a long time, “Don’t forget I do, too.”

He smiled, reaching for my hand and kissing my knuckles. The conversation flowed easily between us, each laugh and gentle tease cementing the comfort we’d found in each other.

As the meal stretched on, a quiet contentment settled between us, broken only by the occasional clink of utensils against plates or the soft notes of the music still playing in the background. The pancakes were light and fluffy, with just the right hint of sweetness, and I couldn’t help but marvel at how effortlessly Nicholas seemed to make even the simplest things feel special.

I traced my finger around the rim of my mug absentmindedly, watching Nicholas’s fingers drum against the edge of the table in time with the song playing. I let myself relish the way his laughter echoed softly in the quiet kitchen, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he glanced up and caught me staring. I let myself memorize every detail — the way he absentmindedly brushed his hair back, the soft scrape of his fork against his plate, the way his thumb tapped against his mug in a steady rhythm.

As we finished eating, I reached across the table, brushing away a crumb from the corner of his mouth. His hand caught mine, lingering for a moment before pulling it to his lips. It was such a simple gesture, but it sent a shiver down my spine.

After breakfast, Nicholas stood and began clearing the plates, motioning for me to stay seated when I tried to help. “I’ve got this. You can relax,” he said with a wink. His effortless charm made me grin, but I couldn’t just sit still, so I grabbed our cups and brought them to the sink.

“I’m not just gonna watch you do all the work,” I said, nudging his arm playfully.

He stifled a chuckle, “You did enough work last night,” he teased, alluding to last night’s sex.

My cheeks flushed instantly, and I swatted at his arm, laughing. “Nicholas!” I scolded, though the grin on my face betrayed any attempt at mock outrage. He just smirked, clearly pleased with himself, as he continued rinsing the plates.

“What?” he asked innocently, glancing at me with a mischievous glint in his eye. “I’m just stating facts.”

I rolled my eyes, grabbing a dish towel and bumping him with my hip. “If you don’t stop, you’re doing the dishes alone,” I warned, though we both knew I didn’t mean it.

Nicholas leaned down slightly, his voice dropping to that low, playful tone that always made my stomach flutter. “You wouldn’t leave me all alone, would you?”

I narrowed my eyes at him, trying to suppress the smile tugging at my lips. “Keep it up, and you’ll find out.”

He laughed, the sound warm and infectious, as he finished the last plate and set it aside. “Alright, alright. I’ll behave,” he said, holding his hands up in mock surrender.

“Good,” I replied with mock sternness, folding the dish towel neatly and setting it on the counter. “Now, let’s get ready for our last full day together,” I pouted, pulling him in by his hips and planting a kiss on his lips.

Nicholas nodded, pulling his hands out from under the running water and resting them on my hips, the wet feeling sending a shiver up my sides, “I’ll let you have the bathroom first,” he said.

“Such a gentleman,” I teased, heading to the bathroom to freshen up.

Once inside, I stared at my reflection in the mirror, the necklace Nicholas had given me catching the light. I touched the charm absentmindedly, a mix of emotions swirling in my chest. There was something so effortless about him, about us. I wasn’t used to this kind of connection, this kind of intimacy that made me feel like I could fall apart and be held together all at once; I wasn’t used to it at all.

I barely recognized the person staring back at me. There was a softness in my expression that hadn’t been there before. Being with Nicholas wasn’t just different; it was a tectonic shift. He saw me — really saw me — in a way no one else ever had, and instead of running away, he leaned in. That terrified me.

The way he looked at me, spoke to me, touched me — it all felt so natural, like it had always been meant to be this way. But it was uncharted territory for me. I’d never let anyone hold me the way he did. And now, standing here in his shirt, wearing his necklace, I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d opened myself up to something that could break me, and the more days I spent in Los Angeles, the more plausible that possibility became.

It wasn’t that I doubted his feelings for me; I knew he cared deeply. It was more that I doubted my ability to keep up. The way I barely held myself together at that party took everything out of me. And if Nicholas and I continued to see each other, then that would mean more parties, more events, each bigger and more important where it would matter even more how I presented myself in front of all those strangers. I’m not sure I was built for that.

I turned the faucet on, splashing cold water onto my face to shake off the rising tide of doubts. Today wasn’t the day to dwell on what-ifs. Today was about us.

“I changed my mind. Mind if I join you?” Nicholas’s voice came from the doorway, pulling me from my thoughts. I turned to see him leaning casually against the doorframe, his arms crossed, a playful grin on his lips.

His ability to show up at just the right time was something to be admired. It’s like he could sense whenever I was too in my head about something and knew nothing would be able to soothe my thoughts except his presence.

I raised an eyebrow, trying to mask how the sight of him made my heart skip a beat. “Bold of you to assume I’d say yes.”

He pushed off the doorframe and walked toward me, his grin widening. “Oh, I think you will,” he teased, wrapping his arms around my waist and nuzzling his face into the crook of my neck, the warmth of his breath sending a shiver down my spine as he pulled his shirt off my body.

“You’re insufferable, you know that?” I said, though my voice betrayed the smile I was trying to suppress.

“And yet, here you are, unable to resist me,” he murmured, his lips brushing against my ear.

I rolled my eyes but didn’t protest as he reached over to turn on the shower, steam quickly filling the bathroom. Nicholas peeled off his sweatpants, leaving him in nothing. He moved with the kind of confidence that seemed effortless, yet somehow never arrogant. He stepped into the shower, holding his hand out for me as I slipped off my underwear and followed him in, the warm water cascading over us and the steam embracing us.

Nicholas’s hands were gentle as he reached for the shampoo, lathering it into my hair with a care that melted away the last of my hesitation. His touch wasn’t rushed or mechanical; it was deliberate, as if he was savoring every moment of this closeness.

"You spoil me," I murmured.

"That's kind of the point of this whole trip," he replied with a soft chuckle.

He rinsed the suds out slowly, his fingers massaging my scalp in a way that felt impossibly intimate, making me close my eyes leaning into his touch. He didn't rush to speak or fill the silence with meaningless words; he simply allowed the quiet between us to be filled with the weight of unspoken understanding.

Nicholas gently guided me back under the water, his hands now resting lightly on my shoulders, grounding me. His lips brushed against the edge of my jaw, a soft, fleeting touch that left a trail of heat behind. The steam swirled around us, but it was nothing compared to the warmth that spread between us. His body pressed against mine, the water beating down around us,

Without a word, he reached for the body wash, lathering it onto the wash cloth before softly gliding it over my skin. His touch was slow, reverent, as though he were tracing the lines of a masterpiece. Every part of me seemed to come alive under his hands, not just physically, but emotionally, in a way that was overwhelming. There was a depth to his care, a patience in the way he worked his hands over my skin, leaving trails of warmth wherever he touched.

I let myself sink into it, into him, closing my eyes as his hands moved with deliberate intent. His touch was steady, as though he knew exactly what I needed, what I was afraid to ask for. And when his hands slid to my back, his thumbs gently working the tension out of my muscles, I could feel my breath deepen, slow, as if I were finally learning to relax into this space with him.

The soft pressure of his hands on my lower back, his fingers drawing delicate patterns, made me want to lean in closer, press against him. He continued to lather every crevice of my body with soap, working his way down. When his hand slipped between my thighs, I clutched at his shoulder, my abdomen twitching as he cleaned me.

I knew this moment was too tender to turn sexual, and that’s exactly why my body twitched at his touch. Nobody had ever touched me down there outside of a sexual context. Suddenly, I felt a bubble of emotions puddle at the back of my throat.

His hand paused, sensing the shift in my energy, his touch lightening as he let his fingertips graze over the sensitive skin, careful not to press too hard. I didn’t have to say anything. Nicholas immediately understood, and there was no need for words. He simply adjusted, moving his hand down to my legs, holding me steady as the warm water continued to rain over us.

When he came back up, his hands lingered on my waist, searching my eyes. He parted his lips to say something, but I interrupted him, wanting to show him the tenderness he had shown me this entire weekend.

“Can I clean you?” I asked quietly.

His look softened at the question, subtly nodding his head. I reached for the shampoo and motioned for him to turn around, squirting a dollop and emulsifying it a bit in my hands before running it through his hair, gently beginning to scrub at his scalp.

I knew I wasn't quite as skilled at this kind of intimacy, but I wanted to try. I wanted him to feel the same care he had given me, to show him that I could be just as present for him, even if I wasn't sure I knew how.

As my fingers worked through his hair, I focused on the feel of him beneath my hands, trying to capture the essence of his gentleness and patience. I wanted to mirror that feeling for him, to make him feel as safe and cared for as he had made me feel in his presence.

I could tell by the way he leaned into my touch that he was allowing himself to sink into this moment with me. His breath slowed as I massaged the shampoo into his hair, and I felt a quiet, shared understanding pass between us. I worked the shampoo into his hair more thoroughly, my fingertips pressing gently into his scalp, sweeping through the soft strands, and rinsing them out with the same reverence he had shown me. He closed his eyes, tilting his head back slightly, a soft exhale escaping him as if he was letting go of something, something that had been building up.

I carefully turned him around and guided him under the stream of water, my hands finding their way to his shoulders, running over the lines of his body as I rinsed away the suds and reached for the body wash and wash cloth.

I lathered the body wash onto the cloth, the fragrance of it filling the steam-heavy air. I could feel Nicholas's gaze, steady and trusting, as he let me care for him. His silence wasn't a void; it was an invitation, an unspoken message that he was allowing me to be present in a way I hadn't fully realized I could be. The soft touch of the cloth against his skin felt almost sacred, and as I traced the lines of his chest, I realized how much I needed this intimacy, this giving and receiving.

Gently, I scrubbed at the back of his ears, the back of his neck, his collarbones. My hands slid down his torso, the warmth of his skin against the cool washcloth making my heart race a little faster. I moved slower, allowing my hands to glide over his sides, the muscles there softening under my touch.

I moved down to his legs, my hands careful and gentle as I washed the tension from his muscles. Nicholas stood still, his head tilted back slightly, his expression relaxed, as if he had given himself completely to me, trusting that I would show him the same care he had shown me. I wondered if he knew how deeply this was affecting me, how his willingness to let me into these moments of quiet intimacy made me feel like I could do the same for him.

When I finished, I moved back up to his chest, my hands lingering there as I rinsed away the suds. He opened his eyes slowly, meeting mine, and for a moment, neither of us said anything. It wasn't necessary. The silence felt full, the unspoken emotions passing between us more powerful than words could convey.

He reached up and cupped my face in his hands, his thumbs gently brushing over my cheeks. "Thank you," he whispered, his voice low and warm, like the feeling of the water cascading over us.

I shook my head, smiling softly. "No, thank you," I replied, my voice barely above a whisper.

He pulled me closer, his forehead resting against mine, the steam swirling around us, but somehow, it felt like time stood still. His lips found mine in a slow, tender kiss, and I melted into him.

"Pull away before we miss the exhibit, too," I murmured against his lips, my mouth growing into a smile.

Nicholas chuckled softly, his breath warm against my lips as he pulled back just enough to look at me. "We wouldn't want that, would we?" he said, his voice hushed.

I smiled up at him, a mix of affection and a quiet thrill filling me. "No," I agreed, "we wouldn't."

He reached up to turn off the water, the last of the steam hanging in the air around us like a tangible presence. As the water stopped pouring over us, the sudden silence felt almost sacred. I stepped back, my skin prickling from the cool air that replaced the warmth of the shower. Nicholas reached for a towel, wrapping it around his waist and stepping out first. He then wrapped me in a towel and guided me out of the shower.

We each moved to our corners of the room, each of us picking our outfits. Nicholas settled on a simple black T-shirt and jeans, his typical laid-back style, though I noticed the way his movements had softened, a certain calmness in his demeanor. I couldn’t help but smile as I reached for my clothes.

I opted for a loose, white blouse and a pair of dark jeans, casual but comfortable. As I slipped on my shoes, I caught a glimpse of Nicholas watching me with that same soft expression, his eyes filled with something I couldn’t quite name. It wasn’t just affection; it was something deeper, something that made my chest tighten in the best possible way. And for a beat, I braced myself, thinking this could be the moment he might say ‘I love you.’ But it wasn’t.

“You look stunning,” he said, his voice thick with admiration.

“Thanks,” I replied, trying to hide the flush on my cheeks.

He gave a dramatic bow, his hand outstretched toward the bedroom door as if introducing a grand performance. “Shall we?” Nicholas asked, holding out his arm.

I rolled my eyes, laughing, and grabbed my purse from the bed. Nicholas adjusted his watch and checked his phone, a soft furrow appearing between his brows as he glanced at the screen. He quickly tucked it back into his pocket, a slight tension in his jaw that I couldn't quite place.

"Everything okay?" I asked, taking a step toward him.

He gave me a smile, nodding. "Yeah, all good. Just checking some things. Let's get going," he said, brushing it off.

We gathered our things, making our way out the door and down to his car, the excitement of the day still fresh between us. Nicholas took my hand as we walked, a light, refreshing breeze brushing against our skin.

As we drove toward the museum, the city unfolded before us, but my mind kept drifting back to the quiet moments we'd shared earlier — to the warmth of his smile, the softness of his voice, and the way his presence felt like home. I wish I could stay longer. I didn’t want this weekend to end at all. I wanted to drive in forever; I wanted to be buried in it.

The museum loomed ahead, sleek and modern, with glass windows that glistened in the sunlight. Nicholas parked the car, and as we walked toward the entrance, my heart gave a little flutter of anticipation. It wasn't just the exhibit that I was excited about — it was spending this day with him, seeing the world through his eyes, and getting lost in the little moments that would make today unforgettable.

"Ready for the best museum date of your life?" he asked, flashing me that grin that made everything feel right.

I nodded, feeling the same excitement twinkle in my chest. We walked through the doors together, hand in hand, ready to dive into the day we'd planned — a perfect balance of art, laughter, and just being in each other's company. Nicholas had our digital tickets scanned from his phone, flashing that signature smile of his at the ticket booth attendant. It wasn't until we stepped past security and began walking toward the exhibit that Nicholas's phone buzzed in his pocket.

He glanced at it quickly, his brows furrowing as he pulled it out. I could see the shift in his posture — the way his shoulders tensed, the way his smile faltered.

"Who is it?" I asked, trying to keep the nervousness out of my voice.

He glanced at me, his expression apologetic.

"It's my agent," he said, his tone strained. "I… I’m sorry, babe, I have to take this." He stepped to the side, his voice dropping as he answered the call.

I watched him for a moment, wanting to see what the call might be about but I eventually decided to give him his space and walked a few steps ahead, distracting myself with the graphics on the walls introducing the exhibit. As he turned his back slightly to finish the call, I felt a pang of discomfort. There was a sinking feeling in my chest that I couldn't ignore; I’m not sure why.

Nicholas hung up the phone and caught up with me, his eyes wide. I could practically feel his heart racing. "That was my agent; apparently, somebody dropped out of the new American Psycho movie, and they want me to come in and read for them,” he spoke with contagious excitement.

Of course, I was excited for him. This was an opportunity of a lifetime. The exponential rise that could happen to Nicholas if he got this role… it would catapult his career!

My initial reaction was pure joy for him. “Nicholas! That’s incredible!” I said, bringing him in for a hug.

He was smiling from ear to ear, but he reluctantly pulled away, his excitement tempered by something else. His hands rested on my shoulders, the look in his eye sympathetic, “They want to see me in an hour,” his eyes flickered to the exhibit behind me. “I’d have to prepare.”

I felt the weight of his words settle over me. I glanced around the museum, the excitement I’d felt moments ago replaced with a bittersweet ache, but I couldn’t protest. This was an important moment for Nicholas, and I didn’t want to cause any problems that might hinder his audition.

He wouldn’t say it, so I did for him, “Well, then, you have to go,” I smiled.

Nicholas hesitated, his hand lingering on my shoulder for a moment longer than necessary. I could tell he hated the idea of leaving me, but I also knew how important his career was to him. He had worked too hard to get where he was, and I didn't want to hold him back.

“Are you sure?” He asked gently, studying my face, as if trying to gauge how I really felt. “Leaving you here alone is the last thing I want.”

I furiously nodded my head, though my heart was sinking. “Totally. I mean, I have my pamphlet,” I shook the paper in my hand, “I can handle the exhibit by myself.”

His lips curved into a grateful smile, “You’re amazing, you know that?” Nicholas pulled me into a hug, his arms wrapping around me with a warmth that felt like he was trying to convey all the words he couldn’t say. “I promise I’ll make it up to you,” he murmured into my hair. “Dinner tonight, okay? I’ll call you.”

I nodded against his chest, “Good luck, baby.”

When we pulled apart, he kissed my forehead, his lips lingering just a moment longer than usual. Then he was gone. I stood there for a moment, watching him go, my heart feeling heavier with each step he took away from me, watching him disappear through the glass doors. The museum suddenly felt much larger without him by my side. It now seemed like an endless maze of galleries and rooms that would only remind me of how alone I felt in that moment.

Taking a deep breath, I reached for the charm dangling from my neck and decided I wouldn’t let this ruin my day. Nicholas was chasing a dream, and I couldn’t be upset about that. I had always been independent; I had a life before Nicholas, and I would make the most of the time I had. Even without him by my side, I refused to let the day go to waste. I clutched the museum pamphlet in my hand, trying to focus on the descriptions of the galleries instead of the lingering ache in my chest.

Seeing some of the incredible pieces distracted me for a bit. There were some vintage technicolor cameras on display, some costume pieces, original film cels, and color study models, all from various movies known for their iconic use of colors. The collection pulled me in, piece by piece, each display weaving its own story. I found myself lingering in front of a glass case showcasing the red jacket Jack Nicholson wore in ‘The Shining.’ At that moment, I imagined what Nicholas might’ve said if he were here. He’d probably point out that Jack Nicholson had hand-picked the jacket himself, and I’d pretend I didn’t know that fact already.

I moved on, immersing myself in the exhibit. A few film projectors whirred softly in the background, casting multiple different shots of iconic movies — Moonlight, 2001: A Space Odyssey, and Vertigo. I let the sound soothe me, letting myself get lost in the moving pictures. But every few steps, I caught myself glancing at my phone, hoping for a text or an update from him. My mind raced with questions: Was he preparing? Was he already at the audition? Was he feeling confident? And, selfishly, when would he come back?

I shook off the thoughts and let my gaze settle on a new display: a costume worn by Kim Novak in Vertigo. The emerald green dress was striking, its fabric shimmering faintly under the museum’s soft lights. A placard detailed its significance, describing how the color symbolized envy, obsession, and unattainable perfection in Hitchcock’s masterpiece. I traced the delicate beading on the hem with my eyes, letting the thought of those themes sink in.

Was I envious? Not of Nicholas’s opportunity, but maybe of the people who got to see him more often, of the way his world always seemed to be pulling him away from mine. Was I obsessed? Addicted might be the more precise word for my feelings toward Nicholas. After so much time alone, now knowing what it felt to be with someone, to be loved, I couldn’t take the feeling of not having that 24/7. I longed for that closeness every second of the day. Was I forcing this relationship to be perfect when life never was? I pushed the thought aside. This wasn’t the time to spiral — ha!

I moved through the exhibit, pausing at each piece and trying to fully absorb the stories behind them. There was something oddly comforting about the quiet of the museum, the hum of distant conversations, and the gentle tap of footsteps on the polished floors. Still, my phone felt heavy in my pocket, a constant reminder of how much I wanted to hear from him.

The hours seemed to pass by achingly slow. One…. Two…. I wasn’t privy to how long the audition process takes, but I started to become anxious. Was he auditioning right now? Did he get the part? Would he call me right after to share the good news? Or would I hear nothing until later tonight? The uncertainty gnawed at me, making it impossible to focus. My stomach started to growl, and I realized it had been hours since breakfast.

I kept moving through the museum, my mind wandering between thoughts of Nicholas and food. That’s when I saw possibly the best piece in this entire exhibit — Dorothy’s iconic red slippers from The Wizard of Oz. They shimmered under the museum lights, the sequins catching every glint and throwing it back in a kaleidoscope of ruby-red sparkles. The shoes were smaller than I imagined, delicate but sturdy, their charm undeniable even after decades. A small plaque beside them recounted their history — one of several pairs made for the film, each with subtle differences. These, it seemed, were the pair worn during the famous “there’s no place like home” scene.

I leaned in, studying the intricate beadwork and scuffed soles. I know that Dorothy’s whole story was about yearning for something greater, only to realize the value of what she already had, but I stared at those heels, and all I could think about was putting them on and transporting myself back home — my home, my bed, where I could bury myself under the covers and shut the world out. The ache in my chest was too loud to ignore, and for the first time all day, I felt the sharp sting of loneliness settle in.

But then, wasn’t this what I signed up for? I knew Nicholas was an actor, a rising star at that. He had a life, and I had my own. There would be moments like this where he’d have to go to last minute reads or leave for months on end to whatever destination the production called for. I knew that sometimes our schedules wouldn’t align, no matter how hard we tried. That thought cut deeper than I wanted to admit, but that was the plight of long-distance.

I felt my stomach grumble, more-so from hunger than anxiety. I straightened up, refusing to let myself spiral further. As much as I was fond of Nicholas, I was not going to wait to hear from him to go eat something. I needed something now, before I passed out in the middle of the gallery.

I pulled out my phone, finding a sushi place about a 20-minute walk away. I took one final pass of the exhibit before making my way out and following the directions my phone gave me.

On the walk over, a block away from my destination, I saw the sign to a familiar fancy health food store that I didn’t know existed until yesterday — Erewhon. I replayed the conversation I had with Nicholas’s friends in my head. What was so special about this store that I was basically laughed at for not knowing what it was?

Curious, I stopped in my tracks and walked in. The cool blast of air-conditioning greeted me as I stepped into the store. The sleek aisles of meticulously arranged organic products stretched before me, the air tinged with the faint aroma of freshly pressed juices and artisanal baked goods. It was the kind of place that seemed to mock my modest budget.

I couldn’t help but feel a little out of place. The sterile whiteness of the store, with its glowing lights and polished floors, felt like an alien landscape to me. I picked up a bottle of cold-pressed juice, squinting at the price tag — $14.99. For a tiny bottle of juice? I put it back quickly, feeling a strange sense of inadequacy settle in my chest.

I glanced at the people around me, their perfect hair, their effortlessly chic outfits, as if they stepped out of a Vogue magazine. And here I was trying to blend in but feeling like I was swimming against the current. I glanced at the shelf stocked with multi-grain crackers that cost more than I could justify. The feeling that had been nagging at me yesterday — the sense of being out of my depth, of not quite measuring up — crept back in. Was I enough for Nicholas? Was I ever going to be able to step into the life he was building for himself without feeling like an outsider?

I could almost hear his friends’ laughter from yesterday echoing in my ears: You don’t know what Erewhon is? It was the kind of question that seemed almost patronizing. Like they knew something I didn’t, like I was out of the loop in a city that thrived on exclusivity and trends. But none of that was really the problem, was it? It wasn’t about the store or the prices or the fancy health food or his friends. It was about the unspoken divide between Nicholas’s world and mine, my inability to fully embrace the promise of a possible future with him without retreating into my comfortable bubble whenever something dared to challenge me.

I turned quickly, leaving the aisles behind and heading toward the exit. As I stepped back out onto the street, the weight of everything seemed to crash down on me all at once. The crazy part was that Nicholas and I weren’t even public yet. Could you imagine the scrutiny he’d be under — I’d be under — once we did? But perhaps I was getting ahead of myself on that front.

I swallowed hard, shaking off the sting of self-doubt, and pulled up my map to find the sushi place. Maybe my hunger pangs were just amplifying my doubts. I made my way to the sushi place down the street, trying to push everything out of my head, but the thoughts clung to me like shadows. When I finally arrived and sat down at a small table, the bustling atmosphere of the restaurant felt like a quiet refuge compared to the overwhelming thoughts swirling in my mind.

I ordered something simple — salmon nigiri, miso soup, and a seaweed salad. As I waited for my food, I glanced out the window, the reflection of my face in the glass now blending with the city’s chaotic energy outside.

The conversation with Nicholas’s friends kept replaying in my head. The looks they gave me when I didn’t know what Erewhon was, like I’d failed some unspoken test. It wasn’t like I hadn’t experienced moments like that before, feeling a step behind in certain circles, but with Nicholas, it felt different.

I was used to feeling out of place. But with him, I wanted to feel like I belonged. I wanted to fit in his world, even if I didn’t always understand it. He had his acting career, his glitzy events, and his friends, while I had my life back home, simple but mine. He could easily carve out a space for himself in my life; why was it so hard for me to do the same with his?

The waiter brought my food, setting it down in front of me with a soft smile. I nodded my thanks, trying to shake off the heaviness. The entire time I ate, I waited for Nicholas’s name to pop up on my phone screen, to let me know he finished his audition and he would come join me, but it never did. Not when I finished my appetizer, not when I finished my entree, and not when I waited for the food to settle in my stomach before deciding to pay and leave. I paid the bill, the weight of my phone still sitting heavily in my pocket, and stepped out of the restaurant.

Tired and craving the comfort of a bed, I ordered an Uber to Nicholas’s apartment. As the Uber drove me back to Nicholas’s apartment, the city lights outside the window seemed to blur into a sea of colors. My mind was still racing with everything that had happened — the excitement, the frustration, the loneliness. I couldn’t stop replaying the day. When did I become so codependent in this?

In fact, I was so distracted by my thoughts that when the Uber dropped me off in front of his building, I completely forgot the fact that I didn’t even have a key to Nicholas’s place. Resigned to the idea that I wouldn’t be able to cocoon myself in bed like I had wanted to in this moment, I pressed my forehead against the locked door to his building, closing my eyes and trying to fight back the tears that were starting to form, though I quickly wiped my eyes, embarrassed by how vulnerable I was feeling in that moment.

I contemplated calling Nicholas to ask when he’d be back, but he said he would call me. I had no way of knowing if he was still auditioning or maybe having an important conversation with the producers. I didn’t want to interrupt him. Sighing, I picked my head up and looked around, my eyes falling onto the quaint coffee shop across the street. I carefully scampered over, making my way inside and appreciating its calm atmosphere. I ordered a hot cup of tea and took my order to the table that faced the tv hung on the wall.

I took a sip of my tea, letting the warmth settle in, trying to calm my racing thoughts. The TV on the wall was showing a news segment, but my mind was elsewhere. After today, a part of me was grateful I would be flying back home tomorrow morning. I would get to be in the comfort of my own home, my own bed, and I wouldn’t have to pay $13 for a bottled smoothie.

As the minutes ticked by, I felt my phone repeatedly buzz in my pocket. I pulled my phone out, Nicholas’s face taking up the entire screen. I answered his call, quietly peeping a, “Hey.”

His voice came through clear and warm, his excitement palpable and cutting through the tension I hadn’t realized had built up inside me. “Hey, I just finished up. Are you still at the museum? Are you down for dinner?”

I awkwardly glanced around the room, reluctantly telling him my current location, “No, actually I’m at the coffee shop across your building,” I spoke, part of me afraid of his reaction and the other part of me trying to come up with a believable excuse.

Nicholas’s tone softened immediately, as if sensing the hesitation in my voice. “What? Why? Did something happen?” His tone shifted to concern.

“No, nothing like that,” I skirted around the truth behind the situation, “My feet were just killing me, and I had already ordered an Uber before remembering I didn’t have a key to your building, so I just came to the coffee shop to unwind.” In a way, I wasn’t lying, I was just omitting a lot.

Nicholas’s voice returned, horrified. “Oh, my god, (Y/N); I’m so sorry. I should’ve thought about that. Babe, I feel absolutely terrible,” I could hear the guilt in his voice, and it made my chest tighten. It wasn’t his fault. I didn’t want him to feel bad for something that was honestly so small in the grand scheme of things.

I quickly reassured him, trying to soften the mood. “No, don’t be, Nic. I wasn’t waiting for too long; I just wanted a place to rest my feet,” I stifled a chuckle, thinking if it might have sounded insincere. “I’m drinking a cup of tea and watching the tv here, which is what I would’ve been doing at your place anyway.”

There was a brief pause on the other end before he spoke again, the warmth in his voice returning. “Still, I should’ve been more considerate. I’ll be there as fast as I can, okay?”

I smiled into the phone, appreciating the sincerity in his words, even though I didn’t want him to feel bad. “Take your time. I’ll be here.”

“I’ll be there in 10.”

As soon as I hung up, I let out a long breath I didn’t realize I was holding in. The universe just had a cruel way of humbling me, didn’t it? I sighed, counting down the minutes for Nicholas to get here so I’d be in his place, gathering up my things for tomorrow’s flight, showered, and ready to lay down in bed after today’s cruel jokes.

Just as I thought I may need to order a second cup of tea, the door to the coffee shop opened, and I looked up instinctively. And there he was — Nicholas, looking a little disheveled but with that familiar, bright smile on his face as he spotted me from across the room.

“Hey,” he greeted, his voice gentle but filled with relief as he made his way over to me, his strides long and hurried.

“Hey yourself,” I replied with a grin, feeling the tension in my body slowly ease as he pulled up a seat next to me and immediately met me in a tight, warm hug. I tried so hard to not cry on his shoulder right then and there.

I leaned into his embrace, inhaling the familiar scent of his cologne, and for a moment, the world outside the coffee shop disappeared. Nicholas’s arms around me felt like the only thing that could anchor me, the only thing that could stop the whirlwind of doubts and insecurities I’d been fighting all day.

He pulled back slightly, enough to look me in the eyes, but still close enough that I could feel the warmth of his body. “I’m so sorry you had to wait. I didn’t realize…” He trailed off, searching for the right words.

I gave him a small smile, trying to push aside the emotions that had been threatening to overflow. “It’s fine, really.” I didn’t want to say any more, fearing I might say more than I mean. “Can we go home? My feet are killing me,” I stifled a laugh, trying to lighten the mood, mostly for my sake.

He nodded his head, “Of course,” quickly standing up from the chair and holding his hand out for me.

I followed him out of the coffee shop and across the street to his building, the cool night air brushing against my face. When we reached the building, Nicholas held the door open for me, a small, tender gesture that made me smile. we made our way over to his door in silence. I wasn’t sure if he could sense the tension, too.

As we stepped into his apartment, I immediately felt a sense of relief. Without saying a word, I kicked off my shoes and made my way over to Nicholas’s bedroom, opening my luggage and pulling out my pajamas and toiletries.

With his eyebrows knitted together, Nicholas stood in the doorway of his bedroom, watching. “Hey, are you okay?” He asked, concerned.

I halted myself, mustering up the last of my energy to flash a smile as I looked back at him, “Yeah, why?”

He stepped inside his room, “I just feel like you’re not telling me something.”

I shook my head, “Just thinking about tomorrow’s flight, I suppose,” stepping closer to Nicholas and planting a kiss on his cheek before retreating to the bathroom to soothe my thoughts with a quick, hot shower.

The warm water from the shower poured over me, soothing the knots in my shoulders that had accumulated throughout the day. I closed my eyes and let the steam fill the small bathroom, hoping it would help me clear my head. It was just a rough day, I kept reminding myself. The uncertainty, the insecurities, the loneliness — it was all temporary. Once I got back home tomorrow, I’d have some space to breathe and refocus.

But as the water cascaded down, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing. Nicholas had been so kind, so understanding, but he didn’t know half of what was going on inside my head. And I didn’t know how to tell him without sounding needy or like I was asking for something I wasn’t sure I deserved.

After a few minutes, I turned off the water and dried myself off with the towel and changing into my pajamas, stepping out of the bathroom. Nicholas was sitting on the edge of the bed, his gaze soft as he watched me fiddle with my luggage.

“Feel better?” he asked, his voice low.

I nodded, trying to mask the emotional exhaustion that still lingered in my chest. “Yeah, much.” I forced a smile, hoping it didn’t look too disingenuous.

He watched me for a moment, his gaze searching. He clearly wasn’t convinced, but he didn’t press further. Instead, he reached over for my hand, “You want to talk about it?”

For the first time, I pulled my hand away from him, continuing to organize my stuff in my carry-on. “I’m fine, really,” I said, my voice a little quieter than I intended, occasionally glancing up at him. “I didn’t even ask how your audition went. What did they say?”

Nicholas seemed to hesitate for a moment, his gaze lingering on me. I could tell he was sensing the distance I was putting between us, but instead of pushing, he leaned back against the headboard of the bed and sighed. “It went well,” he said, his voice soft but still laced with that familiar enthusiasm. “They said they’ll let me know by tomorrow if I’m in, but I felt good about it. I think they liked me. He couldn’t fight the grin growing on his face, and neither could I.

“Oh, my god, Nic, that’s incredible!” I excitedly clapped my hands, grateful to still have some energy left in me to celebrate Nicholas’s victory. I stepped closer to him and cupped his face in my hands. I intended to speak with a clear and gentle tone, but my voice started to crack when I said, “You, Nicholas Chavez, are going to be a movie star.” The tears forming at the corners of my eyes betrayed the smile on my face.

Nicholas’s grin softened when he saw the tears in my eyes, and for a moment, it felt like the whole room stood still. I could tell he knew that my tears weren’t for joy. He studied me for a long moment, and I could almost hear the wheels turning in his head as he processed the situation. I didn’t want to drag him into this, didn’t want to burden him with my insecurities. He had his own life, his own career, and I was proud of him — I really was. But somewhere, in the back of my mind, a whisper of doubt kept clawing its way to the surface: Am I enough for him?

As if sensing the undercurrent of my thoughts, Nicholas reached up and gently brushed a tear from my cheek, his fingers warm against my skin. “Hey, it’s okay,” he whispered, his voice filled with understanding. “What’s wrong?”

I froze at his touch, feeling the warmth of his hand grounding me, but also amplifying the distance that seemed to grow with every passing second. His voice was gentle, full of concern, but it only made me more aware of the wall I had been trying so hard to keep up.

I took a deep breath, trying to collect my scattered thoughts. I could feel him waiting for an answer, his presence making the silence between us more intense than the loudest words.

“Nic…” I started, “I’m not sure I can keep up with your life.”

He froze at the words, nervously stifling a chuckle and moving his hands to cup my face. “W-what are you saying?” He asked, his voice frantic, his eyes flicking between both of mine.

I felt my throat tighten as I looked into his eyes, searching for the words that had been building up all weekend. The weight of everything I had been hiding was pressing down on me, and now, finally, I couldn’t keep it in any longer.

I closed my eyes, a tear unintentionally falling as I did so. I wiped the tears from my eyes, “I need you to listen to me without interrupting, okay? I need to say everything that’s on my mind, even if I don’t like saying it.”

He silently nodded his head. I breathed deeply, reaching out to close his eyes with the tips of my fingers, my hand lingering on his cheek as I articulated my feelings out loud, watching him fight the urge to open his eyes.

“Nicholas,” I started, my voice trembling, “I love you. So much,” I let out a frustrated chuckle. I saw his jaw tense. He shut his eyes tighter, his lips starting to quiver, like he was fighting back tears. “I’ve never felt like this before toward anybody else. I’m so in love with you, Nic, that I don’t recognize the person I become when I’m not with you.” I paused, struggling to find the right words as I felt the weight of everything I hadn’t been saying crash down on me. “And that’s what scares me,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. “I feel like I’m holding on too tight, afraid I won’t be able to keep up with you in your world otherwise, and that’s not okay — for anybody.”

The words felt like they were ripping themselves from my chest, and I couldn’t stop them. I’d never admitted this to anyone before, not even to myself. The thought of codependency made me feel weak, pathetic even. But I couldn’t deny it anymore — my attachment to him was consuming me. Nicholas’s expression softened, fluttering his eyes open, but there was an undeniable sadness in his eyes. He didn’t speak right away, as if giving me the space to breathe, to feel whatever it was that had been weighing so heavily on me. I could feel my chest tightening with each passing second, the vulnerability making me feel exposed, like I was standing on the edge of a cliff, just waiting to fall.

“Nic, I’m scared that I’m not enough for you at this point in your life. You need someone who’s sure of themselves, who truly deserves to be treated the way you treat me,” I pressed my hand against his chest, his heart thumping under my touch. “ And I know that makes me sound like a needy person, but I just can’t keep pretending that I can keep up in a place like this,” I looked out the window to watch the glittering lights. “I just—” My breath hitched as the words got caught in my throat. I burst into tears as I spoke, “I don’t want to hold you back; it’s not fair,” I cried as I buried my face in my hands.

Nicholas was quick to move, his arms wrapping around me tightly as he pulled me into his chest. His touch, gentle but firm, was a balm to the chaos I felt swirling inside me. I could feel him shiver under me, his chest pounding as he breathed into my hair. Was he crying?

His arms tightened around me, his hold steady and unwavering, as if he could somehow absorb all of my fear and self-doubt into his chest. His hand gently rubbed my back in slow, soothing motions, his voice soft and full of tenderness as he croaked into my hair. “Baby, stop.” His words were barely audible, but they held so much weight, and they stilled me for a moment. "(Y/N), look at me."

I pulled away, wiping at my tear-streaked face, my chest still heaving from the release. He cupped my face in his hands, his gaze unwavering.

"You're not holding me back. You're just not, okay?" His words were soft but filled with conviction. I shook my head, trying to pull away, but he wouldn’t let me. “No, listen to me,” he interrupted, his voice stronger now, as if he needed me to hear him above the noise in my head. Nicholas’s gaze softened, his hands now cupping my face, his thumb grazing my cheek gently as he spoke again, but this time, there was an undeniable sincerity to his voice. “You are more than enough, (Y/N),” he poked his finger at my chest forcefully, as if to really drive his point home, his gaze into my eyes intense, as if he was disappointed in himself that I even managed to feel this way with him, “You’re more than enough for me. I don’t want anyone else, and I don’t need anyone else. I don’t need you to be anything more than what you already are,” he let out a soft, exasperated laugh, “I love you, (Y/N).”

The words hung in the air between us, and I froze, my breath catching in my throat. It was the first time he’d said it, and the weight of it made my chest tighten. I searched his face, looking for any hint of doubt, but all I saw was sincerity.

The three words were everything I didn’t know I needed to hear. They were like the magic bandaid to every doubt in my head. I had skirted around that particular phrase the last four months possibly because I was afraid. I was afraid he wouldn’t feel the same; I was afraid of saying them over the phone, fearing he might not take it as seriously. But now, hearing Nicholas say those words… it was like I could finally let myself go of every doubt. He loved me.

“I love you,” he repeated, his voice steady and sure. “I know you’re scared, but please, don’t push me away.”

I rested my forehead against his, his breath mingling with mine. "Say it again," I whispered, my voice low.

He didn't need to ask what I had meant. He knew. He placed his hands on either side of my face, his thumbs brushing along the apples of my cheeks as he looked into my eyes. "I love you, (Y/N)," he said softly, letting every ounce of truth and emotion he felt pour into the words. "I'm so in love with you."

My eyes closed for a moment, as if I was letting the words wash over me, and when I opened them again, the intensity in his gaze was overwhelming. My tears came harder now, but they weren’t from sadness anymore. I couldn’t speak, couldn’t find the words to respond, so I just nodded, burying my face in his chest as he held me tighter.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, his lips brushing the top of my head. “I’m not going anywhere.”

For the first time all day, the knot in my chest began to loosen. In his arms, the noise of the world outside seemed to fade, and all that was left was the steady beat of his heart against mine.

As I rested in his embrace, a quiet realization began to form within me. I had become so caught up in my own thoughts and nonexistent expectations, that I had lost part of myself during that spiral. I didn’t need to be perfect. I didn’t need to have everything figured out. I didn’t need to match his pace or mold myself to fit his world. At that moment, I understood something crucial. Love, true love, wasn’t about perfection or fitting into a certain mold. It was about vulnerability. It was about showing up as you are, flaws and all, and trusting that the person who truly cares for you will see you — not as someone to fix or improve, but as someone worth loving exactly as you are.

I pulled back slightly, looking into Nicholas’s eyes once more. His gaze was still soft, still steady, and I felt a small but powerful sense of peace settle within me.

“Thank you,” I whispered, barely audible, but enough for him to hear. “For everything.”

He smiled, brushing a stray tear from my cheek. He reached for the charm resting on my collarbones, “I’m here for you, always, even when I’m not.”

The next morning, I found myself at the airport, the quiet hum of early-morning travelers around me. I had a new sense of calm, the kind that only comes after a storm has passed. My flight was in a few hours, and I was heading back to my life, but something had shifted. I wasn’t just returning home physically; I was coming back with a renewed sense of self, thanks to Nicholas’s reassurance.

I’d always been so afraid of feeling weak, of needing someone — maybe that was the true reason none of those fruitless conversations on dating apps went anywhere. But now I saw that allowing myself to lean on someone, on Nicholas, didn’t make me less of who I was. It made me stronger. I was allowed to have my doubts and insecurities, but I also had the right to trust in the love we shared — a love that didn’t demand perfection

I couldn’t help but smile to myself as I thought of his words, the warmth of his touch still lingering on my skin, and the certainty in his voice when he’d told me that I was enough. I hadn’t truly understood it until now, but I finally realized that love wasn’t something that should add pressure to my life. It should bring peace, acceptance, and the feeling that I wasn’t alone in the chaos. Nicholas had shown me that.

“I’ll miss having you in my bed,” Nicholas smiled as he pulled me in toward him by my hips, smiling.

“Sleeping or… not sleeping?” I asked, teasingly.

Nicholas chuckled softly, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Both, actually,” he replied, brushing a strand of hair from my face. “But I’ll survive, I guess. You’ll be back before I know it.”

His words wrapped around me like a warm embrace, but there was a bittersweet edge to them. I could feel the tug of my heart at the thought of leaving, of returning home, even though I so desperately wanted to return just the day before. But that was before Nicholas and I had shared our feelings to each other. Right now, leaving was the last thing I wanted.

I stepped back lightly, flabbergasted at his words. “Uh-uh. It’s your turn to visit me now.”

Nicholas’s grin widened, a playful spark dancing in his eyes. “Just tell me when you’re free, and I’ll be there,” he said, stepping closer again, his hand gently resting on my waist. “I’d love to meet your family,” he chuckled.

I laughed, “Trust me, I think you’d run in the opposite direction.”

“Then we’ll just have to see then, won’t we?” He smirked, kissing me on the forehead.

His words left me breathless for a second. This wasn’t some flippant comment. He was serious. He wanted to be part of my life, to be present in a way that went beyond the physical, beyond the fleeting weekends. But that idea scared me, not because I was afraid of letting him meet my family but because I was afraid of letting my family meet him.

“Call me when you land?” He asked.

“Of course,” I said softly, my voice catching as I looked up at him. “You’ll probably hear from me before I even get out of the airport.”

“Good,” Nicholas replied with a small smile, his thumb brushing lightly against my cheek. “Because I’ll be counting the minutes.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love it,” he said, his grin widening, a mix of confidence and tenderness in his expression.

I didn’t deny it. Instead, I leaned into him one last time, savoring the warmth of his arms around me, the steady beat of his heart beneath my cheek. This moment — this man — felt like home in a way I hadn’t expected, and it gave me the strength I needed to step away.

“I really have to go,” I murmured reluctantly, my hands lingering on his chest.

Nicholas sighed, his grip tightening for a brief moment before he let me go. “I know. Maybe I’ll get a chance to visit you before production starts.”

My eyes widened at his words, the realization washing over me. I yelped in excitement, quickly covering my mouth, “Oh, my god, you got the part?!”

Nicholas nodded his head rapidly, “I did,” he smiled.

I pulled him in for the tightest hug I could give him. “That’s incredible!” I exclaimed, my voice muffled against his chest. I was practically jumping for joy. “When does it start?”

“I think around the holidays,” Nicholas calmly answered, a tinge of giddiness under his words.

I flashed him an approving smile, “I’m so proud of you, Nicholas,” I said, giving him one last hug. “You can tell me more about it once I call. I have a plane to catch.”

He reached out for my hand, pulling me into one last unforgettable kiss to tide me over until our next reunion. Nicholas’s hand slid up to cradle my cheek, his thumb tracing a soft line along my jaw as he leaned in. His lips brushed mine gently at first, as though he was savoring every second of this moment. Then the kiss deepened, his other hand finding the small of my back and pulling me closer. There was something different about this kiss, something raw and unspoken. It wasn’t just a goodbye; it was a promise. A promise that no matter the miles between us, no matter how long it took, we’d find our way back to each other.

I felt my knees weaken, and I clung to him, desperate to hold onto this connection for just a moment longer. His fingers tangled briefly in my hair as his lips lingered on mine, slow and deliberate, as if he was trying to memorize every curve and contour. When we finally pulled apart, I was breathless, my heart pounding so hard I was sure he could hear it.

“‘So we beat on,’” he whispered, smiling.

I looked up at him through my eyelashes, “‘boats against the current.’”

With one last lingering look, I turned and walked toward the security line, forcing myself not to glance back even though every fiber of my being screamed to do so. When I finally reached the checkpoint, I glanced over my shoulder and found him still standing there, his hands in his pockets, watching me with that same soft, steady smile that had anchored me through so much.

And as I made my way over to the terminal, I felt a quiet certainty settle over me — I’m so fucked if he visits my family during the holidays.

Continue the story with 'Room On Fire' (Part 3)

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