#he lives less than a mile away

[keezychid]

God I miss my wife

[daisywords]

long distance relationship would be so much easier if most of the rest of my relationships weren't also long distance

[luveline]

𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐧

Things between you and Peter change with the seasons. [17k] 

c: friends-to-lovers, hurt/comfort, loneliness, peter parker isn’t good at hiding his alter ego, fluff, first kisses, mutual pining, loved-up epilogue, mention of self-harm with no graphic imagery

｡𖦹°‧⭑.ᐟ

Fall 

Peter Parker is a resting place for overworked eyes, like warm topaz nestled against a blue-cold city. He waits on you with his eyes to the screen of his phone, clicking the power button repetitively. A nervous tic. 

You close the heavy door of your apartment building. His head stays still, yet he’s heard the sound of it settling, evidence in his calmed hand. 

“Good morning!” You pull your coat on quickly. “Sorry.” 

“Good morning,” he says, offering a sleep-logged smile. “Should we go?” 

You follow Peter out of the cul-de-sac and into the street as he drops his phone into a deep pocket. To his credit, he doesn’t check it while you walk, and only glances at it when you’re taking your coat off in the heat of your favourite cafe: The Moroccan Mode glows around you, fog kissing the windows, condensation running down the inner lengths of it in beads. You murmur something to do with the odd fog and Peter tells you about water vapour. When it rains tonight, he says it’ll be warm water that falls. 

He spreads his textbook, notebook, and rinky-dink laptop out across the table while you order drinks. Peter has the same thing every visit, a decaf americano, in a wide brim mug with the pink-petal saucer. You put it down on his textbook only because that’s where he would put it himself, and you both get to work. 

As Peter helps you study, you note the simplicity of another normal day, and can’t help wondering what it is that’s missing. Something is, something Peter won’t tell you, the absence of a truth hanging over your heads. You ask him if he wants to get dinner and he says no, he’s busy. You ask him to see a movie on Friday night and he wishes he could. 

Peter misses you. When he tells you, you believe him. “I wish I had more time,” he says. 

“It’s fine,” you say, “you can’t help it.”

“We’ll do something next weekend,” he says. The lie slips out easily. 

To Peter it isn’t a lie. In his head, he’ll find the time for you again, and you’ll be friends like you used to be. 

You press the end of your pencil into your cheek, the dark roast, white paper and condensation like grey noise. This time last year, the air had been thick for days with fog you could cut. He took you on a trip to Manhattan, less than an hour from your red-brick neighbourhood, and you spent the day in a hotel pool throwing great cupfuls of water at each other. The fog was gone just fifteen miles away from home but the warm air stayed. When it rained it was sudden, strange, spit-warm splashes of it hammering the tops of your heads, your cheeks as you tipped your faces back to spy the dark clouds. 

Peter had swam the short distance to you and held your shoulders. You remember feeling like your whole life was there, somewhere you’d never been before, the sharp edges of cracked pool tile just under your feet. 

You peek over the top of your laptop screen and wonder if Peter ever thinks of that trip. 

He feels you watching and meets your eyes. “I have to tell you something,” he says, smiling shyly. 

“Sure.” 

“I signed us up for that club.” 

“Epigenetics?” 

“Molecular medicine,” he says. 

The nice thing about fog is that it gives a feeling of lateness. It’s still morning, barely ten, but it feels like the early evening. It’s gentle on the eyes, colouring the whole room with a sconced shine. You reach for Peter’s bag and sort through his jumble of possessions —stick deodorant, loose-leaf paper, a bodega’s worth of protein bars— and grab his camera. 

“What are you doing?” 

“I’m cataloguing the moment you ruined our lives,” you say, aiming the camera at his chin, squinting through the viewfinder. 

“Technically, I signed us up a few days ago,” he says. 

You snap his photo as his mouth closes around ‘ago’, keeping his half-laugh stuck on his lips. “Semantics,” you murmur. “And molecular medicine club, this has nothing to do with the estranged Gwen Stacy?”

“It has nothing to do with her. And you like molecular medicine.”

“I like oncology,” you correct, which is a sub-genre at best, “and I have enough work without joining another club. Go by yourself.” 

“I can’t go without you,” he says. Simple as that. 

He knew you’d say yes when he signed you up. It’s why he didn’t ask. You’re already forgiven him for the slight of assumption. 

“When is it?” you ask, smiling. 

—

Molecular medicine club is fun. You and a handful of ESU nerds gather around a big table in a private study room for a few hours and read about the newer discoveries and top research, like regenerative science and now taboo Oscorp research. It’s boring, sometimes, but then Peter will lean into your side and make a joke to keep you going. 

He looks at Gwen Stacy a lot. Slender, pale and freckled, with blonde hair framing a sweet face. Only when he thinks you’re not looking. Only when she isn’t either. 

—

“Good morning,” you say. 

Peter holds an umbrella over his head that he’s quick to share with you, and together you walk with heads craned down, the umbrella angled forward to fight the wind. Your outermost shoulder is wet when you reach the café, your other warm from being pressed against him. You shake the umbrella off outside the door and step onto a cushy, amber doormat to dry your sneakers. Peter stalks ahead and order the drinks, eager to get warm, so you look for a table. Your usual is full of businessmen drinking flat whites with briefcases at their legs. They laugh. You try to picture Peter in a suit: you’re still laughing when he finds you in the booth at the back. 

“Tell the joke,” he says, slamming his coffee down. He’s careful with yours. He’s given you the pink petal saucer from the side next to the straws and wooden stirrers. 

“I was thinking about you as a businessman.” 

“And that’s funny?” 

“When was the last time you wore a suit?” 

Peter shakes his head. Claims he doesn’t know. Later, you’ll remember his Uncle Ben’s funeral and feel queasy with guilt, but you don’t remember yet. “When was the last time you wore one?” he asks. “I don’t laugh at you.” 

“You’re always laughing at me, Parker.” 

The cafe isn’t as warm today. It’s wet, grimy water footsteps tracking across the terracotta tile, streaks of grey water especially heavy near the counter, around it to the bathroom. There’s no fog but a sad rattle of rain, not enough to make noise against the windows, but enough to watch as it falls in lazy rivulets down the lengths of them.

Your face is chapped with the cold, cheeks quickly come to heat as your fingers curl around your mug. They tingle with newfound warmth. When you raise your mug to your lips, your hand hardly shakes.

“You okay?” Peter asks. 

“Fine. Are you gonna help me with the math today?” 

“Don’t think so. Did you ask nicely?” 

“I did.” You’d called him last night. You would’ve just as happily submitted your homework poorly solved with the grade to prove it —you don’t want Peter’s help, you just wanted to see him. 

Looking at him now, you remember why his distance had felt a little easier. The rain tangles in his hair, damp strands curling across his forehead, his eyes dark and outfitted by darker eyelashes. Peter has the looks of someone you’ve seen before, a classical set to his nose and eyes reminiscent of that fallen angel weeping behind his arm, his russet hair in fiery disarray. There was an anger to Peter after Ben died that you didn’t recognise, until it was Peter, changed forever and for the worse and it didn’t matter —he was grieving, he was terrified, who were you to tell him to be nice again— until it started to get better. You see less of your fallen, angry angel, no harsh brush strokes, no tears. 

His eyes are still dark. Bruised often underneath, like he’s up late. If he is, it isn’t to talk to you. 

You spend an afternoon working through your equations, pretending to understand until Peter explains them to death. His earphones fall out of his pocket and he says, “Here, I’ll show you a song.” 

He walks you home. The song is dreary and sad. The man who sings is good. Lover, You Should’ve Come Over. It feels like Peter’s trying to tell you something —he isn’t, but it feels like wishing he would. 

“You okay?” you ask before you can get to your street. A minute away, less. 

“I’m fine, why?” 

You let the uncomfortable shape of his earbud fall out of your ear, the climax of the song a rattle on his chest. “You look tired, that’s all. Are you sleeping?” 

“I have too much to do.” 

You just don’t get it. “Make sure you’re eating properly. Okay?” 

His smile squeezes your heart. Soft, the closest you’ll ever get. “You know May,” he says, wrapping his arm around your shoulders to give you a short hug, “she wouldn’t let me go hungry. Don’t worry about me.” 

—

The dip into depression you take is predictable. You can’t help it. Peter being gone makes it worse. 

You listen to love songs and take long walks through the city, even when it’s dark and you know it’s a bad idea. If anything bad happens Spider-Man could probably save me, you think. New York’s not-so-new vigilante keeps a close eye on things, especially the women. You can’t count how many times you’ve heard the same story. A man followed me home, saw me across the street, tried to get into my apartment, but Spider-Man saved me. 

You’re not naive, you realise the danger of walking around without protection assuming some stranger in a mask will save you, but you need to get out of the house. It goes on for weeks. 

You walk under streetlights and past stores with CCTV, but honestly you don’t really care. You’re not thinking. You feel sick and heavy and it’s fine, really, it’s okay, everything works out eventually. It’s not like it’s all because you miss Peter, it’s just a feeling. It’ll go away. 

“You’re in deep thought,” a voice says, garnering a huge flinch from the depths of your stomach.

You turn around, turn back, and flinch again at the sight of a man a few paces ahead. Red shoulders and legs, black shining in a webbed lattice across his chest. “Oh,” you say, your heartbeat an uncomfortable plodding under your hand, “sorry.” 

“Why are you sorry? I scared you.”

“I didn’t realise you were there.” 

Spider-Man doesn’t come any closer. You take a few steps in his direction. You’ve never met before but you’d like to see him up close, and you aren’t scared. Not beyond the shock of his arrival. 

“Can I walk you to where you’re going?” Spider-Man asks you. He’s humming energy, fidgeting and shifting from foot to foot. 

“How do I know you’re the real Spider-Man?” 

After all, there are high definition videos of his suit on the news sometimes. You wouldn’t want to find out someone was capable of making a replica in the worst way possible. 

You can’t be sure, but you think he might be smiling behind the mask, his arms moving back as though impressed at your questioning. “What do you need me to do to prove it?” he asks. 

He speaks hushed. Rough and deep. “I don’t know. What’s Spider-Man exclusive?” 

“I can show you the webs?” 

You pull your handbag further up your arm. “Okay, sure. Shoot something.” 

Spider-Man aims his hand at the streetlight across the way and shoots it. He makes a severing motion with his wrist to stop from getting pulled along by it, letting the web fall like an alien tendril from the bulb. The light it produces dims slightly. A chill rides your spine. 

“Can I walk you now?” he asks. 

“You don’t have more important things to do?” If the bitterness you’re feeling creeps into your tone unbidden, he doesn’t react. 

“Nothing more important than you.” 

You laugh despite yourself. “I’m going to Trader Joe’s.” 

“Yellowstone Boulevard?” 

“That’s the one…” 

You fall into step beside him, and, awkwardly, begin to walk again. It’s a short walk. Trader Joe’s will still be open for hours despite the dark sky, and you’re in no hurry. “My friend, he likes the rolled tortilla chips they do, the chilli ones.” 

“And you’re going just for him?” Spider-Man asks. 

“Not really. I mean, yeah, but I was already going on a walk.” 

“Do you always walk around by yourself? It’s late. It’s dangerous, you know, a beautiful girl like you,” he says, descending into an odd mixture of seriousness and teasing. His voice jumps and swoons to match. 

“I like walking,” you say. 

Spider-Man walking is a weird thing to see. On the news, he’s running, swinging, or flying through the air untethered. You’re having trouble acquainting the media image of him with the quiet man you’re walking beside now.

”Is everything okay?” he asks. “You seem sad.” 

“Do I?” 

“Yeah, you do.” 

“Maybe I am sad,” you confess, looking forward, the bright sign of Trader Joe’s already in view. It really is a short walk. “Do you ever–” You swallow against a surprising tightness in your throat and try again, “Do you ever feel like you’re alone?” 

“I’m not alone,” he says carefully.

“Me neither, but sometimes I feel like I am.” 

He laughs quietly. You bristle thinking you’re being made fun of, but the laugh tapers into a sad one. “Sometimes I feel like I’m the only person in the world,” he says. “Even here. I forget that it’s not something I invented.” 

“Well, I guess being a hero would feel really lonely. Who else do we have like you?” You smile sympathetically. “It must be hard.” 

“Yeah.” His head tips to the side, and a crash of glass rings in the distance, crunching, and then there’s a squeal. It sounds like a car accident. Spider-Man goes tense. “I’ll come back,” he says. 

“That’s okay, Spider-Man, I can get home by myself. Thank you for the protection detail.” 

He sprints away. In half a second he’s up onto a short roof, then between buildings. It looks natural. It takes your breath away. 

You buy Peter’s chips at Trader Joe’s and wait for a few minutes at the door, but Spider-Man doesn’t come back. 

—

I don’t want to study today, Peter’s text says the next day. Come over and watch movies? 

The last handholds of your fugue are washed away in the shower. You dab moisturiser onto your face and neck and stand by the open window to help it dry faster, taking in the light drizzle of rain, the smell of it filling your room and your lungs in cold gales. You dress in sweatpants and a hoodie, throw on your coat, and stuff the rolled tortilla chips into a backpack to ferry across the neighbourhood. 

Peter still lives at home with his Aunt May. You’d been in awe of it when you were younger, Peter and his Aunt and Uncle, their home-cooked family dinners, nights spent on the roof trying to find constellations through light pollution, stretched out together while it was warm enough to soak in your small rebellion. Ben would call you both down eventually. When you’re older! he’d always promise. 

Peter’s waiting in the open door for you. He ushers you inside excitedly, stripping you out of your coat and forgetting your wet shoes as he drags you to the kitchen. “Look what I got,” he says. 

The Parker kitchen is a big, bright space with a chopping block island. The counters are crowded by pots, pans, spices, jams, coffee grounds, the impossible drying rack. There’s a cross-stitch about the home on the microwave Ben did to prove to May he could still see the holes in the aida. 

You follow Peter to the stove where he points at a ceramic Dutch oven you’ve eaten from a hundred times. “There,” he says. 

“Did you cook?” you ask. 

“Of course I didn’t cook, even if the way you said that is offensive. I could cook. I’m an excellent chef.” 

“The only thing May’s ever taught you is spaghetti and meatballs.” 

“Hope you like marinara,” he says, nudging you toward the stove. 

You take the lid off of the Dutch oven to unveil a huge cake. Dripping with frosting, only slightly squashed by the lid, obviously homemade. He’s dotted the top with swirls of frosting and deep red strawberries. 

“It’s for you,” he says casually. 

“It’s not my birthday.” 

“I know. You like cake though, don’t you?” 

You’d tell Peter you liked chunks of glass if that was what he unveiled. “Why’d you make me a cake?” 

“I felt like you deserved a cake. You don’t want it?” 

“No, I want it! I want the cake, let’s have cake, we can go to 91st and get some ice cream, it’ll be amazing.” You don’t bother trying to hide your beaming smile now, twisting on the spot to see him properly, your hands falling behind your back. “Thank you, Peter. It’s awesome. I had no idea you could even– that you’d even–” You press forward, smushing your face against his chest. “Wow.” 

“Wow,” he says, wrapping his arms around you. He angles his head to nose at your temple. “You’re welcome. I would’ve made you a cake years ago if I knew it was gonna make you this happy.” 

“It must’ve taken hours.” 

“May helped.” 

“That makes much more sense.” 

“Don’t be insolent.” Peter squeezes you tightly. He doesn’t let go for a really long time. 

He extracts the cake from the depths of the Dutch oven and cuts you both a slice. He already has ice cream, a Neapolitan box that he cuts into with a serrated knife so you can each have a slice of all three flavours. It’s good ice cream, fresh for what it is and melting in big drops of cream as he gets the couch ready.

“Sit down,” he says, shoving the plates with his strangely great balance onto the coffee table. “Remote’s by you. I’m gonna get drinks.” 

You take your plate, carving into the cake with the end of a warped spoon, its handle stamped PETE and burnished in your grasp. The crumb is soft but dense in the best way. The ganache between layers is loose, cake wet with it, and the frosting is perfect, just messy. You take another satisfied bite. You’re halfway through your slice before Peter makes it back. 

“I brought you something too, but it’s garbage compared to this,” you say through a mouthful, hand barely covering your mouth. 

Peter laughs at you. “Yeah, well, say it, don’t spray it.” 

“I guess I’ll keep it.” 

“Keep it, bub, I don’t need anything from you.” 

He doesn’t say it the way you’re expecting. “No,” you say, pleased when he sits knee to knee, “you can have it. S’just a bag of chips from Trader–”

“The rolled tortilla chips?” he asks. You nod, and his eyes light up. “You really are the best friend ever.” 

“Better than Harry?” 

“Harry’s rich,” Peter says, “so no. I’m kidding! Joking, come here, let me try some of that.” 

“Eat your own.” 

Peter plays a great host, letting you choose the movies, making lunch, ordering takeout in the evening and refusing to let you pay for it. This isn’t that out of character for Peter, but what shocks you is his complete unfiltered attention. He doesn’t check his phone, the tension you couldn’t name from these last few weeks nowhere to be felt. You’re flummoxed by the sudden change, but you missed him. You won’t look a gift horse in the mouth; you won’t question what it is that had Peter keeping you at arm’s length now it’s gone.

To your annoyance, you can’t stop thinking about Spider-Man. You keep opening your mouth to tell Peter you talked to him but biting your tongue. Why am I keeping it a secret? you wonder. 

“Have something to tell you.” 

“You do?” you ask, reluctant to sit properly, your feet tucked under his thigh and your body completely lax with the weight of the Parker throw. 

“Is that surprising?” 

“Is that a trick question?” 

“No. Just. I’ve been not telling you something.” 

“Okay, so tell me.” 

Peter goes pink, and stiff, a fake smile plastered over his lips. “Me and Gwen, we’re really done.” 

“I know, Pete. She broke up with you for reasons nobody felt I should be enlightened right after graduation.” Your stomach pangs painfully. “Unless you…”

“She’s going to England.” 

“She is?” 

“Oxford.” 

You struggle to sit up. “That sucks, Peter. I’m sorry.” 

“But?” 

You find your words carefully. “You and Gwen really liked each other, but I think that–” You grow in confidence, meeting his eyes firmly. “That there’s always been some part of you that couldn’t actually commit to her. So. I don’t know, maybe some distance will give you clarity. And maybe it’ll break your heart, but at least then you’ll know how you really feel, and you can move forward.” You avoid telling him to move on. 

“It wasn’t Gwen,” he says, which has a completely different meaning to the both of you. 

“Obviously, she’s the smartest girl I’ve ever met. She’s beautiful. Of course it’s not her fault,” you say, teasing.

“Really, that you ever met?” Peter asks. 

“She’s the best girl you were ever gonna land.“ 

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I guess so.” After a few more minutes of quiet, he says, “I think we were done before. I just hadn’t figured it out yet. Something wasn’t right.” 

“You were so back and forth. You’re not mean, there must’ve been something stopping you from going steady,” you agree. “You were breaking up every other week.”

“I know,” he whispers, tipping his head against the back couch. 

“Which, it’s fine, you don’t–” You grimace. “I can’t talk today. Sorry. I just mean that it’s alright that you never made it work.” You worry that sounds plainly obvious and amend, “Doesn’t make you a bad person. You’re never a bad person, Peter.” 

“I know. Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome. You don’t need me to tell you.” 

“It’s nice, though. I like when you tell me stuff. I want all of your secrets.” 

You should say Good, because I have something unbelievable to tell you, and I should’ve said it the moment I got home. 

Good, because last night I met the bravest man in New York City, and he walked me to the store for your chips. 

Good, because I have so much I’m keeping to myself.

You ruffle his hair. Spider-Man goes unmentioned. 

— 

He visits with a whoop. You don’t flinch when he lands —you’d heard the strange whip and splat of his webs landing nearby. 

“Spider-Man,” you say. 

“What’s that about?” 

“What?” 

“The way you said that. You laughed.” Spider-Man stands in spandexed glory before you, mask in place. He’s got a brown stain up the side of his thigh that looks more like mud than blood, but it’s not as though each of his fights are bloodless. They’re infamously gory on occasion.

“Did you get hurt?” you ask. You’re worried. You could help him, if he needs it. 

“Aw, this? That’s a scratch. That’s nothing, don’t worry about it. I’ve had worse from that stray cat living outside of 91st.” 

You look at him sharply. 91st is shorthand for 91st Bodega, and it’s not like you and Peter made it up, but suddenly, the man in front of you is Peter. The way he says it, that unique rhythm. 

Peter’s not so rough-voiced, you argue with yourself. Your Peter speaks in a higher register, dulcet often, only occasionally sarcastic. Spider-Man is rough, and cawing, and loud. Spider-Man acts as though the ground is a suggestion. Peter can’t jump off the second diving board at the pool. Spider-Man rolls his shoulders back in front of you with a confidence Peter rarely has. 

“What?” he asks. 

“Sorry. You just reminded me of someone.” 

His voice falls deeper still. “Someone handsome, I hope.” 

You take a small step around him, hoping it invites him to walk along while communicating how sorely you want to leave the subject behind. When he doesn’t follow, you add, “Yes, he’s handsome.” 

“I knew it.”

“What do you look like under the mask?”

Spider-Man laughs boisterously. “I can’t just tell you that.” 

“No? Do I have to earn it?” 

“It’s not like that. I just don’t tell anyone, ever.” 

“Nobody in the whole world?” you ask. 

The rain is spitting. New York lately is cold cold cold, little in the way of sunshine and no end in sight. Perhaps that’s all November’s are destined to be. You and Spider-Man stick to the inside of the sidewalk. Occasionally, a passerby stares at him, or calls out in Hello, and Spider-Man waves but doesn’t part from you. 

“Tell me something about you and I’ll tell you something about me,” Spider-Man says. “I’ll tell you who knows my identity.” 

“What do you want to know about me?” you ask, surprised. 

“A secret. That’s fair.” 

“Hold on, how’s that fair?” You tighten your scarf against a bitter breeze. “What use do I have for the people who know who you are? That doesn’t bring me any closer to the truth.” 

“It’s not about who knows, it’s about why I told them.” Spider-Man slips around you, forcing you to walk on the inside of the sidewalk as a car pulls past you all too quickly and sends a sheet of dirty rainwater up Spider-Man’s side. He shakes himself off. “Jerk!” he shouts after the car. 

“My secrets aren’t worth anything.”

“I doubt that, but if that’s true, that makes it a fair trade, doesn’t it?” 

He sounds peppy considering the pool of runoff collecting at his feet. You pick up your pace again and say, “Alright, useless secret for a useless secret.” 

You think about all your secrets. Some are odd, some gross. Some might make the people around you think less of you, while others would surely paint you in a nice light. A topaz sort of technicolor. But they aren’t useless, then, so you move on. 

“Oh, I know. I hate my major.” You grin at Spider-Man. “That’s a good one, right? No one else knows about that.” 

“You do?” Spider-Man asks. His voice is familiar, then, for its sympathy. 

“I like science, I just hate math. It’s harder than I thought it would be, and I need so much help it makes me hate the whole thing.” 

Spider-Man doesn’t drag the knife. “Okay. Only three people know who I am under the mask. It was four, briefly.” He clears his throat. “I told one person because I was being selfish and the others out of necessity. I’m trying really hard not to tell anybody else.”

“How come?” 

“It just hurts people.” 

You linger in a gap of silence, not sure what to say. A handful of cars pass you on the road. 

“Tell me another one,” he says. 

“What for?” 

“I don’t know, just tell me one.” 

“How do I know you aren’t extorting me for something?” You grin as you say it, a hint of flirtation. “You’ll know my face and my secrets and even if you tell me a really gory juicy one, I have no one to tell and no name to pair it with.” 

“I’m not showing you anything,” he warns, teasing, sounding so awfully like Peter that your heart trips again, an uneven capering that has you faltering in the street. 

Peter’s shorter, you decide, sizing him up. His voice sounds similar and familiar but Peter doesn’t ask for secrets. He doesn’t have to. (Or, he didn’t have to, once upon a time.) 

“Where are you going?” Spider-Man asks. 

“Oh, nowhere.” 

“Seriously, you’re out here walking again for no reason?” 

“I like to walk. It’s not like it’s dark out yet.” You’re not far at all from Queensboro Hill here. Walking in any direction would lead you to a garden —Flushing Meadows, Kew Gardens, Kissena Park. “Walk me to Kissena?” you ask. 

“Sure, for that secret.” 

You laugh as Spider-Man takes the lead, keeping time with him, a natural match of pace. It’s exciting that Spider-Man of all people wants to know one of your useless secrets enough to ask you twice. The attention of it makes searching for one a matter of how fast you can find one rather than a question of why you’d want to. It slips out before you can think better of it. 

“I burned my wrist a few days ago on a frying pan,” you confess, the phantom pain of the injury an itch. “It blistered and I cried when I did it, but I haven’t told anyone about it.” 

“Why not?” he asks. 

He shouldn’t use that tone with you, like he’s so so sorry. It makes you want to really tell him everything. How insecure you feel, how telling things feels like asking for someone to care, and half the time they don’t, and half the time you’re embarrassed. 

You walk past the bakery that demarcates the beginning of Kissena Park grounds across the way. “I didn’t think about it at first. I’m used to keeping things to myself. And then I didn’t tell anyone for so long that mentioning it now wouldn’t make sense. Like, bringing it up when it’s a scar won’t do much.” It’s a weak lie. It comes out like a spigot to a drying up tree. Glugs, fat beads of sound and the pull to find another thing to say.

“It was only a few days ago, right? It must still hurt. People want to know that stuff.” 

“Maybe I’ll tell someone tomorrow,” you say, though you won’t. 

“Thanks for telling me.”

The humour in spilling a secret like that to a superhero stops you from feeling sorry for yourself. You hide your cold fingers in your coat, rubbing the stiff skin of your knuckles into the lining for friction-heat. The rain has let up, wind whipping empty but brisk against your cheeks. Your lips will be chapped when you get home, whenever that turns out to be. 

“This is pretty far from Trader Joe’s,” he comments, like he’s read your mind. 

“Just an hour.” 

“Are you kidding? It’s an hour for me.” 

“That’s not true, Spider-Man, I’ve seen those webs in action. I still remember watching you on the News that night, the cranes. I remember,” —you try to meet his eyes despite the mask— “my heart in my throat. Weren’t you scared?”

“Is that the secret you want?” he asks. 

“I get to choose?” 

Spider-Man throws his gaze around, his hand behind his head like he might play with his hair. You come to a natural stop across the street from Kissena Park’s playground. Teenagers crowd the soft-landing floor, smaller children playing on the wet rungs of the climbing frame. 

“If you want to,” he says. 

“Then yeah, I want to know if you were scared.” 

“I didn’t haveI time to be scared. Connors was already there, you know?” He shifts from one foot to the other. “I don’t think I’ve ever thought about it before. I wasn’t scared of the height, if that’s what you mean. I already had practice by then, and I knew I had to do it. Like, I didn’t have a choice, so I just did it. I had to save the day, so I did.” 

“When they lined up the cranes–”

“It felt like flying,” Spider-Man interrupts. 

“Like flying.”

You picture the weightlessness, the adrenaline, the catch of your weight so high up and the pressure of being flung between the next point. The idea that you have to just do something, so you do. 

“That’s a good secret.” You offer a grateful smile. “It doesn’t feel equal. I burned myself and you saved the city.” 

“So tell me another one,” he says. 

—

Maybe you started to fall for Peter after his Uncle Ben passed away. Not the days where you’d text him and he’d ignore you, or the days spent camping outside of his house waiting for him to get home. It wasn’t that you couldn’t like him, angry as he was; there’s always been something about his eyes when he’s upset that sticks around. You loathe to see him sad but he really is pretty, and when his eyelashes are wet and his mouth is turned down, formidable, it’s an ache. A Cabanel painting, dramatic and dark and other. 

It was after. When he started sending Gwen weird smiles and showing up to the movies exhilarated, out of breath, unwilling to tell you where he’d been. Skating, he’d always say. Most of the time he didn’t have his skateboard. 

You’d only seen them kiss once, his hand on her shoulder curling her in, a pang of heat. You were curdled by jealousy but it was more than that. Peter was tipping her head back, was kissing her soundly, a fierceness from him that made you sick to think about. You spent weeks afterwards up at night, tossing, turning, wishing he’d kiss you like that, just once, so you could feel how it felt to be completely wrapped up in another person. 

You’d always held out for Peter, in a way. It was more important to you that he be your friend. You were young, and love had been a far off thing, and then one day you suddenly wanted it. You learned just how aching an unrequited love could be, like a bruise, where every time you saw Peter —whether it be alone or with Gwen, with anyone— it was like he knew exactly where to poke the bruise. Press the heel of his hand and push. The worst is when he found himself affectionate with you, a quick clasp of your cheek in his palm as he said goodbye. Nights spent in his twin bed, of course you’ll fit, of course you couldn’t go home, not this late, May won’t care if we keep the door open —the suggestion that the door being closed might’ve meant something. His sleeping arm furled around you. 

Now you’re nearing the end of your second semester at ESU, Gwen is going to England at the end of the year, and Peter hasn’t tried to stop her, but he’s still busy. 

“Whatever,“ you say, taking a deep breath. You’re not mad at Peter, you just miss him. Thinking about him all the time won’t change a thing. “It’s fine.” 

“I’d hope so.” 

You swing around. “Don’t do that!”

Spider-Man looks vaguely chastened, taking a step back. “I called out.” 

“You did?” 

“I did. Hey, miss, over there! The one who doesn’t know how to get a goddamn taxi!” 

“I like to walk,” you say. 

“Yeah, so you’ve said. Have you considered that all this walking is bad for you? It’s freezing out, Miss Bennett!” 

“It’s not that bad.” You have your coat, a scarf, your thermal leggings underneath your jeans. “I’m fine.” 

“What’s wrong with staying at home?” 

“That’s not good for you. And you’re one to talk, Spider-Man, aren’t you out on the streets every night? You should take a day off.” 

“I don’t do this every night.” 

“Don’t you get tired?”

Spider-Man’s eyelets seem to squint, his mock-anger effusive as he crosses his arms across his chest. “No, of course not. Do I look like I get tired?” 

“I don’t know. You’re in a full suit, I can’t tell. I guess you don’t… seem tired. You know, with all the backflips.” 

“Want me to do one?” 

“On command?” You laugh. “No, that’s okay. Save your strength, Spider-Man.” 

“So where are you heading today?” he asks. 

There’s a slip of skin peeking out against his neck. You’re surprised he can’t feel the cold there, stepping toward him to point. “I can see your stubble.” 

He yanks his mask down. “Hasty getaway.” 

“A getaway, undressed? Spider-Man, that’s not very gentlemanly.” 

You start to walk toward the Cinemart. Spider-Man, to your strange pleasure, follows. He walks with considerable casualness down the sidewalk by your left, occasionally letting his head turn to chase a distant sound where it echoes from between high-rises and along the busy street. It’s cold and dark, but New York is hectic no matter what, even the residential areas. (Is there such a thing? The neighbourhoods burst with small businesses and backstreet sales, no matter the time.)

“Luckily for you, crime is slow tonight,” he says. 

“Lucky me?” You wonder if your acquainted vigilante flirts with every girl he stalks. “You realise I’ve managed to get everywhere I’m going for the last two decades without help?” 

“I assume there was more than a little help during that first decade.” 

“That’s what you think. I was a super independent toddler.” 

Spider-Man tips his head back and laughs, but that laugh is quickly squashed with a cough. “Sure you were.” 

“Is there a reason you’re escorting me, Spider-Man?” you ask. 

“No. I– I recognised you, I thought I’d say hi.” 

“Hi, Spider-Man.” 

“Hi.” 

“Can I ask you something? Do you work?” 

Spider-Man stammers again, “I– yeah. I work. Freelance, mostly.” 

“I was wondering how you fit all the crime fighting into your life, is all. University is tough enough.” You let the wind bat your scarf off of your shoulder. “I couldn’t do what you do.” 

“Yeah, you could.” 

He sounds sure. 

“How would you know?” you ask. “Maybe I’m awful when you’re not walking me around. I hate New York. I hate people.” 

“No, you don’t. You’re not awful. Don’t ask me how I know, ‘cos I just know.” 

You try not to look at him. If you look at him, you’re gonna smile at him like he hung the moon. “Well, tonight I’m going to be dreadfully selfish. My friend said he’d buy my movie ticket and take me out for dinner, a real dinner, the mac and cheese with imitation lobster at Benny’s. Have you tried that?” 

Spider-Man takes a big step. “Tonight?” he asks. 

“Yep, tonight. That’s where I’m going, the Cinemart.” You frown at his hand pressing into his stomach. “Are you okay? You look like you’re gonna throw up.” 

“I can hear– something. Someone’s crying. I gotta go, okay? Have fun at the movies, okay?” He throws his arm up, a silken web shooting from his wrist to the third floor of an apartment complex. “Bye!” he shouts, taking a running jump to the apartment, using his web as an anchor. He flings himself over the roof. 

Woah, you think, warmth filling your cold cheeks, the tip of your nose. He’s lithe.  

Peter arrives ten minutes late for the movie, which is half an hour later than you’d agreed to meet. 

“Sorry!” he shouts, breathless as he grabs your hands. “God, I’m sorry! I’m so sorry. You should beat me up. I’m sorry.” 

“What the fuck happened?” you ask, not particularly angry, only relieved to see him with enough time to still catch the movie. “You’re sweating like crazy, your hair’s wet.” 

“I ran all the way here, Jesus, do I smell bad? Don’t answer that. Fuck, do we have time?” 

You usher Peter inside. He pays for the tickets with hands shaking and you attempt to wipe the sweat from his forehead with your sleeve. “You could’ve called me,” you say, content to let him grab you by the arm and race you to the screen doors, “we could’ve caught the next one. Why were you so late, anyways? Did you forget?” 

“Forget about my favourite girl? How could I?” He elbows open the doors to let you enter first. “Now shh,” he whispers, “find the seats, don’t miss the trailers. You love them.” 

“You love them–”

“I’ll get popcorn,” he promises, letting the door close between you. 

You’re tempted to follow, fingers an inch from the handle. 

You turn away and rush to find your seats. Hopefully, the popcorn line is ten blocks long, and he spends the night punished for his wrongdoing. My favourite girl. You laugh nervously into your hand. 

—

Winter 

Spider-Man finds you at least once a week for the next few weeks. He even brings you an umbrella one time, stars on the handle, asking you rather politely to go home. He offers to buy you a hot dog as you’re walking past the stand, takes you on a shortcut to the convenience store, and helps you get a piece of gum off of your shoe with a leaf and a scared scream. He’s friendly, and you’re getting used to his company. 

One night, you’re almost home from Trader Joe’s, racing in the pouring rain when a familiar voice calls out, “Hey! Running girl! Wait a second!” 

Him, you think, as ridiculous as it sounds. You don’t know his name, but Spider-Man’s a sunny surprise in a shitty, wet winter, and you turn to the sound with a grin.

He jogs toward you. 

You feel the world pause, right in the centre of your throat. All the air gets sucked out of you. 

“Hey, what are you doing out here? Did you get my texts?” 

You blink as fat rain lands on your face. 

“You okay?” Peter asks, Peter, in a navy hoodie turning black in the rain and a brown corduroy jacket. It’s sodden, hanging heavily around his shoulders. “Come on, let’s go,” —he takes your hand and pulls until you begin to speed walk beside him— “it’s freezing!” 

“Peter–”

“Jesus Christ!” 

“Peter, what are you doing here?” you ask, your voice an echo as he drags you into the foyer of your apartment building. 

Rain hammers the door as he closes it, the windows, the foyer too dark to see properly. 

“I wanted to see you. Is that allowed?” 

“No.” 

Peter takes your hand. You look down at it, and he looks down in tandem, and it is decidedly a non-platonic move. “No?” he asks, a hair’s width from murmuring. 

“Shit, my groceries are soaked.” 

“It’s all snacks, it’s fine,” he says, pulling you to the stairs. 

You rush up the steps together to your floor. Peter takes your key when you offer it, your own fingers too stiff to manage it by yourself, and he holds the door open for you again to let you in. 

Your apartment is a ragtag assortment to match the one next door, old wooden furniture wheeled from the street corners they were left on, thrifted homeward and heavy blankets everywhere you look. You almost slip getting out of your shoes. Peter steadies you with a firm hand. He shrugs out of his coat and hangs it on the hook, prying the damp hoodie over his head and exposing a solid length of back that trips your heart as you do the same. 

“Sorry I didn’t ask,” Peter says. 

“What, to come over? It’s fine. I like you being here, you know that.” 

All your favourite days were spent here or at Peter’s house, in beds, on sofas, his hair tickling your neck as credits run down the TV and his breath evens to a light snore. You try to settle down with him, changing into dry clothes, his spare stuff left at the bottom of your wardrobe for his next inevitable impromptu visit. You turn on the TV, letting him gather you into his side with more familiarity than ever. Rain lays its fingertips on your window and draws lazy lines behind half-turned blinds. You rest on the arm and watch Peter watch the movie, answering his occasional, “You okay?” with a meagre nod. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks eventually. “You’re so quiet.” 

Your hand over your mouth, you part your marriage and pinky finger, marriage at the corner, pinky pressed to your bottom lip, the flesh chapped by a season of frigid winds and long walks. “‘M thinking,” you say. 

“About?” 

About the first night in your new apartment. You got the apartment a couple of weeks before the start of ESU. Not particularly close to the university but close to Peter, your best, nicest friend. You met in your second year of High School, before Peter got contacts, ‘cos he was good at taking photographs and you were in charge of the school newspapers media sourcing. You used to wait for Peter to show up ten minutes late like clockwork, every week. And every week he’d barge into the club room and say, “Fuck, I’m sorry, my last class is on the other side of the building,” until it turned into its own joke. 

Three years later, you got your apartment, and Peter insisted you throw a housewarming party even if he was the only person invited. 

“Fuck,” he’d said, ten minutes late, a cake in one hand and a whicker basket the other, “sorry. My last class is on–”

But he didn’t finish. You’d laughed so hard with relief at the reference that he never got the chance. Peter remembered your very first inside joke, because Peter wasn’t about to go off to ESU and meet new friends and forget you. 

But Peter’s been distant for a while now, because Peter’s Spider-Man. 

“Do you remember,” you say, not willing to share the whole truth, “when you joined the school newspaper to be the official photographer, and you taught me the rule of thirds?” 

“So you didn’t need me,” he says. 

“I was just thinking about it. We ran that newspaper like the Navy.” 

Peter holds your gaze. “Is that really what you were thinking about?” 

“Just funny,” you murmur, dropping your hand in your lap and breaking his stare. “So much has changed.” 

“Not that much.” 

“Not for me, no.” 

Peter gets a look in his eyes you know well. He’s found a crack in you and he’s gonna smooth it over until you feel better. You’re expecting his soft tone, his loving smile, but you’re not expecting the way he pulls you in —you’d slipped away from him as the evening went on, but Peter erases every millimetre of space as he slides his arm under your lower back and ushers you into his side. You hold your breath as he hugs you, as he looks down at you. It’s really like he loves you, the line between platonic and romantic a blur. He’s never looked at you like this before.

“I don’t want you to change,” he whispers. 

“I want to catch up with you,” you whisper back. 

“Catch up with me? We’re in the exact same place, aren’t we?”

“I don’t know, are we?” 

Peter hugs you closer, squishing your head down against his jaw as he rubs your shoulder. “Of course we are.” 

Peter… What is he doing? 

You let yourself relax against him. 

“You do change,” he whispers, an utterance of sound to calm that awful bruise he gave you all those months ago, “you change every day, but you don’t need to try.” 

“I just… feel like everyone around me is…” You shake your head. “Everyone’s so smart, and they know what they’re doing, or they’re– they’re special. I don’t know anything. So I guess lately I’ve been thinking about that, and then you–”

“What?” 

You can say it out loud. You could. 

“Peter, you’re…” 

“I’m what?” he asks. 

His fingers glide down the length of your arm and up again. 

If you're wrong, he’ll laugh. And if you’re right, he might– might stop touching you. Your head feels so heavy, and his touch feels like it’s gonna put you to sleep. 

He’s Spider-Man. 

It makes sense. Who else could have a good enough heart to do that? Of course it’s Peter. It explains so much about him, about Peter and Spider-Man both. Why Peter is suddenly firmer, lighter on his feet, why he can help you move a wardrobe up two flights of stairs without complaint; why Spider-Man is so kind to you, why he knows where to find you, why he rolls his words around just like Pete. 

Spider-Man said there are reasons he wears his mask. And Peter doesn’t tell you much, but you trust him. 

You won’t make him say anything, you decide. Not now. 

You curl your arm over his stomach hesitantly, smiling into his shirt as he hugs you tighter. 

“I was thinking about you,” he says. 

“Yeah?” 

“You’re quieter lately. I know you’re having a hard time right now, okay? You don’t have to tell me. I’m here for you whenever you need me.” 

“Yeah?” you ask.

“You used to sit on my porch when you knew May wouldn’t be home to make sure I wasn’t alone.” Peter’s breath is warm on your forehead. “I don’t know what you’re worried about being, but I’m with you,” he says, “‘n nothing is gonna change that.” 

Peter isn’t as far away as you thought. 

“Thank you,” you say. 

He kisses your forehead softly. Your whole world goes amber. He brings his hand to your cheek, the thought of him tipping your head back sudden and heart-racing, but Peter only holds you. You lose count of how many minutes you spend cupped in his hand. 

“Can I stay over tonight?” he utters, barely audible under the sound of the battering rain. 

“Yeah, please.” 

His thumb strokes your cheek. 

—

Two switches flip at once, that night. Peter is suddenly as tactile as you’ve craved, and Spider-Man disappears. 

He’s alive and well, as evidenced by Peter’s continued survival and presence in your life, but Spider-Man doesn’t drop in on your nightly walks. 

You take less of them lately, feeling better in yourself. Your spirits are certainly lifted by Peter’s increasing affection, but now that you know he’s Spider-Man you were waiting to see him in spandex to mess with his head. Nothing mean, but you would’ve liked to pick at his secret identity, toy with him like you know he’d do to you. After all, he’s been trailing you for weeks and getting to know you. Peter already knows you. Plus, you told Spider-Man secrets not meant for Peter Parker’s ears. 

You find it hard to be angry with him. A thread of it remains whenever you remember his deception, but mostly you worry about him. Peter’s out every night until who knows what hour fighting crime. There are guns. He could get shot, and he doesn’t seem scared. You end up watching videos on the internet of the night he ran to Oscorp, when he fought Connors’ and got that huge gash in his leg. His leg is soiled deep red with blood but banded in white webbing. He limps as he races across a rooftop, the recording shaky yet high definition. 

It’s not nice to see Peter in pain. You cling to what he’d said, how he wasn’t scared, but not being scared doesn’t mean he wasn’t hurting. 

You chew the tip of a finger and click on a different video. Your computer monitor bears heat, the tower whirring by your thigh. Your eyes burn, another hour sitting in the same seat, sick with worry. You don’t mind when Peter doesn’t answer your texts anymore. You didn’t mind so much before, just terrified of becoming an irrelevance in his life and lonely, too, maybe a little hurt, but never worried for his safety. Now when Peter doesn’t text you back you convince yourself that he’s been hurt, or that he’s swinging across New York City about to risk his life.

It’s not a good way to live. You can’t stop giving into it, is all. 

In the next video, Spider-Man sits on a billboard with a can of coke in hand. He doesn’t lift his mask, seemingly aware of his watcher. You laugh as he angles his head down, suspicion in his tight shoulders. He relaxes when he sees whoever it is recording. 

“Hey,” he says, “you all right?” 

“Should you be up there?” the person recording shouts. 

“I’m fine up here!” 

“Are you really Spider-Man?” 

“Sure am.” 

“Are you single?” 

Peter laughs like crazy. How you didn’t know it was him before is a mystery —it couldn’t sound more like him. “I’ve got my eye on someone!” he says, sounding younger for it, the character voice he enacts when he’s Spider-Man lost to a good mood.  

Your phone rings in the back pocket of your jeans. You wriggle it out, nonplussed to find Peter himself on your screen. You click the green answer button. 

“Hello?” Peter asks. 

You bring the phone snug to your ear. “Hey, Peter.” 

“Hi, are you busy?” 

“Not really.” 

“Do you wanna come over? I know it’s late. Come stay the night and tomorrow we’ll go out for breakfast.” 

“Is Aunt May okay with that?” 

“She’s staring at me right now shaking her head, but I’m in trouble for something. May, can she come over, is that allowed?” 

“She’s always allowed as long as you keep the door open.”

You laugh under your breath at May’s begrudging answer. “Are you sure she’s alright with it?” you ask softly. “I don’t want to be a burden.” 

“You never, ever could be. I’m coming to your place and we’ll walk over together. Did you eat dinner?” 

“Not yet, but–”

“Okay, I’ll make you something when you get here. I’ll meet you at the door. Twenty minutes?” 

“I have to shower first.” 

“Twenty five?” 

You choke on a laugh, a weird bubbly thing you’re not used to. Peter laughs on the other side of the phone. “How about I’ll see you at seven?” 

“It’s a date,” he says. 

“Mm, put it in your calendar, Parker.” 

—

Peter waits for you at the door like he promised. He frowns at your still-wet face as he slips your backpack from your shoulder, throwing it over his own. “You’re gonna get sick.” 

“I‘ll dry fast,” you say. “I took too long finding my pyjamas.” 

“I have stuff you can wear. Probably have your sweatpants somewhere, the grey ones.” Peter pulls you forward and wipes your tacky face. “I would’ve waited,” he says. 

“It’s fine.“

“It’s not fine. Are you cold?” 

“Pete, it’s fine.” 

“You always remind me of my Uncle Ben when you call me Pete,” he laughs, “super stern.” 

“I’m not stern. Look, take me home, please, I’m cold.” 

“You said it wasn’t cold!” 

“It’s not, I’m just damp–” Peter cuts you off as he grabs you, sudden and tight, arms around you and rubbing the lengths of your back through your coat. “Handsy!”

“You like it,” he jokes back, his playful warming turning into a hug. You smile, hiding your face in his neck for a few moments. 

“I don’t like it,” you lie. 

“Okay, you don’t like it, and I’m sorry.” Peter gives you a last hug and pulls away. “Now let’s go. I gotta feed you before midnight.” 

“That’s not funny.” 

“Apparently, nothing is.” 

Peter links your arms together. By the time you get to his house, you’ve fallen away from each other naturally. May is in the hallway when you climb through the door, an empty laundry basket in her hands. 

“I see Peter hasn’t won this argument yet,” you say in way of greeting. Peter’s desperate to do his own laundry now he’s getting older. May won’t let him. 

“No, he hasn’t.” She looks you up and down. “It’s nice to see you, honey. And in one piece! Peter tells me you’ve been walking a lot, and I mean, in this city? Can’t you buy a treadmill?” she asks. 

“May!” Peter says, startled. 

“I like walking, I like the air,” you say.

“Can’t exactly call it fresh,” May says. 

“No, but it’s alright. It helps me think.” 

“Is everything okay?” May asks, putting her hand on her hip. 

“Of course.” You smile at her genuinely. “I think starting college was too much for me? It was hard. But things are settling now, I don’t know what Peter told you, but I’m not walking a lot anymore. You know, not more than necessary.”

She softens her disapproving. “Good, honey. That’s good. Peter’s gonna make you some dinner now, right?” 

“Yeah, Aunt May, I’m gonna make dinner,” Peter sighs, pulling a leg up to take off his shoes. 

Peter shouldn’t really know that you’ve been walking. He might see you coming back from Trader Joe’s or the bodega on his way to your apartment, but you haven’t mentioned any of your longer excursions, and everybody in Queens has to walk. That’s information he wouldn’t know without Spider-Man. 

He seems to be hoping you won’t realise, changing the subject to the frankly killer grilled cheese and tomato soup that he’s about to make you, and pushing you into a chair at the table. “Warm up,” he says near the back of your head, forcing a wave of shivers down your arms.

He makes soup in one pan, grilled cheese in the other, two for him and two for you. Peter’s a good eater, and he encourages the same from you, setting a big bowl of tomato soup (from the can, splash of fresh cream) down in front of you with the grilled cheese on a plate between you. You eat it in too-hot bites and try not to get caught looking at him. He does the same, but when he catches you, or when you catch him, he holds your eye and smiles. 

“I can do the dishes,” you say. You might need a breather. 

“Are you kidding? I’m gonna rinse them, put them in the dishwasher.” Peter stands and feels your forehead with his hand. “Warmer. Good job.” 

You shrug away from his hand. “Loser.” 

“Concerned friend.” 

“Handsy loser.” 

”Shut up,” he mumbles. 

As flustered as you’ve ever seen, Peter takes your empty dishes to the kitchen. When he’s done rinsing them off you follow him upstairs to his bedroom and tuck your backpack under his bed. 

You look down at your socks. Peter’s room is on the smaller side, but it’s never been as startlingly small as it is when Peter’s socked feet align with yours, toe to toe. Quick recovery time, this boy. 

“There’s chips and stuff on my desk. Or I could run to 91st for some ice cream sandwiches if you want something sweet,” he says. 

You lift your eyes, tilt your head up just a touch, not wanting him to think you’re in his space no matter how strange that might be, considering he chose to stand there. “I’m all right. Did you want ice cream? We can go if you want to, but if you want to go ’cos you think I do then I’m fine.” 

“That’s such a long answer,” he says, draping an arm over your shoulder. “You don’t have to say all of that, just tell me no.” 

“I don’t want ice cream.” 

“Wasn’t that easy?” he asks. 

“Well, no, it wasn’t. Saying no to you is like saying no to a puppy.” 

“Because I’m adorable?” 

“Persistent.” 

“Yeah, I guess I am.” He drapes the other arm over you. The soap he used at the kitchen sink lingers on his hands. 

“Peter…?” you murmur. 

“What?” he murmurs back. 

You touch a knuckle to his chest. “This– You…” Every quelled thought rushes to the surface at once —Peter doesn’t like you as you desire, how could he, you aren’t beautiful like he is, aren’t smart, aren’t brave, no exceptional kindness or goodness to mark you enough for him. It’s why his being with Gwen didn’t hurt; she made sense. And for months now you’ve wondered what it is that made him struggle to be with her. And sometimes, foolishly, you wondered if it was you. But it’s not you, it’s never you, and whatever Peter’s trying to do now–

“Hey, you okay?” he asks, taking your face into his hand. 

“What are you doing?” 

“What?” He pushes his hand back to hold your nape, thumb under your ear. “I can’t hear you.”  

You raise your voice. “Why did you invite me over tonight?” 

“‘Cos I missed you?” 

“I used to think you didn’t miss me at all.” 

Peter winces, hurt. “How could you think that? Of course I miss you. What you said to May, about college being hard? It’s like that for me too, okay? I miss you all the time.” 

You bite the inside of your bottom lip. “…College isn’t hard for you.” 

“It’s not easy.” He frowns, the fallen angel, his lips an unsure brushstroke. “What’s wrong? Did I say the wrong thing?” 

You’re being wretched, you know, saying it isn’t hard for him. “You didn’t. Really, you didn’t.” 

“But why are you upset?” he implores, dark eyes darker as his eyebrows tug together.

“I’m not–”

“You are. It’s okay, you can be upset. I just want you to feel better, you know that?” He settles his hands at the tops of your arms. Less intimate, but something warm remains. “Even if it takes a long time.” 

“I’m fine.” 

“You’re not fine.”

“How would you know?” you finally ask. 

Peter stares at you. 

“I know you,” he says carefully, “and I know you aren’t struggling like you were, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen or that you have to be a hundred percent better now.” 

“I didn’t realise that I was,” you say, licking your lips, “‘til now. I didn’t get that it was on the surface.”

Peter pulls you in for a gentle hug. “I’m here for you forever, and I’ll make it up to you for not noticing sooner,” he says, scrunching your shirt in his hand.

After the hug, he tells you to change and make yourself comfortable while he showers. So you put on your pyjamas and climb into Peter’s bed, head pounding as though all your energy was stolen in a fell swoop. You press your nose to his pillow and arm wrapped around his comforter, gathering it into a Peter sized lump. The shower pump whines against the shared wall. 

Things aren’t meant to be like this. You thought Peter touching you —holding you— was the deepest of your desires, but you feel now exactly as you had before he started blurring the line, needing Peter to kiss you so badly it becomes its own kind of nausea. Why are you still acting like it’s an impossibility?

When he comes back, you’ll apologise. He hasn’t done anything wrong. He does keep a secret, but don’t you keep one too? He’s Spider-Man. You’ve had deep, complicated feelings for him for months. They are secrets of equal magnitude, and are, more apparently, badly kept. 

You wish you could fall asleep. Your heart ticks in agitation.

Peter returns as perturbed as earlier. 

“Are you sure there’s nothing wrong?” he asks, raking a hand through his hair. A towel hangs around his neck. 

“I’m sorry for being weird.” 

“You’re not weird,” Peter says, bringing the towel to his hair to scrub ruthlessly. 

“It’s just ‘cos things have been different between us.” And, you try to say, that scares me no matter how bad I wanted it. because you’re not just Peter anymore, you’re Spider-Man. I’m only me, and I can’t do anything to protect you.

Peter gives his hair a long scrub before draping the towel on his desk chair. He rakes it messily into place and sits himself at the end of the bed. You sit up. 

“Yeah, they have been. Good different?” he asks hesitantly. 

“I think so,” you say, quiet again. 

“That’s what I thought.” 

“I don’t want you to feel like I don’t want to be here. I just worry about you.” 

Peter uses his hands to get higher up the bed. “Don’t worry about me,” he says, “Jesus, please don’t. That’s the last thing I want from you, I hate when people worry about me.” 

You curl into the lump of comforter you’d made. Peter lets himself rest beside you, his back to the bedroom wall, tens of Polaroids above him shining with the light of the hallway and his orange-bulbed lamp. His skin is glowing like it’s golden hour, dashes of topaz in his eyes, his Cupid’s bow deep. How would it feel to lean forward and kiss him? To catch his Cupid's bow under your lips?

You brush a damp curl tangled in another onto his forehead. 

You lay there for a little while without talking, listening to the sound of the washing machine as it cycles downstairs. 

“Am I going too fast?” Peter murmurs. 

You press your lips together, shaking your head minutely. 

“Is it something else?” 

You don’t move. 

“Do you want me to stop?” he asks. 

“No.”

Peter rewards you with a smile, his hand on your arm. “Alright. Let me get this blanket on you the right way. You’re still cold.” 

You resent the loss of a shape to hold when Peter slips down beside you and wrangles the comforter flat again, spreading it out over you both, his hand under the blankets. His knuckles brush your thigh. 

He takes a deep breath before turning and wrapping his arm over your stomach, asking softly, “Is this alright?” 

“Yeah.” 

He gives you a look and then lifts his head to slot his nose against your temple. “Please don’t take this in a way that I don’t mean it, but sometimes you think about things so much I worry you’re gonna get stuck in your head forever.” 

“I like thinking.” 

“I hate it,” he says quickly, a fervent, flirting cadence to his otherwise dulcet tone, “we should never do it ever again.” 

“I’ll try not to.” 

“Would you? For me?” 

You laugh into his shirt, feeling the warmth of your breath on your own nose. “I’ll do my best.” 

“Good. I’d miss you too much if you got lost in that nice head of yours.” 

You relax under his arm. You aren’t sure what all the fuss was about now that he's hugging you. “I’d miss you too.”

May comes up the stairs about an hour later. To her credit, she doesn’t flinch when she finds you and Peter smushed together watching a DVD on his old TV. He’s holding your arm, and you’re snoozing on his shoulder, half-aware of the world, fully aware of his nice smells and the shapes of his arms. 

“Door open,” she says. 

“Not that either of us want it closed, May, but we’re adults.” 

“Not while I’m still washing your clothes, you’re not.” 

He snorts. “Goodnight, Aunt May. The door isn’t gonna close, I promise.” 

“I know that,” she says, scornful in her pride. “You’re a good boy.” She lightens. “Things are going okay?” 

Peter covers your ear. “Goodnight, Aunt May.” 

”I have half a mind to never listen to you again. You talk my ear off and I can’t ask a simple question?” 

“I love you,” Peter sing-songs. 

“I love you, Peter,” she says. “Don’t smother the girl.” 

“I won’t smother her. It’s in my best interest that she survives the night. She’s buying my breakfast tomorrow.” 

“Peter Parker.” 

“I’m kidding,” he whispers, petting your cheek absentmindedly. “Just messing with you, May.” 

You smile and curl further into his arms. His voice is like the sun, even when he whispers.  

—

To your surprise, Spider-Man comes to find you after class one evening. A guest lecturer had talked to your oncology class about click chemistry and other molecular therapies against cancer, and the zine book she’d given you is burning a hole in your pocket. Peter is going to love it. 

You pull it out and pause beside a bench and a silver trash can, the day grey but thankfully without rain. The pages of your little book whip forcefully in the wind. It’s chemistry, sure, but it’s biology too, wrapping your and Peter’s interests up neatly. If it weren’t for Peter you doubt you’d love science as much as you do. He’s always been good at it, but since you started college he's been a genius. Watching him grow has encouraged you to work harder, and understanding the material is satisfying, if draining. You take a photo of the middle most pages and tuck the book away, writing a quick text to Peter to send with it. 

Look! it says, LEGO cancer treatment!! 

The moment you press send a beep chimes from somewhere close behind you, all too familiar. You turn to the source but find nobody you know waiting. Coincidence, you think, shaking yourself and beginning the trek to the subway. 

But then you hear the tell tale splat and thwick of Spider-Man’s webbing. 

You wait until you’re at the alleyway between Porto’s Bakery and the key cutting shop and turn down to stop by one of the dumpsters. 

“Spider-Man?” you ask, shoulders tensed in case it’s not who you think. 

“What are you doing?” he asks.

You gasp as he hops down in front of you, his suit shiny with its dark web-pattern caught by the grey sunshine passing through the clouds overhead. “Shit, don’t break your ankles.” 

“My ankles?” He laughs. He sounds so much like Peter that you can only laugh with him. What an idiot he is for thinking you don’t know; what a fool you’d been for falling for his put upon tenor. “They’re fine. What would be wrong with my ankles?” 

“You just dropped down twenty feet!” 

“It’s more like thirty, and I’m fine. You understand the super part of superhero, don’t you?” 

“Who said you’re a superhero?” 

“Nice. What are you doing down here?” 

“I was testing my theory. You’re following me.” 

“No, I’m visiting you, it’s very different,” he says confidently. 

“You haven’t come to see me for weeks.” 

“Yes, well, I–” Spider-Peter crosses his arms across his chest. “Hey, you’re the one who told me to take a day off.” 

“I did tell you to take a day off. It’s not nice thinking about you trying to save the world every single night. That’s a lot of responsibility for one person to have.” 

“But it’s my responsibility,” he says easily. “No point in a beautiful girl like you wasting her time worrying about it. I have to do it, and I don’t mind it.” 

“Do you flirt with every girl you meet out here in the city?” you ask, cheeks hot. 

“No,” he says, fondness evident even through the mask, “just you.” 

“Do you wanna walk me home? I was gonna take the subway, but it’s not that far.” 

Spider-Man nods. “Yeah, I’ll walk you back.” 

He doesn’t hide that he knows the way very well. He takes preemptive turns, crosses roads without you telling him to go forward. You can’t believe him. Smartest guy at Midtown High and he can’t pretend to save his life. 

“Are you having a good semester?” he asks. 

“It’s getting better. I’m glad I stuck with it. I love biology, it’s so fucking hard. I used to think that was a bad thing, but it makes it cooler now. Like, it’s not something everyone understands.” You give him a look, and you give into temptation. “My best friend got me into all this stuff. I used to think math was hopeless and science was for dorks.” 

“It’s definitely for dorks.” 

“Right, but I love being one.” You offer a useless secret. “I like to think that it’s why we’re such great friends.” 

“Me and you?” Spider-Man asks hoarsely. 

“Me and Peter.” You elbow him without force. “Why, do you like science?” 

“I love it…” 

“You know, I really like you, Spider-Man. I feel like we’ve been friends for a long time.” You’re teasing poor Peter. 

He doesn’t speak for a while. He stops walking, but you take a few steps without him. When you realise he’s stopped, you turn back to see him. 

Peter’s gone so tense you could strike him with a flint and catch a spark. It’s the same way Peter looked at you when he told you about his Uncle, a truth he didn’t want to be true. Seeing it throws a spanner in the works of all your teasing: you’d meant to wind him up, not make him panic. 

“What’s wrong?” you ask. “Can you hear something?” 

“No, it’s not that…” He’s masked, but you know him well enough to understand why he’s stopped. 

“It’s okay,” you say. 

“It’s not, actually.” 

“Spider-Man.” You take a step toward him. “It’s fine.”

He presses his hands to his stomach. The sun is setting early, and in an hour, the dark will eat up New York and leave it in a blistering cold. “Do you remember when we first met, the second time, we swapped secrets?” 

“Yeah, I remember. Useless secret for another. I told you I hated my major. It’s not true anymore, obviously. I was having a bad time.” 

“I know you were,” he says, emphasis on know, like it’s a different word entirely. 

“But meeting you really helped. If it weren’t for you, for Peter,” —you give him a searching look— “I wouldn’t feel better at all.” 

“It wasn’t his fault?” he asks. “He was your friend, and you were lonely.” 

“No–”

“He didn’t know what was going on with you, he didn’t have a clue. You hurt yourself and you felt like you couldn’t tell anybody, and I know it wasn’t an accident, so what was his excuse?” His voice burns with anger. “It’s his fault.” 

“Of course it wasn’t your fault. Is that what you think?” You shake your head, panicked by the bone-deep self loathing in his voice, his shameful dropped head. “Yes, I was lonely, I am lonely, I don’t know many people and I– I– I hurt myself, and it wasn’t as accidental as I thought it was, but why would that be your fault?” 

“Peter’s fault,” he says, though his head is lifted now, and he doesn’t bother enthusing it with much gusto. 

“Peter, none of it was your fault.” You cringe in your embarrassment, thinking Fuck, don’t let me ruin this. “I was in a weird way, and yes, I was lonely, and I really liked you more than I should have. You didn't want me and that wasn’t your fault, that’s just how it was, I tried not to let it get to me, just there were a lot of things weighing on me at once, but it really wasn’t as bad as you think it was and it wasn’t your fault.” 

“I wasn’t there for you,” he says. “And I’ve been lying to you for a long time.” 

“You couldn’t tell me, right? Spider-Man is your secret for a reason.” 

“…I didn’t even know you were lonely until you told him. He was a stranger.” 

You hold your hands behind your back. “Well, he was a familiar one.” 

Peter reaches out as though wanting to touch you, but your arms aren’t in his reach. “It’s not because I didn’t want you.” 

“Peter,” you say, squirming. 

He steps back. 

“I have to go,” he says. 

“What?” 

“I have to– I don’t want to go,” he says earnestly, “sweetheart, I can hear someone calling out, I have to go. But I’ll come back, I’ll– I’ll come back,” he promises. 

And with a sudden lift of his arm, Peter pulls himself up the side of a building and disappears, leaving you whiplashed on the sidewalk, the sun setting just out of view.

—

You fall asleep that night waiting for Peter. When you wake up, 5AM, eyes aching, he isn’t there. You check your phone but he hasn’t texted. You check the Bugle and Spider-Man hasn’t been seen. 

You aren’t sure what to think. He sounded sincere to the fullest extent when he said he’d come back, but he didn’t, not ten minutes later, not twenty. You made excuses and you went home before it got too dark to see the street, sat on the couch rehearsing what you’d say. How could Peter think your unhappiness was his fault? Why does he always put the entire world on his shoulders?

Selfishly, you worried what it all meant for his lazy touches. Would he want to curl up into bed with you again now he knows what it means to you? It’s different for him. It isn’t like he’s in love with you… you’d just thought maybe he could be. That this was falling in love, real love, not the unrequited ache you’d suffered before. 

But maybe you got everything wrong. All of it. It wouldn't be the first time. 

—

You and Peter found The Moroccan Mode in your senior year at Midtown. The school library was small and you were sick of being underfoot at home. When you started at ESU, you explored the on campus coffeehouse, the Coffee Bean, but it was crowded, and you’d found yourself attached to the Mode’s beautiful tiling, blues and topaz and platinum golds, its heavy, oiled wooden furniture, stained glass lampshades and the case full of lemony treats. The coffee here is better than anywhere else, but the best part out of everything is that it’s your secret. Barely anybody comes to the Mode on purpose. 

You hide in a far corner with a book and an empty cup of decaf coffee, a slice of meskouta on the table untouched. Decaf because caffeine felt a terrible idea, meskouta untouched because you can’t stomach the smell. You push it to the opposite end of the table, considering another cup of coffee instead. It’s served slightly too hot, and will still be warm when it gets to your chest. 

The sunshine is creeping in slowly. It feels like the first time you’ve seen it in months, warming rays kissing your fingers and lining the walls. You turn a page, turn your wrist, let the sun warm the scar you gave yourself those few months ago, when everything felt too big for you. 

Looking back, it was too big. Maybe soon you’ll be ready to talk about it.  

The author in your book is talking about bees. They can fly up to 15 miles per hour. They make short, fast motions from front to back, a rocking motion. Asian giant hornets can go even faster despite their increased mass. They consider humans running provocation. If you see a giant hornet, you’re supposed to lay down to avoid being stung. 

You put your face in your hand. Next year, you’ll avoid the insect-based electives. 

Across the cafe, the bell at the top of the door rings. Laughter falls through it, a couple passing by. The register clashes open. A minute later it closes. 

You don’t raise your head when footsteps draw near. A plate is placed on the table, pushed across to you, stopping just shy of your coffee. 

“Did you eat breakfast?” Peter asks quietly. 

His voice is gentle, but hoarse. 

You tense. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, not waiting for your answer to either question. “You don’t look like yourself. Your eyes are red.” 

You lift your head. Wet with the beginnings of tears, you see Peter through an astigmatic blur. 

“What are you reading?” He frowns at you. “Please don’t cry.” 

You shake your head. Your smile is all odd, nothing like his, no inherent warmth despite your best effort. “I’m okay.” 

He nudges you across the booth seat and sits beside you. His arm settles behind your shoulders. He smells like smoke and soap, an acrid scent barely hidden. “Can you tell me you didn’t wait long for me?” 

“Ten minutes,” you lie. 

“Okay. I’m sorry. There was a fire.” He rubs your arm where he’s holding you. “I’m sorry.” 

“Will you go half?” you ask, nodding to the sandwich he’s brought you. It’s tough sourdough bread, brown with white flour on the crusts and leafy greens poking between the slices. You and Peter complain about the price. You’ve never had one. He passes you the bigger half, holding the other in his hand without eating. 

“I know you’re hungry,” you say, tapping his elbow, “just eat.” 

You eat your sandwiches. Now that Peter’s here, you don’t feel so sick —he’s not upset with you. The dull pang of an empty stomach won’t be ignored. 

Peter puts his sandwich down, which is crazy, and wipes his fingers on the plates napkin. You’ve never seen him stop before he’s done.

“It was in the apartments on Vernon. I– I think I almost died, the smoke was everywhere.” 

You choke around a crust, thrusting the rest of your half onto the plate. “Are you hurt?” you ask, coughing. 

He moves his head from side to side, not a shake, but a slow no. “How long have you known it was me?” he asks, curling his hand behind your back again, fingers spread over your shoulder blade, a fingertip on your neck. 

You savour his touch, but you give in to your apprehension and stare at his chest. “The night you caught me outside in the rain in November. You called me ‘running girl’. The way you said it, you sounded exactly like him. I turned around expecting,” —you whisper, weary of the quiet cafe— “Spider-Man, and I realised it’s him that sounds like you. That he is you.” 

“Was that disappointing?” 

“Peter, you’re, like, my favourite person in the world,” you whisper fervently, your smile making it light. You laugh. “Why would that be disappointing?” 

“I thought maybe you think he’s cooler than me.” 

“He is cooler than you, Peter.” You laugh again, pleased when he scoffs and draws you nearer. “I guess you’re the same person, right? So he’s just as cool as you are. But why would being cool matter to me? You know I like you.” 

“You flirted pretty heavily with Spider-Man.”

“Well, he flirted with me first.” 

You chance a look at his face. From that moment you can’t look away, not from Peter. You like when he wears that darkness in his eyes, the hint of his rarer side so uncommonly seen, but you love this most of all, Peter like your best memory, the way he’s looking at you now a picture perfect copy of that moment in a swimming pool in Manhattan with cracked tile under your feet. His arms heavy on your shoulders. You didn’t get it then, but you’re starting to understand now.

“I’ve made a mess of everything,” he says softly, the trail his hand makes to the small of your back leaving a wake of goosebumps. “I haven’t been honest with you.” 

“I haven’t, either.” 

“I want to ask you for something,” Peter says, a fingertip trailing back up. He smiles when you shiver, not teasing, just loving. “You can say no.” 

“You’re hard to say no to.” 

“I need you to talk to me more,” —and here he goes, Peter Parker, flirting and sweet-talking like his life depends on it, his face inching down into your space— “not just because I love your voice, or because you think so much I’m scared you’ll get lost, but I need you to talk to me. We need to talk about real things.”

We do, you think morosely. 

“It’s not your fault,” he adds, the hand that isn’t holding your back coming up to cup your cheek, “it’s mine. I was scared of telling you for stupid reasons, but I shouldn’t have let it be a secret for so long.” 

“No, I doubt they’re stupid,” you murmur, following his hand as he attempts to move it to your ear. “It’s not easy to tell someone you’re a hero.”

His palm smells like smoke. 

“That’s not the secret I meant,” he says. 

You take his hand from your face. Peter looks down and begins pressing his fingers between yours, squeezing them together as his thumb runs over the back of your hand.

“So tell me.”

The sunshine bleeds onto his cheek. Dappled orange light turning slowly white as time stretches and the sun moves up through a murky sky. “You want to trade secrets again?” he asks. 

“Please.” 

“Okay. Okay, but I don’t have as many as you do,” he warns. 

“I find that hard to believe.” 

“I don’t. It’s not a real secret, is it? I’ve been trying to show you for weeks, we…”

He tilts his head invitingly. 

All those hand-holds and nights curled up in bed together. Am I going too fast? You know exactly what he means; it really isn’t a secret.

“I’ll go first,” he says, lowering his face to yours. You try not to close your eyes. “I’ve wanted to kiss you for weeks.” He closes his eyes so you follow, your breath not your own suddenly. You hold it. Let it go hastily. “What’s your secret?” 

“Sometime I want you to kiss me so badly I can’t sleep. It makes me feel sick–”

“Sick?” he asks worriedly. 

You touch the tip of your nose to his. “It’s like– like jealousy, but…” 

“You have no one to be jealous of,” he says surely. He cups your cheek, and he asks, “Please, can I kiss you?” 

You say, “Yes,” very, very quietly, but he hears it, and his smile couldn’t be more obvious as he closes the last of the distance between you to kiss you.

It isn’t the sort of kiss that kept you up at night. Peter doesn’t hook you in or tip your head back, he kisses gently, his hand coming to live on your cheek, where it cradles. It’s so warm you don’t know what to make of him beyond kissing him back —kissing his smile, though it’s catching. Kissing the line of his Cupid’s bow as he leans down. 

“I’m sorry about everything,” he mumbles, nose flattened against yours. 

You feel sunlight on your cheek. Squinting, you turn into his hand to peer outside at the sudden abundance of it. It’s still cold outside, but the Mode is warm, Peter’s hand warmer, and the sunshine is a welcome guest. 

Peter drops his hand. “Oh, wow. December sun. Good thing it didn’t snow, we’d be blind.”

“I can’t be cold much longer,” you confess. “I’m sick of the shitty weather.” 

“I can keep you warm.” 

He smiles at you. His eyelashes tangle in the corners of his eyes, long and brown. 

“Did you want my meskouta?” you ask. 

Peter plants a fat kiss against your brow. 

You let the sunshine warm your face. Two unfinished sandwich halves, a mouthful of coffee, and a round slice of meskouta, its flaky crumb and lemon drizzle shining on the table. You would ask Peter for his camera if you’d thought he brought it with him, to take a picture of your breakfast and the carved table underneath. You could turn it on Peter, say something cheesy. This is the moment you ruined our lives, you’d tease.

“You never told me you met Spider-Man, you know.” 

You watch Peter lick the tip of his finger without shame. “They could make a novella of things I haven’t told you about,” you murmur wryly. 

Peter takes a bite of meskouta, reaching for your knee under the table. He shakes your leg a little, as if to say, Well, we’ll work on that. 

—

Spring

“Sorry!”

“No, it’s–”

“Sorry, sorry, I’m– shit!”

“–okay! All legs inside the ride?”

“I couldn’t find my purse–”

“You don’t need it!” Peter leans over the console to kiss your cheek. “You don’t have to rush.” 

“Are you sure you can drive this thing?” 

“Harry doesn’t mind.” 

“I don’t mean the car, I mean, are you sure you can drive?” 

“That’s not funny.” 

You grin and dart across to kiss his cheek, too. “Nothing ever is with us.” 

Peter grabs you behind the neck —which might sound rough, if he were capable of such a thing— and pulls you forward for a kiss you don’t have time for. “If we don’t check in,” —you begin, swiftly smothered by another press of his lips, his tongue a heat flirting with the seam of your lips— “by three, they said they won’t keep the room–” He clasps the back of your neck and smiles when your breath stutters. You squeeze your eyes closed, kiss him fiercely, and pull away, hand on his chest to restrain him. “And then we’ll have to drive home like losers.” 

Peter sits back in the driver's seat unbothered. He fixes his hair, and he wipes his bottom lip with his knuckle. You’re rolling your eyes when he finally returns your gaze. “Sorry, am I the one who lost her purse?” 

“Peter!” 

“I can’t make us un-late,” he says, turning the key slowly, hands on the wheel but his eyes still flitting between your eyes and your lips. 

“Alright,” you warn. 

He reaches for your knee. “It’s a forty minute drive. You’re panicking over nothing.” 

“It’s an hour.” 

Your drive from Queens to Manhattan is entirely uneventful. You keep Peter’s hand hostage on your knee, your palm atop it, the other hand wrapped around his wrist, your conversation a juxtaposition, almost lackadaisical. Peter doesn’t question your clinging nor your lazy murmurings, rubbing a circle into your knee with his thumb from Forest Hill to Lenox Hill. There’s so much to do around Manhattan; you could visit MoMA, Central Park, The Empire State Building or Times Square, but you and Peter give it all a miss for the little known Manhattan Super 8. 

It’s been a long time since you and Peter first visited. You took the bus out to Lenox Hill for a med-student tour neither of you particularly enjoyed, feeling out future careers. It’s not that Lenox Hill isn’t one of the most impressive medical facilities in New York (if not the northeastern USA), it’s that all the blood made him queasy, and you were panicking too much about the future to think it through. He got over his aversion to blood but chose the less hands-on science in the end, and you worked things through. You’re a little less scared of the future everyday. 

You and Peter were supposed to get the bus straight back home for a sleepover, but one got cancelled, another delayed, and night closed in like two hands on your neck. Peter sensed your fear and emptied his wallet for a night in the Super 8. 

The next morning it was beautifully sunny. The first day of summer that year, warm and golden. The pool wasn’t anything special but it was invitingly cool, blue and white tiles patterned like fish below; you clambered into the water in shorts and a tank top and Peter his boxers before a worker could see and stop you. 

It was one of the best days of your life. When you told Peter about it last week, he’d looked at you peculiarly, said, Bub, you’re cute, and let you waste the afternoon recounting one of your more embarrassing pangs of longing. A few days later he told you to clear your calendar for the weekend, only spilling the beans on what he’d done when you’d curled over his lap, a hand threaded into the hair at the nape of his neck, murmuring, Tell me, tell me, tell me. 

He’d hung his head over you and scrunched up his eyes. Cheater.

The best thing about having a boyfriend is that he always wants to listen to you. Peter was a good listener as a best friend, but now he has his act together and the secrets between you are never anything more than eating the last of the milk duds or not wanting to pee in front of him, he’s a treasure. There’s no feeling like having Peter pull you into his lap so he can ask about your day with his face buried in your neck, sniffing. Sometimes, when you text one another to meet up the next day, you’ll accidentally will the hours away babbling about school and life and things without reason. Peter has a list on his phone of your silliest tangents; blood oranges to the super moon, fries dipped in ice cream to the world record for kick flips done in five minutes. It’s like when you talk to one another, you can’t stop. 

There are quiet moments. You wake up some mornings to find him awake already, an arm behind you, rubbing at your soft upper arm, fingertip displacing the fine hairs there and trailing circles as he reads. He bends the pages back and holds whatever novel he’s reading at the bottom of his stomach, as though making sure you can see the words clearly, even when you’re sleeping. 

There are hectic, aching moments —vigilante boyfriends become blasé with their lives and precious faces. You’ve teetered on the edge of anxiety attacks trying to pick glass from his cheek with a tweezers, lamented over bruises that heal the next day. It’s easier when Peter’s careful, but Spider-Man isn’t careful. You ask him to take care of himself and he’s gentle with himself for a few days, but then someone needs saving from an armed burglar or a car swerves dangerously onto the sidewalk and he forgets. 

He hadn’t patrolled last night in preparation for today. 

“Did you know,” he says, pulling Harry’s borrowed car into a parking spot just in front of the Super 8 reception, “that today’s the last day of spring?” 

“Already?” 

“Tonight’s the June equinox.” 

“Who told you that?” 

“Aunt May. She said it’s time to get a summer job.” 

You laugh loudly. “Our federal loans won’t last forever.” 

“Harry’s gonna get me something, I think. Do you want to work with me? It could be fun.” 

You nod emphatically. It’s barely a thought. “Obviously I want to. Does Oscorp pay well, do you think?” 

Peter lets the engine go. The car turns off, engine ticking its last breath in the dash. “Better than the Bugle.” 

You get your key from the reception and find your room upstairs, second floor. It’s not dirty nor exceptionally clean, no mould or damp but a strange smell in the bathroom. There’s a microwave with two mugs and a few sachets of instant coffee. Peter deems it the nicest motel he’s ever stayed in, laughing, crossing the room to its only window and pulling aside the curtain. 

“There it is, sweetheart,” he says, wrapping his arm around you as you join him, “that’s what dreams are made of.” 

The blue and white tiled pool. It hasn’t changed. 

It’s about as hot as it’s going to get in June today, and, not knowing if it’ll rain tomorrow, you and Peter change into your swim suits and gather your towels. You wear flip flops and tangle your fingers, clanking and thumping down the rickety metal stairs to the pool. There’s nobody there, no lifeguard, no quests, and the pool is clean and cold when you dip your toes. 

Peter eases in first. Towels in a heap at the end of a sun lounger, his shirt tumbling to the floor, Peter splashes in frontward and turns to face you as the water laps his ribs. “It’s cold,” he says, wading for your legs, which he hugs. 

“I can feel it,” you say, the cool waters to your calves where you sit on the edge. 

“You won’t come in and warm me up?” he asks. 

You stroke a tendril of hair from his eyes. He attempts to kiss your fingers. 

“I’m trying to prepare myself.” 

“Mm, you have to get used to it.” He puts wet hands on your thighs, looking up imploringly until you lean down for a kiss. The fact that he’d want one still makes you dizzy. “Thank you,” he says. 

“You’ll have to move.” 

Peter steps back, a ripple of water ringing behind him, his hands raised. He slips them with ease under your arms and helps you down into the water, laughing at your shocked giggling —he’s so strong, the water so cold. 

Peter doesn’t often show his strength. Never to intimidate, he prefers startling you helpfully. He’ll lift you when you want to reach something too tall, or raise the bed when you’re on his side to force you sideways. 

“Oh, this is the perfect place to try the lift!” he says. 

“How will I run?” you ask, letting your knees buckle, water rushing up to your neck. 

Peter pulls you up. He touches you easily, and yet you get the sense that he’s precious with you, too. There’s devotion to be found in his hands and the specific way they cradle your back, drawing your chest to his. “I don’t need you to do a running start, sweetheart,” he says, tilting his head to the side, “I’ll just lift you.” 

“Last time I laughed so much you dropped me.” 

“Exactly, you laughed, and this is serious.” 

The world isn’t mild here. Car horns beep and tyres crunch asphalt. You can hear children, and singing, and a walkie talkie somewhere in the Super 8’s parking lot. The pool pumps gargle and Peter’s breath is half laughter as he pulls you further from the sidelines, ceramic tiles slippery under your feet. In the distance, you swear you can hear one of those songs he likes from that poor singer who died in the Wolf River. 

He’s a beholden thing in the sun; you can’t not look at him, all of him, his sculpted chest wet and glinting in the sun, his eyes like browning honey, his smile curling up, and up. 

“You’re beautiful,” he says. 

You rest an arm behind his head. “The rash guard is a good look?” 

“Sweetheart, you couldn’t look cuter,” he says, hands on your waist, pinky on your hip. “I wish you’d mentioned these shorts a few days ago. I would’ve prepared to be a more decent man.” 

“You’re decent enough, Parker.” 

“Maybe now.” 

“Well, if things get too hot, you can always take a quick dip,” you say. 

You’re teasing, but Peter’s eyes light up with mischief as he calls, “Oh, great idea!” and lets himself drop backwards into the water. You pull your arm back rather than go with him. You can’t avoid the great burst of water as he surges to the surface. 

He shakes himself off like a dog. 

“Pete!” you cry through laughs, wiping the water from your face before the chlorine gets in your eyes. 

“It just didn’t help,” he says, pulling you back into his arms, “you know, the water is cold, but you’re so hot, and I actually got a pretty good look at them when I was under, and you’re just as pretty as I remembered you being ten seconds ago–”

“Peter,” you say, tempted to roll your eyes. 

Water runs down his face in great rivers, but with the dopey smile he’s sporting, they look like anything but tears. “Tell me a secret?” he asks, dripping in sunshine, an endless summer at his back. 

A soft smile takes your lips. “No,” you say, tipping up your chin, “you tell me one first.”

“What kind of secret?” 

“A real one,” you insist. 

“Oh…” He leans away from you, though his arms stay crossed behind you. “Okay, I have one. Ask me again.” 

You raise a single brow. “Tell me a secret, Peter.” 

He pulls your face in for a kiss. His hand is wet on your cheek, but no less welcome. “I love you,” he says, kissing the skin just shy of your nose. 

You’re lucky he’s already holding you. “I love you too,” you say, gathering him to you for a hug, digging your nose into the slope of his neck as his admission blows your mind. “I love you.” 

Peter wraps his arms around your shoulders, closing his eyes against the side of your head. You can’t know what he’s thinking, but you can feel it. His hands can’t seem to stay still on your skin. 

The sun warms your back for a time. 

Peter lets out a deep breath of relief. You lean away to look at him, your hand slipping down into the water, where he finds it, his fingers circling your wrist. 

“That’s another one to let go of,” he suggests. 

He peppers a row of gentle kisses along your lips and the soft skin below your eye. 

You and Peter swim until your fingers are pruned and the sun has been blanketed by clouds. You let him wrap you in a towel, and kiss your wet ears, and take you back to the room, where he holds your face. 

“I’ll start the shower for you,” he says, rubbing your cheeks with his thumbs, each stroke of them encouraging your face from one side to the other, just a touch, ever so slightly moved in the palms of his hands. 

“Don’t fall asleep standing up,” he murmurs. 

Your eyes close unbidden to you both. “I won’t.” 

He holds you still, leaning in slowly to kiss you with the barest of pressure. Every thought in your head fades, leaving only you and Peter, and the dizziness of his touch as he lays you down at the end of the bed. 

｡𖦹°‧⭑.ᐟ

please like, comment or reblog if you enjoyed, i love comments and seeing what anyone reading liked about the fic is a treat —thank you for reading❤︎

[libraford]

The word 'rural' is in the public consciousness again and every time people start going in about the 'rural values' 'rural way of life' I remember just how subjective that word is.

I have a friend that lives in LA. He considers Columbus, OH to be 'rural.' A population of over 900k. Thriving arts community, tons of culture festivals, every kind of restaurant you can think of, one of the most annoying college campuses ever, several smaller colleges, lots of queer spaces, comic book conventions, huge concerts... rural.

The town I live in considers itself 'rural.' 38k population. Arts festival every year, a small pride celebration, monthly gallery hop, big Halloween festival. Five ice cream shops, three coffee shops, a couple fancy bars, so many grocery stores. Huge library, conservation and sustainability advocates, queer spaces, a hospital, one private college. Rural.

The town we nearly annexed, but lost the deal considers us 'urban' compared to them. Less than 5k. They have a limited hospital, often send their surgeries here. Downtown has hardware store, bars, craft supply store, a couple grocery stores, pizza places. There's some farmland, but much of the square acreage is golf. Mega churches. The houses here are 500k. Most people drive ATVs. They have a handful of festivals in the summer.

A town I would often get sent to to cover their high school sports- a little over 2k. There's a Subway, a Domino's, Family Dollar. Some bars, some corner stores. Some local crafts. All the students grow up knowing each other, most of them stay there. But they have craft fairs and art galleries, still.

Less rural still than the town I go through to get there, population of around 600. Houses, farmland, post office, general store.

Who would still look down upon the town of about 400 that I would go to sometimes- post office. Gas station. Bar. The school is the only big thing there.

And yet still, I have seen towns with population in the double digits that have a church and a post office.

Even just looking at the numbers doesn't lend accuracy to what 'rural' actually looks like. Because this is what it looks like in ohio, but it's different in West Virginia- where your closest neighbor might be a mile down a hill. Or in Montana, where your town might be planned very tightly and your neighbors are very close, but the nearest grocery store is an hour and a half away. These are places I've been, friends that I've talked to. I've never been to Missouri or Alabama or Louisiana- I'm sure they have a unique experience of being 'rural.'

So my point is that when people talk about 'the rural experience' or 'rural values,' they are talking about millions of people across the entire country who all have lived unique lives- and who may not even agree on what 'rural' is.

Think about who is talking, and who is being talked over, and who isn't even being asked to join the conversation.

[cherrygirlfriend]

pillow play pairing: perv!rafe x thornton!reader synopsis: perv!rafe jerks off to his best friend's sister who is humping her pillow. warnings: smut! male + female masturbation, voyeurism, MDNI! - wc: 1.2k i've taken a bit of a break from writing lately; mostly because i binge-read 5 books in 6 days which is strange for me 😭 my foot might also be fractured which isn't great because i walked like five miles today so now both my feet hurt

if topper knew the kind of thoughts his best friend had about his sister, rafe knew topper would make sure he never even caught another glimpse of you. if only top knew that whenever he passed out during a party or just a casual hangout between the two, rafe would slip upstairs, walking down the hall until he reached the door to your bedroom, he'd twist the doorknob, some light filtering into your dark bedroom, making you move around in bed in a way that caused alarm bells to go off inside rafe's head, hearing his own heartbeat fill his ear as he stopped in his tracks.

but as soon as you stopped moving and continued to breathe softly as you slept, rafe would slip further into your bedroom, looking down at your serene, sleeping form with a mixture of fondness and guilt; he knew that this was something he absolutely shouldn't be doing, but the more he tried to resist it, the more he craved to do it; the more he craved you.

rafe would pull open the drawer he'd gotten to know so well, sneaking a pair of your lacy panties and slipping them into his back pocket, before making his way to your bed, kneeling next to it, the blonde watching as your chest rose and fell with every breath you took like it was the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen, captivated by the sight.

he pushed a strand of hair away from your forehead, before connecting his lips with your forehead, causing you to let out a content sigh in your sleep. he hoped you were dreaming about him; even if it wasn’t likely. "goodnight, sleeping beauty."

this was another one of those nights; topper was passed out on the couch in his living room after the two had decided to drink beer and play call of duty, only for topper to pass out after rafe challenged him to a drinking game. rafe stood up and lightly shook his sleeping friend, but when topper simply mumbled something in his sleep like nothing had happened much like you did, rafe knew he was good to go.

slowly, he walked up the stairs, taking slow, quiet steps down halls that were lined with family pictures along with ones of you and topper when you were younger up to graduation, pictures he was sure he had passed a hundred times when he was making the trek to your bedroom, but as he looked at your bedroom door, decorated with a sign that had your name on it that had been there for as long as he could remember, rafe noticed that something was different.

the light was on.

usually, you were long asleep by this time; but as rafe got closer to your door, he could heard noises that were muffled by the hardwood door. he couldn't process it at first, but when you were just a little bit louder, he had a guess about what the cause of those little noises was, and so rafe pressed his ear against the door to make sure that he was hearing what he thought he was.

and there it was; you were letting out beautiful, breathy moans, the noise slightly muffled by the thickness of the door. carefully, rafe twisted the doorknob and pulled the door open just a crack, already hearing your pretty little noises much better, his jeans starting to feel tighter just from that. he had no idea how you had that big of an effect on him.

opening the door only slightly more, rafe peeked into the room, feeling like he might blow his load just from the sight displayed in front of him.

you were perched on top of one of your ruffly decorative pillows, your laptop open on the bed next to you, playing something less-than-appropriate, your face contorted in bliss as you rode your pillow, seemingly unaware of your surroundings, and seemingly unaware of who was watching you.

your body was covered only by a pair of panties that were all too familiar to rafe, having been a pair he'd seen in your drawer before, as well as a flimsy tank top that you were palming your tits through greedily, and the blonde couldn't resist bringing his hand to his belt, swiftly unbuckling it and unzipping his jeans as he watched you, your head thrown back in pleasure, rafe palming himself through his boxers.

he licked the palm of his hand to help slick it up, taking his cock out of his boxers, already standing at attention.

rafe watched as you pulled your tank top up slightly, showing a sliver of your tits, and even that was enough to make a small whimper escape his lips as he stroked his cock, the tip glistening with a drop of precum that he spread around his shaft as he continued stroking himself, wishing he could use your arousal to help lubricate him.

you hadn't heard the small sounds escaping him, or the slight fapping noise coming from his hand as he stroked himself, the man so infatuated by the sight of you getting yourself off on your pillow, your features contorting in pleasure, as he pictured that it was your hand stroking him, dreaming that he replaced the pillow you were grinding your pussy against, using him, rubbing your clothed cunt against his bare, hard cock.

this was the first time he had done something like that, watching you while getting himself off, but rafe knew that after he got a taste of it, he wouldn't be able to stop. it felt too good.

"unnghh..." you moaned breathily, feeling yourself get closer as you continued using the pillow on yourself, pressing it against your clit, the lacy pair of panties you wore covered in the arousal that had pooled around your legs, slowly causing even the pillow to get drenched as it dripped down your thighs.

rafe couldn't get himself to think about how wrong it was, about how topper would kill him if he found him in this situation; the only thing on his mind was you, and the way you'd look on his lap, riding him, those perky tits right in front of his face as you took all of him, your nails digging into his shoulders, how your smooth thighs would feel under his hands...

when you let out a particularly loud moan, rafe felt the pressure in his stomach snap, coating the inside of his jeans with his white, sticky cum, your movements stilling as you keeled over on the bed, completely out of breath and panting, while your laptop still replayed moans and sighs, and as he tucked himself back into his boxers and jeans, rafe knew that once you were dead asleep, he'd be paying you another visit and going through your laundry basket for the pair of panties you’d just soaked.

[justsomestuffreally]

I think the Batkids reaction to a Bruce who isn't de-aged to 8 but rather 29 (pre-Jason death, post his adoption) would be fascinating. 

Their reaction would vary wildly:

Dick: Oh. Bruce is soft again. Bruce calls them ‘chum’ and ‘buddy’ and gives head pats for no reason. He still isn’t perfect, his communication skills are still a work in progress, but compared to his future self? Without actively dying Dick is hugged plenty. Bruce asks him to go to the zoo, unrelated to any case, just to spend time together. Dick is hit with more nostalgia and longing for the past than he knows what to do with.

Also notable: his dad is younger than him. That is something. Second, holy existential crisis Batman, his dad is younger than him and already one adult and one teenage kid??? Dick is not ready to feel this old yet. Third, Dick has absolutely no idea how Bruce managed to stay patient through his no-pants years. He is going to thank reason every day from now on that Damian wears full protection.

Jason: After his death and League he clung to an image of Bruce. One many tried to beat out of him, but he still kept it somewhere close to his heart, buried deep enough even he couldn’t see it. When he came back Bruce wasn’t like this idea of him. How stupid of him to believe the mind of a traumatized kid. Trying to create one good thing before the kid drew his last breath. Making up memories that never even existed.

But they did. Every smile and hug and even his words reflect the image tugged safely against his still-beating heart. His dad very clearly, very deeply loves him. Which is so much worse. Because he can understand why a Bruce, who never cared, didn’t kill the Joker. But he cares. So why the fuck did he not kill the Joker?

Tim: The reason he joined the family, the reason why he became Robin in the first place was because he saw a problem when Bruce started self-destructing and thought ‘Someone needs to fix that!’. Therefore he went and collected Dick, who didn’t seem keen on fixing it. So, the job fell to him to fix it.

He thought he did a good job, he thought he fixed the problem. Except now he sees who Bruce was, and he knows he failed. Their Bruce is less soft, less affectionate, less like he was before. Batman needs a Robin and Tim didn’t manage to be good enough of one to save him. 

[Or: Tim has a guilt complex a hundred miles wide and blames himself for things that aren’t his fault part 52]

Steph: Jason and she are very similar. Both come from the Narrows, both have a mother addicted to drugs and a shitty father. The differences start when Steph keeps waiting on the roof of their apartment for Batman to whisk her away, while Jason tries to steal the tires of the Batmobile and is taken in.

When Steph started out as Spoiler Bruce tried to keep her off the field, and obviously this one would too (even if he would probably be less paranoid about it), but she knows this Bruce would have also taken her in. This Bruce would be the father she always wished for when she sat on their roof and couldn’t see any stars. 

And she didn’t get to have this because Jason went ahead and died. (Of course, she knows she isn’t fair to the guy. Dying isn’t fun… And she knows the only reason she lived is because he died. When Batman rescued her from Black Mask she was in such terrible shape that Leslie managed to convince the World’s Greatest Detective that she died. If Jason hadn’t died Bruce wouldn’t have been as paranoid, wouldn’t have noticed her missing so soon, wouldn’t have been as urgent in his response. Would have been just a minute slower, a minute which would have killed her. Just as it had Jason.)

For her, this Bruce is a distorted mirror into a past which never was. 

Cass: This Bruce and B are not the same person. They don’t move the same. In a fight, this Bruce is younger, faster, stronger. Doesn’t compensate for a previously broken spine. Less experienced. Still one of the most experienced she knows, but less. 

He still moves differently, outside a fight, less pain. More likely to engage in physical affection, more likely to hug and pat and talk. He talks more than B. B knows what she means without words. This Bruce doesn’t.

She likes this Bruce, warmth, and softness. But not as much as B. He knows what she means, when she wants a hug, when she tells him ‘I love you’ without words. B doesn’t need words. This Bruce doesn’t know her, doesn’t communicate like her. She wants B back.

Damian: At first, when this version of his father seemed uncanny and oddly familiar, he assumed it to be due to the stories of his mother. After all, she always told him tales about his father. He simply did not have the frame of reference to understand the kindness she spoke of. Clearly, the clash between the ideals of the League and the ones of his father causes these feelings, just as they did when he first entered the manor.

He presumed this to be the case until one day on patrol Batman laid a hand on his shoulder and told him he did a good job after no particularly impressive fight and he nearly called him ‘Grayson’. Because the stories of his mother may have painted the picture of this version of his father, however, it wasn’t what made it familiar; no, he knew this kindness. These hugs and compliments one would bestow upon a child. Compliments which, despite the indignity, still warm him. Because Grayson learned how to be a… caregiver from his father.

His father used to be like Grayson, used to be until his grief hardened him. Damian could have had this. Damian could have a brother and father who would- But he doesn’t because of Todd. He loathes Todd. Loathes him for ruining the life he could have had.

Why did he die anyway? Damian certainly wouldn’t have a problem escaping bonds created by the Joker, Damian would have disarmed the bomb in time, Damian would have never thrown this life away like he did.

[Or: Damian is a child who was raised by assassins and has unreasonable standards for fighting abilities and also is a child who needs to focus his rage on someone.]

Duke: He was neither there before Jason died nor in the aftermath [according to my math he was around 4 when Jason died] he joined the family when Jason was already back for 4 years or so. He mostly skipped all the drama. For him, Bruce is the way Bruce is because he is Bruce. It’s weird to see him so different, to see how grief shaped parts of Bruce which Duke assumed were just Bruce things.

He’s glad this Bruce is brighter, or not because it just highlights how much that light will dim? Who knows, certainly not him. 

What he does know is that, with their Bruce, he has a distance which, with his parents still alive, he appreciates. With this Bruce, he can understand why Dick struggled so much whether he wants to be his ward or son, how he doesn’t want to replace his parents but still have this Bruce as a dad. It definitely explained the ted talk Dick tried to give him after Bruce officially took him in as a ward.

He likes this Bruce well enough, but he doesn’t necessarily want him to stay this way. Yes, their Bruce is less happy, less open but he did heal, he did grow. Duke met a Bruce who tried to learn from his mistakes, learned to communicate better, and learned when to pull and when to push. For Tim, Damian, Dick, and certainly Jason there is too much baggage, too much history in their relationships, it’s difficult for them to ever move past- anything really.

Sure, when Dick and Bruce are on the same page they are essentially invincible but then the past catches up again and they don’t talk to each other for months. And honestly? Apart from Cass, Duke’s pretty sure he has one of the best relationships with Bruce simply because he got to know him at a better time.

Duke doesn’t mind this Bruce. But their Bruce loved Jason, cared for him so deeply the scars still show to this day. And he still chooses to open up again even if just a bit by bit. Even if just Duke can see it. He is used to being the only one that can see.

And maybe knowing this care extends to him, this love even grief can’t shake? Maybe it makes him feel just a little bit safer, a little bit warmer, a little bit brighter.

[sehnsuchts-trunken]

(Don't You) Steal My Thunder

my tyler owens playlist 🤝 inspiring fic titles

Tyler Owens x fem!reader  7k words

summary: Tyler Owens is the most annoying man you've ever met. But he's set on getting you on his good side. And the more you get to know him, the less you can resist.

a/n: i had to research sm car stuff for this it's not funny. i now know exactly how to describe a truck bed though, so. that's fun.

again, my inbox is wide open <33 i don't guarantee anything, but you can always come talk to me or request smth

masterlist | twisters masterlist

Tyler Owens is the most annoying man you've ever met.

He prints his face on t-shirts, writes his autograph on mugs, comes up with ridiculous sayings ("Not My First Tornadeo" and "If you feel it, chase it" are really just the tip of the ice berg) and most importantly, he costs you the best shots of tornadoes every goddamn time.

Tyler Owens is a problem.

And Tyler Owens seems to have actively decided to make himself a problem too.

Which would be fine, if he flipped you the bird or told you to fuck off or threw his paper towels at you. Unluckily, those are rather examples of what you have done to him. Because it's not fine, not at all - no, Tyler Owens has decided that it's not enough to be in your way all the time, he has to seek you out and rub your nose in it.

Tyler Owens is the most annoying man you've ever met. He's cocky and he's arrogant and he's entirely too full of himself. He brags too much and calls you "weather girl" too often. He gets under your skin more than you would ever admit.

And, as if all of that isn't enough - Tyler Owens is the very epitome of handsomeness.

It's like god didn't just have a good day when he created Tyler Owens, no, god must have still been in the post-haze of the best head he'd gotten in his whole immortal life when he'd created Tyler Owens.

Because Tyler Owens has the body of a greek god and the face of a Hollywood actor. He's not a pornstar, he's who pornstars worship. He's the Prince Charming little girls dream of and the Christian Grey grown women lust for.

Tyler Owens looks like everything you've ever wanted.

But he's just such a fucking asshole.

You wish you could say you didn't care. You'd love to be the kind of woman who didn't even acknowledge him. But you're not. You're not. You watch his videos when you can't sleep, you chuckle when you happen to overhear his jokes, you ogle his back when he's turned away from you. Sometimes, you get so lost in staring at him that you realise too late when he turns back around, and then you have to act unbothered when he grins his fucking grin at you. That's mostly when you flip him off, desperately fighting to ignore the heat in your cheeks.

Not like it stops him. You honestly feel like it only spurs him on.

Something has to seriously be wrong with him. It's not his face. But something is seriously wrong with him, you're sure of that.

Something has to be wrong with him. No sane person would ever go tornado wrangling. No hate to the rest of his crew - they're nice, you've managed to hold a few pretty normal conversations with them here and there - but none of them are sane either.

Storm chasing is different. You keep your distance. All you need are a few well-placed photographs - and those you can get from a rather safe number of miles away. The weather channel doesn't care about close-ups (not really, anyway). They want something to show the people on their comfortable couches, up in New Hampshire or Maine, so that all of them can say to each other "What poor folks, wouldn't wanna live there" and nod in pity as they switch the channel to watch another blockbuster.

You're just doing your job.

The only problem is that it's hard to do your job properly when there's always that fucking red truck in the way, driving down empty roads right into the heart of the tornado. And because no one on the news wants people to see that and go "Well, can't be too bad if there's still cars on the streets!", in the last few months - ever since you'd volunteered to move back to Oklahoma 'So that we've got someone right in Tornado Alley and don't have to fly people out there every time' - the weather channel has only shown the first few minutes of tornadoes forming. The rest of your pictures and videos lie abandoned in the trash file on your laptop. Except for a few - a very, very few, very, very good pictures of Tyler Owens and his Tornado Wranglers. But those won't ever see the light of day either.

You'd be damned if you let anyone know that while Tyler Owens is busy disturbing your actual work, you're busy taking pictures of him shooting fireworks into tornadoes. Pictures that would make for some damn good headers (if you hadn't buried them far, far down your gallery).

This time is no different. You get a few amazing shots of the tornado forming – surely an EF2, maybe even an EF3 - before you settle in the driver's seat again, your window rolled down and your camera hung around your neck as you push down on the gas. Then, a few miles further, you get even better shots of the full tornado, of the first few minutes of destruction, right there, in the middle of an empty field.

And as always, of course, just as the tornado takes on full form, you spot that familiar red truck through the lens of your camera. It speeds down the pavement right in front of where you’ve swerved onto the side of the road and you snap a few pictures, just because you’ve got the trigger right underneath your finger. Honestly, something about that dirty red paint against the grey skies just looks too good not to capture. But then the truck comes closer and closer and starts to slow down and you let your camera sink.

Tyler has his window rolled down already when he stops the car. There’s that annoyingly handsome grin on his lips, the one that makes you want to slap him across the face.

“You’re too far away, weather girl”, he calls out above the rumble of distant wind and thunder. “The good pictures are down that way.”

“The good pictures are right here.” You lift your camera at him. “Maybe you just need to update your equipment.”

Tyler’s grin widens, but before he can throw another of those obnoxious retorts your way, Lilly’s voice rings out through the car.

“Hey, T, looks like it’s changing course. You should hurry.”

His eyes are still glued to yours, still glued so firmly to yours that it makes your skin crawl. You can’t look away, couldn’t possibly look away. Tyler Owens might just be a cocky asshole, but you’re only human. And the weight of his gaze on yours is enough to keep you stuck in place, clutching at your camera.

“We’re on our way, Lilly”, he drawls without looking away from you. “See you around, weather girl.”

The rest of the pictures you take land in your trash file with all the other pictures of the last few weeks. You’re laying in bed, your laptop propped up against a pillow, the empty plate from dinner on the mattress next to you as you sort through today’s work. That’s the good thing about the time difference – you’ve got until seven to send the channel the day's results.

By nine, you’ve showered, put on a dress you feel confident in and settled on one of the chairs at the local bar. You’ve been telling yourself you need to get out a little bit more – you’ve been living here three months now and you haven’t really made any friends so far. To be fair, your job has kept you out and about most of the time. You’ve spent more hours at gas stations to fill up your tank than you have in your own home. But now you’ve decided to put an end to that. You're a young woman in a new town, you can meet more people than just the cashier at the local supermarket.

So for the past twenty minutes, you’ve been nursing a mojito at the counter and talking to the bartender. She’s nice, she’s your age, she’s extroverted enough to keep sidling up to you after every time she has to excuse herself to do her job. That, and she tells you she’s grown up here, so she knows most of the people around. She’s just serving another customer – a long-haired, brown-eyed, hat-wearing country guy who’s already shared a smile or two with you – when someone rests their arm on the countertop next to you.

“Didn’t expect to see you here”, he drawls, all low, deep Southern accent and you recognise his voice before you’ve even tilted your head up and looked at him. His grin drips down onto his words and wraps itself around your mind.

Tyler Owens isn’t just annoying – he’s unbelievable. He's unbelievable and he’s here.

“So you’re stalking me now”, you say, as drily as you can possibly manage. You've been doing that a lot around him. Dead-panning everything. Schooling your expression into fake neutrality.

"I'm here all the time, weather girl", he grins. "If anything, you're stalking me."

You snort, but it's rather unfunny when you think of all the videos you've watched, hours after they'd been livestreamed, cuddled up in your bed until midnight just to stare at his face. He's not that far from the truth.

"In your dreams, Owens", you say anyway, dragging your eyes back towards your almost empty cocktail glass. You wrap your lips around your straw and drain your drink entirely. What you say and what you do, none of that matters in the end. All of this is just show. Every conversation you've had with Tyler Owens in the last three months has been nothing but a performance. Other than your name, you don't think a single sentence out of your mouth has been honest. Not when it comes to him.

"Let me buy you a beer" is the only answer you get.

His grin widens when you look back up again - so cocky, so unbelievably cocky.

"I don't drink."

You push your glass an inch further down the bar top. Tyler raises his eyebrows. Fuck, someone really needs to kick him in the face. You can't keep having all these little heart attacks whenever he's close enough that you could touch him if you wanted.

Not that you want to.

"You're drinking right now", he says. You rest your palms against the bar top and blink at him.

"I don't drink with you."

He lets out a chuckle, one of those deep ones that settle right in your chest and make it hard to swallow.

"Just this once?", he asks and in all honesty, for just a second there, you actually consider giving in. He's too handsome for his own good. You really need to get it together. He's an ass (what an ass, goddamn). And he's insane. He's an insane ass. Sometimes you have to remind yourself of that - those times like now, when his piercing eyes and his kissable lips and his rugged stubble and his broad, broad shoulders and his drawled voice overshadow everything else.

"Don't you have some livestreaming to do?", you ask, hoping it still comes across just as sarcastic when you're the slightest bit distracted by how gloriously tight the sleeves of his flannel are. "Go chasing tornadoes, not me."

His grin widens inexplicably further. You're sure that if you were in a comic, there'd be a lightbulb flashing above his head right about now.

"Well", he drawls, "if you feel it..."

"Don't you do that shit to me, Owens."

He's raising his eyebrows again, raising his eyebrows as you clasp your hand around your empty glass so hard your knuckles turn white. But you're serious. Just as you'd lost yourself in the view of him, that angelic, sinful view of him, he'd gone and reminded you why you were so adamant to keep your distance. If you feel it, chase it. Ridiculous. Obnoxious. He's an arrogant, know-it-all, suicidal job-wrecker. He's the guy with cameras pointed at him everywhere he goes. He signs mugs and selfies and hats and shirts and bras. He's the reason you haven't gotten a single un-edited shot of a fully formed tornado in the last three months.

"You're not a fan of my catchphrase, weather girl?"

He can't even pretend to look wounded (even though he tries) with how big the grin on his lips still is. You stare right at him, dead-eyed and unflinching.

"I'm not a fan of you."

Lies slip off your tongue so easily by now that you wonder when you'd become morally compromised enough to not even care anymore. It must've happened somewhere along the way, sometime between the first conversation you'd had with him and the one you're having with him right now.

"You wound me", he grins, his palm pressed to his chest.

For the first time tonight, you allow yourself to grin back at him.

"I try."

With that, you slip off your chair and wave the bartender goodbye. You're already two steps away when Tyler calls after you.

"I'd still buy you a beer."

"I'm still not drinking with you", you call back. You don't turn around again. You just make your way back to your car and mark the evening as a half-successful night of socialising on your to-do list.

...

You see him again first thing the next day. Of course. Because there's no tornadoes without the Tornado Wranglers on their tail. By now, you're used to it. You wave at Dani as they come back out of the store at the gas station you're waiting at. They've got both arms full of coffees and for a second, you consider offering your help, but then you hear Tyler shout something out of his car and you suddenly don't feel any desire whatsoever to get up. You've sat yourself down in your truck bed, your camera slung around your neck and the radar on your lap. If all goes right, you're hoping for a tornado to form a little to the east from here. And as much as you dislike Tyler Owens, the fact that he's here soothes your nerves. Where he goes, there's sure to be tornadoes close by.

The few times you hadn't seen him had never ended well for you. You'd missed an EF3 your second week here just because you'd followed the wrong hunch. Meanwhile Tyler, of course, had been in the middle of it.

This might just be the one singular situation that you welcome seeing his red truck around. As long as you can manage to overtake him on the road after.

It's not that you need to be faster. You don't need to reach the tornado first. You don't even take the same way as him most of the time. He wants in there, you just want a sensible picture. Still, you can't help but feel a pang of disappointment every time you hit the brakes and jump out of your car, miles away from the actual cell as Tyler speeds down towards it. You've been telling yourself that it's because he ruins your pictures. It kind of is.

"Hey, weather girl!"

You let out a resigned breath as you tilt your head up and squint against the sun. He's still in his truck, his window rolled down, his elbow propped up against the car door.

"What do you want, Owens?"

Your fingers itch to reach for your camera. It's a visual, him in that fucking car, leaning out of his window with the sun peaking out behind him. But you can't, you can't take a picture of him this openly. Even if you were to argue that it's just the light you'd wanted to capture.

"To give you some advice", he calls out, his lips pulling into a grin. You raise your eyebrows at him. "East isn't gonna work out. Wind's changing. Go south."

He throws you a mock salute and hits the gas before you can say anything else.

Not that you'd been about to.

Instead you just curse to yourself, jump off the truck bed and throw your treacherous technology into the passenger seat with a little too much vigor. Fuck this. You sit at the steering wheel and stare out at the sky for exactly two seconds before you make your decision. Then you start your car and drive south.

You may not be a fan of Tyler Owens, but you've long since admitted to yourself that this man has got a gift. He has an unbeatable instinct when it comes to storms. And sure, you have your fair share of knowledge, but in the end, you're a photographer, not a meteorologist. You won't miss a day's work just because you're too proud to listen to Tyler.

You're a little further behind, but you can spot his truck and guess that he's driving straight on into the cell today, so you take a right and decide to try your luck with the side of the tornado. Not being right in its path doesn't sound too bad anyway.

You actually manage to snap a few well-placed pictures. You don't know what Tyler's doing, but it seems like he's not shooting random shit up the cell today. You'll watch the stream later - you're just the slightest bit curious now what's happening with them. Maybe they're doing some old-school chasing? Or maybe they're doing a challenge. Maybe Tyler is driving blindfolded. At this point, who knows.

It's good for you though. It's a considerable tornado today, an EF2 at least, and you only spot Tyler's red truck again when the cell moves further down the fields, away from him. It doesn't look like it's gonna disappear anytime soon. Maybe today's your lucky day.

Half an hour later, you're sure you've got at least a dozen pictures of the fully formed tornado, long touched down and without the red truck in the way.

You're just packing up your things, already sifting through the photos on your camera, squinting against the sunlight, trying to both tug the zipper of your bag closed and hit the right buttons at the same time when Tyler pulls up next to you.

"You look busy, weather girl", he says, already grinning that damn grin again.

"I am", you say - truthfully, for once. You let go of your bag and lower your camera. You're hesitant, but... "Thanks for the tip."

"Anytime", he grins. "Just do me one favour."

You already know this can't be good. Not with that cheeky look on his face. But he'd just saved you from chasing hot air (quite literally), so he deserves a little treat. And you don't want unsettled scores with Tyler Owens.

"I want to know what favour that's supposed to be before I agree", you say anyway, because with him, you can never be too careful. And in the end, you're only willing to do so much. (Though for him, you'd already do a lot more than you'd admit. A lot more than you hope he's aware of.)

"Let me buy you a beer", he says, and for once, he sounds serious.

The memory of yesterday night flashes before your eyes, of those same words at the bar. With him so close, way too close - with that grin and that stubble and that voice and those shoulders. You cross your arms and stare at him.

"If you're livestreaming this, I'm gonna sue your ass so hard."

He just lets out a chuckle and raises his hands in surrender.

"Cameras are off, I swear."

You stare at him for another silent ten or so seconds. At him in that fucking truck that looks just a little too good in your pictures. At him and his fucking face. That fucking face that you certainly wouldn't mind sitting on, if just to shut him up.

God, he's asking you to drink something with him. He's asking to buy you something to drink with him. You're stupid.

You're so, so stupid.

"Alright, cowboy", you say, uncrossing your arms and reaching for the handle of your car door. "I'll humour you."

...

You're in the bar again by nine that night, the same way you had been the day before. You're wearing a different dress and there's a different bartender, but you've ordered the same mojito and chosen the same place to sit.

Only this time, you're actively watching the door. And when Tyler strolls in, you've got to shift around in your seat and cross your legs. You don't even pretend you're not staring. You just ogle him openly. Not for the first time ever - you'd checked him out very obviously when he'd strutted towards you to introduce himself three months ago - but definitely for the first time in a while. And god yeah, he's a hunk of a man, alright. If you had your camera here right now...

But you don't. So instead, you drop your eyes to his feet (brown leather boots), drag them up his legs (blue jeans), over his chest (red checkered flannel), over his face (god, what you wouldn't give-) and finally rest them on the cowboy hat on top of his head.

When he's close enough to hear you, already grinning, of course, probably at how you're actually sitting there in the same spot as yesterday and hadn't just lied to his face about coming here, you raise your eyebrows at him.

"A cowboy hat?", you ask, your voice as unbothered as you can possibly manage (even though you're very, very, very much bothered right now). His grin only widens.

"Ladies love country boys", he drawls with a shrug.

"Now that's straight out of a song", you say. "You're getting lazy, Owens."

"A song?", he asks. "No, that's an Owens Original."

You pull your eyebrows even further up.

"Ladies love country boys? Trace Adkins?"

"Nope. Not familiar."

But his grin tells you that he's lying. He's a liar. He knows very well where he got that line from. And he knows just how easily he got under your skin with his simple trick. As if his face isn't enough already.

You just shake your head and turn away from him.

"Put your money where your mouth is, Owens. Buy me a beer."

...

Tyler Owens is the most annoying man you've ever met. But he's also a great conversationalist.

The hours fly by as you're talking. One beer turns into two, then into an uncountable number of soft drinks. You both agree that you need to drive home, neither of you is willing to risk a run-in with the police. You need your drivers license for your jobs.

Tyler talks to you about the pictures you've taken today, then about the pictures from last week. He laughs when you blame him for ruining half of them and almost spits out his coke when you slap his arm for laughing at you. He tells you about his crew, about the people they've helped with the money from their dumb t-shirt sales. You think you hate him less by the minute. You're not sure if you're okay with that. But he gets you talking about your childhood and your parents, about school and college and about how you've wound back up here in Oklahoma. That effectively distracts you.

That, and how his cocky grin morphs into a genuine smile the more you open up.

Not that you didn't love the cocky grin. You did, just a bit. As obnoxious as it was. But the way he smiles at you all sweet has you melting right in your spot.

It's not the first time you realise that beneath all that rough exterior, there beats a heart of gold. You've known what those t-shirt sales are for, that he offers food and water after a tornado hits a town, that he carries the injured out of the ruins of their houses and helps find lost dogs. The more you've been around him in the past weeks, the more you've seen of his soft side. Of the way he cares and supports. But in the end, it always is easier to go back to the status quo - to fall back onto mindless snark and fleeting first impressions.

You'd clung so desperately to the image of him as this arrogant, smug, holier-than-thou influencer god for the sole purpose of keeping your own sanity. Because you'd known that without despising him, you would fall head over heels for Tyler Owens, and you just couldn't have that.

But now, with his arm brushing against yours and his hat discarded on the bar top and his smile, that beautiful, beautiful smile on his lips...

"Five bucks", he drawls, already reaching for his wallet.

"What?"

"Five bucks says there won't be a tornado tomorrow."

You raise your eyebrows at him, your glass hovering in mid-air between the two of you. You'd meant to take a sip, but now you're setting it right back down on the bar top.

"You're shitting me."

Tyler just shakes his head. He's grinning again, but it's much softer this time around.

"The winds are looking great. The forecast says it's gonna be the best conditions for tornadoes we've seen in the last six weeks. I've heard Dexter talk about how we're probably gonna see an EF4 tomorrow", you tell him, even though you're sure he's well aware of all of it. This is Tyler Owens, for god's sake. He knows about the winds and the forecasts. He knows that his crew is making preparations already.

His grin only grows. And it's smug now. It's cocky now. It's everything you thought you'd left behind during this conversation. He looks like the Tornado Wrangler again, like the guy who fucks up your pictures and makes your job harder than it already is.

It takes you a second too long to realise why.

"Dexter said that on our live", he grins, as if he can't quite believe what he's hearing. You physically recoil from him. "Do you watch our streams, weather girl?"

"No", you breathe, rigid and frozen, shocked to your very core. No, no, no, no, this cannot be happening. This cannot be happening. You'd... You hadn't made that mistake. He hadn't got you to make that mistake.

"Dexter talked about tomorrow on our live", Tyler says again, straightening his back and grinning down at you like he's just uncovered the lost grave of Cleopatra. "Only on the live. You watched our stream."

"No", you mutter, your eyes wide and your mouth dry, so dry. You need to drink. You need to drink so badly. "No, I didn't."

"Yes, you did. You watched our stream, honey."

The petname runs down your spine and clogs your senses. Honey. Oh, he's an ass, he's an asshole! But you're on the spot, you're on the spot and he's calling you honey, honey, honey. You can't do anything but watch as he leans closer to you, grinning down at you like it's his one true purpose on this earth, like he wants to eat you alive.

"I'd say you watch our streams pretty regularly, weather girl."

You swallow hard and clasp your hand around your glass.

"Yeah?", you breathe, hoping against all hope that your voice sounds somewhat innocent. You're sure it doesn't. You know it doesn't. You probably sound as guilty as you are, but... Hope dies last. Hope always dies last. "Why would you say that?"

"Just a hunch." He shows off those pearly fucking whites for you. "Call it an instinct. I'm usually right."

He is.

He's right now. He's right usually.

Him and his fucking instinct. His goddamn gut feeling about tornadoes, always right all the fucking time. He's like an Oklahoma Jesus. The first coming of Tornado Christ.

Fuck him.

Fuck him.

"I'll take your bet." You drain your glass at once. "Give me your five bucks, Owens."

You don't think it'll work. You don't think he'll let you distract him. You don't think it'll be this easy to stop his vile teasing. He's not the type of guy to let something go. He's not the type of guy to let anything go ever. But he looks at you and he grins at you and he trails his eyes over your face and then he opens up his wallet and pulls out five dollars without another word.

He puts the bill flat on the bar top.

But when you go to reach for it, he pushes his fingers down.

"The price just went up", he says.

You raise your eyebrows and let your hand sink again. Tyler is absolutely unpredictable. You should've known.

"The price just went up?", you repeat. He nods. "What more do you want to bet?"

He's closer now, closer all of a sudden. He's too close, close enough to make your breath hitch. He's looking down at you with that cocky, cheeky grin, with his weirdly green eyes, with his three day stubble and his generally much too symmetrical face. You can't do anything but look back up at him.

"A kiss", he says. Simple as that.

A kiss.

Tyler Owens is the most annoying man you've ever met. He is. Truly. He's annoying and way too full of himself and much too presumptuous. Tyler Owens is the only man who would ever do something like this. The only man who'd bet a kiss on whether or not there will be tornadoes tomorrow.

Especially with that forecast.

The one that says a tornado is basically inevitable.

"Alright", you say. He may be Tyler Owens, the guy with an infallible instinct - but he is also Tyler Owens, the guy who's been doing his hardest to get under your skin. This time might not be any different. For all you know, he's bluffing to rile you up. "I'm in."

...

At eleven the next day, you're standing next to Dexter in resigned silence.

"I really thought today was gonna pan out", you mutter.

"It should have", Dexter frowns, tapping against the screen in his hands. "It should have worked out. The conditions should have been perfect. Everything's been building the last few days."

"But it collapsed this morning."

You turn your head and watch as Tyler comes to a stand next to you, arms crossed, eyes locked on the clear sky up above. He tilts his head to you and grins. Fuck, he's wearing his goddamn hat again. It's like he doesn't even try to be normal.

"Hey, weather girl", he greets. "Ready to cash out your bet?"

You shake your head at him. No, you're not giving up this easily. You never give up this easily.

"The day's not over yet, Owens. You haven't won 'til midnight."

...

You spend most of the next hours sitting in your truck bed, reading a book you'd thrown into your backseat weeks ago and had so far neglected. Lilly hands you lunch around two, Dani offers you a coffee around five and Boone pipes up here and there to joke about the wasted day. Around six, Dexter comes by to let you know they're calling it.

You still have another hour to go. By seven, it'll be too late to send your pictures anyway. But you want the hour. You need the hour.

You still haven't decided what to do about Tyler. About Tyler and his fucking bet.

He's been loitering the whole day, walking by, joking around with his crew, livestreaming a spontaneous q&a just because.

And the more minutes tick by, the harder it is to keep ignoring that you've most definitely lost the bet. Even though you do your best. You read, you check your phone. You stare at your radar. You stare at the weather forecast. You talk to Dexter and Dani and Lilly and Boone. You take a few pictures of the sky. Then you take a few pictures of Tyler, standing some feet away from his truck and looking out at the clouds.

It's only when two of three Tornado Wranglers cars are disappearing down the road, when Tyler Owens suddenly stands in front of your truck bed, that you put down your book and face reality.

"No tornadoes in sight", he says, instead of 'Hello' or 'How are you' like any other person would.

"There's still six hours left", you reason. Even if only one of those is relevant for your job today.

"You really want to wait out six hours to prove I'm right?"

"You're not right", you argue. It's fruitless, it's stupid, it's unreasonable. But... "Not yet, anyway."

Tyler raises his eyebrows at you, lets out an amused chuckle and leans against the side of your truck bed.

"Alright, so we wait."

You eye him from the side. He's fucking leaning against your truck, staring out at the sky, talking about six hours. Goddamn. He can't be serious, can he? His crew is already gone. They've disappeared into the descending sun and he's talking about waiting another six hours. Leaned against your car.

"Fuck's sake, Owens", you sigh, scooching over to the right. "At least sit down then."

You don't talk much at first. You just open your book back up again and try your hardest to ignore that he's even here at all, barely two feet away from you on the other side of your truck bed. If you stretched your leg, you'd hit him right in the hip.

It makes reading close to impossible.

Even though he's not doing anything at all. He's just sitting there, one arm propped up on the side board, that goddamn cowboy hat on his head and his feet hanging off the opened tailgate. It's almost worse that he's not doing anything.

That he's just sitting there and watching the sky change.

You give up on reading entirely when you realise that you've finished exactly five pages in half an hour. Instead, you put your book back in the car, pull out your bluetooth speaker and two water bottles and offer Tyler one of them.

You don't even ask him what music he wants to listen to. You just put on your country playlist and roll with it. By the twitch of his lips, you know he certainly doesn't mind.

Another half hour later, it's starting to get chilly and you're beginning to grow bored of the music. Tyler sitting next to you makes you fidgety, somehow, and you can't really enjoy the songs you usually love so much. So you switch to a podcast. You don't ask Tyler if he minds. He's free to go anytime.

Around eight, the sun starts to set, and the chill turns into an unpleasant cool. You hadn't really expected to be sitting out here so long. You're not prepared for the temperature to drop. You're wearing shorts, for god's sake, shorts and a top. It's summer in Oklahoma - you don't know how Tyler even manages to survive in his long jeans. You certainly wouldn't.

But now you're a little jealous, to be honest. He doesn't look cold in the slightest while you're fighting off shivers. You can feel your hands trembling already.

You really should've brought a jacket. But who brings jackets in 30 degree summer weather?

So instead, you just resign yourself to your fate and rub your hands along your arms. Anything to get some warmth into your body.

For the first time since you've sat back down, Tyler turns his head and looks at you.

"You're cold", he says, eyes raking over your arms and the goosebumps you'd gotten.

"Great observational skills, Sherlock Holmes", you deadpan, even though he doesn't really deserve that. He had so far left you pretty much alone. "A+ on that assignment."

Well, it's hard to break bad habits.

Tyler just chuckles, shakes his head and pushes off of the truck bed. You watch, eyes narrowed, as he walks back to his own car, opens up the trunk and- pulls out a blanket?

Your hands have sunken down to your lap all by themselves by the time he's standing in front of you again, holding out the blanket.

"For you, Watson", he grins as you slowly, carefully take the blanket from him. You mutter something along the lines of a soft 'Thank you' before you wrap the blanket around your arms.

Tyler Owens is the most annoying man you've ever met. But he's also the very definition of "Tough on the outside, soft on the inside". Sometimes, you think the word 'angelic' works for more than just his divine looks.

Your eyes are glued to him as he sits back down next to you and looks out at the darkening sky with that signature grin on his lips, like he knows that you're watching him and enjoys it more than he should. That doesn't deter you though. For the very first time. You don't even stop staring when he turns his head back to you. You don't even stop staring then.

You just look at him until his grin crumbles. Until he's smiling that smile from yesterday night, the one that has your heart squeezing together and then exploding in your chest. You think you could stare at that smile for the rest of eternity and never feel sated.

"What?", he asks, his voice so soft it makes you swallow. Your lips part, but there's no words on your tongue, none in your throat. They're stuck in your chest somewhere, wrapped around your heart so tightly that you can't let them go even now. So you just press your lips together, wrap your blanket tighter around yourself and say:

"So I'm Watson, yeah?"

Your podcast is long forgotten by the time the sky turns dark. So dark that you make Tyler climb into your car and turn on the lights. You're comfortable in your blanket, you don't feel the need to move.

It's around ten when the blanket isn't enough anymore.

You tuck your hands underneath your top, but that only helps for so long. A few minutes later, you're trembling again, trembling even though you're pulling the blanket as tightly around you as you possibly can. Tyler raises his eyebrows when a particularly heavy shiver runs down your spine, one of those that come and go within three seconds.

"Come here", he says, shuffling in his spot and motioning for you to move over to him. You don't really think about it. It's more of a reflex as you fumble the blanket off of your body, scooch over to him, settle yourself against his side and sneak your feet under his thigh. He tugs the blanket back up to your chin, tucks it in behind your back and wraps his arms around you.

Tyler Owens wraps his arms around you.

And he's so fucking warm you literally almost moan. God, you hadn't actually realised just how cold you'd been.

"Damn, you're freezing", he notes as well, just as you nestle further into him and hum in agreement. He's like a living heater right now. You'd like to just crawl inside of him and suck up all his warmth. "You should've told me sooner."

"I didn't tell you at all", you mutter, closing your eyes and taking a deep breath. He smells good. He smells so good. Earthy, musky somehow. You're tempted to turn your head and bury your nose in his shoulder.

Instead, you just satisfy yourself with what you can get. Fuck, he smells so good. He smells just like you'd thought he would, like country and rodeo and thunderstorms. He smells like falling into bed at the end of a successful chase. He smells like more. You want more.

You want more of Tyler Owens.

"Are you sniffing me?", he asks suddenly, but he sounds so amused you can't even bring yourself to feel embarrassed. You just open your eyes and grin at him, tilting your head so you can look up at him.

"What if I am?", you ask, if only to hear that breathless chuckle fall from his lips. Oh, those lips. You're in trouble. "Are you gonna call the cops on me?"

"I could never."

"Yeah, you better not, cowboy", you mutter, eyes dropping to his lips when he grins. He's so close. He's way too close. "There's like thirty things I could call the cops about on your channel."

His grin grows until he's showing off his teeth, glinting against the low light of the leds in your car. He's closer now.

"So you do watch our streams, weather girl."

His voice is so low and he's so close, so close. Your lips part all on their own. You haven't looked back up at his eyes in too long. Far too long. But he's so close, and he's so warm, and he smells so good.

"Alright", you whisper. His mouth is barely an inch from yours. You can feel every breath he takes. "I watch your streams."

And then your lips are on his.

Tyler Owens is the most annoying man you've ever met. He's cocky and he's smug. He makes your job harder than it has to be. He does everything and anything to get under your skin. But Tyler Ownes is the best goddamn kisser this side of the globe.

He trails his hands, his big, big hands, down your sides, pushes the blanket out of the way and grabs at your waist with just enough firmness. He pulls you onto his lap and rests his thumbs over the hem of your top. He breathes into your mouth and takes it slow. He doesn't care that you almost knock his hat out of the way when you try to wrap your arms around his neck. He just holds you tightly to him and lets you tug on his lip.

You honestly don't know how much time has passed when he pulls back, grinning an entirely new grin at you, hazy and euphoric.

"It's not midnight yet", he mutters, the slightest bit out of breath.

"I don't care", you mumble, drawing him right back in for another kiss. You think you might be addicted. You simply can't get enough of him. You can't get enough of Tyler Owens.

But then a thought strikes you, and you pull away with a grin that makes him raise his eyebrows.

You chuckle against his lips.

"If you feel it, chase it, right?"

[teapartyprincess4two]

On Stream- M. Sturniolo

pairing: gf!reader x bf!Matt

classification: fluff

warnings: use of y/n, short, slight cursing, some suggestive comments

summary: Matt mentions you on stream, causing the chat to go crazy.

—

Nowadays it seems that Matt and Chris have an abnormal amount of free time.

The pair have spent the past few days running errands, catching up on chores, spending quality time together, and unwinding. But two energetic young men can only do so much relaxing before it becomes unbearably boring, especially without you and Nick around.

Nick’s somewhere across the globe, relishing in the perks of having good friends. He’s experiencing the world with a sense of individuality, having been apart from his triplet brothers for over a week.

Without Nick around the house is quiet and boring enough, but Chris and Matt can usually count on you to keep them company. But it seems that they see you less and less every day.

You aren’t somewhere far away, not physically at least, you’re just very, very busy. As you enter the fall semester, you’re juggling a multitude of responsibilities including school, work, your social life, and your relationship. But as you adjust to your crazy hectic schedule, you spend less time at home with Matt and more time nose deep in a book.

So, just as the brothers grow accustomed to the eerie silence that haunts the halls of their home and the boredom that settles into their everyday lives, they decide enough is enough and take up a new hobby. Streaming.

Today, as Matt anchors himself in his rolling chair, his eyes skim through the endless chats that flood his screen. Chris sits next to him, a vibrant and excited smile adorning his features.

This is their third consecutive day going live on Twitch. At first they went live to entertain and chat with their fans, but now they’re doing it to occupy their bored minds.

Chris’s eyes skim the chat, fixating on one message in particular. He subconsciously reads it aloud, “Is Y/n on tour with Nick? We miss her.”

After reading the comment, the chat was flooded with similar messages asking for you. Matt slumps into his chair, the mention of your name reminding him that it’s been a week since he’s seen you.

“Nah, she’s just busy with school right now,” Chris replies mindlessly, skimming for another comment to read.

A lot of the viewers noticed Matt’s mood shift. They noticed the way his eyes drooped and the way the corners of his mouth turned into a frown. They especially noticed the disassociated look he wore, mind traveling to a place only you could bring him out of.

“Matt,” Chris says, waving a hand in front of his brother’s face. No response. “Matt!” He tries again, louder this time. Matt still doesn’t respond, only coming back into reality when Chris violently shakes his shoulders.

“What, dude? What?!” Matt asks, annoyance evident in his tone.

“Your phone’s ringing.” Chris replies with an eye roll and a small scoff.

Suddenly the blaring ring registers in Matt’s mind as he pats his pockets in search of his phone. When he finally finds it, your name illuminated the screen.

“Who’s calling?” Chris asks, stretching out his neck in hopes of catching a nosy glimpse at the caller ID.

“Umm be right back chat. Y/n’s calling,” Matt says, words spewing out a mile a minute. He disappears from the room faster than ever, immediately pressing the phone to his ear.

“Hello?”

“Hey, baby.” Your voice is music to Matt’s ears. It feels like forever since he’s last heard it.

“Hey,” he murmurs, “everything okay?”

You hum in response, followed by a soft yawn.

“You sound tired. When are you coming home?” Matt asks, softly leaning against the wall. You’ve been at school all day stuck in lectures and studying, so Matt knows you need some well deserved rest.

“I’m on my way now. That’s why I called, wanted to see if you guys were hungry so I could pick up something to eat.”

The excitement that courses through Matt’s veins is unreal, winding him up with enough energy to last until tomorrow. He can’t wait to see you, hold you, kiss you, and make up for all the lost time.

“Whatever you want, baby,” he replies, pausing for a second to compose himself, “I just wanna see you.”

A warm smile graces your features and if Matt could see it he’d mirror your expression.

“I’ll be home soon don’t worry. How’s the stream going?”

“Huh?” For a second Matt forgot that he and his brother were live streaming for thousands of people.

“The stream. Aren’t you live with Chris right now?”

“Ohhh. It’s going… it’s going good.” Matt replies with a soft sigh.

Your smile is momentarily replaced with a frown. “It doesn’t sound like it’s going good. What’s wrong?”

Matt’s fingers pinch the bridge of his nose before gliding across his eyelids and massaging the tense nerves and muscles on his face. “It’s going fine. I just can’t focus. The chat keeps asking about you and it’s honestly making me really sad.”

A small chuckle escapes your lips. “Aww my poor baby. Can��t focus on Fortnite?”

“Not Fortnite.”

“Oops, sorry. Fall Guys?

“Y/n.” Matt warns, though he finds it slightly funny too.

“I’m joking, I’m joking. I’ll be home soon with some good food and open arms. We can cuddle and watch a movie, or do anything else you wanna do. Okay?”

Matt feels his spirit lighten up again, a cheeky smirk forming on his face. “Anything?”

“Don’t push it,” you laugh.

Just as Matt’s about to respond, he’s cut short by Chris calling his name from inside the room.

“Get back to your stream. I’ll be home soon, handsome.”

Matt’s lips form a silly pout you can’t even see as he replies, “But I wanna keep talking to you. Miss you so much.”

“MATT!” Chris calls again, this time much louder than the last.

“We’ll talk all you want when I get home. Now go! I have the stream pulled up on my computer and I think Chris is gonna start twerking,” you say, trying your best not to laugh.

“Holy fuck this kid,” Matt groans, face palming. “Alright baby, I love you. Drive safe.”

“I love you too,” you say through small giggles before hanging up.

When Matt renters the room, he’s not surprised to find Chris dancing for the camera. He pushes past him and settles back into his rolling chair wearing a huge, toothy smile.

“What did Y/n want?” Chris asks, briefly glancing at Matt as he switches from doing the griddy to shuffling across the room.

“Just asked if we were hungry,” Matt shrugs, attempting to act nonchalant, but there’s no hiding the newfound pep in his step.

“And it took you that long?”

“I was catching up with my girl. —Why the fuck are you still dancing?”

“Someone gifted,” Chris says, slightly breathless as he bops from corner to corner.

“Alright…” Matt shifts towards the computer, “What did I miss?”

He reads comments, expecting most of them to be about Chris and his absurd dancing skills, but he’s surprised to find that they’re all about you.

Some fans ask where you are, others ask what you’re doing, some speculate on the conversation you and Matt had, and others simply comment on how much happier Matt seems since talking to you.

All Matt can do is smile and patiently wait for you to arrive, ready to bombard you with kisses as soon as you step through the door.

—

MASTERLIST

a/n: hi babies! Hope you enjoy this short oneshot! I know I haven’t updated or posted much in a longggg time but I honestly had writers block :P I’m trying to get into the habit of writing again, so bear with me pls. I have a lotttt of drafts (some that just need to be edited) so be expecting that soon! Luv you all 😚

- L.A.M.B🪽💝

—

taglist: @nickgetsmewetter @sturniololovers @raysmayhem-72 @worldlxvlys @gnxosblog @meg-sturniolo @creamoncreamoncream2 @mattnchrisworld @sanyi5 @lustfulslxt @whicked-hazlatwhore @tworosesblackthorn @mxqdii @fawned01 @junnniiieee07 @sturniolololover @missriddle03 @k-l-a-w-s @maryx2xx @biggesthat3r @herxyzblog @getosuckers @sturnioloarchive @tillies33ssss @fratbrochrisgf @rxeae @riasturns @sturnikitty @sturnrc @sturtriple16 @sillyfreakfanparty @imwetforyourmom @mattslovelygf @certifiednatelover @cartiiwannagotoplutoo @luvr4miya @somegirlfromasgard @l0vergrlll @pepsicolapussy333 @unbruisable @sugrhigh @khxna @wh0resstuff @jnkvivi @callsignwidow @sturnstvr @inkyray-deactivated20240729 @stasiesturn @poopiepantsworld @cvnt4matty @eleanore2204 @jhutchismyl0verb0y

note: if you want to be tagged in my fanfic related posts, you can access my TAGLIST and comment 💐 if your user is striked through, I wasn’t able to tag you :(

[motleyfam]

Dick forgets to eat sometimes.

Jason can’t fathom it—the entire concept is foreign to him. For as long as he can remember, food’s always been on his mind. If he wasn’t digging through dumpsters for it, he was squirreling away whole pieces of fruit and unopened granola bars the kids at school carelessly left on their trays, picking up gigs babysitting the neighbor brats for the complimentary PB&Js, sitting through two-hour fire & brimstone church sermons daydreaming about the fried chicken and potato salad that would come after. Jason’s gone hungry more times than he can count but never once has he simply forgotten to eat.

Bruce says it’s something with the way Dick’s brain is wired. It’s why he can’t sit still very long without his leg jittering, why he talks a mile a minute when he gets going on a topic, why his apartment always looks like a tornado went through it.

All Jason knows is that it’s five p.m. and he’s starving.

Except he isn’t—not really. He had a bowl of Cap’n Crunch in Dick’s kitchen just that morning, milk and all. Jason’s gone far longer on far less, so he doesn’t know why his stomach's complaining so much today, why his head feels achy and light, why that tiny biting pain in his middle won’t shut up. He’s been living at the Manor for four months now and he’s already gone soft.

They’re walking through Bludhaven Shopping Centre, Dick babbling on about the last obstacle of the indoor minigolf course they just finished. Jason tries to listen, but his heart is beating strangely fast and the only thought pulsing through his mind is food, food, food—

And then abruptly, he notices that Dick’s stopped walking. He’s looking at Jason, brow furrowed and lips moving as if asking a question, but Jason isn’t hearing anything because his hands are shaking and his breaths are coming out quick and gaspy and even though he’d been looking forward to hanging out with Dick for weeks now he suddenly wants nothing more than to be back in the Manor where the pantry’s always stocked and the fridge is full and he can breathe.

And then he blinks and he’s sitting at a sticky food court table, and Dick’s got a hand on his back, saying “in and out, nice and slow, that’s it” and Jason’s got tears welling up in his eyes which pisses him off because that’s stupid, he’s being stupid, only cats and babies cry because they missed lunch, and—

And then there’s a soft pretzel in a paper wrapper being nudged into his hand by a guilty-faced Dick with a murmur of “I’m so sorry, I wasn’t thinking” and it makes Jason want to crawl into a hole and die because he can’t just be fucking normal about this.

But there’s honey mustard sauce to dip it in, and a Chipotle bowl soon after, and tomorrow he and Dick both eat all three meals.

[afeelgoodblog]

The Best News of Last Month

Sorry for being not active this month as I had some health problems. I'll start posting weekly now :) Meanwhile here's some good from last month

1. Widow donates $1 billion to medical school, giving free tuition forever

Ruth Gottesman surprised by her late husband's $1 billion in Berkshire stock, decides to donate it in full to the Albert Einstein College of Medicine in the Bronx, New York City's poorest borough. The donation is intended to cover students' tuition indefinitely, ensuring access to medical education for generations.

A video capturing students' emotional reactions to the news, cheering and crying, circulated after the announcement, highlighting the profound impact of the donation on the medical school community.

2. Electric school buses outperform diesel in extreme cold

In Colorado's West Grand School District, electric school buses outperformed their diesel counterparts, particularly in the bitterly cold temperatures of towns like Kremmling, where morning temperatures can drop below -30 degrees Fahrenheit. Despite common concerns about reduced range in extreme weather, the electric buses maintained their battery charge even in these frigid conditions, providing reliable transportation for students.

This success has been welcomed by the school district, as diesel vehicles also face challenges in starting in Colorado's harsh winter weather.

3. Christian Bale unveils plans to build 12 foster homes in California

Christian Bale has led a tour round the new village in California where he plans to build 12 foster homes, as well as two studio flats to help children transition into independent living, and a 7,000 sq ft community centre.

The actor has spearheaded the building of a unique complex of facilities with the aim of keeping siblings in the foster care system together, and ideally under the same roof.

4. Average lifespan of a person with Down syndrome has increased from 25 years in 1983 to 60 years today

Today the average lifespan of a person with Down syndrome is approximately 60 years.

As recently as 1983, the average lifespan of a person with Down syndrome was 25 years. The dramatic increase to 60 years is largely due to the end of the inhumane practice of institutionalizing people with Down syndrome.

5. Greece legalises same-sex marriage

Greece has become the first Christian Orthodox-majority country to legalise same-sex marriage. Same-sex couples will now also be legally allowed to adopt children after Thursday's 176-76 vote in parliament.

Prime Minister Kyriakos Mitsotakis said the new law would "boldly abolish a serious inequality".

6. Massachusetts police K9 tracks scent for over 2 miles to find missing 12-year-old in freezing cold

A Massachusetts police K9 followed her nose to help find a 12-year-old who went missing in frigid temperatures last week, tracking the child’s scent for over two miles, authorities said.

K9 Biza, a female German shepherd, was called on to help after officers learned the child left their home at around 10:30 p.m. Wednesday and was last seen in the Pakachoag Hill area of Auburn, the Auburn Police Department said.

7. Good News for the Socially Anxious: People Like You a Lot More Than You Think They Do, New Research Confirms

The "Lake Wobegon effect" or "illusory superiority" phenomenon highlights people's tendency to overestimate their abilities, but recent research suggests that in social interactions, individuals often underestimate their likability and charm.

Studies indicate that people consistently fail to recognize signals of others' liking toward them, leading to a "liking gap" where individuals believe they are less likable than they actually are.

Techniques such as focusing more on others during conversations and genuinely expressing interest in them can help alleviate social anxiety by shifting the focus away from self-criticism. Ultimately, understanding that others may also experience similar anxieties can lead to a more relaxed and enjoyable social experience.

---

That's it for this week :)

This newsletter will always be free. If you liked this post you can support me with a small kofi donation here:

Buy me a coffee ❤️

Also don’t forget to reblog this post with your friends.

[luludeluluramblings]

Smalltown!Neglected!Meta!Reader x Yandere!Batfam ☁️ Part Two

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

Part One ☁️ Part Three ☁️ Part Four ☁️ Part Five ☁️ Part Six ☁️ Part Seven ☁️ Part Eight

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

A/N: Still establishing some more lore and feelings. Currently, the Batfamily has two yanderes. With more yandere’s being revealed outside of Gotham and some in Gotham about to start falling into obsession. Also, my favorite Reader is one who is manipulated into thinking the collar around their neck is a necklace. Will be working on Part Three, but it might take longer because we have obsessions starting and Reader starting to get to a breaking point.

Warning(s): Yandere themes, Obsessive behavior

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

Poor Reader has it rough. Not too rough, but still life kinda sucks and they wanna go home now, please and thank you.

But, as always, things start to brighten up a notch or two.

Reader is thriving at school, sure they can’t hang out with their friends, but their friends understand (which honestly kinda odd, but they’ll roll with it)

There is a small issue.

Reader is a metahuman. (I know, shocking. So unique.)

Reader controls the weather, at will or with extreme emotions (oooooo interesting)

Back in their hometown, Reader didn’t have to hide said abilities that much. (Hell, more than a few people knew about it. Such an understanding community.)

Here in Gotham, in a practical stranger’s house, they’re not gonna to that.

Which is fine. Fine fine fine

Okay, so Reader is tense. Doesn’t have a healthy outlet, and is bottling things up. So that storms brewing. Gonna be fun when that comes back to bite Reader in the ass.

But, things are looking up. (I swear this time!)

Duke and Cass are hanging out with Reader more. They’re sorta becoming a trio of amigos.

Though, they do disappear often. For long periods of time.

Reader is pretty sure Bruce is Batman, at this point.

They’re not stupid, it’s in their damn genetics to be somewhat intelligent, so to speak.

But, no one actually tells reader. It’s lead to some awkward situations of them going silent when Reader enters the room, or the manor being unusually empty after everyone went to the ‘library’.

(Smalltown doesn’t mean stupid, bunch of jerks.)

It just makes reader feel even less like they’re part of the family. Even Alfred disappears for a time, leaving Reader completely alone with nothing, but portraits and old wood furniture.

No one says anything. No one mentions a single thing. (Am I not worthy of the secret? Why did you drag me here only to ignore me?)

Bruce continue to bounce between ignoring and coddling. Yet gets upset if Reader does the same. (Making them anxious.)

Dick pops back in, immediately showering Reader and excessive amounts of affection before shooing them off cause he’s gotta take care of somethings. (It makes reader feel like a pet in a degrading way.)

Jason gets caught harassing Reader by Alfred. Which leads to a screaming match between Jason and Bruce. It’s a violent one, but Alfred drags Reader out of the room before they can see. (But they hear things breaking and It’s terrifying.)

After that, Reader is extremely cautious around Jason. Which for some reason makes him angry and more violent. (Why does he hate me? This is scary.)

Stephanie starts to come around. Slowly. They’re getting there. (Stephanie still prefers to hangout with Tim and Tim…)

Tim ignores Reader the most. Will not talk to Reader at all. Which sucks because Teader thinks they would total get along. (But, nope. All they get is the cold shoulder.)

Reader just avoids Damian like the plague.

Reader talks more often to her other half-brother living miles away than the one she’s currently living with. (That’s gonna piss Damian off later)

While Barbara remains cordial.

Life is moving on. We’re good. Everything’s good.

Wait? Gotham Academy is having its own student Gala? That sounds amazing! Getting dolled up, having a night with friends. Maybe…. Having a date escort them….

And the best part is, Bruce says Reader can go.

Now, Cass and Duke and Damian won’t be going. Which is a bummer, but Reader understands.

Bruce even buys reader something to wear.

An obnoxious designer outfit. (A couture ruffle monstrosity that’s all the rage on the runway.)

It’s so terrible you have to laugh. (Just to hide how upsetting it is that no one actually knows what you like here or bothers to ask.)

Reader even shows Stephanie and they share a laugh. (It’s great. Reader needed that laugh.)

But, there’s no way Reader is going to wear this. So, Reader calls their childhood friend and favorite fashion designer.

Commissioning a more mature outfit. (Reader is almost grown, time to take a break from the ruffles and embrace the sexy.)

BFF comes through and then a week later someone shows up at Wayne Manor. (Damn that was fast.)

Someone from Reader’s hometown, and this starts to set things in motion.

BFF’s older brother, Reader’s childhood crush, shows up holding a dress and driving Daddy’s old truck. Which he hands Reader the keys too.

Nana and Grand Daddy, the Step Grandparents, wanted to surprise reader with a gift from home. (Remind Reader how much better living in a smalltown is compared to somewhere like Gotham. How much their town adores them and misses them.)

Poor oblivious Reader. Not realizing their smalltown is so desperate to have them back. (Reader was their’s first, they know Reader best.)

Nor how desperate Gotham is going to be to make force reader to stay.

[kaisturni]

hands on me | c. sturniolo

→ chris x fem!reader

→ plot; chris and y/n get into one of their usual screaming matches, but this one ends a little less usual than normal.

→ warnings; smut, fingering, swearing, f!oral (receiving), choking, unprotected sex (STAY SAFE), dirty talk, use of names (baby)

→ hi pretty lovies :) this is my first time writing a smut fanfic so PLSSS let me know if you guys like it, and if there are any requests, don’t hesitate to share! almost nothing is off limits ;) enjoy!

NOT PROOFREAD EEK

——————————————————————————

y/n and chris had been in a screaming match all day.

from sunrise to the middle of the night, it's taken both nick and matt holding the two back so they don't entangle and kill each other.

"whatever," nick breaths, "i'm so fucking done with you guys. i know you don't get along but this is ridiculous."

"yeah" matt agreed, letting out a sigh. "i for one am tired as shit, try not to murder the other while we're asleep," the other two brothers pace back into their respective rooms, slamming the door one after another.

"great!" y/n starts, "who am i supposed to sleep with now, guaranteed they both just locked their doors." she whispered to herself.

"god, who cares? you could sleep on the street for all i fucking care." chris yells, watching y/n stand outside of nick's door, not daring to make an advance inside.

the girl shot daggers at him, "whatever chris, tell that to your fucking brothers, they're the ones who let me live here." y/n huffs out as she shoves chris full force out of the way, preparing for a sleep on the boy's couch. but before she can even reach the end of the hallway, chris grabs y/n by the throat and slams her against the wall.

y/n hits the wall, exuding air on impact, hands gripping onto chris', which has her easily pinned on to the wall.

"did you seriously just put your hands on me?" he said lowly, closing the distance between him and

y/n. the girls heart was racing at a mile a minute, unsure of what her actions would cause next. she was so confident yelling at chris frequently from across the room, but suddenly powerless in his grasp, she was, briefly, at a loss for words.

"yeah," y/n managed to grunt out. she had never been this close to chris before, let alone feel his body inches away from her own skin. his eyes were dark and low, jaw tight and sharp, his features barely illuminated in the light. as much as she hated him, she found him punishingly attractive.

"and what are you going to do about it?" she dared to whisper to him, trying to keep as much confidence in her tone as she could, not letting him see how much she withered under his touch.

from a few heavy breaths, y/n's throat still in his hand, he shoved her into his room and shut the door behind him. he flipped the two around so she was again back against the wall.

"what am i going to do about it?" he taunted, less than an inch between their bodies, breaths mingling and eyes locked in contact.

"you have no idea what i could do to your right now," chris spoke lowly, uninterested in letting his brother's hear the way he is speaking to the girl he supposedly wants to kill.

"if only you just kept that pretty little mouth shut, maybe i could've showed you sooner," his words faded out, his hand around her neck tightened slightly, as he brushed his lips against hers, earning a barely audible moan from the girl under his grip.

"chris" y/n managed to breath out, suddenly feeling a sense of neediness and wanting from him. is it bad she could be so turned on from how rough chris was being with her? she had never seen this side of him before, the side of him that she didn't think existed to her. before this he was ready to take her head off and so was she. but now she could feel the heat rising in her legs, and shocking her stomach, anticipating what was to come next.

"what? don't act like you don't want it, you think i can't tell that you do? look at you." chris taunted, gently using his teeth to tug on her bottom lip. y/n felt like her heart was going to beat out of her chest.

unknowing what came over her, y/n remarked back "oh, i'd want this. just not with you," she could see the anger growing in his face as she continued, "anyone could do whatever you'd do better." she knew what the words she was saying would lead her. she almost hoped chris got the message.

"is that so? i'll show you you're wrong." chris swiftly tossed y/n to the bed, pinning her down, yet again cementing their faces inches away from each other.

"you'll be begging me to do this more often when we're done," beginning to leave sloppy kisses against y/n's neck. "i'd destroy you,"

"so destroy me," y/n dared.

chris smiled against her skin, wet kisses becoming dark hickies all over her neck and jaw. his lips slowly moved down to her covered chest, frustrated with the fabric, he tugged on her shirt, signaling to take it off.

y/n sat up in the bed ripping her shirt over her head, his eyes meeting with her bare chest. "no bra, huh?" he said before claiming her right nipple in his mouth, kissing, sucking, and biting on it, and doing it harder with each moan he earned from her.

"i never wear one" she admitted, eyes screwed shut in the unexpected pleasure that chris sturniolo was bringing to her.

"i hope that's not the only thing you never wear," he said against her skin, kisses continuing down her body until he reached her inner thighs, with only a thin layer of fabric separating her core and his lips.

y/n gasped as he yanked her to the edge of the bed, making her wet shorts visible to him even in the dim light. he smirked looking up at her,

"fucking soaked," he said what she already knew, throwing her head back and screwing her eyes shut in anticipation, "chris, please." she begged, thinking how pathetic it was that the few words she was able to get out gave chris everything he wanted to hear in that moment, but she didn't care. 

"since you're begging for me," he taunted, taking off y/n's barely there sleeping shorts, taking in how perfect her core was dripping under the light, practically calling his name. never would he had anticipating being in this moment, but god he knew he was lying if he said he didn't think about it.

he teased her by trailing small kisses and nibbles against her inner thigh, making her wetter by the second. before y/n knew, he was licking and sucking down her slit, arms pushing her legs further into her chest to get even deeper.

gripping the sheets with white knuckles, y/n found it impossible not to scream his name as he stuck his tongue inside her, moaning against her pussy as the vibrations drove her closer to her high.

"chris i'm gonna cum," she said panting, edging him to keep going, not wanting the pleasure to stop as she found her hands tangled in his hair. but before y/n managed to reach her high, he pulled his face away from between her legs. mouth dripping with all her juices, he brought his lips to hers, kissing her for the first time.

the two kissed each other hungrily, each fighting for dominance over the other, but chris ultimately won as he stuck to fingers inside of her, causing y/n to gasp, prompting chris to shove his tongue into her mouth.

"how am i supposed to hate you when i know your pussy is this good?" chris asked between sloppy wet kisses, his fingers continuing to pump in and out of her, wetness leaking onto his bedsheets.

y/n could feel the knots tying in her stomach, signaling she was close, “c-chris i’m so fucking close,” she said absolutely breathless, weakly gripping his moving wrist.

his two fingers slowed their pace, and she whined at the loss of contact. y/n couldn’t help but squeeze her thighs together, in order to do something to stop the aching between her legs.

“not so fast,” chris said, peeling off his hoodie and sweats, leaving him in just black calvin klein underwear. “spread,” he demanded.

y/n obliged without hesitation, aching and ready for him to be inside her. chris used his thumb to rub her clit in circles, causing her to arch her back and moan in pleasure, chris could feel his dick aching to fuck her, but he wasn’t going to let her have it easily.

“c-chris please,” she begged, “please what, baby?-

baby?

-tell me,” he said, knowing exactly what she wanted from him, “please f-fuck me- shit,”

as soon as those words left her mouth, chris removed his underwear, his length springing up, leaking with pre-cum and burning with desire.

he ran the tip on y/n’s slit, groans exiting from both of their mouths. without warning, he slammed his entire length into her, causing her to gasp at the feeling.

tears ran down y/n’s cheek as she moaned out chris’ name and profanities at the pace that he was pounding into her,

“you look so pretty when i fuck you, baby,” he growled in her ear, “look at you, doing so good at taking all of me,” he said before sensually connecting their lips.

y/n had no words to say, only muffled sounds in between kisses coming out of her mouth from being completely fucked out by chris, and it didn’t take long for her to feel her orgasm coming back.

“oh, chris, i’m gonna cu-,”

“wait, you cum when i say, okay?” he said lowly, before quickening his pace, feeling his own climax coming too.

“i can’t take it, please let me cum,” y/n pleaded, feeling completely buzzed from all the sensation going in her body.

“cum baby, i’m right there too,” he breathed out, feeling her walls clench around him causing chris to explode inside her, filling her up at the same time she reached her own high.

chris pumped a few more times in and out of her, both groaning as he pulled his dick out of her, then falling on the bed next to the sexed out girl next to him.

the two looked at each other for a moment, and chris softly kissed her, finding his way to be on top of her again. he pulled their lips apart and ran a hand through her hair,

“why do we do this? i’m tired of hating you, why do you act like that with me?” y/n said, staring at chris’ piercing blue eyes above her. he sighed, “i really don’t know,” he started, “i guess the way i feel about you just made me angry for some reason. it always made me mad how close you are with nick and matt, and i guess i kept it up too long,” he admitted, playing with the ends of her soft hair.

“you should’ve just told me,” y/n retorted, placing a gentle hand on the side of chris’ face, and he nuzzled into it. “i know, and i’m sorry. can we be done with that, please?” he asked her, cautiously.

“of course we can,” y/n smiled. chris smiled back at her, connecting their lips once more.

“okay,” he began grabbing her hand, “let’s go get cleaned up. we can have another fight in the shower,” smiling deviously at her after making the statement.

y/n rolled her eyes at the boy, and quickly followed him into the bathroom, locking the door behind them.

[cheriecoke]

˚₊‧꒰ა ONCE BITTEN, TWICE SHY — levi ackerman

𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎. your car breaks down before you can make it home for christmas. it leaves you with no choice but to call your ex-boyfriend.

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉𝓈. fluff, sfw, gn!reader, exes, christmas, light angst, second chance romance, soft!levi, modern au — 3.3k words

𝓃𝑜𝓉𝑒𝓈. dropping the annual levi christmas fic. happy birthday to my beloved, he is such a special character to me and has gotten me thru some rough times :( forever grateful u exist levi ackerman. this was going to go in a completely different direction in my head but... alas the words lead me and i must follow. hope you enjoy!

Of all the things to happen on Christmas Eve, car trouble ranked among the worst. Which, naturally, meant that’s exactly what happened to you. 

Something not too far from a blizzard had come in overnight, coating the roads in a thick, hazardous blanket. It looked beautiful, sure, but you were two hours away from where you needed to be on Christmas, and you figured — how bad could it be?

The answer was bad.

You’d skidded, blown out a tire (they were old, due for a change), and found your hood popped open with an odd smoke, stranded only 30 minutes south of where you’d come from. Your family was expecting you home by the evening, there to see everyone for Christmas Eve dinner. 

At this rate, you’d be lucky if you made it for Christmas at all.

After cursing yourself profusely for not just taking an extra day off and leaving yesterday, you started scrolling through your phone, looking for assistance.

The towing company answered the line in a sharp tone, already dismissive of your worries. It was idiots like you that kept them working Christmas Eve, and their annoyance was evident.

“What can I do for you?” a man, testy and older, answered. 

You explained the situation, and received a less than understanding response. 

“Sorry, miss, but we’ll be two hours out. There’s been a few other incidents, and we’re short-staffed. We can give you another call when we free up.”

“But I need to be somewhere tonight. There must be something you can do?”

“Sorry,” he said again, but it was clear he wasn’t very sorry at all. “If I were you, I’d start making calls… See if there’s anyone brave enough to come pick you up in this weather.”

He hung up on you.

You groaned, throwing your hands up in the air. It was unlikely that anyone would want to be your savior tonight. Your family was still 70 miles away, and everyone else you knew had other plans for Christmas Eve. 

But. 

You knew this stretch of road well, were more familiar with it than most streets along here. It was a country highway that wrapped around the smaller town before leading you onto the interstate, one direction to your hometown, the other to the city you lived in. 

Of course, it was here that your car had decided to break down, just ten minutes away from your ex-boyfriend’s house — a man you knew would be home, and certainly wouldn’t be afraid of the weather. 

In fact, he was the only one that wasn’t a tedious drive away, that could save you from the unfortunate situation you’d found yourself in.

You squeezed your eyes tight, trying not to cry. 

Calling Levi seemed your only choice — as pathetic of a choice as that was. You weren’t even sure he’d still have your number, or if he’d answer. But, your hands were becoming numb, the temperatures were dropping with the sun, and you weren’t sure how long you could stay out here without getting frostbite.

Still, on the second ring, you faltered, licking your lips. 

Maybe this was a bad idea. It’d been three years, after all. For all you knew, he could’ve had a new partner, could’ve been engaged. He could’ve moved across the country without any warning — you had no idea. 

Your hand started to fall away from your cheek, phone dropping with it. But the familiar tone stopped you, interrupting the third ring.

“Hello?” 

You exhaled, unprepared for the wave of emotions that washed over you from that simple word. Levi sounded exactly like you’d remembered, his voice even, almost monotone, nothing in it betraying his emotions. 

Still, it made your stomach twist. You couldn’t help but recall a time when that word had held a hint of affection in it.

“Levi,” you said, pushing away that line of thought to keep your voice steady. “You answered.” 

He was, apparently, just as surprised as you were. There was a long pause on the other end, before he resumed talking.

“I almost didn’t,” Levi admitted, releasing a breath of air that had to have come through his nose. “I didn’t want to. But, I couldn’t think of a good reason you’d call me on Christmas Eve unless—”

“I’m so sorry,” you cut him off, apologizing. You pinched the bridge of your nose, shivering in the cold. “I wouldn’t be calling if I weren’t desperate. but my car broke down — I was driving back to my parents’ house, and the tow company can’t come yet…” you rushed through the story, sparing too many details. “But it’s freezing, and you were the closest person I could think to call.”

He went silent once again. 

That was when you started to realize how crazy you’d been to call him. The last conversation you’d had was around this time of year, both of you stiffly walking through all the reasons you were worse for each other than you were better. 

This was a horrible idea. 

“I’m sorry,” you said again, shaking your head. Tears of embarrassment flooded your waterline. You weren’t sure they’d ever stopped. “This was stupid. Fuck. Forget it. I’ll—” 

“Where are you?” 

“What?” 

“Where are you?” Levi repeated, insistent. “I only answered because I figured it was an emergency. Looks like I was right. So where are you?” 

Your heart flipped at the notion that, even if it was a small part of him, he still cared. 

After fifteen more minutes of shivering in your freezing car, you ended up back at Levi’s house. The same house he’d lived in for ten years, and probably would live in until he died.

Levi wasn’t a homebody — in fact, he liked to spend more time outside of the house than he probably spent in it. He traveled a lot, sometimes for work, sometimes for fun. But it was a home that had belonged to his mother, until she passed away when he was freshly eighteen. 

Even if he hated living in this suburban town, you didn’t think he could stomach to part with the home he’d been raised in. One of the only things he had left of his mom.

It was almost heartbreaking, that you knew such intimate details about a person that had faded out of your life.

Levi’s house looked about the same, but Levi… Well, he looked incredible. As far as breakups went, he must have gotten the better end of it.  

His black hair was lightly dusted with snow when he helped you out of his car, red cheeks a bright contrast against his pale skin. Time may have dulled your memory of him, but you could have sworn his eyes had gotten even more blue in the time you’d been apart.

God, he was gorgeous. How had you ever been with someone like him?

“Would you like any tea?” Levi asked, taking you to the kitchen. Not like you’d forgotten how to get there. You’d spent enough time in his house to know the layout, right down to the foundation.

“Sure,” you said, still shivering, even with the heat blasting in the house. “Thank you, Levi. Not just for the tea, but for helping me. I won’t stay long, I promise.”

Levi was rummaging through his cabinet, and looked over his shoulder, back at you. Something rest on the edge of his tongue, but he said nothing, busying himself once more. 

The kitchen was the same as you’d remembered. None of the furniture had changed, but he’d added new appliances, changed out some of the cookware. Poinsettias were in the middle of the table, the only festive thing in the room.

You stared at them, and frowned, the tension between the two of you palpable. While you’d met each other once again like you’d never been parted, there still an underlying current of mistrust and uncertainty. A feeling that was expected to linger.

The break-up between you hadn’t been nasty, but you hadn’t parted on the best of terms, either. You and Levi had always argued… a lot. Half the time, it didn’t mean anything, but you couldn’t stop yourself from spitting something mean when you got angry.

It was your similarities that drove you apart, not your differences. You were both so neat, you fought over where things were meant to go. You were both independent, you grew frustrated with sharing space and compromises.

You were both stubborn, and never admitted to being wrong, even when it caused a rift between you and split you apart for good.

Of course, the worst issue was your tendency to bottle up your feelings, rather than talk through them. A problem that Levi shared — meaning that every little thing between you was brushed under the rug, only to trip you up later.

Levi brought the steaming mug over, pushing it to you across the table. You took a small sip of it, blinking at him over the edge of ceramic. 

“My favorite tea?” you asked, recognizing the taste of it immediately. “You remembered.” 

“I wasn’t sure if you still liked it, but I’ve kept it around anyway,” Levi said, and, as if realizing what he’d admitted, continued, “It grew on me. I drink it now.” 

You smiled. It was small and sad, mourning all the things you’d lost, but the sentiment warmed you all the same. You remembered Levi loved earl grey in the mornings, and chamomile before bed. In the fall, he preferred rooibos, the color and flavor reminded him of the autumn leaves. 

Or maybe he didn’t. Maybe he didn’t like any of those things, anymore. 

“I’m glad you like it now,” you said, humming. “You never did, before.” 

It sounded like a jab, even if you didn’t mean it as one. Levi stiffened, only slightly, before he released the tension and snorted, tightening his grip around the mug. 

You glanced at his hands, slender and pale, veins purple under his skin. Hands that had once roamed all over your body, slipped inside you, pulling you apart from the seams. 

That wasn’t a path you wanted to go down. You blinked, pushing away that line of thought as your stomach flipped, and prayed he hadn’t noticed your staring. 

“Anyway,” Levi coughed, clearing his throat. 

You nearly shrunk from embarrassment, certain that he had discerned your thoughts, but Levi wasn’t looking at you at all. His eyes were fixed on the clock across the room, watching the hand rotate around the frame. 

“You were visiting your family. How have they been?” 

Safe conversation, easy conversation. The kind that you could have had with any stranger, even if Levi knew all your family by name, knew your Christmas traditions. You repeated old history anyway, like you were meeting him for the first time, sharing weekend plans with an acquaintance before going your separate ways. 

The two of you chatted for a while, sipping on your teas, all the while, avoiding the topic of his holiday plans — if only to sidestep the discomfort that came with hearing he had none. Not that that was shameful, of course. Plenty of people did nothing for the holidays, didn’t want to. 

But, Levi had always come home with you for Christmas, for five years. Everyone loved him. Although you’d been nervous, at first, Levi fit right in, made himself comfortable with those that you cherished. He was polite, even though his sarcasm often bled through. But, that only made him funnier, in the eyes of everyone you held dear. They’d always given him two sets of gifts — for Christmas and his birthday — excited to watch him open them. 

Levi had always been so stoic when he responded with a stiff thank you, but you could see how touched he was, how pleased to be integrating himself so easily into your life. 

He’d made your holidays better than they’d ever been.

Now, he spent them alone. 

You couldn’t help but feel like your breakup had taken something special away from him, something he should’ve gotten to keep, even whilst you were separated. Maybe you could invite him home with you, just so your cousins could play one more round of cards with him and lose.

Melancholia flowered in your chest, and you, then, yearned for those moments, the ones you’d kept so dear. 

How had everything gone so wrong?

Your conversation stalled. You looked at each other, unsure what to say next. 

Shifting anxiously in your seat, you stood, as if for the first time realizing that you were in Levi Ackerman’s house, and you shouldn’t have been. That you were having cordial conversation with a man you swore to never speak to again, and it was like falling back into a routine, it was normal. 

And that was the worst thing about it — you knew why’d you’d broken up, but right now, you could hardly recall a good reason.

“I’m sorry,” you said for the millionth time that evening, eyes flashing towards the clock. It had only been thirty minutes, but the snow was getting worse and your tea was cold. “I should call my parents and let them know I won’t be home tonight. Hopefully the roads will be—”

“Wait.” Levi reached out, grabbing your hand before you could stand and make your exit. 

Your eyes flashed down to where you touched, at the same time his did, before you uncomfortably broke away. Levi blinked, then chewed the inside of his cheek, his mouth still drawn into that unexpressive, thin line. 

“What?” you asked, after too many seconds of silence. 

Levi inhaled, then dropped his head, jaw working as he looked away. “I’ve done a lot of thinking, over the past two years.”

Your breath caught in your chest. “About?” 

You already knew the answer.

“When we—” He licked his lips, eyes narrowing at the microwave, before they met your own. “Decided to end it.” 

Decided to end it. What a harsh way of putting it, but you supposed it was true. A final round in the passionate romance you’d had. A break-up seemed too simple for what you’d been, when it had ripped your heart out of your chest. 

“Oh,” you said, swallowing. 

“I know you might not want to have this conversation,” he said, nodding to himself. “But I need to say what I should’ve a long time ago. That I’m sorry.” Levi’s eyes were on you then, a more intense shade than you’d ever seen before. You froze, feeling unable to move, locked in the storminess of his gaze. “So many things were my fault. All the times I was dismissive, the times I was angry. All the times I didn’t communicate when I should’ve.” He released a breath, and despite his bravado, you realized he was just as nervous as you were. “I didn’t know how to love you like you wanted, and I’m sorry that I did such a bad job of it.” 

You blinked, watching him shift in his chair. “Levi…” you said slowly, softly, the word agonizing as it left his lips. 

“I know that doesn’t make it right, but I need you to know. I am sorry. You deserved better.” 

That, alone, brought you close to tears, that he seemed to be taking the blame for all the things that went wrong. Putting it on himself, when it was both of you, incapable of working together. “Levi, I’m sorry too,” you blinked back your tears, setting aside your pride. You’d already lost enough dignity, what was a little more? “You loved me just fine. Maybe I just couldn’t appreciate what I had. I never tried hard enough to make it work.” 

“That isn’t true.” 

“Yes, it is.” 

“No,” Levi huffed, “it’s—” But then he stopped, gathering himself, catching the fall, right back into the same old routine. You looked down at your hands, embarrassed. “We weren’t bad for each other. Nothing we ever did was bad for each other.” It sounded like a question, even if it wasn’t.

“It must have been,” you said, in a small voice. “Otherwise…” 

Otherwise, you’d still be together. 

Levi smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. His hands clenched and unclenched on the table. “I should’ve called you, when you left. I shouldn’t have let you walk away.” 

“But you did.” 

“I did,” he breathed. “And I regret it every day of my life.” 

You looked up at him, eyes shining at the realization. He still wanted you, maybe even still loved you. 

And as much as you cared for him, as much as your heart still bloomed in your chest at the sight of him, you weren’t sure how you felt about that.

“Levi—” you began, hoping to dispel the conversation. But he didn’t let it get that far, voice cracking at the start of his sentence.

“I mean it. I think about it all the time. About you. You were my friend as much as you were my partner, and I wanted you forever. I miss you. I—” Levi cut himself off, there, at the growing look of fear on your face, the knowledge that he was going to let something slip he shouldn’t. 

It tugged at your heartstrings all the same, and you looked away, wrapping yourself up in your arms. 

Silence fell across the room, the only sound the howling wind outside, a flurry of snow crashing against the window. Levi waited, patiently, for you to be the one to break the silence — and you summoned up all your courage, all your honesty, for a response.

“I would be lying, if I said I didn’t think about it too… What it would be like to try again.” 

Levi looked up, blue eyes narrow, but sharp with anticipation. “You—”

“I miss you too, Levi.” It felt like carving your heart out of your chest and handing it to him on a platter. “But it couldn’t be like it was before. Where we talked to each other about everything except for what really mattered. We can’t.” you swallowed, shaking your head. “I can’t do that again.” 

“I know.” Levi licked his lips. “Is that something… You would want?” 

Was it? Was Levi truly what you wanted, or were you not thinking clearly, only remembering the good times amongst all the bad. Were you just yearning for an idealization of love, a feeling that you’d been missing since splitting with Levi? Was it him you really wanted, or just someone to call your own?

But you knew the answer. It was obvious.

“Yes,” you answered, so quiet you weren’t sure he could hear it. “I would… I do want that. Maybe that’s why I didn’t hesitate to call you tonight.” 

Levi didn’t smile, but his eyes brightened, the storminess fading away so they looked like the sky. The cloud of grey above him melted away, and he seemed even younger than he had before, caught in the promises of adoration, akin to a boy in a schoolyard. 

“You can spend Christmas with me. Your birthday,” you said, hesitantly, not knowing if you’d even make it home, if you’d be stuck here. If that kind of invitation was not yours to give. “If that’s something you’d want.” 

“It is,” Levi answered softly, without questioning it, gripping your hand across the table. “I would’t want to spend it any other way.”

You smiled at each other, then, caught up in the glow of Christmas lights and the snow outside, a shaky vow holding between you. Maybe things wouldn’t change — maybe they would go back to how it’d been before, neither of you ever saying what you really meant. Maybe you’d hurt each other worse than you ever had before. 

But you loved him — you loved each other. And that could be enough.

thank you for reading! ❤︎ reblogs and comments are appreciated!!! i might write a pt 2 if there is enough interest, but i wanted to finish this before christmas ◡̈

[sketchguk]

part time lover; jjk

➳ pairing: investigative journalist!jeongguk x daycare teacher!reader. alternatively, spy!jeongguk x assassin!reader

➳ genre: smut, fluff, angst, fake marriage au, dad au, spy x family au

➵ word count: 30.8k

➳ summary: there is no crime more perfect than marrying jeon jeongguk. your relationship is nothing more than a ruse - while your friends pester you for being perpetually single, jeongguk desperately needs a wife to complete the pristine image of a family, fooling his way through the parent interview at the nation’s most prestigious private school.

only time will tell how deep your lies will run as you find home in one another’s minds. because untangled in the moonlight, he is but a spy, exposing a secret world of corruption, and you, an assassin, ridding the streets of danger one hit at a time. 

➳ warnings: themes of parenthood, raising a child, reader and jk were both orphans, reader has a past where she struggled with financially supporting her family, eldest daughter trauma, reader is insecure, fears of abandonment, mentions of violence and m*rder (but not explicit), mention of weapons (guns, knives, grenades, poison),  jk has a bruise from boxing, descriptions of an explosion, blood is drawn twice (via kitchen knife and shrapnel from aforementioned explosion), (1) mention of weight loss, jk changes his appearance in an attempt to fit in, mention of a minor car crash, social drinking, scars (surgical/knife, bullet wounds), characters are liars for the sake of the plot, side characters are misogynists (satire), food descriptions, pet names (hers: angel, good girl, princess his: love). 

➳ a/n: thank you for being so patient with me as i toiled through this fic. it wasn't an easy one! but i do think it's special because of how healing the journey was for me <3 please enjoy, let me know what you think. don't forget to check out the other fics from the "industry baby" collab hosted by the ever so lovely @jeonjcngkook and @mercurygguk !

➳ smut warnings: virgin reader, sexual tension, body worship, nipple play, marking, oral (f receiving), fingering, hair pulling, unprotected sex, jk has a big dick, praising, stomach bulge, spitting, use of the word slut, marriage kink(?) he loves his wife so much, reader wants to be bred, cumshot

Jeongguk, 26 Investigative journalist at Golden News Network Less than a mile away To whom it may concern, I am a single father looking for a wife (DM me for serious inquiries only). 

“Your profile is dog shit,” Seokjin deadpans. The cringe settles into the downward turn of his lips as he swipes through his best friend’s Tinder account. “You’d be bitchless if you weren’t hot.” 

“Jin, watch your mouth.” Jeongguk shoots a deadly glare toward the older man. “There are children around.” 

From the kitchen, Jeongguk cranes his neck to take a peek into the messy living room where his adopted daughter sits, criss-crossed, in front of the television. Minji is too distracted by her weekly cartoon updates to even notice the crude language. 

“Minny, don’t sit too close to the TV,” he sends his daughter a stern yet gentle reminder. “Your eyeballs are gonna fall out of your head if you do.” 

A frown etches itself onto Minji’s face as she scooches back on her knees. 

Jeongguk returns his attention to the dinner he’s preparing tonight. A pot of homemade tomato sauce simmers on the stovetop. 

In the back of his mind, he wonders if his dating profile is as terribly unappealing as Seokjin says it is. Otherwise he wouldn’t have so many notifications, right? ー Messages from girls, asking if he could be their daddy too. Jeongguk’s bio is short and straight to the point. He’s not that ugly, or so he thinks. Being a journalist is a respectable occupation with steady income. So what could be so bad about it? 

Is it the fact that Jeongguk isn’t even his real name ー nothing but a fake persona to help him with his investigation? Maybe it’s because his adopted daughter doesn’t have a striking resemblance to him, and his pictures look like a shady scam. 

But there’s no way that they can see through Jeongguk’s facade. After all, he’s the best spy in the agency. His specialty is deceit. It’s foolproof. There’s no reason not to believe him. 

“I think they’re really into the whole dad thing,” Jeongguk nods, focusing on the sliced onions in front of him. The smell of garlic and fresh herbs permeate through the air.

“Really?” Seokjin says in feigned disbelief. He leans back against the couch, making himself comfortable. “It’s not because of the video where you’re deepthroating a deep dish pizza? Just for that, I would have gotten on my hands and knees to suck your di-.” 

“Can you seriously watch your language?” Jeongguk cuts him off before pointing a knife in his direction. 

Kim Seokjin may be his closest colleague, but that’s exactly where he draws the line. Seokjin is nothing more than Jeongguk’s informant. His job is to get the latest intel on all of his targets, and that’s it. He’s not here to fool around or make friends.

“We took that video in Chicago. Doesn’t it show that I’m well traveled?” Jeongguk asks with genuine curiosity. He remembers reading an article about how women love that sort of stuff. 

Seokjin pinches the bridge of his nose. “It’s gonna be a long, long night,” he mutters to himself. His best friend is beyond the point of fixing, but at least he makes a good househusband. 

Jeongguk wipes his hands against his frilly apron before dipping a wooden spoon into the pot. He inches the tomato sauce closer to his pursed lips as he blows on the piping hot confection. It could use more parsley. 

Just when Jeongguk thought he could distract himself with cooking, he suddenly remembers the pressing problem that occupies all of his brain space: he is in desperate need of a wife. The constant reminder is taped to the front of the fridge 一 a letter from Minji’s prospective elementary school. 

Dear Jeon family,  Congratulations! Your child’s preliminary results indicate that he/she has passed the entrance exam at Hwa Yang Academy. Our institution carries a prestigious reputation, accepting only the nation’s brightest students. Due to your child’s outstanding academic score, we invite you to the second phase of admissions where a family interview will be conducted. Please have both parents and child present at Yeon Hwa Hall on the first of May, promptly at 10am.  It is our good fortune that you chose to apply to Hwa Yang Academy. We look forward to welcoming you and your family to our renowned institution.  Sincerely,  Department of Admissions at Hwa Yang Academy

The fact that Minji received an interview at the top school in the nation is amazing beyond belief. Everything is going according to plan. The only problem is that Jeon Jeongguk is, in fact, bitchless. 

“Remind me again, why do you need to get Minji into that school?” Seokjin furrows his brows. He’s never seen his best friend this stressed. The way that Jeongguk is willing to jump through hoops makes him feel as if he’s never wanted anything so bad in his life. 

Jeongguk clenches the wooden spoon in his hand, threatening to give himself a splinter. “I have to get access to Hwa Yang,” he says, like it’s do or die. “There are families with infinite amounts of political power there, including the prime minister. The big boss suspects that they’re planning a rebellion, and I need to get close to them to expose their secrets. Obviously I can’t even touch the elite without pretending to be one myself. So I need this family to be as perfect as it can be.” 

“You think you can prevent a whole rebellion and save the country if you go to a few parent association meetings? Bake a batch of cookies like a soccer mom?” Seokjin’s questions are sarcastic, but he’s not wrong. He needs to infiltrate the prime minister’s inner circle, befriend him, and uncover his government secrets. But doing so would be impossible without first securing a wife and earning acceptance into the school. 

“If it comes down to making a paper mache volcano, I’ll do it.” The determination in Jeongguk’s eyes is unwavering. 

“You really expect to get through the admission interview with a fake wife? I can’t even get a single date, but you think you can get married by the end of the month?” Seokjin laughs at the expense of his own heartache. 

“Maybe the mommies would like you more if you weren’t so de-looshe-in-ull,” Minji chimes. 

Has she been listening all along?

“Delusional?” Seokjin scoffs, fueled with exasperation. Lately, he’s had thoughts about being a kinder person, yet a part of him still believes that he deserves the last word in every conversation. “Where did you learn about that?” he queries, balling up his hands. 

“Appa,” Minji replies, pointing at the man in question. 

Seokjin winds his fist back as if he’s throwing a punch across the room, but he listens to the screaming voice in the back of his head. The one that tells him he’s much too pretty to get pummeled today ー that his face would look better if Jeongguk’s fist wasn’t imprinted on the surface of it. So instead of starting a fight with a five year old girl, Seokjin folds his knees against his chest, cursing under his breath. Maybe he can be the bigger person. 

“So why can’t the agency send another spy operative to play house with you?” Seokjin asks, resorting to a life of civility under Jeongguk’s roof. He forces a smile through gritted teeth and returns his attention to the dating app in the palm of his hands, half-listening to his best friend. 

“Well, a bunch of police officers arrested our agents. There’s only a few people left on the team. Haven’t you seen the news? The government is cracking down on espionage.” Jeongguk rolls his eyes, clenching his jaw. “They use women as their scapegoat, filling up some stupid quota for incarceration.” How can men be so ignorant and simple minded?  

Ironically, Seokjin flashes his phone in front of Jeongguk’s face. “Swipe left or right, what do you think?” Yep, the minds of men are pretty simple, and Seokjin definitely didn’t hear a single word that came out of Jeongguk’s mouth. 

Y/N Daycare teacher at children’s municipal library 1 mile away Critics review: ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ “Loves her emotional support characters, and will only ever love her emotional support characters”  “Can’t cook to save her life, but she can top off your ramen with a fried egg”  “Pros: loving and down to earth, great with kids. Cons: doesn’t know her own strength, hates mushrooms, has a quirky laugh” 

“You know what? I’ll swipe right. You’ll get more matches if you do,” Seokjin suggests with a determined nod. 

Jeongguk stares at his informant in disbelief, jaw slack. There’s no way this stupid app is going to land him a wife by the end of the month. 

“What do you think about this guy?” 

“Hard pass. I mean, look at his photos. His whole personality is about working out.” 

“Okay, then what about this one?” 

“Nah, he looks too stuck-up. I don’t think he can take a joke.” 

“How about her? She’s pretty, right?” 

“She doesn’t even have a bio! What if she’s a catfish?” 

From the way your coworkers appraise these people, they act as if they’re the ones looking for a partner. Because as a matter of fact, it’s your phone in their hand, swiping away on your dating app. 

It doesn’t matter if there are library books that need to be stowed away or paperwork to be filed. They pay no mind to the clock indicating that there’s 30 minutes left in the work day because finding you a significant other seems to be their only priority. 

“Sujin, stop being so picky. At this rate, y/n isn’t going to get a date if you swipe left on everyone,” Yumi whines. 

“Why did you make a profile for me anyways? I don’t need to be in a relationship.” The sound of your widely unpopular opinion makes the two girls look up with big, round eyes. 

“Aren’t you ever lonely?” There’s a hint of pity that lingers in Yumi’s voice. 

You find it quite offensive that she would think that. As much as you’d like to keep your job, you would also like to rip the rug out from beneath Yumi’s feet until she falls flat on her face. But the reality is, you really need this job. So all you do is shake your head and grit your teeth. “No, not really.” 

“Life is soo much more romantic when you have someone to love.” Sujin’s unblinking eyes make you wonder if she’s being held hostage against her will. Is her boyfriend tapping into her phone, listening to all of her conversations? 

“y/n, you’ve never been in a relationship before. Do you ever feel like you’re missing out on something?” There’s a pout that rests on Yumi’s lips. Her tone leaks with faux sympathy. “Hobi just got married, and Nari’s having a baby. We’re all grown up, and I don’t want you to feel left out, especially at my engagement party next weekend. It might bring out some… bitter feelings.” 

You resist the urge to roll your eyes, reminding yourself that you should definitely not push Yumi down the stairs at the end of your shift. “I think I’ll be content on my own.” 

“Here, look through the app for a little while. Maybe you’ll find someone that you like. Just give it a chance, okay?” Sujin hands the phone back to you. “You should really think about it. San tells me he’s been worried about you.”

Your expression falls upon hearing your younger brother’s name. Of all people, San should know that you value nothing more than your independence. 

“He just wants you to be happy ー for someone to take care of you.” 

Some part of you believes that Sujin is projecting her opinions and throwing your brother under the bus. “I don’t need anyone to take care of me,” you assure her. “I can be happy on my own.” 

Nowadays, many people come to believe that a wedding ring is the solution to everyone’s misfortune. Supposedly, it’ll keep you safe from all things cruel in this world. They don’t seem to realize that there are problems that run much deeper than being single. It’s as if something must be inherently wrong with you if you’ve never had a partner, let alone a first kiss. 

You have to admit that sometimes, their words can hurt like knives. It’s damaging to your self-esteem if you really think about it. Because surely, everyone wants to be loved and to be desired ー to be chosen. How nice would it be to lie in bed, held and comforted by something other than the warmth of your own body?

If you were to have a relationship, perhaps you could go to bookstores together and read for hours on end. The two of you could laugh and sing at the top of your lungs, dancing like fools in the dim light of the bathroom with toothbrushes tucked between molars. You could listen to ballads on the radio and finally resonate with the lyrics, plastering a goofy, lovestruck smile on your face. If you were in love, you could share childhood memories, and even the mundane details would be tucked away for safekeeping. You’d know one another's biggest fears and greatest vulnerabilities. Even when you reveal the ugliest parts of yourself, they would choose you over and over again. 

If there was just one person to run their fingers across all of your curves, your dips, your scars, only to tell you that you are still the object of their affection, then perhaps you would give love a chance.

But having thought about love your entire life, and never yet to experience it, you’re certain that you’re better off on your own. Ever since you were a little kid, it’s always been you, yourself, and your grief. You’ve harbored yourself in your own bones for decades, so who knows you better than you know yourself ー truly and completely unfiltered? With your mind and wit so sharp, who will find you lovable when they discover there’s a blade where your heart is? 

If you were to find a partner, there is simply no way that you can continue the life that you have. You could never return to them at the end of the night, bloodied and bruised, with no questions asked. Surely, it’s not an easy pill to swallow when you tell them that you're an assassin. There’s no sugar coating that. 

Much like being a daycare teacher, being an assassin is just another job. You started living this secret identity because it earned enough money to take care of your younger brother after your parents had passed away. It put food on the table and cash toward your bills. Money would roll into your bank account by the thousands. At 18 years old, that type of money was unfathomable. But now that San is old enough to take care of himself, there’s really no need to continue this lifestyle. 

Yet you pursue the chase because there’s a certain thrill that comes from seeking justice and vigilance. These monsters no longer hide beneath your brother’s bed. Instead, they lurk between the shadows ー among the alleyways and abandoned parts of town. They prey on those who are weak and exploit them for all that they are. 

If the law enforcement team is never going to uphold their end of the social contract, you have to be the one to act first and eliminate them. So with every job completed, you can be certain that the world is safer one hit at a time. 

But to continue being an assassin, you have to keep this secret under wraps. You’ll be forced to hide under a life of normalcy, as nothing more than a naive and innocent daycare teacher at the local library ー a background character in the story of others. In all honesty, you prefer to keep your secrets tucked away. Because to be loved is to be known, and you simply cannot let that happen. 

Some people aren’t made for romance, and maybe you’re one of them. Nobody shall ever hold your heart in their hands without pricking their own flesh. 

Despite all that is said and done, some part of you thinks that there’s no harm in checking out the unpromising dating app. Curiosity gets the best of you as you mindlessly swipe through all of the profiles. However, everyone you’ve come across is either too shallow, too arrogant, or too boring. 

A defeated sigh slips past your lips until you come across a certain profile. You look closer at the photos, inspecting each one with great care. There are only so many pictures: one of him and his dog, a second one of him shoving a Chicago deep dish down his throat, and another with a young child. Tattoos litter across his sun-kissed skin, and piercings scatter his handsome face ー beautiful in the most unorthodox ways.

His bio reads: “To whom it may concern, I am a single father looking for a wife (DM me for serious inquiries only).” 

Have you seen this man before? Could it be… him? 

The longer that you stare at his profile, the more concerned you become. At this rate, you’ve created an entire fantasy about a relationship with this stranger, and now you’re planning the dinner menu for your wedding. But there’s no way that you’d actually consider swiping right and messaging him, right? You don’t even want a boyfriend! This man could be joking for all you know. 

When the clock strikes the hour, a chime resounds through the air. You shake your head, finally coming to your senses. You slip your device into your pocket, forgetting about the man who lives in your phone. 

Jeongguk. His name is Jeongguk. 

“Appaaa!” There’s a piercing cry that slices through the air as the little girl begs for her father’s affection. From behind the bookshelves, the curious librarian pokes her head between the gaps to catch a glimpse of the commotion. 

“Don’t let go, please, please, pleeease!” The young child slips her tiny hand into her father’s, shaking it back and forth with a sense of urgency. 

Jeongguk stands frozen in place. The apples of his cheeks darken into a rosy hue. It’s a little embarrassing to be that parent ー the one who can’t control his child’s outbursts in the middle of a public space, let alone a library, an academic sanctuary that promises peace and quiet. 

With a heavy, exhausted sigh, Jeongguk crouches down to meet his daughter’s innocent expression. “Minny, I promise you, I’m not going anywhere. I ask that you give me ten minutes, okay?” His voice is firm and assertive. It’s a little rough around the edges, but it can’t be helped. He speaks in a way that commands attention from the room. This is the only way he knows how to demand respect from his subordinates. 

“I just need to pick up a few things. We can go home afterwards, so be a good girl until then,” Jeongguk bargains. “You can go to the playroom, and the nice librarian will take care of you.” 

Minji squeezes her tiny hands into fists, and she dies on the inside. Tears form in the corner of her eyes. Even the slightest change in her father’s tone makes her believe that she’s done something wrong. Her worst nightmare flashes before her eyes. 

Would her father abandon if she were to misbehave? Or worse, would he dare to return her to the orphanage she was adopted from? What if her biggest fear comes to fruition? After all, it’s not uncommon for parents to realize far too late that kids are too difficult to handle. Then, they’re left hoping and praying for some kind of return policy for their own flesh and blood. 

Minji’s eyes become glossy at the thought of it, unlocking a hidden memory from the past, but she refuses to let herself falter underneath his piercing stare. Yet no matter how hard she tries to keep the tears at bay, her emotions get the best of her, and her resolve crumbles into smithereens. After all, she’s only five years old. 

It appears that the authoritative approach only works in the combat room, but perhaps not with a five year old girl. So Jeongguk lowers his defenses and drops to his knees. He wipes the tears away with the pad of his thumb, and she sniffles even harder when he comforts her. 

There’s something about the little girl’s demeanor that reminds Jeongguk of himself when he was younger. Perhaps it’s the need for her father’s approval ー the desire to please and put others above herself. Maybe it’s her tenacity for standing tall and strong despite the dull ache in her tender heart. 

“You can let it all out,” he reaffirms. A beat of silence passes by while he caresses her cheek, allowing the tears to fall. “You ’kay now?” 

Minji reluctantly agrees with the slow nod of her head, but she avoids her father’s strong gaze, staring down at her shoes, sullen. When the warmth of her father’s hand disappears, another sniffle racks through her body. 

Normally, Minji is never one to throw a tantrum, but what does Jeongguk know? Just when he thought he had a hang of the whole “parenting” thing, he’s thrown into a loop. In spite of Jeongguk’s confident demeanor, he genuinely doesn’t know the first thing about raising a child, let alone a daughter. 

In his past ten years of being an undercover spy, he has diffused nuclear bombs and hacked into government files, but nothing has ever prepared him for being a single parent. Yet as a man and a father, he needs to do better. He needs to be better. The least he can do is try.

Jeongguk raises a hand between their bodies, extending his pinky for her to interlock, pledging his vow. “I’ll be back for you in ten minutes, I swear.” He reassures his daughter before planting a kiss on the crown of her head. He crosses his fingers, silently praying that she won’t cry again. 

A dribble of snot falls from Minji’s nose. Her eyelashes are soaked. A dramatic hiccup heaves through her tiny, five-year old body. 

Jeongguk can feel the venomous judgment of everyone around him. They must think that he’s utterly unfit to be a father, and they would be right. 

They would wonder: What kind of child causes a scene in public, screaming, crying, and begging her father not to abandon her? How can he send her to the playroom where there’s nothing but disgusting germs and snotty kids? Is he seriously going to hand off his responsibilities to a total stranger in an underfunded public institution? 

They can easily write Jeongguk off as a villain ー a big, scary man with piercings and tattoos. They could hurl accusations at him with no regard as to where they land. All it takes is a quick glance and a first impression (a false one at that). Obviously, they would think he’s someone who’s not built for child rearing because of the slits in his eyebrows and the gel in his hair. There must not be a gentle bone that resides in his big, burly body, but for that, they would be wrong.

The worst part about this whole “father” situation is not necessarily the judgment of others. He is familiar with scrutiny, and he knows it all too well. Rather, it’s that Jeongguk was never particularly fond of having children of his own. Some people are not cut out for fatherhood, and that’s simply the truth of the matter. But that doesn’t mean he won't do his best. He can’t let Minji down. He won’t. 

As if Minji could read his thoughts, she raises her arms, begging to be picked up. Her sniffles have long died down. 

Jeongguk takes a deep breath before caving into her wishes and hooking an arm around her knees. Minji’s grimy, little hands cling around his neck, and an inaudible, celebratory noise escapes from her lips. 

Minji nuzzles her head beneath her father’s chin. She chatters about the incomprehensible things that only five year olds would understand. She is an enigma beyond her father’s own understanding, but he is determined to learn the ins and outs of this child no matter what it takes, even if it kills him. 

After Jeongguk had finally dropped Minji off at the library’s playroom, he peruses the non-fiction shelves in search of answers. 

How the hell is he going to raise a child? 

He thumbs through all of the top-rated parenting books available, skimming through the blurbs, trying to absorb enough information to pass judgment on them. Because if he’s going to follow parenting advice from someone else, they better be successful in their trials. Jeongguk doesn’t want to be the one to fuck up his own child’s brain chemistry.

There’s a sudden tap on his shoulder that helps Jeongguk to escape from the existential dread of fatherhood.

“Excuse me, sir.” A soft voice sounds from behind him. Your breath catches onto the nape of his neck.  

“How did this woman sneak up on me without me noticing? Maybe I’m losing my touch.” Jeongguk wonders, shocked by his carelessness. Because from behind, he didn’t hear the fall of a single footstep. The air was still and undisturbed until he felt your presence a moment too late. Normally, he would have surveilled everyone within a mile radius before they could even think about approaching him. But you managed to do it so effortlessly. He’s never met a woman so stealthy. 

“I think this belongs to you.” Your voice interrupts his stream of consciousness. 

The man before you turns around, and surely, he is a sight for sore eyes 一 a little intimidating to say the least. There’s a silver ring that protrudes from his bottom lip, contrasting against the subtle pink. Even more metal resides against the surface of his skin, a piercing on either side of his eyebrow. There’s a scar that sits on his cheekbone, and you can’t help but wonder how it got there. 

You’ve only ever admired this stranger from afar. Most days, he never fails to browse the children’s manhwa section with a talkative child latched onto his leg. Up close, he looks like a tough guy, but the moment he sees his adorable daughter clinging onto your dress, the hard look in his eyes softens. A dimple carves itself into the curve of his cheek. 

“Who do we have here?” His typical inflection changes into something slightly more playful. But he uses it to mask his exhausted state.

“Appa, appa! Miss y/l/n is so pretty, don’t you think?” Minji says enthusiastically. 

A flame ignites beneath the surface of Jeongguk’s skin. He grows flustered under the little girl’s stare.

Your eyes widen. You’ve never been considered “pretty” by conventional standards. It’s not often that you hear those words, if ever, really. 

“Minji, everyone has their own opinions, but you shouldn’t push your beliefs onto someone else,” you begin as a form of damage control. “I’m so sorry, but she ran up to me, saying she lost her father. She seemed so distressed, and I thought she was going to burst into tears if she couldn’t find you.” 

Jeon Jeongguk has never known peace before. Minji is just as sneaky and conniving as her father; she’s a filthy liar just like him. 

“No, no, it’s okay, don’t apologize. Her attachment issues have grown by the day,” Jeongguk replies, shaking his head. He wears a bashful smile, cheeks tinged with pink. “Minny, do you remember what I taught you?” He crouches down to pick his daughter up by the waist, squeezing her sides. 

“Don’t sleep with wet hair otherwise I might get hippo-pot-a-therm-ia?” Minji recalls, butchering the pronunciation. 

Jeongguk bites the inside of his cheek, shaking his head. “No, the other thing.” 

“Minny doesn’t have to eat anything that she doesn’t want to?” 

“I never said that.” A look of disapproval crosses her father’s features. 

“Drawing mustaches on sleepy people is wrong unless it’s Seokjin samchon?” 

He scrunches his nose, nodding his head from side to side as though he’s contemplating. “Well… yes, but no. Try again. The thing about beauty.” 

“Oh! Beauty is something that comes from the inside!” Minji’s eyes light up upon recognition.

“Exactly, it comes from inside.” Jeongguk reminds her. He presses his pointer finger against Minji’s sternum for emphasis. Upon his touch, a sweet giggle falls from her lips. 

“But you do think it’s true, don’t you?” Minji asks once again, persistent. “Miss y/l/n is really pretty.” 

The blush on his cheeks grow a shade darker. “Minny, of course I think she’s pretty. I thought we talked about this.” Although he lowers his voice like it’s a secret, you can still hear every single word. 

Minji giggles to herself, hiding her face behind her hands. 

Jeongguk has always known your face, but never your name. “Miss y/l/n, right?” 

It sounds odd to hear your title from a grown man, but you laugh it off with a chuckle. “Yeah, that’s what the kids at the daycare call me. It’s just y/n though.” 

Jeongguk readjusts his daughter in his arms before reaching for a handshake. “I’m just Jeongguk.” It doesn’t strike how little his name means to him. Of course it’s just an alias for the sake of the mission. He picked it on a whim, but it suits him more than he had thought. Jeon Jeongguk, pillar of the nation. The lie tumbles out of his lips so naturally, and he doesn't have to think twice. 

His eyes lower into crescent moons as the corner of his lips curve into a smile, something akin to fondness. A shallow dimple finds its way onto his cheeks. 

Dammit. He’s cute. 

You reach forward, cupping your hand around his in a reverent greeting. He holds you gently as if there’s a butterfly that had landed on the tip of his fingers. It contrasts against your strong grip. 

Observant as ever, Jeongguk notices that there’s no sign of a ring on your hand. He digs through the arsenal of intel that’s locked up inside his brain. Thanks to Seokjin’s sticky fingers, he managed to spend an entire weekend studying the most recent census information, getting to know the profiles of everyone in the city (just in case). There has to be some information about you stored in his head. 

“y/n… Where did I see that name before?” He thinks to himself, mentally sifting through all the files he’s read. “Ah, I remember now. File #901: y/l/n, y/n. Never married, never divorced. Orphaned at the age of eighteen. She has one younger brother. Both of them have clean records ー never been in trouble with the police, never even received a speeding ticket.”

“Jeongguk…” you murmur his name as if you’re testing the waters. “I know. I’ve seen you around before.” 

Minji might have accidentally let it slip that he’s the man who's been her appa ‘for a very long time.’ She never seemed to mention that she’s adopted. Instead, she continues to describe her father as someone super handsome and very single. 

“Really?” Although he’s noticed you plenty of times before, he’s surprised that you recognize him. Jeongguk doesn’t like drawing attention. He supposes that lately, it’s been difficult when his daughter attracts a lot of eyes. 

“Most of the time, you wander through the aisles, half-dead like a zombie, with a cup of coffee in your hand.” You lean forward, speaking in a hushed tone. “You really aren’t allowed to bring drinks into the library, but my coworkers let it slide because they think you’re handsome.” 

Perhaps you’ve overshared because Jeongguk stares at you blankly, taken aback by the news. 

“Here’s another secret.” You beckon him closer once again, speaking barely above a whisper. “You should be careful about reading parenting books. You’ll end up stressed about what to do if it doesn’t work, and you’ll feel like a failure by the end of it.”

His eyes widen in surprise. He had hoped that the parenting books would put an end to his sleepless nights. “What do you think I should do then? I don’t know how to deal with this monster right here.” He ruffles Minji’s hair in endearment. 

“Hey!” Minji shouts in defense of herself.

“That’s not to say you shouldn’t read any parenting books. It’s just trial and error,” you shrug. “As much as you don’t want to hear it, there’s really no right answer.”

Jeongguk drops his shoulders, slightly disappointed. The defeated look on his face is a feeling you can sympathize with. 

“But if it helps, I think it’s important that children need a little bit of softness every now and then, especially because the world is so cruel.” You flash him a gentle smile, urging him to lighten up on his daughter. He needs to stop pretending that raising a child is anything like the military or the spy academy. 

Upon hearing your conversation, there’s a mischievous sparkle that appears in Minji’s eyes. “Miss y/l/n, do you wanna be my eomma?” 

You stare blankly at her, blinking as though you are processing her question. The words die on your tongue, yet you cock your head to the side, meeting the little girl’s gaze. “Y- your eomma?” you reiterate, startled. 

“Pleaseee? I’m so lonely with no eomma,” Minji pouts, melodramatic as ever. She puts her hand on her forehead as if she’s feigning an illness. 

“Jeongguk, do you happen to be looking for a wife?” 

“Is this your way of asking me out?” He leans forward, inclined to hear your proposal. 

You wonder if this is a bad time to mention his Tinder profile. It could be a little awkward knowing that you’ve also made an account on that wretched app. There’s nothing inherently embarrassing about wanting to find love through modern dating, but why is it so hard to admit it?

You weigh your options in your head, but Jeongguk beats you to it. 

“Because if you did 一 ya’ know 一 ask me out, I would have said-” His words are cut short. 

“You know what? I’m sorry if I was being too forward-” Mentally, you want to smack yourself on the head.

Jeongguk didn’t mention anything about a girlfriend, let alone a wife. He has no idea that you’ve seen his Tinder before. You never even swiped. You never matched. 

After you found his profile, you tucked your phone away and refused to open the app again. The blissful state of not knowing is better than playing the waiting game. Will he swipe, will he not? Will he message you and jumpstart some epic romance? 

You decide to tell him the truth and swallow your pride before coming across as a complete weirdo wrapped up in her delusions. 

“It’s just that… the other day, my friends made a dating profile for me because they’re worried I’ll be single for the rest of my life. I came across your account, and I thought you looked familiar. So I just wanted to know if you’re actually looking for a wife because I swear, I’ll do it.” 

Jeongguk has never been this close to making a breakthrough, and he thinks he’s half in love with you. “Are you being serious?” he wonders as a precaution. “Don’t lie to me because I really need this to be a dream come true right now.” 

His daughter reaches forward to pinch his cheeks. Jeongguk winces at the pain, and he’s certain that this moment is real. 

“Do you want me to get down on one knee?” Your face is devoid of any banter, eyes fixed on Jeongguk as if you’re genuinely offering yourself to him. “Why do you need a wife? Tax money? Green card? Ex who won’t leave you alone?” 

“It’s complicated,” Jeongguk begins. 

“Trust me, I know it's complicated when I see it.” There’s a challenging look in your eyes, urging him to continue. 

“Well, the other day, Minny passed the entrance exam for Hwa Yang Academy. Now, the  board has to conduct an interview with the family, but they said they would want both parents to be there.” 

“You can’t tell them that you’re a single father?” 

“I think it’ll hurt her chances of getting accepted,” he explains. “I want my daughter to attend a good school. Her late mother would have wanted the same thing for her.” 

“Appa said lying is wrong, but he’s so good at it,” Minji thinks to herself. 

“Do you really think that I’m fit for the role?” You’ve never really had a penchant for acting or playing pretend. Lying, on the other hand, that is your strong suit. 

“I don’t mean to be too forward, but I think you’re perfect.” Jeongguk speaks his truth without any hesitation. He looks at you with such sweet and delicate eyes. “You seem to be great with children, and Minny adores you already.” 

You eye him as if you’re considering his offer, but you’ve already made up your mind. “I’ll do it, but only if you do a favor for me too. Are you free next weekend?” 

“Next weekend?” Jeongguk raises an eyebrow. It’s starting to make sense why you agreed to do this in the first place. You need something in exchange, quid pro quo. 

“My friends are throwing an engagement party. They’re worried about me all the time because I’m single, but I thought I would lay it to rest if I told them I finally had a boyfriend, or at least someone I’m talking to.” Your speech gets faster and faster with every word that comes out of your mouth. “I know it sounds crazy, Iー” 

“I’ll do it.”

You stare blankly at him, unsure if you heard correctly, but a smile continues to creep onto the corners of your lips. “You will?” 

Jeongguk reaches forward, gently taking your hand in his. “It would be an honor to be your boyfriend,” he says, even if it’s just pretend. “And an even bigger honor to be your husband.” 

“y/n!” 

You don’t hear your name being called relentlessly until your co-workers are shouting for your attention. Their words fall upon deaf ears. 

As usual, they had been gossiping about their boyfriends and their weekend plans. You checked out of the conversation the moment Yumi opened her mouth and uttered her fiancé’s name, resisting the urge to gag. 

You look up from your lap, slightly too distracted. There’s a small, maroon stain and a rip in the skirt of your dress. It’s not easy keeping your clothes in pristine condition when you’re constantly running toward danger. You’re lost in thought, wondering how much the tailor shop will charge you for sewing it back together. 

“What are you doing this weekend? There’s a new episode of that drama you like, right? Are you going to order delivery again?” Yumi assumes. “You know, you should step outside from time to time. Maybe you’ll find a nice person to date if Tinder doesn’t pan out.” 

“Actually, I have plans after work,” you announce before returning to inspect the damage on your dress. 

“With who? Did you meet someone on the app?” The cadence of Sujin’s voice is airy, shocked in disbelief. 

“I’m meeting up with some guy.” You try not to make it a big deal, but these girls always blow it out of proportion. “I didn’t meet him from the app though.” 

“You’re seeing someone? Who?! You can’t just drop the news and expect us not to ask for the details!” Sujin shouts. 

“He was at the library the other day, and he asked me out. He’s the one with the tattoos ー y’all would recognize him if you saw him,” you explain. “Minji is his daughter.” 

“The guy with the coffee?” Everyone collectively gasps upon connecting the dots. “Him? How did you manage to pull that?!” 

Ouch. That hurts. 

“I would dump my fiancé in a heartbeat if the coffee guy could blow my back out,” Yumi confesses. 

How could she be so shallow? She was just talking about how much she loved her fiancé. Is he really that disposable? Besides, is Jeongguk nothing more than the coffee guy? A pretty face who’s made for a one night stand? You’re starting to think that people don’t actually value their relationships. They just want a partner for the sake of having one.

There’s a sudden chime that resounds through the air, pulling you out of your thoughts. The service bell at the front desk had been struck. It’s odd considering most people exited the library by now, knowing that it closes in ten minutes. 

You all poke your head through the doorway to catch a glimpse of the patron. Their eyes widen in surprise when they see the coffee guy standing at the front desk. He stands tall and proud with a military stance, a head above everyone else. There’s a bouquet of pink camellias resting in his hand in place of his typical americano. 

“Jeongguk? I thought we were meeting at the cafe.” Perhaps you remembered the details of the conversation wrong.  

When you speak his name out loud, all the girls shift their gaze to one another. Could it really be true that you’re seeing a man? 

“I thought it would be nice if I could surprise you, and we’d walk there together.” He flashes a smile that sends an arrow straight through the heart (and through those of your coworkers). For a second, you think that Yumi might just faint. 

He’s handsome as ever, just as you recall. But today, there’s something that’s slightly out of place. There’s a bandage that rests on the bridge of his nose. It’s pink with Sanrio characters plastered all over it ー Hello Kitty and My Melody. There’s something about it that makes him even more endearing. 

You try to stifle a giggle as you shoot him an apology. “Sorry, can you hang around for a few more minutes? I have some things to do before closing.”

“Take your time, angel.” Jeongguk says. Crinkles begin to form at the corner of his eyes as the curve of his lips overtake him. 

You have to admit that the pet name made your heart flutter. He plays into the role of a sweet boyfriend pretty accurately. It’s all part of the act. 

Sujin closes the door to the office. The girls break into squeals. They playfully hit your shoulder in disbelief, elbowing your sides. “I can’t believe it! y/n is going out with a man?!” 

“And he’s hot!” 

You shake your head before returning to your work station, ignoring their cheers. But you can’t help the subtle smile that reaches your lips. Maybe the girls will finally leave you the fuck alone. 

“I’m so sorry for the wait.” You apologize as you approach Jeongguk, looking like a disheveled mess after an 8 hour shift. Your blouse is slightly wrinkled, and you’re certain there’s residue left behind from all the marker stains the kids had carelessly drawn on you. Your arm is full of stickers, and you’ll have to remember to peel them off later. 

In the daycare, Jeongguk is propped on top of a bean bag chair that is much too small for his body. There’s a manhwa that rests in his lap. It’s the one his daughter can’t stop talking about. 

“I got here ten minutes early anyways.” He places the book on the table before clambering to his feet. “Oh yeah, and these are for you.” He passes the bouquet of camellias. 

You raise your hands, not really sure how to accept the gift. You’re not the type of girl to receive flowers, love poems, or pretty things. Nobody has ever pursued you in that way. All you ever receive are cursory glances and awkward smiles, but never anything as beautiful as this. 

He inches the flowers a little closer to you, urging you to take it. 

You pull the bouquet to your nose, taking a whiff of the sweet scent. “These are really pretty. Thank you for that.” You motion for him to wait just a moment longer as you place the flowers into a vase. 

Through the porthole of the office door, you can see the girls squeal and jump around in unison. 

“Are you ready? Should we head out?” Jeongguk’s lips curl into a boyish smile. 

You nod, sharply turning your heels in an attempt to hide the fluster of your face. Before you could take a step forward, you’re pulled to a halt. There’s a tug on your arm that spins you around. Jeongguk’s fingers wrap around your wrist, pulling you close. 

“Wait one sec,” his breath fans across your face. “You have some chalk on your cheek. Can I-?” He raises his hand, tentatively learning forward. 

Heat rushes to the surface of your skin, yet you nod your head, giving into his request. “Is this part of the act?” you wonder out loud, low enough for Jeongguk to hear. 

“Only if you want it to be.” His deep voice sends a shiver down your spine. 

As he leans forward to wipe the dust off your cheek, your throat dries. You freeze, attempting to avoid his gaze. You’re not certain whether you’ll explode upon gazing into his dark brown eyes. 

Instead, you keep your sight locked straight ahead. It’s a terrible idea considering his strong chest is right in front of you. The top two buttons of his white collared shirt are undone, and the space between his pecs are exposed, a necklace dangling in between. There’s a chance that you might die staring at it, so you accept the risk of embarrassing yourself and glance at his visage instead. 

“There’s my pretty girl,” Jeongguk says, dusting off the chalk. 

A wave of butterflies swarm in the pit of your stomach, and your mind goes blank. You have no idea how to respond to such a compliment, and you’re unable to when your throat constricts. Your body warms, hyper aware of his palm on your cheek and the one wrapped around your wrist. Your one free hand that is not occupied by his clasp shoots up, hovering over the bandage plastered on his nose. 

“What happened here?” The words splutter out of your mouth, trying to say something. Anything. Perhaps your anxiety would be less noticeable if you could just act natural ー If you could stop standing there without a single thought in your head. 

“Bumped into a wall,” Jeongguk chuckles. It’s a blatant lie. He could never be this clumsy. In actuality, he had failed to duck during a sparring match with another spy at the agency. Fuck Kim Mingyu and his stupidly beefy arms. “Minny picked the bandage for me.” 

“You mean you didn’t choose to wear the Hello Kitty? I think it suits you.” As soon as you graze the bridge of his nose, his laughter turns into a dramatic groan. Soft murmurs of ‘ow, ow’ fall from his lips. 

“‘m sorry, ‘m sorry!” You apologize. 

His other hand gently grasps your palm, pulling it away from his sprained injury. Maybe your dating profile was right when it mentioned you don’t know your own strength. 

“Don’t worry, let’s just hope that Minny is okay,” Jeongguk remarks. “She insisted on wearing a matching bandaid because ‘if appa’s hurt, then Minny’s hurt.’ Kind of like a voodoo doll.” 

Subconsciously, the thought of Minny wearing a matching bandage despite being perfectly fine forces your lips into a smile. 

“Should we head out now?” Jeongguk leans closer, voice barely above a whisper. “Can I hold your hand? Give your friends a real show to watch?” It’s as if your hand wasn’t already in his. 

You nod your head, suddenly remembering that this is all an act. You’re reminded of the girls crowded around the office door, peeking through the small window to catch a glimpse of the action. 

Jeongguk’s hand glides down from your palm and between your fingers, lacing them together. A breath hitches in your throat, and you have to remind yourself to breathe. You can hear the high pitched screams from behind when the girls are convinced you’ve stepped far away enough. But it isn't as loud as the sound of your heart beating out of your chest. 

The two of you make your way to the cafe, walking side by side, hand-in-hand, occasionally bumping shoulders when you walk a little too close. 

“How was your day? I realized I never asked you what you do for work, and I don’t really know much about you in general,” you chuckle, slightly embarrassed. “I thought we would at least have our first kiss by now if we were married.” There’s a hint of sarcasm in your tone, one that Jeongguk easily recognizes because his informant, Seokjin, is nothing but shits and giggles. 

“We would have done more than kissing, but we can start slow.” The corners of his lips curl into a playful grin. His words make you freeze, but it doesn’t seem to faze him. 

With your hands linked together, Jeongguk is pulled back by your halted movements. He turns to face you, displaying his pretty eye-smile. “I’m a journalist,” he says. “I write investigative articles when they don’t ask me to cover silly politics.” 

Although it’s not completely true, it’s not totally false at the same time. He writes exposé articles based on the intel he uncovers from his spy missions. The articles that he writes are written under an anonymous name, obviously so he can’t be tracked for exposing highly classified information. Nobody should ever know that he’s digging into the lives of corrupt politicians. Jeongguk might never see the light of day if word gets out. 

“My routine is pretty consistent,” he explains. “I did some research for my article, wrote a few thousand words in my drafts before deciding to scrap the entirety of it, and I picked up Minny from kindergarten. I asked my friend to babysit her while I’m away tonight.” 

Jeongguk wants to scrub his tongue after admitting that Seokjin is his “friend.” 

“What about you? How’s your life at the library?” Jeongguk asks. 

You describe the events that spiraled today as the two of you head inside the coffee shop and place your orders. “Well, the girls seemed convinced that we’re on a date,” you chuckle. 

Jeongguk gasps. His hand clenches against his chest as if he’s wounded by your words. “You mean to tell me this isn’t a date? I thought we had something special.” He feigns exasperation. “You are my wife, after all, aren’t you?” 

You don’t care to admit how amusing it is to hear the word wife coming from him. Despite the smile that plays on your lips, you shake your head no.

“This isn’t a real date,” you explain in denial. Nobody has ever asked you out, and you’ll be damned if the first time is just pretend. “But I guess this is good practice, especially when the stakes are higher for the interview.” 

“Hmm… practice.” A crinkle forms between Jeongguk’s brows, lost in thought. 

“I have to admit that I don’t have a lot of experience with dating, and that’s why we have to practice.” You shake your head, flustered. “Actually, I’ve never even been in a relationship.” 

“Why’s that?” He asks the age-old question. 

“I’m not really the type that people fall for.” You tuck your head between your shoulders, offering a shrug. “I’m quiet ー Not really good with people. I’m a bit of a late bloomer. I spent a lot of my youth taking care of my younger brother.” That’s only the jist of it. You don’t bother getting into the nitty gritty details. Being a full-time assassin isn’t necessarily “first-date appropriate” conversation. 

“How many partners have you had?” You bounce back, diverting the attention away from you. 

“Just one, my wife who passed. We had been together since we were in high school.” The lie seeps through his teeth so easily. It’s terrifying. But the less you know, the better. 

The thought of being Jeongguk’s first “girlfriend” since the passing of his wife makes you incredibly nervous. Upon seeing the sullen avoidance in his eyes, you don’t bring it up again. Instead, you try to lighten the mood.

The two of you fall into a routine of volleying questions back and forth. If you’re planning to convince everyone that you’re husband and wife, you’re going to have to know more than just one another’s (supposed) names and (supposed) professions. 

You start with the easy stuff. “Where did you grow up?” 

“Busan. I miss the sound of the ocean, but I don’t mind the city as long as Minny goes to the best school in the country. What about you?” 

“I grew up in a town so small you wouldn’t be able to find it on the map, but it’s not far from the capital.”

“Cryptic, I like it.” A grin forms onto the corners of lips before he takes a sip of his coffee. 

Over the next hour, you learn that Jeongguk, as robust and intimidating as he looks, is warm and gentle. His favorite thing about being a father is having someone to love and protect. To him, Minji is a bundle of joy who makes his day brighter despite the hurdles that come with being a parent. He would do anything in the world to give his child the life he never quite had. 

Likewise, having lost his parents at a young age, he learned to lead a fulfilling life all on his own. Instead of letting it bog him down, he clings onto the simple things for respite, searching for happiness in every corner of the universe. 

He loves the rain and how it fleetingly smells like the warm and muggy summers of his hometown. Although he doesn’t experience the monsoon season quite like he used to, he loves to watch Minji splash around in her yellow rain boots. His favorite time of day is golden hour, especially when the fluffy white clouds are tinted with orange hues, reminding him of his first dog, Gureum. 

Jeongguk has a slight addiction to black coffee, even if it makes his stomach hurt on the odd occasions (and you suggest he tries tea instead). He likes his eggs scrambled, and he prefers waffles over pancakes. He has plenty of awful habits like singing karaoke at four in the morning followed by cooking a pot of instant ramen to satiate his brutal cravings (yes, his food preferences are vital to your understanding of who Jeongguk is as a person, down to his core). 

He tells you about his trip to Chicago some months ago where he definitely deepthroated a deep dish pizza after being dared by Seokjin. As much as he loved traveling, he was easily home-sick and desperately missing his fix of samgyeopsal. In fact, he tells you he would love to invite you over one day so he can make you a meal. And thank God for that because you are not handy in the kitchen whatsoever. 

You learn that not necessarily all of his tattoos have meaning. The tiger is an emblem of his country while the tiger lily is his birth flower, and it is a silent, desperate plea to be loved. There’s a silly emoji on his middle finger just because he thinks it’s funny. He hates having to cover it up when he goes to work (tattoos may not have been the smartest idea knowing that he has to keep his identity a secret, but the damage is already done), and he’s certain that everybody judges him for the ink on his arms. 

“As long as you like your tattoos, it doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks.” You offer him a warm smile as though nothing could ever hurt him. God, how he wishes that was true. 

For some reason, Jeongguk doesn’t know how to react to your words. He’s only ever been told to cover up his skin as if he has something to be ashamed of.  

In exchange for his stories, you trade Jeongguk pieces of your life. How your favorite memory from youth was when you had taken the city bus an hour and a half down to the beach with your brother, San, where you’d build sand castles on the brink of collapse. Sometimes, the smell of salt air and the longing for August still lingers to this day. 

You tell him about your attempt at joining the knitting club so you could make cute sweaters and vests. They were never perfect. But at least they kept your brother warm during the winters. Besides, you had fun playing dress-up with him. Jeongguk finds that perhaps the boldest thing you’ve ever done is bleach your hair strawberry blonde, only for it to turn out orange. 

His laughter blooms through his chest when you tell him about the time you almost set the microwave on fire. Your mom never told you that aluminum foil doesn’t belong in there, and you had to learn that the hard way. That’s probably why you should never set foot in the kitchen again. Nevertheless, you made mistake after mistake just so that San could have food on the table everyday after school. At least you’ve perfected the art of cutting fruit at this point ー no cooking skills required. 

Although the two of you talk for what seems like hours, you can’t help but think there’s so much more to this man, and he’s unwilling to share. It doesn’t necessarily bother you because you, too, have secrets of your own. You can’t expect him to reveal everything about his life, even if he never does. 

It’s well into the evening when Jeongguk walks you home. The path is quiet. It’s illuminated by the dim light of the street lamps. It feels like a scene from a movie you’ve once watched ー the origin of all your teenage fantasies. But this is real. You’re just a girl, standing in front of a boy, and that’s where it all begins. 

“y/n?” The way he says your name brings you to a halt. His voice, although usually confident, is timid and uncertain. “I’ll see you tomorrow, right? We still have a lot to talk about.” He looks at you with stars in his eyes, although none of them belong to you, and they could never be yours. 

Your lips press together in a tight line, nodding your head in affirmation. As you bid your goodbyes, you wonder if it would be inappropriate to give him a hug. After all, you’ve only just met the day prior, and this is nothing but pretend. Yet how will you ever grow accustomed to the touch of your husband?

Your arms remain crossed over your chest. You look down at your shoes, kicking a loose pebble at the front of your door, contemplating. 

But he reaches for your hand, lightly grasping around your fingers. You jolt back as if he set your nerves aflame. Your gaze lifts toward his eyes, but it quickly lowers as Jeongguk descends down to one knee. 

Your heart pounds against your chest, and you pray that he cannot hear it. 

“I’m sorry I don’t have a proper ring…” He begins. “I hope you can accept this for now, and I swear I’ll get a diamond on your hand one day ー As big as you want.” 

Jeongguk carefully pulls a small metal band from his pocket. It can easily be confused for the end piece of a keychain ー perhaps it’s something that his daughter had left behind in his coat, never to be remembered. But for Jeongguk, he knows perfectly well that it’s the pin from a grenade he had tossed the week prior on an escape mission. He slides the ring onto your finger, and although it is slightly too large, you wouldn’t have it any other way. 

“I may not have been your first choice of a partner, and for all I know, I could have been dead last, but thank you for sticking by me. I swear I’ll take care of you. I’ll hold your heart with gentle hands, and I won’t ever let it break.” 

After all, this is just pretend. 

But for some reason, his voice sounds so earnest, and you almost believe him. To be frank, you never really cared about lavish weddings and seven carat diamonds. If you were to ever look for a companion, all you could ask for is an honest partner. 

Too bad Jeon Jeongguk is anything but that.

Throughout the next week, you spend more and more time getting to know your new “boyfriend.” Because of this, you have to put your side hustle on pause and constantly decline assignments on your burner phone. You certainly wouldn’t want Jeongguk to overhear your plans to murder while he sits pretty beside you, waiting to hear about your day ー your hopes, your dreams, and anything else that’s on your mind. But it would be a shame if you cut your dates early, only to spend less than a second to put a bullet through your enemies’ heads.

You’d have much more fun with Jeongguk instead. Because he tends to plan the cutest surprise dates, and they’re so incredibly thoughtful. Sometimes, Minji would accompany your dates when Seokjin can’t babysit (he’s too busy trying to find his own baby mama so he can prove Minji wrong). Nevertheless, Minji adores the time that you spend together because it feels like you’re a real family.

The three of you would drive to the movies, play boardgames, and eat ice cream for dinner. Jeongguk had even taken you both to the annual carnival that you desperately wanted to check out. He wasn’t fond of going because those claw machines and arcade games are absolute scams! Yet you caught the smug grin on his face when he finally won a stuffed bunny after downing fifty bucks. He was just so addicted to the thrill of nearly winning: “I could have gotten that!” 

During your dates, you would laugh for hours on end, but by the end of the night, Minji would fall asleep on her father’s shoulder. That’s usually your cue to head home. Sometimes, you think that he might kiss you goodnight, but he never does. His lips only ever brush your knuckles like the gentleman that he is. 

…

True to his word, Jeongguk invites you over for dinner the following Friday.

When you arrive at his apartment, you are instantly the worst houseguest known to mankind. Your umbrella is dripping wet from the pouring rain, effectively ruining Jeongguk’s wooden floors. However, that’s not the problem that Jeongguk has with you. The problem is that you’re unable to stop laughing at Jeongguk’s attire. 

Surely, your parents had taught you to be kind, especially to your hosts. Well, when Jeongguk swings the door open, revealing a frilly apron, something akin to what your grandmother would wear, you couldn’t help it! A picture of My Melody is stamped onto the chest, staring straight into your soul. 

It isn’t lost on you ー the irony of a big, strong man, no doubt subjected to dress up in his daughter’s choice of clothing. 

“Don’t laugh at me,” Jeongguk pouts, tilting his head like a puppy. 

You stifle your giggle behind a tight lipped smile, but you’re so close to bursting at the seams. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

After placing your shoes at the door, Jeongguk leads you into his humble abode. He takes the bottle of chardonnay from your hands, thanking you for the gift, and places it onto the dining table. 

“Dinner should be ready in an hour,” he informs you. 

“I know I’m not very useful in the kitchen, but if you need help-” 

Before you can even think about lifting a finger, Jeongguk is quick to suggest an alternative. “No, don't worry, you’re my guest. Just relax, okay? Minny is in the living room. You should spend time with her.” 

In the adjacent room, Minji is crouched over her study material. Her worksheets spread across the coffee table. Each question covers a different subject: basic biology, political science, religion and ethics, foreign language, etc. You never quite realized how much pressure children face in the education system. 

After all, you were never really concerned with grades. You never thought about applying to the top school in the nation. In fact, your grades had fallen down a slippery slope by the time you were in high school. Rather, all of your time was dedicated to earning money and supporting your family. 

When you sit beside Minji, she beckons you closer before you can even greet her. “I’m dying. Help me,” she pleads with wide eyes. You look down to see her math homework ー fractions, Minji’s sworn enemy. 

“Appa wants me to study, but he won’t give me the answers,” Minji whines. 

You can’t help but chuckle. “Minny, you have to figure out the answers on your own if you want to do well.”

The sound of your advice makes her drop her head on the table with a soft thump. 

“Here, let’s do a few questions together,” you suggest. 

Try as you might, you only manage to complete half of the assignment. Minji huffs, slightly frustrated when she doesn’t understand the concept. 

You pat her back, consoling the small child. “Once you eat dinner, you’ll have more brain energy. Maybe you just need a break.” 

A lightbulb goes off above her head, and she springs to her feet. “Appa! Can I give eomma a tour of the house?” 

You tilt your head, amused by the sound of Minji calling you her mother. 

“That sounds like a great idea!” Jeongguk cranes his neck to peek at his devious daughter. “Just make sure you study again when you’re done.” 

Minji takes her father’s approval as a cue to grab your hand in hers, showing you every corner of the house ー all of her drawings taped to the fridge, her favorite stuffed animals lined up at the end of the bed, and the sparkly clean toilet where she poops every morning. After describing everything in excruciating detail, you could have sworn that Minji would run out of words to say. But she never does. 

“What’s behind that door?” You point to the end of the hall. 

“That’s appa’s bedroom. He told me I should never go in there unless he gives me permission.” 

You suppose it’s healthy to set boundaries between you and your child. It’s not like Jeongguk has distasteful art hanging on his walls, and it’s not likely that he’s hiding a dead body in there. He doesn’t seem to be the type to store skeletons in the closet. You, on the other hand, now that’s a different story. Perhaps Jeongguk just needs a little privacy at the end of every night. 

Minji’s voice breaks you out of your reverie. “Eomma! This is your room! Well, it’s a guest room, but appa says it’s basically yours if you ever want a place to stay.” 

You step into the final room, glancing around the walls at a loss of words. Your eyes are drawn to the shelves. They’re brimming with so many novels. It’s like your own personal library. You could probably spend the entire day just browsing through each book. 

As you slide open one of the drawers, you’re surprised to find an array of period products. There are also makeup wipes, an abundance of face masks, some sunscreen, and essential oils (apparently, women love that sort of stuff according to an article Jeongguk had bookmarked). There’s even a candle that’s labeled ‘ocean breeze.’

“Do you like it?” Minji looks up at you with wide, glimmering eyes as she uncaps the candle, shoving her entire nose against the wax with a hard whiff. 

“I love it, Minny, thank you for the tour. I really appreciate it. You should get back to your studies. I’ll help your dad with dinner, but if you need my help, just call me, okay?” 

Minji sniffles theatrically and drags her feet into the living room. 

You head towards the kitchen to find Jeongguk slicing a daikon radish with military precision. There’s soft music playing in the background, accompanied by the pouring rain outside, occasionally interrupted by the soft huff of frustration when Jeongguk’s bangs cover his eyes. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up to his elbows, revealing his strong forearms covered in tattoos. 

Jeongguk finally looks up at you in the doorway. He flashes you a smile ー delighted, and very much enamored. “How was the tour?” 

“Your home is so cozy. But I don’t know if I was supposed to look at the top secret file you forgot to put away.” 

“I- WHAT?” He yelps. The shock on his face is quickly replaced with an acute pain. The knife had sliced through his palm upon one careless motion. 

“Oh, fuck,” he mutters under his breath, ensuring that Minji won’t hear his foul language.

Jeongguk drops the radish onto the cutting board with a thud. He forces pressure onto the wound with the pad of his thumb to stop the bleeding. In actuality, he’s more concerned about the food than he is about his finger. 

“Oh my god, are you okay?” You rush over to his side, reaching for his wrist. “Let’s run it under cold water.” 

The two of you waddle towards the small sink, attached by the hip. 

“I was kidding about the secret files. I’m sorry about the cut.” You’re ridden with guilt, seeing that your mindless joke had cost Jeongguk his hand. 

“No, no, you don’t have to apologize. It was my fault. I was the one holding the knife.” 

You shake your head. “Don’t blame yourself either. It happens. I get cuts all the time.” If there’s ever a blade against your skin, it’s usually by the hands of your enemies. You, on the other hand, are a pro when it comes to handling knives. 

Jeongguk shuts the faucet off, examining the cut. It’s shallow. You could hardly see it.

“I’ll grab a bandaid for you,” you offer, already sprinting down the hallway. 

“They’re in the bathroom! Medicine cabinet!” Jeongguk shouts. 

“I know! Minny gave me a tour of everything,” you shout back. You pluck the ointment and the familiar Hello Kitty bandages off the shelf before shuffling back to the kitchen. “Minny shared way too much information about the inventory of your medicine cabinet. Apparently, you have two morphine capsules left. You should get a refill on those.” 

Jeongguk hums in recognition, and you wonder why he would need a painkiller as strong as morphine. 

Taking Jeongguk’s hand in yours, you assess the cut and gently blow on the appendages with the purse of your lips. You place the pink bandage onto his hand, and out of habit, you give him a quick kiss on the booboo. 

When you pull back, you’re absolutely mortified. You avoid his gaze, trying to hide your own humiliation. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to do that. The kids at the daycare always ask for a kiss when they’re injured.”

“It’s okay, I understand.” A rosy hue dusts over Jeongguk’s cheeks. Why is he so shy when he’s usually the bold and courageous one? He’ll be sure to call Seokjin tonight to ask what this means ー to be so flustered and afflicted by your touch. Is his skin supposed to feel like it’s on fire? 

With the look on his face, you’re not quite sure who’s more embarrassed. So you run towards the sink and nervously wash your hands, practically rubbing the skin raw. 

“I’ll cut the radish for you.” You take his place by the cutting board. 

When he asks if you’re sure, you just hum in response, having already started, and he succumbs to your offer. Typically, Jeongguk would not be willing to accept anyone’s help. But there’s warmth and sincerity in your tone.

“Let me tie this for you.” Jeongguk steps behind you, lightly brushing your hair back to keep it out of your eyes. 

Heat rushes to your face, and you nod in agreement. Instantly, Jeongguk separates your hair into three different strands.

“You know how to braid?” you ask, chopping away at the radish. “You can just tie a simple ponytail if you want.” 

“Minny said she wanted to go to school with a French braid. I didn’t know how to do it, so I looked at a video online. I’m not that good, but let me practice, okay?” He ties off your hair with the elastic that he keeps on his wrist for standby. “Tadaaa!” A proud grin sits on his pretty lips. 

You can tell that the braid is a little too loose for your liking, but you’ll be sure to show him how to properly braid later. Perhaps after dinner. “How does it look?” You wonder. 

“You’re perfect,” Jeongguk says affirmatively, sweet as ever. “Here, let me give you an apron.” 

Before you know it, he loops a string of fabric over your head. It sits loosely on the back of your neck. Jeongguk’s hand rests on your shoulder blade, pushing your hips against the counter as he reaches to tie the string around the small of your back. He fixates on the knot that tethers around his thick fingers as he works on the fabric. His breath is hot against your neck. You can feel the heat radiate off of him. 

When he pulls back, you swallow the lump in your throat, sighing a breath of relief. “Thanks,” you murmur. 

The worst part is that Jeongguk doesn’t even realize the effect that he has on you. You wonder when he’ll put an end to this madness. Because at this rate, you think you might explode if he inches any closer to you. 

As it seems, fate has other plans. 

While he watches you cook, he hovers behind you; not because he’s controlling, but because he wants to make sure you’re safe. He has to admit that you’re skilled with a knife, but your cooking techniques aren’t quite there. 

“When you cut, curl your fingers and tuck your knuckles underneath them.” Jeongguk inches closer and places his chin on the crown of your head. He slots himself against your back as his protective arms cage you against the marble counter. His hands slide down from your wrist, careful not to startle you, before cupping them around your fingers. He gently guides your hand, ensuring that you don’t cut yourself. 

You don’t realize that you’ve been holding your breath until he steps away. Maybe cooking isn’t as bad as you make it out to be.

The heavy downpour of rain patters against the windows. 

“It looks like the weather is getting worse. I didn’t realize it would storm tonight,” Jeongguk peeks between the blinds before lighting a few candles. The lamps had been flickering because of the torrential rain. “The roads aren’t very safe. If you want to stay over, you can take the guest room.” 

You nearly drop the cutlery on the table in the midst of setting up dinner. “Ar- are you sure? I don’t want to be a bother.” 

“Stop with that, you’re never a bother,” he reassures you. “If you want, I’ll drive you home first thing tomorrow morning.” 

You think about the invitation before ultimately deciding to accept. “Thank you, Jeongguk. And by the way, I really appreciate how you set the room up for me.” You shoot him a grateful smile. 

“Anything for my wife.” The warmth of his words makes your heart flutter. 

When the table is finally set, the three of you settle down for dinner. 

You bite the inside of your cheek as you stare at the beautiful arrangement of food you have yet to touch. There’s tender pork belly, fermented shrimp, spicy oyster radish, fresh garlic, and pickled cabbage among a bunch of other side dishes you can’t even put a name to. 

“You said you were hungry, right?” Jeongguk picks up the cabbage leaf and stuffs the ingredients inside. He wraps it into a roll and places it on top of your fluffy white rice. 

Watching the steam rise in front of you, you nearly bawl from how delicious it smells. The tears threaten to spill from the corners of your eyes. 

Nobody has ever made you a home-cooked meal since your parents had passed. 

“Are you- uhm,” Jeongguk lifts his hand, not knowing what to do with his own limbs. A set of chopsticks rests between his thumb and pointer finger, fish cake tucked between the silver metal. It hovers halfway across the table, abruptly stopping before he could reach your bowl. “You can cry, it’s okay-” 

You don’t dare to move a single muscle when the tear falls down your cheeks. 

Minji reaches over to wipe the droplet away. You can’t tell if she wants to comfort you, or rather, she’s just looking to steal a bite of your pork belly. But you’re inclined to believe it’s the former. Her father had already served a piece of meat in her bowl. 

“It’s okay, eomma. You can cry. Just… don’t do it over the dishes. You don’t want your food to be salty,” Minji advises. 

Jeongguk calls his daughter’s name, scolding. He plucks out a few tissues from the box and passes them across the table. 

You wipe your eyes, praying that the tears will stop. “I’m sorry, I’m fine,” you shake your head. “I just don’t really remember the last time I had a home-cooked meal with anyone other than myself. I think my parents were the last people to ever cook for me.” 

“What about your brother?” Jeongguk inquires. 

“I’ve always made food for him growing up, and ever since he went to university, he’s been away from home. I really haven’t seen him in a while.” A sullen smile tugs on your lips. “We usually just talk on the phone.” 

Jeongguk topples more food onto your bowl, filling it to the brim. “Whenever you come over, you can have any kind of food that you want. Just name it, and it’ll be yours. Even if I don’t know how to make it, I’ll learn. Now let’s eat up, okay?” He picks up a piece of pork belly, prepared to bribe you like a child who hasn’t stopped crying. 

You open your mouth, allowing him to feed you, humming in satisfaction. You mutter a thank you before putting on your bravest smile as the rain pours outside. 

It’s late in the night when you hear a soft sniffle that echoes from the other side of the bedroom door, followed by a dull strike against the wooden surface, a call for your attention.

“Eomma?”

It never takes you by surprise when a child who isn’t yours calls you their mother. It happens often enough at the daycare center. Tiny humans let the term of endearment slip from their loose lips ー some variation of “mom,” “mommy,” or “eomma.” 

These children cry for you when they have trouble opening their chocolate milk, or when they get a “booboo” from their arts and crafts activity, nothing but a measly, barely-there papercut. These children have an understanding that they’re safe with you. That you’d take care of them like a mother would, opening their bottles, helping to clean their mess, kissing their pain away, and wiping the tears dry. Sometimes they don’t notice their honest mistake, having called you their mother. Other times, they’re apologetic and embarrassed. But what’s there to be embarrassed about? 

The vocabulary of children is limited to only a few hundred words, but they always resort to the one thing they know. Whether it is, “mom,” “mommy,” “eomma,” or so on and so forth, they trust you in the purest form. They feel protected and comforted by you. 

Although you’ve heard it a dozen times before, you’ve never seen a child mean it so earnestly, not like Minji, and definitely not at two in the morning. 

You open the bedroom door, looking down to see her tear stained cheeks. The instinct to protect kicks in like second nature. “Minny, what’s wrong?” 

Lightning flashes through the sky, followed by a loud crash of thunder. The little girl flinches with a yelp, squeezing her eyes shut, pressing her hands against her ears. 

“It’s so loud, ‘m scared,” Minji pouts. 

You crouch down to wrap your arms around her shoulders, whispering sweet nothings into her ear. She shivers in your hold, trying to calm down as you rub soothing circles onto her back. 

“Don’t worry, Minny. The thunder can’t catch you while you’re in here,” you murmur, adjusting the nightcap on the top of her head. “You’re always safe with me.” 

“Can I sleep with you and appa tonight?” Minji asks. 

“Th- the both of us?” Your eyes widen. Perhaps Minji doesn’t quite understand the terms of your arrangement. You’re not actually her mom, and Jeongguk isn’t really your husband. Certainly, sleeping in the same bed as Jeongguk crosses some imaginary boundary. “I- I don’t know if appa would-” 

“Can we ask him?” Minji pleads, and she looks like she’s about to burst. It doesn’t hurt to try, right?

So you relent, and the two of you tiptoe down the hall to Jeongguk’s bedroom, hand-in-hand. There’s a light that leaks from the bottom of the doorway. Could he possibly be awake this late in the night? 

You motion at the door, encouraging Minji to knock. She has to be a big girl, expressing her needs, asking for help when she needs it. 

“Appa!” Minji whacks the palm of her hand against the wooden surface, and you have to correct her form. You squeeze her hands into a fist, showing her how to properly knock and urge her to try again. 

On the other side, you can hear the shuffle of papers and the sound of wheels scraping against the linoleum floor, followed by the pad of footsteps. The door swings open, revealing a set of sleepy eyes, shrouded behind a pair of glasses. Jeongguk’s hair is disheveled, having run his hands through his overgrown mane a million times (he’s been pondering whether he should cut it, but you’ve shyly expressed how he looks handsome either way, and right now is no exception). 

“Appa, can I sleep with the both of you tonight?” Minji hiccups between sniffles, and a tear treads down her cheek. When a crash of thunder sounds through the air, she lurches forward to wrap her arms around her father’s legs, shaking like a leaf.

Jeongguk pats the top of Minji’s head to comfort her. “What’s wrong? What happened?” 

“The sky,” Minji shakes her head, pressing her face deeper into her father’s thigh. “Too loud. It’s scary. Wanna sleep with you and eomma.” 

Normally, Jeongguk would be stressed, weighing his options, trying to determine the best course of action for his child. But there’s a sigh of relief that slips from his lips when his gaze meets yours. There’s a deep blush that spreads across his cheeks. “Is this okay with you?” His lips move in silence, mouthing the words, only for you to see.

In response, you nod your head and flash him a concerned smile. “You?” You mouth the words right back. 

Jeongguk’s answer is obvious when he wraps his arms around the little girl and lifts her into the air. “Let’s go to sleep, Minny.”

Jeongguk taps his chin, pondering, as he stares at the little girl sandwiched in the center of his bed. “Something doesn’t feel right.” But there’s an unmistakable glimmer in his eyes. As tired as he is, he doesn’t seem to let it show. “You know what we should do?” 

Before you can respond, he’s already darting out of the bedroom. He stumbles into the living area, grabbing all the mismatched furniture that he can find. There’s a coat rack in one hand and a stool in another. He runs to grab a fishing pole from the closet, one that he had stolen from Seokjin and never returned. 

“What’re you doing?” Your brows furrow, confused. But the smile on your face tells him that you’re thoroughly entertained. 

“We’re building a fort! Come help me!” He takes hold of your hand and leads you into the living room. “Here, take as many pillows as you can.” Instantly, he holds out a stack of cushions. And who are you to say no? 

With your inventory in hand, you run back to Jeongguk’s bedroom and plop them down onto the bed. “Minny, put the pillows wherever you want! Make it comfy for yourself.” 

The three of you get to work, constructing a pillow fort, and suddenly, you’re five years old all over again. 

Jeongguk returns with spare bed sheets and throw-blankets, tenting them over the makeshift poles. When you’re finally satisfied with your fort, the two of you climb onto the mattress on either side of Minji, huffing and puffing from all the energy exerted. 

“That was fun,” you say, exasperated. A beat of silence passes by as you catch your breath. “Thank you again for letting me sleep over, by the way.” 

There’s fondness in Jeongguk’s eyes as he turns to look at you. “I hope you know that you can stay as long as you want, and you’re always welcomed whenever.” His sentiment makes your heart beat a little faster. “I told you I’d take care of you.” 

“You should know…” As you stare at the roof of the makeshift fort, you try to make sense of how you ended up here. It doesn’t feel real. It doesn’t feel like you deserve it. “Taking care of me is more trouble than it’s worth.” 

Jeongguk’s voice is stern and relentless. “It’s not trouble. Not if it’s you. Do you really think I scare so easily?” 

You think you might cry, but you’ve already used up more than enough tears from your daily allowance. So you turn to thank him, only to be met with Jeongguk’s half-lidded eyes. He only hums in response ー there’s no need to thank him. 

His face is illuminated by the faint glow of the desk lamp on the other side of the room, the one he abandoned in favor of lulling his precious daughter to sleep. Minji holds her father’s hand while you stroke her hair. Within a few short minutes, she’s sound-asleep. The room is quiet, save for her soft snores. 

“Poor Minny, I hope that this doesn’t ruin her sleep schedule,” you whisper into the night. 

“She might need a nap tomorrow, but that’s okay. It happens sometimes.” Jeongguk lets out a yawn as he tugs the blankets up his shoulders. 

You remind him with gentle caution, “What about you? You shouldn’t sleep so late.” 

“I know, I know.” He presses his palms against his eyes, utterly exhausted. “I just wanted to squeeze one more chapter in.” 

You peek out from the gap in the fort, scanning the mess that lies on top of Jeongguk’s desk. Books are stacked across two different piles, separated by genre ー One of them being social psychology books required for his research; “How to Win Friends and Influence People” sits on the very top. 

Another stack is dedicated to the parenting books he often checks out from the library. There are Hello Kitty post-it notes that fill up nearly every page, bookmarked for future reference. 

Your eyes return to Jeongguk’s figure, convinced that you can steal a glance, evaluating his exhausted state. But he already has his eyes trained on you, albeit very groggy. A dopey grin stretches across his lips. If he wasn’t already tired before, he definitely is now. 

“You don’t have to do all this alone, Jeongguk. You need to rest.” You flash him a matching smile, hoping that the sentiment reaches him. “I don’t think that you scare easily, but I don’t think you’re immune to it either. And that’s perfectly okay. We’re all just people trying to get by.” 

Jeongguk sinks deeper into the pillows, succumbing to his sleepy desires. “Thank you,” he murmurs, slurring his words. Another yawn slips from his lips. “I’m just used to it 一 being on my own.” 

“Well, you’re not on your own anymore. You can count on me. We’re a team, remember?” 

Jeongguk hums, reduced to non-verbal responses that don’t require much energy. Exhaustion tugs at his eyelids until they’re shut. He makes a mental note to talk about this with you another day. 

You wave a hand in front of his face, convinced that he’s far gone from the state of consciousness. “If it makes you feel better, I can head back to my room now,” you whisper. You think it might be futile to warn him, considering he’s not awake. But as you peel the blanket back, one foot off the bed, there’s a warmth that envelops your wrist, and you halt in your tracks. 

“Stay,” Jeongguk, as tired as he is, manages to mutter with conviction. 

His grip doesn’t falter, and so, you relent. You crawl back beneath the sheets and let the night fade into dawn. 

The sound of rain splashes against the window. The petrichor smells like childhood. It feels like home, and Jeongguk has never slept so soundlessly in his entire life. 

Somehow, Jeongguk wakes up long before you, and you want to curse him for looking so handsome at the crack of dawn. His hair, although disheveled, looks perfectly imperfect. His shirt, as loose as it is, hugs his body in all the right places, sweatpants hanging low on his hips. His round specs perch on the bridge of his nose. 

“What do you think about going on a family outing?” Jeongguk suggests over breakfast. 

Minji’s eyes widen as excitement fills her tiny frame.

“That sounds like a fun idea,” you chime. “We should spend more time together so we can be perfect for the interview.” Because loving this man and his daughter is nothing more than a performance, right? 

 “Maybe we can stop at the convenience store and have a picnic in the park. What do you think?” In Jeongguk’s mind, he maps the layout of the market, pinpointing the food that the three of you would enjoy: kimbap, dried squid, potato chips, banana milk, and even fish shaped ice cream. 

“The weather cleared up today. It’s beautiful outside.” You say, chowing down on a bite of strawberries. 

Jeongguk raises a brow, questioning. “You want to go today? I thought you would want to go home after spending the night.” 

“I don’t have much else planned on a Sunday. It gets kind of lonely at my house,” you shrug. “Are you sick of me already?” 

But Jeongguk shakes his head. He’d be foolish to ever push you away. 

…

In sync, both you and Minji enthusiastically bounce on your feet through the streets of Seoul. You could easily pass as a family from that simple action alone. It’s evident when elders cross paths with you, a fond smile sitting on their faces: “You have a beautiful family!” There’s no denying that. The three of you are picture perfect as you link hands on either side of Minji because she is, in fact, the center of your universe. 

When you arrive at the convenience store, Jeongguk picks out a variety of nutritious food while Minji tries to slip cookies into the basket. She’s convinced that her father is not looking because he’s too busy sneaking glances at you from the other end of the snack aisle. He doesn’t think anyone would notice, but Minji surely does. 

For some reason, he feels so content standing in a supermarket with his wife who picks the freshest fruit, and his daughter who tries to distract him from seeing the junk food in her hands. In fact, he could probably spend the entire day comparing vegetable prices, and he would still have the time of his life with you. He used to hate running errands, unless it was doing laundry. But now, he doesn’t seem to mind it. Perhaps it’s because he has two companions at his side, and it feels a little less lonely. 

“Jeongguk?” You call his name from down the aisle. “Do you want me to grab coffee for you?” You reach for the top shelf on your tippy toes, struggling to grip your hands around the bottle. 

Within an instant, Jeongguk is already at your side. He wraps an arm around your waist to prevent you from falling forward. A heat envelops your hand as he wraps his fingers around your palm. “I think I’ll skip on coffee for now. How about tea?” 

Upon hearing his deep voice against the shell of your ear, you grow flustered. The heat of his body makes you freeze, and all you can do is nod your head, stunned. He reaches one shelf over to pluck a large bottle of tea, one that you can all share. 

Although he’s dropped your hand, he keeps a strong arm around your waist. His shoulders are broad enough to simply devour you. Even his chest is so firm pressed against your back.

“By the way, angel, don’t you think we’ve moved on from the formalities?” There’s a pout that rests on his lips. “I’d like it if you could call me something other than Jeongguk. I think it’s more convincing that way.” 

“But that’s your name. What do you want me to call you? Babe? Baby?” 

He shakes his head as he rests his chin in the crook of your neck. His hair brushes against your cheek, and your breath hitches in your throat.

You stutter the words out of your mouth, trying to act unaffected. “H- how about darling? Honey? Sweetie? … Handsome?” 

He doesn’t react to either of them, but handsome definitely makes him giggle. 

You ponder for a moment more. “Then what about love?” 

His arm squeezes your waist a little tighter as he presses an innocent kiss to your cheek. “That’s perfect, angel.” 

He unravels himself from you as you stare blankly at the beverage aisle in complete awe. You brush your fingertips against your cheek where his warmth lingers. 

This is still practice… right? 

As you stroll through the park, you come across a live performance at the base of the fountain. There’s a man playing guitar, and he’s serenading the crowd as he busks for money. The three of you stand to admire just for a moment. 

A few feet away, Minji is spinning and dancing to the soft melody. Meanwhile, Jeongguk moves his head to the beat of the song, singing the words, albeit faintly. 

“You have a pretty voice.” You nudge your shoulders against his to catch his attention. 

“Oh, it’s nothing.” He’s bashful. 

“You should sing for me one day.” You raise your brows, trying to tempt him. 

He contemplates your request, but he teases you with a soft “maybe.” He bumps his shoulder against yours like a high schooler with a crush. 

You return the sentiment in a playful back and forth. His sweet action makes you squeal, but not for the reason that you think. Because the affectionate brush of skin against yours quickly transforms into Jeongguk hauling you into his arms. His thick biceps wrap beneath your thighs, and he lifts you into the air. You can’t stop yourself from giggling when he spins you around. There’s a combination of thrill and euphoria in your chest. 

Jeongguk’s mind briefly wanders back to the conversation he had with Minji right before he tucked her into bed last night. “Appa, do you have a crush on eomma?” 

He had scoffed at the question, brushing it off as if that was far from the truth. But Minji had thought otherwise. “When you have a crush on someone, you think about them all the time. You want them to be happy, and you would do anything to make them smile. Whenever you look at eomma, I can see your ears go red. I think you were shy when she kissed your booboo, and you probably want to kiss her back, right?” For some reason, Minji’s advice seemed to be more introspective than what he could ever pull out of Seokjin. 

Jeongguk shakes his head, returning back to reality as he tucks the memory away. When he places you on the ground, you pant with adrenaline. “I thought I was going to fall.” 

His gaze meets yours, and he playfully brushes his knuckles beneath your chin. The peak of sunset illuminates your eyes, and you look golden. An epiphany flashes through his mind, and Jeongguk mutters a curse that echoes through his thoughts. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He wants to kiss you. 

But as usual, Jeongguk’s mind wins over his heart. He bites his tongue back and offers the next best thing: “Do you think I’d ever let you fall?” He grabs your hands as if nothing had happened ー as if he isn’t falling in love ー and you sway to the beat of the music, skipping to the lawn where you can enjoy your picnic. 

…

The park is bustling with so many individuals going about their day, minding their own business. The city comes alive with all of the action that surrounds you. 

“Eomma, what’s that over there?” Minji points at an art display at the other end of the fountain. There’s a throng of people, crowding around the small space. The three of you pack up your meal, making sure to toss all of your garbage, before heading over to catch sight of the action. 

There are rows of copy paper attached to a fishing line. It strings across a makeshift perimeter, rooted with no rhyme or reason. Apparently, all the buzz is about an interactive exhibit. Anonymous letters from passersby are posted for you to view, and you may even contribute by submitting your own story. You could write about anything you want. 

“That sounds like a fun idea,” Jeongguk suggests. So he grabs paper and markers for the three of you as you get to work. 

Jeongguk tries to steal a glance at your story, but you throw your body over the paper. 

“Hey, no peeking!” you shout. “These stories are supposed to belong to strangers, okay? Let’s keep it anonymous.” 

On the other hand, Minji is enthusiastic to show her father the family portrait she’s drawn. 

As the minutes pass, you finish jotting your thoughts. It’s not perfect by any means, but the sentiment is still there. When all is said and done, you’ve agreed that you wouldn’t read one another’s stories. One day, you both will disclose the contents of your letter, and you will finally know the truth, but today is not that day. 

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Dear reader, If I’m being honest, I’ve always felt undesirable. Nobody has ever confessed their feelings for me. I’ve never been in a relationship, nor have I had my first kiss. I’ve never been stopped in the middle of the street, only to be told that I have a beautiful smile. I’ve always been average at best.  My friends are concerned that I’m lonely. They’re convinced that I need someone to take care of me, but I constantly tell them that I can do it on my own. I’ve done it my entire life.  I’ve held my own hand, swallowed the heartache, and reminded myself “I can do this!” before doing the scary things I never wanted to do. I patted myself on the back when I finished school, earned my first job, and paid all my overdue bills. I raised my younger brother at the age of eighteen as if I was a single mother. I woke up to an empty bed every single day and fed myself scraps of food, even when I didn’t want to. Sometimes, it was burnt, charred, and a little too salty. But that’s what love tastes like, right? Through the smooth sailing and the rough patches, there was no boyfriend, no girlfriend, no partner or lover. Just me. But the more that I think about it, I am so, so tired.  Perhaps I grew up too fast and burned too bright. Because now, I don’t know what to do. There’s a guy that I like, or at least I think I do. Nobody ever taught me how to sort out my feelings. I’ve always been told to give and give and give. I’ve had to sacrifice my life, my time, and all of my energy. I was never allowed to feel anger, sadness, or human connection. I never had anything for myself, and I feel empty.  But lately, being with him brings me to life.  Although I don’t know what it’s like to be in love, this is the closest thing I’ve ever felt to it. When I’m with him, my inner child wants to come out and play. That little girl has always lived in my imagination. I don’t know her very well, but she’s running around, laughing and dancing as if she knows no pain. With him, she is always reminded that she is beautiful and spectacular. That she is stronger than anyone he knows. She is safe. She is protected. Above all, she feels seen. She gets ice cream for dinner, and it’s sweet. It doesn’t quite taste like the love she once knew, but somehow, she thinks it’s even more delicious.  Surely, yes, I can take care of myself. But maybe we can learn to take care of each other. 

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Hi. I don’t know who cares to read this, but if you do, welcome.  Where do I even begin? I know this sounds pathetic, but… I don’t think anyone has ever truly understood me for who I am. Perhaps that’s my fault. I constantly reinvent myself to be the person that they want me to be. Society has so many expectations as to how I should look, how I should act, and how I should feel.  Let me paint you a picture. I’m big ー horribly buff. I have tattoos and long hair. All the neighborhood grandmas tell me I should cut it because I’d be more handsome. They even tell their grandchildren not to look up to me because I’m far from being an aspiration. Even if I’m the most charming person in the room… if I change my appearance ー if I lose weight, cover my tattoos, and buzz off my hair, they’d find another reason to hate me. It’ll never be enough. They’ll always perceive me as the bad guy and villainize me for everything I do. They say it’s better to be feared than to be loved if I cannot be both. But… I think I want to be loved. I want to be loved so bad that I would do anything to make people look at me. Yet they all shove their unwanted opinions down my throat, and I have nothing left to swallow but my own pride. I have no choice but to be exactly what they want.  Most people assume that I’m indestructible. Fortified. That I don’t have a single worry in this world. They think that I can shoulder all of these burdens, and nothing could possibly hurt me. Supposedly, I don’t ever cry ー I never break or bend or shatter because showing emotion is a sign that I’ve already lost.  But it’s not true.  I’m softer than I look. I worry that I’m not good enough. I feel like I suck at my job, and I constantly make mistakes. I don’t know how to be a good father, but I try.  I don’t really know what I want to say. I just wish that people didn’t feel entitled to my body. My body is my own except when it isn’t. It happens more often than not. Maybe then, I could finally be myself, whoever that may be.  It sounds like my life is awful, but I promise it isn’t that bad. Recently, I’ve found a small glimmer of hope. There’s one person who accepts me for who I am. She doesn’t expect me to be anyone but myself. She looks at me like I’m human ー as if I’m someone who’s worth it. Like I’m more than just an idea. She showed me that there’s kindness in this world ー that there’s bravery in being soft. She sees me, and scary enough, I think she can even see right through me. I’ve told her so many vulnerable things about myself, and she could probably stab me in the back with all that she knows. I think it would be worth it though.  There’s still so much I have to tell her. She may not know the whole truth, but one day, she will. I hope she doesn’t leave me when she finds out. Until then, I will take care of her. I will keep her safe and protect her with every inch of my life. I promise.

By the end of the week, you and Jeongguk have amped yourselves up for Yumi’s engagement party. But there’s one problem. 

Jeongguk is late. 

He’s never late. When he needs to pick up his daughter from school, he always shows up thirty minutes before dismissal. On date nights, he knocks on your door while you’re in the midst of putting on makeup, and he gladly watches you doll yourself up for the entire hour. For Jeongguk to be late, something must be terribly wrong. 

The two of you had agreed to meet up at Yumi’s party seeing that Jeongguk was running behind from work. But where could he possibly be when you need him the most? 

Outside of Yumi’s apartment complex, you pace anxiously, twiddling with the engagement present in your hands ー a cast iron skillet that you and Jeongguk had both bought at the department store. From the sidewalk, you can hear the sound of music streaming from the open windows. Endless chatter filters between each beat. You glance at your watch for what feels like the hundredth time. 

“Jeongguk, where are you?” You groan, ready to accept defeat. 

A nervous sigh falls from your lips. Your shoulders slump. If you have to wait any longer, you might just head into the party all on your own and lose face in front of your friends. 

Suddenly, you hear the echo of your name from down the street. Jeongguk is sprinting towards you. He’s a blur of motion. Before you realize it, the air is knocked out of your lungs. Jeongguk had overestimated his speed, missed his landing, and he is colliding into you with open arms. 

“Angel, I’m so sorry I’m late.” He tucks his head against your shoulder, panting. His cheeks are hot, and his hair is disheveled. He murmurs apologies against your skin. The scratch of his voice etches a frown onto your face. 

Between the two of you, Jeongguk is the more composed one. You’ve always known him to be calm, collected, a little silly, but lovely nevertheless. You’ve never seen him quite like this. He’s shaking. 

You squeeze his shoulders in an attempt to peel his body away from yours. But his arms wrap around your waist even tighter, unwilling to part ways. This scene is rather familiar, something akin to a little child seeking comfort. You pat his back, hushing him, as to tell him that everything will be okay. 

So you start counting to ten, reminding him to breathe in and out. You place your hand on his chest, strong and reliable, right over the beat of his heart. His eyes close, concentrating all of his energy on the blooming feeling inside of his ribcage. So you paint a pretty picture for him as you dwell in a little puddle of grief together. 

“My mom used to tell me that if you transport yourself to a happy place, then all your worries will melt away.” 

Jeongguk doesn’t respond, but he hums against your collarbone. He wants nothing more but to hear you talk. He loves the sound of your voice. What is your happy place? 

“These days, I picture myself with you in your house. We’re baking a cake with Minny, and it’s going terribly wrong.” You let out a chuckle, and it’s the sweetest thing Jeongguk has ever heard. “Well, actually, the taste is perfect. You’re the head chef after all, and you’re so talented. You know better than me.” 

You interrupt your own story with something that will definitely make him laugh. “Did you know that I’ve been borrowing cookbooks from the library? I know it sounds ridiculous. I want to get better so you don’t have to cook all the time. It’d be such a shame if I accidentally poisoned you and the cops would swarm in, charging me with second degree murder.” You can feel his smile against your neck. “I found a recipe for buckwheat noodles, and maybe we should try it out next weekend.” 

He nods against your neck, sniffling. He doesn’t want to break it to you, but all you need is a boiling pot of water to cook the noodles. 

“Well anyways, in my happy place, the kitchen is a disaster because there’s icing everywhere. Sprinkles are in your hair. I think I have flour in my bra and butter on my cheek. But we’re having fun, singing along to the radio with all of the wrong lyrics. I’d ask you to dance, and when you’re too scared of looking stupid, Minny would pull out a dance move that’s even sillier than what you could ever imagine. Because even if we can’t do it perfectly, whether it is cooking or dancing or singing, we’re still trying.”

There’s a wet tear that falls onto your collarbone. You trace a circle against Jeongguk’s chest, reminding him to concentrate all of his feelings right there. His shoulders relax and his breath evens out. 

“When we’re in our happy place, we never go hungry. So if you ever feel sad or anxious, then just meet me right here. I’ll bring the cake ー sorry, just the ingredients, actually, but I’ll get better at cooking. I swear! Minny will bring her cute attitude. And you can just bring yourself.” 

There’s a soft breeze that surrounds you. The moonlight conspires with the flight of the fireflies, illuminating the dim sidewalk. The party is long forgotten as you hold onto Jeongguk for just another moment. Reluctantly, he steps back with his head down. His eyes train on the pavement.

“How do you feel, love? Look at me.” You cup his cheeks, and he leans into your touch, nuzzling into your embrace. 

After taking a deep sigh, he lifts his head to reveal a bruised cheek and a gash above his eye, right on the brow bone. The blood runs dry. 

Shock runs through your body. “What happened? Did someone hurt you?” You gently  move his head from side to side, examining every inch of his skin to check for more injuries. But your eyes are frantic. Your hands run through his hair, feeling for bumps and bruises. The search comes up empty, but your throat constricts at the thought of someone hurting your husband. 

You grab the cast iron skillet, wielding it like a weapon with the force of a grip so tight that it threatens to bend beneath your fingers. Your other hand clenches his palm, stomping in the direction he came from so he could lead you towards the perpetrator. 

Whoever did this to Jeongguk is going to pay, and you’re willing to kill whoever it is. Because for him, you would wage a full on war, running straight into your demise if it meant fighting for him. You would barrel through fire, load your rifles, and draw your daggers no matter what it takes. If they ask you to rip your heart out and put it in his hands, you would have considered the deal done long ago. 

Jeongguk is quick to extinguish the fiery passion that fuels your anger, reminding you to not make any rash decisions. The flash of his doe eyes is enough to soothe your worries, and all you want to do is hold him. 

The truth is, Jeongguk had already taken care of the situation. As the story goes, he had accepted a side mission to stop the smuggling of antiques from a museum ー gifts from a billionaire tycoon who had long passed. His heirs had sent the treasures to be appraised in the city before it was quickly intercepted by a smuggling ring. 

Jeongguk managed to save original art from dynasties past (no doubt stolen), rare coins, china sets, and clusters of intricate jewelry. He stopped the ploy before the thieves had even left the warehouse. However, being the best of the best does not mean he is able to escape unscathed every time. 

Jeongguk did not account for the hidden explosives on the agenda. A shrapnel had grazed his skin, forming a deep gash above his brow bone. Had he not been more careful, he would have been in much worse shape. 

Although Jeongguk had completed his mission, barely injured, he can’t help but feel guilty for showing up late. If his wound was much more serious, or perhaps he was left for dead, he would not have made it to Yumi’s engagement party. The last thing Jeongguk wants is to keep you waiting. 

While he zipped through the streets of Seoul, he didn’t even have a chance to think of a lie. All he could think about was running to you. So he says the first thing that comes to mind. “The airbags in my car set off.” 

“You were in a crash? Was Minny with you? What are you doing here? You should go to a hospital!” The words splutter out of your mouth.

His hand cups yours as they rest on his cheeks. “Minny’s with Seokjin today, so don’t worry. The collision was really minor, I swear. I already went to the emergency room, and they said I’ll be good as new.” His voice is eerily calm. 

He laces his fingers with yours and presses his lips against your knuckles before promptly taking the iron skillet from your hands. “I don’t want you to worry, let’s just go to the party, okay?” 

You’re too concerned to even dwell on that tender moment of intimacy. “You worry me too much, you know?” 

“I know, angel. I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you, I swear.” 

You squeeze his hand a little tighter as you shake your head. “I don’t need anything. I’m just glad that you’re here.” 

But little do you know, there’s a diamond ring worth millions burning a hole in Jeongguk’s pocket. Some dead billionaire isn’t going to miss it. 

Everyone at the event is captivated by Jeongguk. Of course they would. It’s easy when Jeongguk is so charming in such a deceitful way. He can easily spin different versions of himself after each new greeting, creating a hundred nuances to his personality in an instant. He could tell everyone that he’s the prince of Joseon, and they would easily fall for his lies because of the charisma that he oozes. 

Your friends see him as the best boyfriend in the world, someone who’s the total package and simply put, he’s way out of your league. He’s romantic in every aspect of the word, he’s open about his feelings, and he’s the purest definition of a “girl dad.” What more could you possibly ask for? Whatever it is, Jeongguk is exactly that. 

Even when Jeongguk has no need to impress the men at the party, he has dozens of conversation topics up his sleeve. It’s impressive when he knows basically everything about everything. You name it: video games, boxing, and the federal reserve. This arsenal of information is stored in his mind simply because he’ll never know when he needs to strike up a conversation about camping, barbecuing, or fishing (despite never having an interest to sit and stare at the water with Seokjin for hours on end). Men are so simple minded. They’re absolute fools. 

Thankfully, your brother, San, is just another man who falls for the thinly veiled ruse. He seems to approve of your relationship with Jeongguk. Mostly because he can talk about their passion for different cuts of meat. But also because he sees the way that your “boyfriend” takes care of you in the most subtle ways ー by virtue, it’s the act of noticing. 

Jeongguk walks you through the crowds of people with a guiding hand on your lower back. He fixes your hair when it falls loose in front of your face. He refills your cup with your favorite drink without ever having to ask. He can’t stop talking about how grateful he is to have a chance with you ー how you’re so beautiful and smart and the only thing he ever wants. There’s obviously love and intention in Jeongguk’s eyes whenever he looks at you. Anyone could see that. To be loved is to be known, and Jeongguk knows you like the back of his hand. 

You can feel the pressure of having to prove your relationship when all of the girls gather around, asking invasive questions. How did you convince y/n to go out with you? We almost lost hope for the poor girl. Have you all hung out as a family yet? What does Minji think of your relationship? 

For some reason, it feels like you’re back in high school, listening to locker room gossip. It feels as if they’re judging you. They’re laughing at you. But time and time again, Jeongguk defends you and your honor. Not because you need his help, but because you love the safety and security of his words.

“I don’t appreciate you being passive aggressive. Because to me, y/n is the most precious person in the world. If you have something you want to say, then just say it to my face.” He bites back without ever breaking eye contact. He rolls up the sleeves of his shirt. It’s equal parts intimidating and the most attractive thing you have ever seen. 

All the girls seem to agree when they swallow a trace of spit and nod their heads in obedience. “Sorry, we just wanted to say that you’re both so lucky to find one another.” They drop the subject, but only for a little while. 

Throughout the party, Jeongguk holds you close because he knows how nervous you were to come, and rightfully so. You told him how scared you were to introduce him to all of your friends (he doesn’t see why they deserve that title when they’re nothing but mean girls). Nevertheless, you’re frightened because your relationship with Jeongguk is sacred. Untainted. Unconventional, yes. But it’s protected because only you know about the depths of your bond. After tonight, everything will change. Having your “friends” witness your love so openly feels as if you have to give up another piece of yourself. After making this public knowledge, nothing could ever fully be yours.

But this moment right here is yours to keep, yours to hold, and yours to cherish. Jeon Jeongguk is in your arms, and all you can do is make it known that you are in love. 

“Whatever they say, ignore them, okay? Just look at me.” His arm wraps around your waist, and you relax in his hold. The stars in his eyes keep you captivated, and everything else is long forgotten. He whispers sweet nothings in your ear, scared that if he were to go up one decibel, it would burst the little bubble that you’ve created for yourselves. Perhaps you would disappear if he says your name any louder, and he would wake up to realize that his dream girl is nothing but a figment of his imagination. 

But there’s nothing about this relationship that’s fake. Your brother can see it all. Although you haven’t hung out with him in ages, he’s very intrigued with the man hanging off of your arm. “Jeongguk, when did you realize that y/n was the one?” 

“Stop, we just started dating.” You smack the back of San’s head. But Jeongguk isn’t one to shy away from the question. 

“Well, it’s a funny story. The first time I saw her, I thought I had to talk to her. A few months ago, I dropped my daughter off at the daycare. When I walked past the door, I tripped on my own two feet. I saw y/n reading a story at the front of the class. She was so elegant, graceful, and just so, so gorgeous. My first thought was that she is the most incredible person I’ve ever seen.” Jeongguk tells the story without ever taking his eyes off of you. It’s as if you’re the only person in the whole world. There’s a beaming smile stretched across his face. His dimples are carved into his cheeks. 

“Minji, my daughter, she has a tendency to cry when I’m not there. So when she bursted into tears, y/n asked if she wanted to sit with her and help her read. She put my daughter on her lap, and instantly, Minny stopped crying.

“For weeks, I tried to work up the courage to approach her. I visited as much as I could. I borrowed more materials than I could even finish, and eventually, I had a pile of overdue books sitting in my apartment. When y/n wasn’t busy with the daycare, she worked at the front desk. I thought she might say something about my outstanding charges, but she never did. At that point, I wanted to talk to her so bad, but I was so foolish. I started bringing cups of coffee into the library, thinking that she would yell at me for breaking the rules.” 

“Did it work? Why didn’t you just say something?” San wonders. 

“I wasn’t sure what to say. I didn’t think she was interested. She barely looked at me. Never tried to initiate small talk,” Jeongguk shrugs. 

Avoiding eye contact is exactly how you show interest in someone. Is there any other way to do it? You had been so nervous to even glance in his general direction! Men don’t ever give you affection, especially not men as gorgeous as Jeongguk. It just felt so wrong to even think about crushing on him. 

“But one day, y/n approached me first by some miracle, and I was so shocked. I- I just thought she was an angel. My daughter was at her side. We talked. One thing led to another. The next thing I knew, I was stressing about what outfit to wear and buying flowers so I could pick her up for a coffee date. I don’t even know how to explain it. Everything just fell into place.” 

You were convinced that Jeongguk had never noticed you before you approached him that fateful day in the non-fiction aisle. But it rings true that Minji had cried some months ago during reading time. You recall all of the details, albeit vaguely. Had Jeongguk been watching all this time? Did he really borrow an excessive amount of books and purposely buy illicit coffee just to get your attention? 

There’s a soft smile that plays on your lips, and Jeongguk is certain that you’re a real life angel. “I hope you know that I waived your overdue fees every single time,” you confess. 

…

At some point in the night, you and Jeongguk ended up separating in the most nightmarish of ways. Your coworkers had looped their arms around yours and pulled you away for some girl talk. 

Meanwhile Jeongguk is at the other end of the hall, playing billiards with all of the other men. He socializes with them as if it’s effortless. He tells them jokes and makes them chuckle, but of course, his laugh is the one that stands out to you the most. He’s enchanting, and you are all but a moth drawn to a flame. He lights up every room he walks into, shining brighter than anything you’ve ever seen.

As you watch Jeongguk have his own fun, you check out of the conversation, barely listening to what Yumi has to say. You couldn’t quite relate to the stories that they’ve shared about their partners ー being engaged, moving in together, trying for children, having sex. 

“y/n, how big is your boyfriend?” 

You ponder the question. “Uhm, I don’t know his weight exactly…” 

“No, no, sweetie, I mean how big is his dick?” 

Your eyes widen in surprise as you shake your head. “We haven’t actually done anything yet. Our relationship is new, y’know. Also, I don’t think that’s any of your business-” 

“You mean you haven’t even seen him naked? Surely you’ve touched him when you’ve made out, right?” Their eyes widen when you shake your head no, trying to sputter a retort. 

“Even if you’re taking it slow, you must know what he likes in bed, right? Spitting? Choking? Spanking? A little bit of roleplay? Does he like to be called daddy?”

You, yourself, nearly choke on your own drink. 

“Most couples get intimate because- I hate to break it to you-” Yumi leans closer to you until her voice is all but a whisper. “All men have needs. If they aren’t met, then he might break up with you and look for satisfaction elsewhere.” 

You don’t know why you would believe Yumi’s words despite Jeongguk’s constant reassurance of how much you mean to him. She’s so fucking infuriating, but could she be right? Does Jeongguk see other women when you’re not around? Does he ever tell you that you’re pretty just for the performance of being a married couple? Has everything he said in the past few weeks been an act? Surely, you don’t know everything about this man, but would he ever lie to you? You bite the inside of your cheek as you anxiously pick on the skin around your nails, thinking about her advice. 

Seemingly, Jeongguk doesn’t know what the conversation is about. But he doesn’t need to be familiar with the details to know that you’re growing anxious. He can see it from the way you fiddle with your hands. From the way you furrow your brows and chew on your lips. From down the hall, he can pick up on your breathing. He can practically hear the hurricane of thoughts swirling around your head.

Before you can drown in your thoughts, Jeongguk makes his way over to you, nursing a glass of champagne in his hand. “Hi, angel.” He whispers against your jaw. His cheeks are flushed pink as his head rests against the crook of your neck, slotting together like two pieces of a puzzle. “Do you want to get out of here? You can stay over at my place tonight if you want,” he offers.  

“What’s wrong? Does it hurt?” You shift your gaze to the gash on his brow. Even when you don’t feel your best, you’re still concerned for those around you. That’s just the person you are. You’re so used to giving yourself away. 

“Kind of,” he says. But it hurts more knowing that you’re not okay. 

You ruffle your hands through his hair, trying to soothe his ache. “Do you want your painkillers?”

“Just want you.” His deep voice rumbles against your collarbone as he presses a shy kiss to your shoulder. “Come on, let’s go home.” He gently grabs your hand in his and leads you out the front door. You don’t even have a chance to say goodbye to all the guests. Quite frankly, you don’t even care. 

The moment you return to Jeongguk’s apartment, you dart to the medicine cabinet, filling a glass of water and instructing him to swallow the morphine pill. To soothe the pain, you apply some ointment onto his injury and gently blow on his gash, hoping that it doesn’t leave a scar to mar his beautiful face. But you avoid eye contact with him as much as you can. All while Jeongguk stares at your pretty lips and your glittery eyes. You look so cute when you’re concerned. A pout rests on your face, and he wants nothing more than to kiss it better. 

But then you bid him goodnight, rushing into the guest room, pacing back and forth behind closed doors. 

Jeongguk sits in the living room, stunned, wondering if he’s done something wrong. Whether his breath smells, or maybe he’s come on too strong. Is it obvious how much he cares for you? Yet a part of him wants you to know, even if you don’t reciprocate. To love you so freely is enough for him. 

For you, the problem is not Jeongguk. It’s the fact that you can’t stop thinking about the conversation from earlier in the night. Yumi’s voice echoes through your thoughts. All men have needs. If they aren’t met, then he might break up with you and look for satisfaction elsewhere.

A part of you needs Jeongguk to tell you that this isn’t true. Your heart and mind may not be able to rest otherwise. So for the sake of your fake relationship, you put on a brave face and patter down the hall to his room. 

…

The soft knock on Jeongguk’s door draws his attention away from the vanity. As soon as he tells you to come in, you hesitantly enter his bedroom. 

His back is turned as he faces the mirror, heedlessly applying his skincare. “What’s up? Do you need anything?” He spins around to meet you with curiosity written on his face. 

You catch a glimpse of his exposed chest, and your cheeks heats up in recognition. The top three buttons of his shirt are undone, seeing that he’s getting ready for bed. He removes his rings and the silver watch from his wrist. 

“Sorry, I- I didn’t know you were indecent.” You turn your head away, avoiding his strong build ー the biceps that bulge beneath his shirt and the muscles that flex with every movement. Your hand shoots up to hide your face in embarrassment. 

He finds it adorable how flustered you get upon seeing a little bit of skin. Still, he makes no effort to button up his shirt. Because that’s all that it is ー just skin. 

You swallow the lump in your throat, and your eyes flicker to the floor as if the rug is the most interesting thing in the world. “Can we talk about something?” 

“Talk?” He approaches the bed, patting the spot beside him. “Come here, what do you want to talk about?” 

You perch yourself onto the mattress bouncing up and down from the weight of the springs. Jeongguk sidles closer to you. His knees knock against yours. He smells like jasmine and musk, and it’s divine. 

“At the party, the girls were talking about relationships,” you begin.  

He hums with a nod, attentive as ever. Jeongguk looks at you as if you’re the only person in the world, but you don’t seem to notice, too preoccupied with anything else but the intensity of his eyes. 

“What did they say?” He wonders, readjusting your necklace so the pendant sits pretty on your neck. 

“Y’know.” You tug on your fingers, finding something to fiddle with. “The usual stuff.”

He reaches for your hands, instantly halting your movements. Soothing your nerves, he rubs his thumb over your knuckles. He knows that you must have mustered a lot of courage to come over and bring this up. “Angel, you have to use your words if you want to tell me what’s on your mind.” 

You grow bashful under his touch, but that’s exactly the problem. “They talked about stuff like this.” You squeeze his palms for emphasis. “Holding hands. Touching. Skinship.” You mumble the last part, too shy to say it out loud: “Kissing.” Turning your cheek towards him, you murmur an apology. “Sorry. You make me nervous.” 

Jeongguk doesn’t fail to notice the way your tongue licks the plump of your lips or the way your throat constricts after swallowing a trace of spit. “Nervous? C’mere- look at me.” 

His deep voice sends a shiver down your spine. It’s authoritative, and you can’t help but follow his orders. 

“I’m not familiar with being this close to someone,” you motion at the lack of space between his body and yours. “I wouldn’t want you to be upset with me if I’m not very affectionate.” 

“Angel, I’d never be upset with you. We can do whatever you want at your own pace.”

“Are you sure you’d never leave me if-”

Jeongguk stops your train of thought before allowing your mind to wander to a dark place. His voice hardens upon hearing such a suggestion. “I never want to even think about that possibility because I’m not letting you go. I’m yours no matter what. You’ll actually have to fight me if you want to push me away. Even then, I’d crawl right back to you.” He truly means every single word that he utters. 

There’s a hint of a smile on your lips. “Sorry. Intimacy is really scary for me,” you confess, hesitating. Jeongguk gives you another moment to collect your thoughts. He’d give you as long as you need, even if it’s a lifetime and all the stars in the night sky have burnt out. 

“But another reason I want to talk to you is because I’m concerned this won’t come across as a real marriage if we’re physically distant, y’know? The girls said that it’s normal for couples to be… intimate.”

Jeongguk doesn’t say anything, at least not immediately. He doesn’t react. His eyes are distracted by your mouth ー the way your gloss clings onto your lips and the way it moves so languidly with every word you articulate. 

“Jeongguk- Love?”

The sound of his name never really meant much to him. After all, it’s just an alias. Yet nothing sets him aflame more than the claim that you have on him ー the way that your lips purse when you call him your love.

“I know this sounds silly-” you begin. 

He shakes his head, brows furrowed, effectively wiping away all of your insecurities. “Never.” 

A naive grin spreads across your face. How could you be so foolish to believe that Jeongguk would make you feel anything less than important? Time and time again, he makes you feel heard. He makes you feel seen.

“Go on,” he urges. “Tell me.” 

“Well, I read an article about how looking into your partner’s eyes for a long period of time increases intimacy. It also builds trust and helps to recognize emotion.” It’s ironic how you explain all of this while avoiding his eyes. Instead, you keep them trained on the scar sitting pretty and kissable on his cheek. 

A dimpled smile spreads across Jeongguk’s face. “Okay, we can try,” he agrees. He reaches to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, and you think you might pass away. “But angel, you have to face me if we’re going to do this. I want you to be comfortable.” 

“Right, yeah,” you mumble. “Of course.” Shuffling from the edge of the bed, you turn to face your husband. You tuck your feet beneath your butt and sit on your knees.

“Relax, okay? There’s no need to be nervous around me.” His voice is reassuring. It’s heartwarming. 

You nod your head as you will yourself to meet his gaze. “I can do this. I can do this,” you think to yourself. 

Jeongguk’s pupils glimmer in the lowlight, warm and comforting, and you wonder how anyone could be so handsome. You try to focus on the task at hand, but it’s difficult when he, himself, is so distracting. There’s a beauty mark on his cheek. His jaw. His nose. Beneath his lip. You could trace them all day and night, if only he’d let you. 

Jeongguk’s deep voice cuts through the night. “Is there anything else that you want to try?” 

“M- maybe we could hold hands?” 

“We’ve held hands before.” He laces his fingers between yours so effortlessly, his hand engulfing. 

Your breath hitches in your throat. 

“Does it still make you nervous?” He wonders. 

“A little bit,” you glance at how small your hand looks in his. “But I can get used to it.” 

“Can I suggest something?” 

You nod, agreeing. “Anything.” 

He tilts his head to the side, raising a brow, unconvinced. “Anything? Are you sure?” 

You nod with more confidence. “I’ll tell you if I don’t like it.” 

“Then can I hold you?”

You hesitate for a second, unsure of what that entails. A beat goes by when Jeongguk is prepared to tell you that you’re free to say no. But you wipe that thought away, giving him your full consent.

Not a second passes by before he wraps his tattooed arms around your waist, tugging you onto his lap. Your thighs rest on either side of his hips, straddling him.

A squeak ー a fucking squeak. God, how much cuter can you get? ー slips past your lips. They’re swollen from how you nervously tug on the flesh, tethering it between your teeth. 

“Does this feel better?” There’s a sense of longing that drips from Jeongguk’s honeyed voice. 

“It’s… nice.” Your brain is on the verge of malfunctioning and shutting down upon feeling the heat of his skin against yours. “Better.” Your voice is breathy. It’s self preservation. You exhale deeply in an attempt to calm the flutter of your heart. 

To keep yourself occupied, you trace your fingers across your bare thighs, unsure of what to do with them. Jeongguk had let go of your hands in favor of holding your hips. So you play with the hem of your dress that’s currently riding up your legs. Suddenly, you’re very aware of how little you’re wearing. How your skin is burning beneath his fingertips. 

Jeongguk’s body is radiating, and you can feel the heat between your legs grow, the dampness in your underwear spreading. 

“You can touch me if you want,” he offers. 

You’re not as confident as Jeongguk, but oh, how you wish you were. 

“Do you want to?” He senses your hesitation, yet you nod your head, affirming.

“I do,” you bite the inside of your cheek. “I want to touch you- feel you.” 

Jeongguk wraps his fingers around your wrists, bringing your hands to rest on his broad shoulders. They’re muscular beneath your touch. You curse yourself for letting your mind wander and for letting your panties soak with arousal ー neither of which you can control. 

Somehow, you resist the urge to look down at his physique. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up to the elbows, revealing his strong forearms, adorned by the dark tattoos that coil up his muscles. Your gaze darts across his features, struggling to focus on the starlight in his eyes. You switch between the edge of his jaw, the dip of his neck, and the plump of his lips. 

“My eyes are up here, angel.” The corner of his mouth draws into a smile ー so bright and devastatingly beautiful. He hooks a gentle hand beneath your chin, guiding you to meet his stare. “Tell me what you’re thinking about. What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?” 

Your voice is soft, just barely above a whisper. It’s nearly inaudible. “Thinking about what it would be like to kiss you.” 

The innocence of your words makes Jeongguk blush. He’s never been the type to be so easily affected. After all, he’s the bold one in the relationship ー confident, decisive, dominant. But you make him weak in the knees.

“You don’t have to ask permission to kiss me.” Jeongguk inches closer, considerate hands squeezing around your waist. “You’re my wife.” 

Why does the thought of belonging to Jeongguk make your heart stutter? You’re certain that this is nothing but pretend, yet the only thing that makes you believe this could be real is the soothing circles that Jeongguk draws onto your skin. He’s present. He’s willing. His lips are right there, right in front of you. You could take the leap of faith and close the distance, leaning forward to kiss him. 

So you do. 

When your lips meet, it’s as if the rest of the world has gone silent. Time has stopped, and nothing else matters but the two of you at this moment. 

His lips are pillowy soft against yours. He tastes like champagne and mint. He’s gentle, only applying as much pressure as you do. You melt into his touch, feeling featherlight in his hold. His hands grip your waist so delicately, with love and intention, as if you are the most precious thing in his eyes. 

You pull apart to catch your breath, allowing the air to fill your lungs, regretfully so. If you were to drown, you would want to drown in Jeon Jeongguk. Your eyes flutter open, but you can’t seem to look at anything but his cherry lips. 

“Love…” The term of endearment leaves your lips in a pant, and he grows harder beneath you. “This is going to sound so embarrassing…” Your voice trails off as the heat engulfs your entire body. Your head lowers, feeling self-conscious of your actions. 

Jeongguk nuzzles his nose against your neck as he presses tender kisses on your collarbone. “What is it? You can tell me anything.” 

Your fingernails dig into his strong shoulders, squeezing his taut muscles as you muster the courage to tell him the truth. “That was my first kiss.” 

He peers up at you from beneath his long eyelashes. “That’s nothing to be embarrassed about.” Jeongguk shakes his head, squeezing your waist with reassurance. 

Your eyes are half lidded as you murmur a quiet confession, “I want to kiss you again.” Normally, you wouldn’t dare to be so bold, but you feel drunk on his taste.

“You can do whatever you want to me.” Jeongguk draws you closer, dragging your core onto the apex of his thighs, thick and sturdy. “I like anything that you like. Kissing you. Holding you. Just looking at you,” he shrugs. “And if it wasn’t obvious enough… I like you.” 

Jeon Jeongguk makes you absolutely breathless. “Ar- are we still pretending?” 

“Never.” Leaning forward, he brushes his mouth against yours. “I have never once pretended with you.” 

You kiss him back with more fervor, desperate and wanting. You’re more confident now, fully knowing that Jeongguk wants this as much as you do. 

“When you said I could do whatever…” You pull back, thinking about Jeongguk’s previous statement.

He nods his head with the most innocent beam on his face. “I mean it.”

God, you feel like such a pervert. You’ve shared your first kiss with him, something so sweet and innocent. Why couldn’t that be enough for you? You’re sitting on his lap, feeling the broad planes of his chest, and you can’t stop thinking about what it would be like to do more. To feel more. 

You’re ridden with guilt, drowning in your own arousal, but Jeongguk is so kind. He’s understanding. He’s staring at you as if you’re his whole world. He would never dare to objectify you because he’s a gentleman. But… What if you want him to? 

“The girls at the party were also talking about…” Your words begin to trail. 

“About what?” You subconsciously trace circles onto his shoulders, distracting yourself from the conversation, not knowing that Jeongguk’s eyes flutter close because he adores the drag of your nails and the subtle warmth of your fingertips. 

“About… doing it.” Your words come out in a hushed whisper. It feels too inappropriate to say it out loud. Yet you don’t dare to mention how your panties are absolutely ruined. 

“Angel, what did we talk about?” His lips press against your shoulder, at any inch of skin that he can reach. “You have to be more specific.”

Jeongguk has never once made you feel ashamed or embarrassed. He has never laughed at you or told you that you’re being silly. So why is it so difficult to tell him that you want him ー Need him? 

You take the leap of faith because this is your partner ー in life, in death, and in crime. This is Jeongguk. Your one and only lover who never fails to remind you that you are the strongest woman in the world. He who delivers nutritious lunch boxes to you and tucks cute notes into the lid because he knows that they make you smile. Jeon Jeongguk who massages the knots out of your shoulders after a secret night of combat. He who gets pouty when you call him anything other than ‘love.’

There’s no need to hide anything from this man. He’s your home, just as you are his.

“They talked about sex… You know… making love. ” The crude word sounds so wrong leaving your lips. So out of place. It’s dirty, and it’s naughty. “They said all couples do it, but we’ve never…” 

“Do you want to do it because you want to, or is it because your friends told you to?” Jeongguk searches your eyes for clarification. “Because if you feel pressured when you’re not ready-”

“No! I do!” You cling onto his shirt with more urgency. “I want to do it ー with you. I trust you.” You lean closer, brushing your lips against his ear. “You’re my husband.” 

Jeongguk groans at the sound of your words. At the way your fingernails scratch down his chest. At the way you sit so pretty and perfect on top of his lap, pressing your weight into his erection. 

He gulps as if this is the first time he’s ever been nervous in his life. “Why don’t you take off my shirt?” 

“C- can I?” you stutter. 

“Like I said, you can do whatever you want to me. You’re my wife, and I’m yours.” He presses his lips against your brow. “Yours to hold. To kiss. To love.” He kisses your nose. Your chin. Your jaw. He tucks your hair behind your ears and whispers. “I’m yours to make love to.” 

With trembling fingers, you reach for the button that barely holds Jeongguk’s shirt together. 

His hand engulfs yours. “Don’t forget to breathe, in and out, okay?” Jeongguk, patient as ever, waits for your respiration to steady. “You’re safe with me. If you want to stop, just say the word.” 

With each button undone, his shirt falls apart, revealing Jeongguk’s toned abs. As glorious as he is, your eyes are drawn to the scar on the side of his stomach, barely covered by the fabric that hangs off his back. The scar is jagged, and the skin is raised, the tissue is puckered at the edges. 

“Wha- what happened here?” Your fingertips reach down to trace over the scar, but before you make contact, you pull away. 

“You can touch it-” Jeongguk reaffirms. “Wherever you want. I’m yours.” 

Jeongguk’s breath hitches in his throat when your cold hands lightly graze the rough texture, feeling the ghost of his past. But he knows how you’ll respect his boundaries no matter what, and he relaxes, fully knowing that you’ll take care of him. 

“I had surgery when I was younger.” Jeongguk lies. “They took out my appendix.” 

Your brows furrow. There’s no reason not to believe him, but why is the scar so jagged and uneven? Certain parts are wider than others as if the surgeon had twisted a large blade into his abdomen, and not simply sliced to gain access to his organs. 

As usual, Jeongguk can read the concern written on your face. “It’s okay, it didn’t hurt much.” The curve of his lips settle into a warm and reassuring smile. “I promise.” 

Jeongguk doesn’t express any discomfort about his scar, yet you can’t help but wonder what kind of horrors he had to live through. 

To ease your mind, Jeongguk pulls you into his body and presses his hands beneath your thighs. 

A yelp escapes from your lips as he lifts you up. You’re chest to chest with him, legs wrapping around his waist. He presses your back down to the mattress, settling your head onto one of the pillows at the bedpost. 

He hovers above you, a hair's breadth away. 

“Hi,” he whispers against your lips. “You look so stunning.”

You grow shy with all the attention that Jeongguk feeds you. “Hi,” you whisper back. Your legs wrap tighter around his waist. 

“Can I take this off?” Jeongguk glides a finger beneath the strap of your dress.

There’s a rush in your head, feeling dizzy upon nodding your head with so much vigor. 

His lips pair with yours in a quick kiss before calling you a good girl. He shifts his weight off of you so that he can tug you into an upright position and peel the dress off. 

Jeongguk’s eyes widen at your bare chest, having omitted a bra so as to not ruin the outfit. His throat goes dry, and he’s having trouble forming words in his head. You’ve never seen him so speechless. 

Subconsciously, you raise your arms to cover your chest. 

“No, no, no, don’t do that.” Jeongguk wraps his fingers around your wrists, pressing a smooch to your delicate skin. “You’re so pretty like this. Don’t ever hide from me, okay?” 

His words make you shiver. Having someone dote on you as much as Jeongguk is something you’re not used to. But that’s exactly why you’re here, right? So you nod your head and let him pin your hands to the mattress before leading a trail of kisses down your body.

Curious fingers speak freely against your skin, exploring every inch of you. He takes note of every gasp, giggle, and moan that escapes your lips. He presses his swollen lips to your sensitive spots until you keen louder for him, desperately begging for more. His lips wrap around your nipple, sucking on the bud until you whimper. He’s a drooling mess over your tits as he leaves a trail of saliva, marking your skin and claiming you as his. 

Jeongguk furthers his descent down your tummy, placing sweet kisses against the waistband of your panties. He reaches down to feel the leather strap around your upper thigh. It’s the holster that you use to sheathe your knife, and thank God you disarmed before stepping into Jeongguk’s bedroom. 

“I use it to hold my pepper spray,” you murmur a half-ass excuse. “Some of my clothes have shallow pockets.” 

Jeongguk smiles against your skin as he ghosts his lips against your soft thighs. He doesn’t think much of it, but he does think it’s really hot. So he doesn’t bother to unstrap as he continues to worship your body. 

What catches his attention is not the way you’ve soaked through your underwear, as arousing as it is. But rather, he’s intrigued by the faint mark on the outside of your thigh. It’s not a regular, old scar. To Jeongguk, it’s oddly familiar because it’s what appears to be an old bullet wound. 

Jeongguk stutters in disbelief, eyes wide. “What’s this? W- were you sho-” He tries to mentally collect himself as he settles on a choice of words. “Were you hurt? Who hurt you?”

You look down, noticing the circular scar on your outer thigh before shaking it off. “It’s nothing. It was from an injection.” 

“Are you sure? It looks li- It looked serious.” His voice trembles with concern, hands fisting at his sides. 

You pull him up by the collar of his undone shirt, hanging off his broad shoulders. Your lips meet his in a delicate, comforting kiss. Jeongguk visibly relaxes in your hold.  

“I’m fine, really. I just want you.” You claw his shoulders in an attempt to peel the rest of the fabric off. 

Jeongguk sighs, trying to forget about what he had seen. But he’s certain that his mind will wander back to the scar at another point in time. He strips the shirt off his back, carelessly tossing the fabric onto the floor. 

Jeon Jeongguk is mesmerizing. You’ve never seen the entirety of his sleeve, but there it is, in all its glory. There’s a faint beauty mark on his chest, one that you did not account for when tracing all of the scars and marks on his upper body. 

“Tell me you want me,” his breath is hot and heavy against yours. 

Subconsciously, you clench at the sound of his words. “Guk- I want you more than anything.” Your hands float down to the buckle of his jeans as you unclasp the button. “You’re wearing too much. Take it off.” The plea that falls from your lips is breathy and desperate. 

“Fuck-” Jeongguk curses, trying to restrain himself.

Jeongguk has slept with plenty of women before, but never like this. He’s always had one night stands with an ulterior motive, whether it is for leverage or intel or for the sole purpose of converting an innocent woman into a whistleblower. He’s fucked with media journalists, cabinet members, and even the wives of politicians. He isn’t proud of it, but women, just like everyone else, are more likely to say things they don’t mean when their desires are fulfilled. They’re willing to trust him and spill their secrets when they’re lost in the throes of pleasure ー when he hands over his lust and his attention. It’s transactional. 

Jeongguk has always thought that love is cheap. But not with you. 

With you, Jeongguk has the innate need to take his time. He wants to show you what it means to make love. 

He hooks his hand beneath your panties, pulling them down your legs. There’s a string of arousal that breaks when he tugs the fabric off. It’s absolutely soaked in your arousal. Jeongguk’s lips press against every inch of your skin, leaving no spot untouched. 

You shudder when his hot breath meets your inner thighs, threatening to close them. He wraps his thick arms around your legs, digging his fingers into your hips, pinning you to the mattress. 

He keeps his eyes trained on your face as you tremble beneath his touch. He kitten licks your clit, careful as to not overwhelm you. But you quickly melt into the pillows, gripping his hair between your fingers.

Jeongguk wants to commit this to memory. The way that you look so angelic in this light. 

Quiet whimpers escape from your parted lips. “You don’t have to hold back,” he reminds you. “Be as loud as you want. Nobody’s home. We have all the time in the world, and I want you to feel good.” 

He wraps his lips around your clit, sucking softly on the bundle of nerves until you’re writhing against his mouth. Soon enough, you grind your hips, practically riding his face like a needy slut, desperate and wanting. 

The moans slip out of your mouth freely, and Jeongguk grows harder at how pretty you are, lost in pleasure. He begins to rut his hips against the mattress, seeking some kind of relief for his aching cock. 

His tongue slips between your walls, licking up the arousal that seeps down your thighs. His chin is coated in your wetness, and he’s utterly obsessed with your taste. 

Your nails dig into his hair, pulling on the roots. He elicits a moan against your core, and you’re muttering apologies, “sorry, ‘m sorry.” Yet you continue to grind your cunt against his tongue, proving that you’re not sorry at all.  

Your grip loosens, but Jeongguk whines at the loss of tension. “Feels good, angel, don’t stop.” 

He quickly grabs your hands and places them on the top of his head, encouraging you to tug as hard as you want. He’s obsessed with your taste, but he’s also addicted to the pain that you inflict on him. 

He dips his tongue between your walls, reaching as far as he can go. He smiles against your core as if he’s the one enjoying himself ー and truly, he is. He can’t get enough of you. Jeongguk loves to bury his face into your sweet pussy, making out with your cunt. His chin is doused in your essence, and he wants more. He needs to see you dripping in cum so he can taste you straight from the source. 

“Guk, it feels weird,” you choke on your words, pressing your hands against your tummy. The tears cascade down your cheeks as your high builds in the pit of your stomach.

“Shh, shh, angel,” he hushes before dropping a thick glob of spit onto your entrance. He can’t believe that you’ve never come in your life. Have you never played with your cute little cunt before? 

Jeongguk laps your clit while he works a finger into you, gliding between your tight walls. He pushes another one in, watching you stretch around his digits. In the back of his mind, he wonders how you’ll be able to take his cock when you can hardly take his fingers. He curls them inside of you, slowly adding a third. 

You will yourself to pick your head up, allowing your gaze to meet his. The sight before you is filthy beyond belief. You can’t believe that Jeongguk is making out with your naughty pussy, and you love it. His fingers are gliding inside of you, reaching places you’ve never reached before. He’s humping the mattress, trying to satiate his throbbing cock that’s leaking through his boxers. 

“Guk- love, I-”

“Just let go. Come for me,” his husky voice vibrates against your cunt. 

At the sound of his command, you unravel on his tongue, shuddering beneath his strong hold. Your cunt pulses as waves of pleasure rip through you. Soft moans flow through your parted lips, and it’s suddenly Jeongguk’s new favorite melody. 

He watches you fall apart with hearts in his eyes. His hands wrap around your thighs, holding you in place as he fucks you through your climax. You’ve never felt a sensation this strong before. It doesn’t even compare when you’re high on adrenaline. 

Yet Jeongguk laps your pussy as if he’s a puppy, so eager to please you as he collects all of your cum on his tongue. He wants you as much as you’ll allow. Before the overstimulation sets in, you have to weakly tap his shoulder, pushing him away as your thighs close around his head. 

He presses a smooch to your clit before finally pulling back. “How did that feel?” 

“Never felt anything like that before,” you gasp, trying to catch your breath. “C- can you show me how to touch you too?” The innocent look in your eyes drives him absolutely mad. “Wanna make you feel good.” You palm him through his boxers, and he groans at your touch. 

Fuck. “Tonight’s about you, angel.” Jeongguk curses at himself because you look so pretty batting your eyelashes at him. You’re practically begging to suck him off, and he can’t bring himself to say yes. Your hands dip beneath his underwear, gliding your hands up and down his throbbing cock. 

Jeongguk thinks that he might be in heaven. “Aren’t you too tired? I’ve already made you come once.” 

But you shake your head, “I want more, please? I can take it. Will you please give it to me?”

“I- I don’t have a condom,” he confesses. 

“Don’t care, I need you.” Your hands roam across the planes of his chest before settling on the back of his neck. You pull him closer until your lips brush against his. “Need you so bad…” You subconsciously roll your hips, grinding your bare cunt against his thigh, pleading ー begging for him to sink his cock inside of you to relieve the ache. “It hurts,” you murmur. 

What else is Jeongguk supposed to do when his baby is aching, begging and pleading for his help? So he pulls his cock out of his boxers, tossing the offensive material out of the way. Your mouth waters as your eyes meet his length. 

“It’s not gonna fit,” you shake your head. Surely, he could split you open with his sheer girth. “You’re too big.”

Jeongguk wraps his hand around his length, jerking himself off before pressing the length of his thick cock onto your stomach, measuring how deep he could possibly go. The pretty tip rests against your belly button. Jeon Jeongguk could actually break you, and you would let him. 

“Are you sure you want to do this? We can stop-” 

You shake your head with desperate vigor, and your imploring hands reach for his broad shoulders. “Just- just go slow, okay?”

Jeongguk pairs his lips with yours in a sweet kiss, “I’ll take care of you. I promise.” He releases a thick glob of spit onto your cunt before rubbing the tip of his cock against your core, spreading the sloppy mess across your mound. He drags his tip against your lips before slowly pushing into your soaked cunt. 

You gasp upon feeling the intrusion, squeezing your eyes shut. 

Jeongguk nibbles the column of your neck, whispering quiet praises against your skin to distract you from the discomfort. He looks down to see barely half of his length tucked inside of you, yet your walls are stretched to accommodate him. At the pit of your stomach, there’s a bulge where the tip of his cock prods against your cunt. It protrudes against your tummy, leaving an indentation. He can quite literally watch his dick plow into you.

“Angel, look at how well you take me,” he groans. 

You will yourself to open your eyes, seeing how he stuffs you to the brim. The visual is so filthy. 

“God, I’ve been dreaming of this.” Jeongguk drops another glob of spit where his length meets your cunt, allowing the glide to be more effortless. The way that your pretty pussy struggles to make room for him is the hottest thing he’s ever seen. His eyes roll back as he squeezes your waist, trying to regain an ounce of composure. 

“You’ve been thinking about this? About us?” You clench upon hearing his deepest desires. 

He curses under his breath, not knowing how much longer he’d last if you’re already this tight wrapped around his cock. “You have no idea-” When he rests his head against your shoulder, panting, another inch sinks inside of you. “Sorry, ‘m sorry. You just feel so fucking good.” 

His rough hands wander across your body, mapping every inch of your skin, committing it to memory. Jeongguk taps his fingers against your lips as he requests you to ‘open up.’ As obedient as you are, you part your lips, allowing him to slip his digits inside.

“Suck on my fingers,” he coos as he pushes himself further into your sweet pussy. “That’s my good girl.” He pulls his calloused fingers out of your mouth, and they find home onto your clit as he rubs figure eights onto your bundle of nerves. It serves as a distraction from the slight sting of resistance where his cock stretches your walls. 

But for Jeongguk, this feels like heaven. He resists the urge to sheathe himself into your virgin cunt, down to the hilt. “Can’t believe that I get to see you like this.” 

Jeongguk seriously can’t believe how fortunate he is that he’s your first. Nobody has ever touched you the way that Jeongguk does. Nobody will ever fuck you or make you come the way that he will. And certainly, nobody will ever get to see you act like a desperate little slut. You belong to Jeongguk just as he belongs to you. And this is the privilege he gets when you’re his wife. 

You watch his face twist in concentration as he works himself into you. His biceps bulge, and his skin dimples beneath the pressure of your fingers when you squeeze his arm. They feel so rock solid beneath your touch. So strong and so, so reliable like the Jeongguk you know and love. You whimper simply because he’s hot, and you could never resist him. 

“S- something wrong?” He stills his hips inside of you, and his cock pulses. 

“N- no,” you whine, shaking your head. “Just wanna hold your hand.” You scratch down his biceps as you paw at his chest. Even when he’s buried inside of you, it’s still not enough. You need him, and you need all of him. 

He grabs both of your hands, softly squeezing them as he pins them on either side of your head. Jeongguk cages you against the mattress as he presses his body weight against yours, plunging his cock deeper and deeper between your walls, inch by inch. 

Your chest heaves when his hips press against yours, completely buried inside of you, and a silent cry slips past your lips. Tears begin to form in the corner of your eyes. 

“Just breathe for me, angel, okay? Relax, ease up for me. I know it’s uncomfortable now, but you’ll feel so good, I swear.”

You nod your head, and you can’t help but cry. You just feel so full. Two twin tears trail down your cheeks, and Jeongguk is quick to kiss them away.

He soothes his thumb over the back of your hand as he praises you. “You’re doing so well for me. Such a good girl. You can take it, right? You can take it all for me.” 

You nod your head, letting the tears fall down like summer rain. “I can take it, I swear-” You sound so choked up, and it’s probably due to the fact that Jeongguk is so fucking deep, you can practically feel him in your throat. 

“Move, please, I need you so bad.” The broken sob rips out of your throat as you cry in desperation.

He pulls out with a shallow thrust, wanting to be as close to you as possible. Looking down, he can see where his cock fucks into you, where there’s a bulge that shadows every single one of his thrusts. He takes your hand down to rub over the protrusion. 

“Can you feel me? Right here?” He quickly slides out of you before pressing his hips flush against yours in one swift motion. 

A deep groan rumbles through his chest, sending a deep vibration through your body. His breath is hot against your lips, and you can actually feel him in your tummy. You can feel him everywhere. 

“How’s it, angel?” 

“Feels full-” you manage to choke the words out of your mouth. 

“Too much?” Jeongguk asks. His breath is shaky as he plows his hips against yours. His cock twitches inside of you, and he really doesn’t want to pull out. But if you had asked, he wouldn’t hesitate to do so. 

Thank God for your insatiability because you shake your head as you bring your intertwined hand to your lips, pressing a kiss to his skin. “Feels good- keep going, please,” you beg. 

“See? I knew you could take it like a good girl.” 

Soon enough, the discomfort subsides, and all you can feel is pleasure in the pit of your stomach. Jeongguk fucks into you until he bottoms out, prodding at the spot that has you seeing stars. Your eyes begin to cross, obsessed with the way he fills you up, turning you into a stuttering mess. 

“Oh my god, feels s’ good, Guk- Don’t stop,” you cry, wrapping your legs tightly around his waist to keep him close. 

Your mouth falls open and drool begins to slip from the corner of your lips. Jeongguk wedges his tongue into your mouth, swirling your spit and saliva together into one hungry mess. 

He shifts his attention to your sensitive neck as he sucks on the column of your throat. A mark begins to bloom above your collarbone. If anyone were to doubt your marriage and the fact that you belonged to Jeongguk, there would be no reason to do so now. 

The only thing you can focus on is the way that Jeongguk pokes your cervix, and you want nothing more but for him to flood your womb. Your heavy lidded eyes fall shut, your head lolls, and your cheek rests against the pillow. 

But Jeongguk refuses to let you look away. His hand hooks around your jaw, and his fingers dig into your cheek. “Look at me,” he demands. “Want to see you when you come.” He lifts your face off the pillow and presses his lips against yours. 

Jeongguk gives deep and pointed thrusts into your cunt. He grips your hands so tightly, but you welcome the embrace. His hips snap against yours, rutting into your battered hole as you desperately chase your high. 

“‘m sorry, princess, am I too rough?” He mouths against your lips. “Just f- feels so good around me. So tight n’ warm. You’re s’ perfect.” 

You shake your head in desperation. “N- no, I love it-” You love him. “I’m close,” you cry, overwhelmed with emotions. 

“Come for me, angel,” he groans into your ear, pressing kisses against your nose, your cheek, your lips. He squeezes your hands, never letting you go. 

He pounds into you once, twice, three-four times, bullying his cock into you, and you come undone with the rough snap of his hips. You tremble in his arms, feeling this orgasm tenfold compared to the last. Cum begins to seep out of your cunt, drenching Jeongguk’s cock until there’s a ring of cream at the base of his length. 

You tight little cunt clenches around him as if you never want him to leave. He finds it hard to breathe when you look so beautiful, so pretty, and just so cute caged beneath him. As much as he wants to come inside of you and stuff you full, Jeongguk is quick to pull out when he feels his climax approach. He glides his cock against your cunt, rutting against your lips. He paints your stomach with ribbons of white cum, groaning at the lewdness of it all. 

Thoughts of Jeongguk breeding your cunt flashes through your mind ー having him flood you with cum round after round until you can have a happy little family of four. 

Obscene images of you doing this again and again in different positions send your mind racing. You want him to bury himself to the hilt with your knees pinned against your chest. If only he could flood your womb as he holds you by the back of your thighs in a mating press. Maybe you can come when you’re on all fours, on your hands and knees. Or you could take him down your throat as deep as you can go, choking and gagging on his length with saliva dribbling out of your lips. Although you’re certain that you could barely take half of him considering his size and your inexperience. But Jeongguk can teach you, and you can practice night after night until he absolutely ruins you. 

“So much cum,” you murmur, admiring the liquid that rests on your tummy. You swipe your fingers across your stomach before sticking them in your mouth. Jeongguk’s cock twitches at the sight of you so desperate for a taste. 

He presses a kiss to your forehead, “How was it?” 

“Can we do it again?” Your eyes glimmer with wishful thinking. It’s safe to say that you had the best night of your life. 

Jeongguk sputters a laugh, shaking his head. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” 

He carries you to the bathroom, making sure you use the toilet to prevent UTIs. Meanwhile, he runs a bath for you where he lathers lavender shampoo in your hair and rubs the knots from your sore shoulders, down to your hips and legs. Between soft giggles and splashes of water, you share sweet kisses and loving stares. Before your fingers can prune, Jeongguk lifts you out of the tub and dries you off with a warm towel. 

The two of you tangle beneath the sheets. But before you fall asleep to the sound of one another’s heartbeat, you ask Jeongguk the question that’s been on your mind. 

“I was just wondering… Do you like to be called daddy?” 

His lips meet your forehead before tucking you closer to his chest. “Go to sleep, angel. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.” 

Jeongguk, in fact, does like to be called daddy among a plethora of other vulgar words. This vital piece of information is not necessary for the Hwa Yang interview, but you tuck that specific fact into the recesses of your brain for future reference. 

Because the truth is, you don’t have enough time to memorize Jeongguk’s life story. You can save that for another day. The Hwa Yang interview is in less than a week, and you have to save all of your brain space for relevant ー appropriate information. Such as the values of your family and the importance of education in your lives. 

Thankfully, as Jeongguk’s informant, Seokjin managed to snag sample questions that the interviewers are likely to ask: What type of person do you want your child to grow up to be? What is your child’s school experience like thus far? What are some habits you practice to help your child acclimate to the academic rigor of this school? 

So Jeongguk, Minji, and you work tirelessly to come up with the perfect answers that give the impression that you are a family exuding elegance. In the eyes of the admissions director, it basically means that you have to rival the royal family. 

Minji should have interests beyond her plushies and her manhwas, something along the lines of tennis, horseback riding, or crossword puzzles. She has to continue with her studies ー global history, foreign affairs, music theory, and yes, even her sworn enemy, mathematics. At the mere age of five, she should obtain fluency in a second language (which is apparently really impressive if you’re the royal heir to the British empire). 

All of this preparation proves to be handy because at the academy, the board of interviewers ask about Minji’s interests and her hobbies. They want to know what type of learner she is and how she can contribute to the fast paced learning environment. 

Although Minji is exceptional as she is, you can’t help but wonder why a child has to be a prodigy to be deemed as someone worthy of a good education. What’s wrong with simply existing? What’s wrong with being average? Because if the price of being average is being a decent human being, you would rather take your chances at a different school. 

The sound of the headmaster’s voice breaks you out of your reverie. “I want to ask Minji what a typical day in the household looks like.”

She straightens her posture upon hearing her name. “I start the day when eomma wakes me up and helps me get ready for kindergarten. She double checks to make sure my homework and my school supplies are in my bag. She also packs extra clothes for me just in case. Appa makes breakfast in the kitchen, and when we finish eating, they walk me to school-” 

The headmaster crinkles his brows. A look of confusion crosses his features. “Does your father always cook for the family?” 

“Yes, appa usually cooks because eomma works really hard. Sometimes, she comes home with aches and pains because of all the energy she uses.” Minji shifts her gaze to her father, trying to gauge whether her answer is acceptable. Meanwhile, your eyes are filled with concern, worried she’ll somehow expose your criminal history. “But eomma always helps when she can. She goes to the market, and she does the laundry. She also makes tea for appa and hot chocolate for me. She helps me with my homework even if I don’t like fractions.” Minji says the last part in a hushed whisper. 

“Really? Is your mother someone you aspire to be? Despite your father being the one to prepare your meals? It’s rather untraditional.” 

“I don’t believe that question is pertinent to the interview. It’s quite leading,” Jeongguk states. His voice doesn’t falter, but there’s animosity in every breath that he takes. “I can assure you that my wife is a wonderful mother and role model to our daughter. Now may we please refocus our attention on Minji and her academics?” Jeongguk’s eyebrows furrow, and he is seething. He balls his hands into fists, resisting the urge to throw a right hook at the man across the table. 

Instinctually, your fingers inch across the settee, reaching for Jeongguk’s hand in order to soothe his nerves. His shoulders relax upon feeling the heat of your skin as if to quietly remind him that everything is okay. 

“Of course, I apologize.” The headmaster says diplomatically before jotting down a few words into his notebook. He raises his nose in the air as if he’s on some high horse.

The interview persists until the end of the hour, and Jeongguk remains at the edge of his seat. He holds his hand in yours to keep his composure intact. Thankfully, the dean of admissions and the executive advisor have more tasteful questions to ask. 

However, it doesn’t last long. The headmaster intercepts once again. “Mrs. Jeon, I noticed that your documents indicate you are Minji’s stepmother, correct? Do you ever feel some kind of disconnect considering that you are not her biological mother?” 

You’re taken aback by this impromptu question. You didn’t prepare an answer for this, although your natural response would be to wrap your hands around this man’s bare neck, wringing it dry. Yet you remain composed for the sake of Jeongguk and Minji. You can feel Jeongguk hold your hand tighter in his. But you pat his wrist, serving as both a warning and a comforting acknowledgement. 

“I love Minji as a daughter, just as any other mother. To me, it doesn’t matter if she’s not my blood relative. We’ve grown really close ever since we’ve met. I admit that I have never been a mom myself, and I’m faced with a new learning curve every single day. But isn’t that what motherhood is? It’s nothing I’m not used to. Growing up, I raised my younger brother. At work, I take care of children from all different backgrounds. Surely, I make mistakes, but I think every parent leaves a mark on their child no matter what they do. Sometimes it’s a stain. Other times it’s a break, a bend, or a crack. Other parents can splinter their kids, but I hope that I never get to that point. I’m not perfect, but I’m constantly trying to be better. I love Minji more than anything.” 

“So you never feel any sense of inadequacy or resentment?” The headmaster has the audacity to question your parenting skills. 

Jeongguk cannot stand to hear the headmaster criticize you anymore. In a blink of an eye, he slams his fist against the coffee table. The wood splits in half beneath the brute force of his hand, and you’re quite impressed by the display of action. 

“This is wildly inappropriate for an interview. This entire time, you’ve done nothing but berate my wife because we do not have a conventional family. We’re not wealthy people. We work hard for what we do. We take care of one another in a way that only we know and understand. If you can’t accept that, then maybe this is not the school that we want our child to be enrolled in.” Jeongguk’s chest heaves as he says his peace. 

He doesn’t even take another moment to listen to the headmaster. There’s nothing he could say that could warrant forgiveness. So Jeongguk picks up his daughter, and he grabs your hand before storming out of the interview room. 

Jeongguk is going to have a difficult time explaining to his boss why he’s failed his mission.

“I’m sorry I messed up Minji’s chance of going to Hwa Yang.” You tug at the sleeves of your dress as you stare at the floor.

Back at Jeongguk’s apartment, you sink into the couch, allowing the weight of the situation to finally settle. 

Jeongguk rests his hand on your shoulders, turning you so that you can meet his gaze. “You didn’t mess up anything.” His eyes are filled with warmth, but you feel as if you don’t deserve it. 

“We worked so hard for this, and it was all for nothing.” 

There’s still residual rage that flows through his veins. “Nothing? Don’t say that. Don’t you know that I lo-” 

Your heart lurches out of your chest as you stare at him in awe. He loves you? 

Jeongguk’s hands shift to hold your cheeks, running his calloused thumb against the edge of your jaw. He sighs, trying to collect his thoughts. “We have each other, and that’s all that matters at the end of the day, okay? We couldn’t anticipate that they’d be so cruel. I would defend you over anything in this world. So don’t you dare say that this was all for nothing.”

He pulls you into a tight hug, tucking your head beneath his chin. You can hear the sound of his heart beat, beating only for you. It’s distracting enough for you to miss his whispered declaration: “I’m seriously gonna marry you someday.” 

Minji climbs onto the couch, wedging herself between her parents. “If I don’t get accepted, I don’t have to go to school, right?” 

The two of you peel away from the embrace, glaring at Minji, shaking your heads. “No, you have to go,” you simultaneously declare with stern conviction. 

Minji huffs a sigh, looking downcast. But when her stomach grumbles, you effectively put an end to your pity party. You and Jeongguk drop everything, scurrying into the kitchen to prepare dinner for your precious daughter. She worked hard, and she did her very best. You all did. 

…

Tucked away into the busy streets of Seoul, there’s a tiny little apartment on the second story filled with music and laughter. 

While the water boils for the buckwheat noodles, Jeongguk watches over his precious family, reading the instructions for the sauce. All you need is a mixture of perilla oil, cham sauce, buldak sauce, buldak mayo, egg yolk, and a generous amount of furikake. But when you and Minji measure out everything to perfection, you cheer for one another as if you’ve made a meal worthy of praise from the world renown Gordon Ramsey. 

When the noodles are ready, you all gather around the table and laugh to your heart's content. You fill your stomachs with starch, a heavy amount of spice, and plenty of love. You dote on one another, too distracted with the loving family you’ve created to notice anything outside of your little bubble. 

This moment is yours, and yours alone. This is your happy place, and nobody can take it away from you. Not even the sound of the answering machine, echoing from the quaint living room.

“Due to your family’s impressive display of integrity at the institution’s interview, I would like to extend an offer to enroll Jeon Minji into the prestigious Hwa Yang Academy. Congratulations, and we hope to hear from you soon.” 

[punkshort]

i know who you are | 4. the others

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Chapter Summary: Winter begins to wrap its arms around Jackson, filling the town with snow and a nasty flu. Joel takes you to meet Ben and Lisa, and you finally discover more about your past.

Chapter Warnings: language, angst, amnesia, sad!joel, pining, sexual tension, slow burn, jealousy

WC: 9K

Series Masterlist

You looked happy.

Ever since you began working at the infirmary, you seemed happier. Like you were grateful to have a purpose. A way to contribute. To give back to the community that supported you.

You smiled more and you didn't shy away from him as much as you used to and it gave Joel hope. Every time you saw him and greeted him with a smile or said goodbye with a squeeze of his shoulder, it made his heart flutter. It's been weeks. Months, technically. But he was making some progress.

It was the first snowfall of the season and it put you in an even better mood than usual. Your face was pressed up against the window as he tended to the fire behind you, and you watched as the big, fluffy flakes of snow fell from the sky, coating Jackson in a perfect blanket of pure white.

"I didn't get much snow where I'm from," you told him over your shoulder. He knew that already, but he humored you.

"That so?"

"Mhmm. When I was a kid, though, we got hit with this freak storm. No one knew what to do. No one owned shovels or snow blowers or any of that, so we were all stuck inside our houses until the storm ended and everything melted," you said, turning away from the window so you could curl up on the couch, then pausing for a moment before tilting your head to the side. "Did I tell you this already?"

Yes, he thought, but he shook his head, eager for you to continue. He just loved hearing you talk, no matter what you said. Besides, if you were expected to rebuild your relationship, sharing your past would naturally be part of that, so he encouraged you to tell stories, even if he's heard them before.

"So, what happened?" he asked, putting the poker back in the stand and getting up with a groan, his knees cracking a bit before he settled in on the other end of the couch.

"Well, the power went out," you said, and he could hear the excitement in your voice, delighted to be telling him something you thought he didn't already know, and it made his heart swell. "So we didn't have any heat or any way to cook our food. We set up camping tents in the middle of our living room and slept in there with, like, five blankets each. And we lived off pop-tarts and granola bars and peanut butter sandwiches for two days til the power came back on."

"Two days?" Joel repeated, and you nodded.

"Yeah, but it was fun. As a kid, you know? I'm sure my parents were freaking out but me and Matty were excited. We played board games and ate by candlelight and told ghost stories," you said wistfully, your eyes looking miles away. "We talked about that for years," you finished softly, and Joel smiled.

"I didn't get much snow where I'm from, either," he told you, and your eyes met his again.

"Texas, right?" and he nodded. "Did you live there your whole life?"

Something deep inside him sparked with a mix of nerves and excitement. It felt like you were meeting all over again, and while it was under less than ideal circumstances, he couldn't help but feel those butterflies you feel when you first meet someone new.

"Yep, my whole life. Tommy, too, except for when he was in the army."

"Were you in the army?" you asked, but he quickly shook his head.

"Nah. Wasn't my scene. Besides, I had Sarah."

"Oh, right," you said, feeling stupid for asking. You dropped your attention to your hands, which were twisted in your lap, as you thought about your next question.

"How old was she?" you asked quietly, still looking down and avoiding his gaze, but you heard him take a deep breath.

"She was twelve when she died," he told you, his words hanging heavy in the air and he could see the conflict in your face as you tried to figure out a way to learn more about him without reopening old wounds. "It's okay, I don't mind talkin' 'bout her."

"Did we used to talk about her?" you asked him curiously, finally looking up to meet his gaze.

He shrugged. "Sometimes. But not at first. Still hurt too much back then, y'know?"

"Yeah," you breathed, your mind now drifting to thoughts of your own family. Were you together when they died? Did you see it? If so, was it some sort of sick twist of luck that you now couldn't remember?

"What was your favorite thing to do together?" you asked, watching as his eyes found a fixed point on the wall while he considered your question.

"My favorite thing was hiking. Hers was goin' to the movies or the mall, most likely," he said with a soft chuckle. "I didn't mind, though. I was just happy she still wanted to be seen with her old man at that age. Makes me wonder if she felt bad for me or somethin'."

You furrowed your brow, confused. "Why would she feel bad for you?"

He sighed and scratched the back of his neck. "I didn't date much. Had a few poker buddies but I mostly spent my time with Tommy. Just worked so hard back then that I was too tired to do much else."

"And you were a contractor?" you asked, trying to remember the small pieces of information you picked up over the last two months. He nodded.

"Yeah, me and Tommy had our own business. That was a lifetime ago. Can't imagine doin' that kind of work now, not with my back," he said with a smile.

Joel's eyes flicked to the window over your shoulder, watching as the snow continued to come down, the window panes growing foggy in the corners. "Looks like we ain't goin' anywhere for a while," he said, changing the subject. You followed his gaze and nodded.

"What about Ellie? Is she okay back there?"

"Yeah, she'll be alright. She could make it up to the house if she got too cold," he assured you.

So, you were essentially snowed in. All alone.

You could feel his eyes on you as you watched the fire and you wondered if he was thinking about an alternate reality. One where you didn't have an accident. Where you remembered everything. One where you loved him the way he so obviously loved you, and what you might be doing differently in that very moment. You had a feeling your hunch was correct because he stretched his arm across the back of the couch and subtly inched a little closer towards you, the worn cushions dipping from his weight and causing your leg to bob.

Your body stiffened and your heart suddenly felt like it was being crushed in your throat. He was so patient, you had to give him credit. It couldn't be easy for him, and although you could finally admit to yourself that you found him attractive, you still didn't think you trusted him enough to take things any further. Not yet. Not when you still had so many questions. Your eyes drifted up to meet his and as you expected, he was watching you closely. Carefully. Trying to read you the same way you were trying to read him. The problem was, every time he looked at you that way, with his eyes all soft and filled with adoration, you could only think about what he was hiding. What did he lie about? And why was he so hesitant for you to meet Ben and Lisa?

Joel leaned in a fraction and his fingers tightened their hold on the back of the couch. He wanted to kiss you. He's wanted to kiss you ever since that day in the field right before that clicker ruined the moment. And with the soft glow from the fire and the snow falling silently outside, it felt like the perfect moment. He was terrified of making things worse after he finally felt like he made some progress, but it was killing him. He missed having you so fucking much, sometimes it felt like it actually caused him physical pain. Like his chest would explode one day.

He swallowed nervously and inched a little closer and you panicked. Just as he was about to say something, you cut him off.

"Do you wanna play a board game?"

He raised his eyebrows in surprise and you gave him a nervous smile.

"Sure," he replied, watching as you jumped off the couch to look through the games stacked on the bookcase. He groaned inwardly and rubbed his chin when you bent over and he had to force himself to look away before his body reacted, praying you didn't pick Twister.

It took two days but the snow finally stopped. Ellie did eventually make her way to the house by the second day, simply because she was bored, so you helped Joel make a vegetable soup while Ellie set up the Monopoly board in the living room. You didn't have all the pieces, but you had enough, and what you didn't have you supplemented with buttons.

You didn't realize it; too caught up in cooking and the joy it used to bring you, but you and Joel worked together seamlessly in the kitchen. He chopped up zucchini while you diced onion and watched the pot on the stove that was cooking up noodles, slipping past each other to get to the sink and the cupboards and it all just felt so fucking normal that it made his chest ache. He wanted to draw your attention to it. He wanted to take you by the shoulders and say See? See how good we are together? But he didn't. He bit his tongue and bided his time until you came to that conclusion on your own, just like the first time.

But the first time was different. At least back then, you showed him affection. You kissed him and held him and shared your body with him and although you didn't want much more, not at first, eventually you did. And those moments in his bed were enough to hold him over until you opened your eyes and saw what was right in front of you.

He was selfish. He knew it was wrong to want you like that right now, but he wanted all of you, not just physically. He yearned to know what was going on behind your eyes, what you were thinking and feeling. What you thought of him. But if you would maybe just let yourself fall asleep in his arms on the couch while you read in front of the fire, or let him kiss you, just once, then maybe you would see it again. Feel it again.

"What the hell does a purple button mean?" you asked with a giggle, holding up the smooth, round plastic between your fingers.

"It's a hotel, duh!" Ellie said, grinning and rolling her eyes.

"Wait, why am I goin' to jail?"

"You rolled doubles three times in a row!" you told him, and you and Ellie bent over laughing at the confused expression on his face.

He made a disgruntled noise and moved his token to the corner of the board as he watched you and Ellie giggling and wiping tears from your eyes and fuck, it was nice. In another world, he would have made some joke about you being the one in handcuffs and maybe later he would have followed through with it and tied your wrists to the headboard, burying his face between your thighs until you couldn't take it anymore.

But instead, he just watched two of the people he loved most in the world have fun, the orange glow from the fire flickering over your smiling faces while the snow finally came to a stop outside.

Ellie had trekked back to the garage once the game was over. It was late, you looked tired, but he still suggested putting a movie on. He wasn't ready to let you go. He hated going to bed all alone. You seemed to consider his offer for a moment before you shook your head and yawned, and although he knew that would likely be your answer, he still felt his heart sink.

He walked you to your bedroom and as he was about to say goodnight, hoping to minimize the hurt by making it quick, you did something that surprised him. You pulled him into a hug, standing on your tiptoes, your chin resting on his shoulder with your arms wrapped around his neck, body pressed firmly against his and just as quickly as it happened, you pulled away. Joel was so stunned he wasn't sure he hugged you back, even though he stood cemented to the floor well after you went to bed, replaying the hug over and over, all he could remember was how he felt. And he went to bed that night with renewed hope blooming in his chest. Maybe you were finally coming around.

So the next morning when you asked him out of the blue if you could visit Ben and Lisa once the streets cleared of snow, he had a hard time finding a reason to say no. He should have known you wouldn't let it go, but he did hold out hope that maybe you moved on from the idea since it had been a few weeks when you last mentioned them.

He agreed, of course, not wanting to ruin the delicate foundation of your relationship. Besides, he already decided he would go with you and make sure they didn't tell you anything you weren't ready to hear.

The snow had melted enough where the road was visible again, but the snowbanks still piled high around the buildings and houses and you felt strangely nervous as you followed Joel down the street. He had finally agreed to take you to meet Ben and Lisa, and while you were grateful he didn't have the reaction he had the first time you mentioned them, you still wondered what caused that outburst.

You tried to convince yourself that maybe he was just tired and cranky that day, having just gotten back from patrol for the fourth day in a row. But something still felt... off.

"Wow, when Ellie said they lived on the outskirts, she wasn't kidding," you said, realizing you were reaching an edge of Jackson you had yet to explore.

"Yeah, they tend to keep to themselves," he replied without further explanation. He didn't seem agitated, but he definitely wasn't happy about going to see them. He seemed more quiet and subdued than usual.

Finally, you arrived at a quaint looking cottage tucked back from the road a ways. Like Ellie had said, it was small, but it looked cozy. You could see the smoke pluming from the chimney and you couldn't wait to warm up again.

There was no porch. Just a small roof over the front door and a folding chair that looked like it had seen better days. He knocked firmly on the door and after a moment, you heard light shuffling on the other side.

The door cracked open and you were greeted by a short woman around your age with dull, brown hair and bright green eyes. She saw Joel first and, like most people in town, she hesitated. But then she noticed you next to him and her expression changed. A wide smile stretched across her face and she said your name softly, then held her arms out for a hug.

"It's so good to see you," she said in your ear, giving you a tight squeeze before turning around and ushering you both inside. "Come in, come in, it's freezing out there. Ben! You'll never guess who's here!"

You both stepped inside and as you were slipping off your outerwear, you glanced around the small space. It was tight, but it was filled with warmth. The living room had two small, mismatched loveseats on either side of the stone fireplace. Two large bookshelves that were filled with so many books that the shelves were sagging stood on either side of the fire, and curiously you didn't notice a television anywhere in the room.

You heard a man's deep voice behind you say your name and you jumped in surprise. Turning around, you were pulled into another hug by who you could only assume was Ben. He was tall - taller than Joel - and you wondered how on earth such a small house could fit such a large man. He stepped away, his dark eyes glittering with his hands still on your shoulders, taking in your appearance as if you haven't seen them in years.

Maybe you haven't.

You were so focused on absorbing every little detail about the house and its residents that you didn't notice Joel's body stiffen next to you, his eyes glued to Ben's hands. And while Lisa seemed to have the same reaction to Joel that everyone else in town did, Ben, on the other hand, did not seem phased by his presence. In fact, he appeared pleased to see him. Once he dropped his hands from your shoulders, he stretched out a lanky arm and shook Joel's hand, giving him a kind smile which Joel had a hard time returning.

"What a wonderful surprise. Come, let's sit. Do you want coffee or tea?" Ben asked, his eyes drifting between you and Joel. You both shook your heads and Ben smiled warmly at you once again. Even though the living room was just a few feet away from the front door, Ben still rested his hand on your shoulder and guided you to one of the loveseats as if you might lose your way, only dropping his hold on you when he sat down across from you on the other one.

Joel eased himself down on the couch beside you, the space so small that he had no choice but to rest his leg against yours, and Lisa went to join Ben, the crackling fire between both loveseats warming you up right away.

"We heard you had an accident. How are you feeling?" Lisa asked, her voice so small and gentle compared to Ben's booming baritone.

"Better, thanks. But it's kind of why I'm here," you said, glancing over at Joel nervously, but he was staring silently at Ben, who still seemed unaffected.

Lisa tilted her head to the side and wrapped a hand around Ben's forearm, leaning into him a bit as she got more comfortable on the couch. You noticed for the first time a basket on the floor next to her feet filled with different colored yarn and half knitted projects tucked inside. "Oh?" she asked, then it seemed to dawn on her. "Oh! Is it... is it true? Do you really have memory loss?"

When you nodded, you noticed the flicker of pity across both their faces as they exchanged a somber look.

"I can only remember my life before the outbreak. My mom, dad and brother. I don't even remember what happened or how they died or how I managed to survive," you began, feeling yourself growing a little emotional. Joel must have sensed it in your tone because he squeezed your knee reassuringly, and when you glanced over at him, he had finally torn his eyes away from Ben to look at you with concern.

"It's been hard," Joel said, finally speaking up, addressing Ben and Lisa. "Lots of confusion, lots of missin' pieces. But she kept a journal. Turns out, she wrote 'bout you two, so that's why we're here," he finished, narrowing his eyes a bit at them.

"You wrote about us? How sweet," Ben said cheerily, running a hand through his dark blonde curls.

"Yes, but-"

"It wasn't anythin' that detailed," Joel said quickly, and you frowned at him. He sat back into the sofa and glanced over at you. "Right?"

"Yeah," you said slowly, dragging your eyes away from Joel and back to your hosts. "Just that we went fishing and it felt like old times," you continued, and they both smiled at the memory. The only sound in the room was the fire next to you, the wood popping loudly under the flames as you weighed your next question. "So I was hoping you might help tell me about myself before we arrived in Jackson. Is that... okay?"

Lisa shifted in her seat, a small smile still twitching at her lips as she gazed up at Ben, waiting for him to reply. He hesitated a moment and you thought you saw his eyes flicker to Joel before responding.

"Of course," Ben said, slapping the tops of his thighs, jostling loose Lisa's grip on his arm. He quickly picked her hand back up and brought her knuckles to his lips for a quick kiss, but your eyes were drawn to the unfamiliar symbol tattooed on the inside of her wrist, only made visible when Ben picked up her arm and her sleeve hung down.

"Can you tell me about when we first met?" you asked, figuring you should start at the beginning.

"Oh, what was it? Six or eight months after the outbreak, yeah?" Ben wondered aloud, looking to Lisa to confirm. She nodded and scratched her neck.

"Sounds about right."

You allowed yourself to feel a glimmer of excitement. There were two people right in front of you that could help fill in the blanks for the first five years after the outbreak, and you couldn't wait to hear more.

"We met in the Atlanta QZ," he began, but you quickly stopped him.

"QZ?"

"Quarantine Zone. All the major cities had 'em. Was meant to keep people safe from infected but the military ran most of 'em into the ground," Joel explained. "Treated people like cattle. Strict curfews. Barely enough rations to survive."

"It was awful," Lisa added solemnly.

"Was I alone?" you asked them, and Ben nodded. "Did I tell you anything about my family? How they died?"

Their eyes shifted to Joel for a moment before looking at one another.

"I thought you had said the infected got your mom on the first day. But your dad and brother..." Ben trailed off, looking down at his hands sadly. "They got caught out after curfew. It happened before we got there. They... were punished."

You frowned a little, looking to Joel to help shed some light on what Ben meant, but he was staring down at his feet.

"Punished?" you squeaked as your heart began to pound faster in your chest.

"Punishment for bein' out after curfew was death," Joel spoke up softly next to you.

You looked at all three of them, your eyes wide in disbelief. "Death? The military were killing people?"

"It was horrible. It's why we escaped," Lisa replied with tears in her eyes.

"Okay, then what?" you pressed, trying not to dwell too long on the thought of your father and brother being murdered by the very people who were supposed to protect them.

"After we escaped?" Ben clarified, and you nodded. He cleared his throat and averted his gaze. "We survived. Did what we had to do."

There it was again. Did what we had to do. The same thing Joel said when you brought up Lisa and Ben the first time.

You waited for him to elaborate but when it became apparent Ben had finished talking, you pushed him further. "Like what? What does that mean?"

"We laid low. Found some secluded spots in the wilderness and stuck it out for as long as we could," Lisa said, her eyes casually drifting between the two men. You looked at Joel, who was holding a steady glare at Ben and Lisa, but otherwise he was perfectly silent.

"For five years we just laid low? In the woods? The three of us?" you asked, and they could tell you knew they weren't telling you the whole truth. "What aren't you telling me? Did we do something bad? Did something happen?"

Joel shifted in his seat next to you but you kept your eyes pinned on Lisa and Ben, trying to read the expressions on their faces.

Ben was the first to fold. He dragged his eyes up to meet yours and gave you a half smile and shrug. "Yeah. I mean, everyone did bad things one time or another. It's impossible not to-"

"Like what?" you demanded. You could feel your anger building up now. "I'm not a child. Just tell me."

Ben sighed and looked at Joel once again, and this time you had enough.

"Why do you keep looking at him?"

Ben's eyes snapped back to you and he forced out a small chuckle, trying in vain to diffuse the tension in the room.

"You're our guests, so I'm looking at you both."

You weren't going to argue with him when it was clear he was looking at Joel for direction on what to say. It all made sense now. No wonder Joel didn't fight you on coming to visit them. He had planned all along to control the conversation and keep you in the dark and something inside you snapped.

Standing up from the couch suddenly, you looked down at Ben and Lisa, anger brimming in your eyes.

"Thanks," you spat, heading towards the front door. "Sorry to bother you both."

"It's no bother," Lisa said, her voice wavering as she followed you to the door. "Really. Stop by any time, it was nice to see you."

You scoffed and resisted the urge to roll your eyes as you shoved your boots and coat back on, doing your best to finish before Joel so you could get a head start back home.

Flinging open the door without another word, you took a deep breath and stormed down the street, the chilly winter air filling your lungs, trying to cool your anger from the inside out. But then you heard Joel's heavy footsteps crunching in the snow, hurrying to catch up to you, and your rage peaked again.

"You alright?" he asked when he found his place back by your side.

"No, I'm not alright," you seethed, staring straight ahead with your arms wrapped around your middle. "What was that back there?"

"What'dya mean?"

You skidded to a stop and glared at him, his cheeks pink from the cold and his chest rising and falling a little quicker than usual.

"You know what I mean. I'm not stupid, Joel. What don't you want me to know?"

He stared at you, his mouth opening and closing as he tried to figure out how to respond.

"I'm not-"

"Don't bullshit me!" you yelled, and when you remembered you were in the middle of the street, you lowered your voice. "They were clearly scared of you. You didn't want them to tell me something. It was so obvious, Joel! I hit my head but I'm not fucking blind."

"I didn't ask them to say or not say anythin'," he said truthfully.

You stared at one another, both watching as your exhale mixed together, little clouds swirling in between you before rising above your heads and disappearing, each waiting for the other to break first.

"Maybe I should move out," you finally said, voice filled with sadness. His face fell instantly.

"Why?"

"You know why. I don't think I can trust you. How can I, when I can't even get a simple answer out of you?" What did he lie about?

If you had stabbed him in the chest, it would have hurt less. His gaze fell to the ground and he felt his throat begin to constrict. He had to do something. He couldn't lose you. So he told you a half truth.

"You and Ben used to be a thing," he said, and your jaw dropped in surprise.

"What?"

He clenched his jaw and rolled his eyes. "Before you came to Jackson. You and him were a couple."

You looked away from him, taking a minute to wrap your mind around what he just told you. You supposed it would make sense. It would explain why Joel was so weird about bringing you to see them. Maybe you misread the tension in the room. Maybe the tension was about something else entirely.

"That's why you were acting so strange? That's why you were staring him down?" you asked. His answer was still difficult to believe. It explained Joel's behavior, but it didn't explain what bad things you had done and why nobody seemed willing to tell you what they were.

He shrugged and rubbed his hands together. "Can we talk about this at home? I'm freezin'," he said.

The walk afforded you more time to think now that you had this new piece of the puzzle. Ben did seem like your type: he was handsome and kind, but if you and Ben were together in the past, where did that leave Lisa? They were clearly an item now. Wouldn't that have made for a strange relationship between the three of you? Perhaps that's why you didn't see them often.

Joel let you stew in silence for the walk home, fucking praying what he told you would be enough to keep you from following through with your threat. Why did it feel like every time he made some progress with you, something happened that fucked everything up?

Maybe he should have just let them tell you the whole truth.

No, that would have been bad. You didn't trust him enough yet. You said it yourself. And if you were willing to move out over something like this, you certainly would never speak to him again if you knew the whole story.

He needed to earn your trust first but it was so fucking hard when you wouldn't let him in. When you found out the truth the first time, you were already months into a relationship with him. You were already sleeping together, and while it didn't evolve into anything more until later, it still helped build your trust in him when he finally told you the truth.

He didn't have that with you now, and for the first time he began to doubt his ability to make you fall in love with him again.

You huddled in front of the fire after the long walk home, the two of you remaining silent the entire way. Joel was in the kitchen, most likely avoiding you and your questions while you warmed up. You weren't even going to bother bringing up the topic again, but Joel surprised you by doing it himself.

"I'm sorry. 'Bout earlier," he said from the entryway. You turned from the fire to look at him. He looked worried. His eyes were wide and his brow was knit while his hands fidgeted at his sides.

"Why didn't you just tell me?" you asked, and he sighed.

"Dunno. Guess I was hopin' you'd let it go or change your mind," he said, ticking his jaw to the side.

"What would it have even mattered? I don't remember him, I don't remember what we had together. I certainly don't have feelings for him," you told him, sitting down on the couch and tucking your legs underneath you.

He looked around the room nervously as you waited for an answer that wasn't coming.

You sighed and rubbed your eyes. "If this is going to work, you need to be honest with me-"

"I was scared, alright?" he said abruptly. You watched him hang his head between his shoulders and take a deep breath before collapsing into the arm chair next to the couch. "I was scared you'd maybe remember him or..." he trailed off, finding it difficult to put into words what he was thinking. And although it wasn't the whole truth, it still was the truth. He was afraid this version of you would want someone like Ben and not like him.

He was afraid of losing you.

You seemed to understand because you didn't ask him to finish his thought. Instead, since he was opening up, you asked him something else that was bothering you.

"What did I do?"

He looked at you curiously, not following at first until you continued.

"Ben said I did bad things. We all did bad things to survive. What did he mean?"

Joel swallowed and thought about his answer for a moment. You sighed, growing impatient.

"You can't keep the truth from me forever. I'll find out one day, just tell -"

"You killed people," he told you, and you completely lost your train of thought. You searched his face as all of the air rushed out of your lungs, the weight of his words hanging heavy in the air.

"I killed people?" you repeated, your voice barely a whisper, and he nodded slowly. You felt the tears begin to well up in your eyes but you blinked them away. What kind of monster did you become?

"Innocent people?"

"Depends on who you ask," he said right away, almost as if he expected that question.

"What does that mean?"

He rubbed his jaw thoughtfully as he stared into the fire. "I told you. Everyone did what they had to do in order to survive. I know it's hard for you to understand what it was like, but there were a lot of bad people out there. A lot of bad fuckin' people. The military was outta control. There were revolutions and raiders and slavers." He paused and sniffed a bit, continuing to stare into the flames while you hung on his every word. "When I say you killed people... it ain't black and white. I killed people, too. Alotta people. When the whole goddamn world ends and all you got left is one or two people you care 'bout, you'll do whatever you gotta do to protect 'em. D'you understand?" he asked, finally dragging his eyes up to look at you.

You blinked, thinking about what he said, his words rolling around your head like pinballs.

"I think so," you said quietly.

He nodded, still pinning you with his stare. "We all made decisions. We made choices based on what we knew at the time and we did our best."

You nodded, your voice wavering a bit when you asked "Am I a bad person, Joel?"

His eyebrows pinched together and he leaned forward in his chair, wanting to reach out to you, comfort you and pull you into his arms, but he refrained. "No, baby. You ain't a bad person," he told you softly.

And you weren't sure why, but you believed him.

The streets were quiet as you slowly made your way to the infirmary. You didn't start your shift until late in the morning and you didn't feel like joining Ellie at the dining hall for breakfast, so you stayed home, only getting out of bed when you heard Joel leave for patrol. He had already warned you the night before that he would be back later than usual due to the storm. Trails would likely be difficult to pass and nobody could predict if there would be damage at any of the outposts, but it was highly likely.

You didn't move out like you had threatened to. You didn't even know what you were thinking when you said that. Where would you have gone? The garage with Ellie? You didn't know anybody else. Not really. But even if you had, you saw the look in Joel's face when you said those words and even though you were so fucking angry with him, you still felt terrible for causing him pain.

On one hand, it seemed like he was just looking out for you, but on the other, his actions often came off as selfish. You had every right to know your past and what you did, and you were growing sick of Joel treating you like a child. Like you were too fragile to understand.

But at least you got it out of him. Even though you had to take extreme measures, you finally got him to tell you something truthful, and that was a positive step forward.

Lost in your thoughts, you weren't even paying attention when a man's voice called your name from across the street. You looked up after the third try and were surprised to find Ben waving to you from the tailor. You raised your hand in greeting and made your way over to the building.

"Hey," you said a little sheepishly, "about the other day, I'm sorry for how I acted-"

He shook his head and gave you a reassuring smile. "No need to apologize. All of this has to be so confusing for you. We understand."

You dropped your gaze to the frozen ground and dug your boot into the snow. "Thank you, I appreciate that. It's very frustrating, actually. I'm just trying to learn about myself and what's happened in the past ten years and I guess I took out my anger on you guys."

He waved you off and leaned against the doorframe of the tailor. "Don't worry about it. We were just happy to see you again."

And even though Ben was absolving you of your guilt, you somehow felt even worse. He was being so nice and you hardly felt like you deserved it. "Joel explained it to me, by the way. After we left your house he told me about us," you said, waving your finger back and forth between you.

"Ah," Ben said with a knowing smile as he crossed his arms over his chest. "I wondered as much. It was a very long time ago but Joel can be..." Ben trailed off and scratched his chin, "he can be a little protective, I suppose. He never really understood the nature our relationship."

You tilted your head to the side. "What do you mean?"

"It was just casual. He always thought there was something more," Ben said, meeting your eye. "But I promise you, there wasn't. At the time, we were just lonely and scared and looking for comfort. Neither of us was looking for anything more than that."

You nodded thoughtfully. "He did say we were a couple," you said, and Ben chuckled softly.

"I wouldn't even call it that. Truly. There were no hurt feelings. We just never had a connection past... y'know," he said with a shrug. You felt yourself flush a bit at the words he left unspoken and looked away. "But I'm glad he told you."

"Yeah, me too. I know his heart is in the right place, I just wish he would have told me about us and all the shit we did before I came to see you. Probably would have made the visit a little more pleasant," you said with a laugh, but Ben's face fell.

"He told you about what we did?" he asked, his tone suddenly serious. You sighed and nodded.

"Yeah, he told me I've killed people. It's been really hard to wrap my head around, but I'm trying to come to terms with it. He explained the world we live in now is not like the one I remember."

Ben raised his eyebrows in surprise and unfolded his arms. "Wow. I'm kind of shocked he told you about us and the Fireflies. That must have been really hard for you both."

You frowned and searched his face. "Fireflies?"

His body stiffened and his face paled when he realized his mistake. "Yeah. He told you about the Fireflies, right?"

You shook your head. "What are the Fireflies?"

"Shit," he muttered, pushing himself off the wall abruptly and clearing his throat. "I should get back to work. Just please forget I said anything, okay?"

"Ben, wait," you tried, but he disappeared back inside the tailor, leaving you standing in front of the door while more questions piled up.

There seemed to be a bad flu being spread around town because the infirmary was busier than usual. You were grateful for the distraction, especially after your conversation with Ben. You had spent the better part of the afternoon rushing from exam room to exam room, cleaning up after each patient as quickly as you could so Nick could continue treating the revolving door of people coughing and sneezing in the waiting room. Nick had recommended you wear a bandana around your mouth and nose to hopefully keep you healthy, but you had a feeling it would just be a matter of time before you caught the same bug as everyone else. Still, you kept the bandana tied around your neck as you worked diligently. What you didn't expect, however, was the bit of anonymity the mask afforded you.

You were cleaning up exam room six when you heard a woman's familiar voice in the room across the hall. Nick had left the door cracked open after he ushered her inside, and she apparently had another woman in there waiting with her as you started to pick up on hushed pieces of their conversation.

You didn't intend to eavesdrop, but curiosity got the best of you when you tried to place her voice, and when you realized it was Angie, your hands froze and your body stilled, doing your best to not make any noise so you could listen.

"... going down there almost every night... matter of time... him."

"But what about... freak out."

You frowned, inching closer to the door as you tried to fill in the gaps in their conversation.

Then you heard Angie say your name clear as day and your eyebrows shot up. You pressed your back against the wall and held your breath.

"She doesn't even like him. That relationship is a ticking time bomb."

You silently gasped when you realized they were most certainly talking about you and Joel.

It wasn't even true. You liked Joel. You were attracted to Joel. You were even starting to trust Joel a little more, although you definitely had plans to ask him about the Fireflies. But you were still getting to know him and it was taking time. Was this girl talking about trying to steal Joel away from you? The idea made your stomach turn and anger flare deep in your chest.

You shocked yourself with your reaction. Steal Joel away? Since when did you begin to feel some sense of ownership over him? Were you jealous?

You heard Nick's voice leaving an exam room a few doors down and you quickly made yourself look busy. He sighed tiredly in the hallway as he flipped through some papers before pushing open the door to Angie's room. You were changing the bedding on the mattress when you heard Nick call your name and you quickly dropped the sheets to cross the hall.

When your eyes locked with Angie's, giving her a hardened stare, you swore you saw a flicker of fear before she forced a fake smile and coughed into her fist while her friend, one you recognized from the bathroom at the Tipsy Bison, nervously shifted her weight and looked away. You felt a sick sense of satisfaction when it became clear to the two girls that you had heard everything they said, and you were grateful you had your mask on so they couldn't see the corners of your mouth twitch.

"Would you mind grabbing a bag of cough drops and a jar of menthol from the supply cabinet?" Nick asked, completely oblivious to the shift in the air.

"Sure thing," you told him, turning on your heel to leave and allowing yourself to finally smile.

Joel might scare the rest of the town, but you sure as hell scared the shit out of Angie.

Your shift at the infirmary went longer than expected. By the time you arrived home, you were exhausted and the sun was almost setting. So far you weren't feeling sick, but from what you had overheard all day, the symptoms came on quick, so you had already decided to call it an early night and get some rest. When you swung open the front door and found Joel hunched over the kitchen table, your plans went flying out the window.

He looked like he was on death's door. You had never seen him look so run down and pale. He didn't even open his eyes to look at you, he just kept them shut while he rubbed his temples and tried to stifle a cough, his backpack abandoned at his feet.

"Joel?" you called, toeing off your boots and hurrying over to him. You crouched down on the floor and pressed the back of your hand against his forehead. "You're burning up."

He groaned and cracked open one eye. "Feel like shit. Dunno what happened."

"There's a bad virus spreading around, the infirmary was slammed today," you said, pushing yourself up onto your aching feet to get him a glass of water. "Drink this and I'll heat you up some soup," you told him before heading towards the stove.

"You don't gotta-"

"Drink," you said firmly, cutting him off. He winced before picking up the glass and forcing down the cool liquid. Once you got the gas going on the stove, you grabbed an empty bowl and shoved your boots back on. "I'll be right back," you told him. He sat up a little straighter in his chair, about to ask where you were going but you already disappeared through the front door, returning seconds later with the bowl filled with snow.

"Lean back," you instructed, placing the bowl on the table. He did as he was told and closed his eyes, the lights from the kitchen ceiling making his head ache but when you pressed a handful of packed snow against his forehead, he groaned with relief.

"Oh shit, that feels good," he whispered as you tried to ignore the twinge between your legs at his low tone. He released a shaky breath and you watched as the snow began to melt, little trails of water dripping from his hair and down his scruffy cheeks. When it was nearly melted, you took your hand away and dumped the remnants in the sink, grabbing a towel and drying your hands on the way back. You pinched his stubbly chin delicately in your fingers and tipped his head towards you while slowly and gently wiping away the water from his face. When you finished, your eyes found his already boring into you and you felt a tingle shoot down your spine.

"Better?"

His gaze softened as he continued to stare up at you, searching your face quietly, making your heart begin to beat faster in your chest. You swallowed nervously and forced yourself to look away, and it was then he finally realized you had asked him a question.

"Yes," he murmured, "thank you."

You dragged your eyes back to his and gave him a small smile. "More?"

He didn't trust himself to speak. He just slowly nodded and watched with heavy lidded eyes as you scooped up another handful of snow. With your free hand, you slid your fingers behind his neck and through his hair, cupping the back of his head in your small hand before pressing the snow gently against his forehead once again. And even though he wanted to keep looking at you, he couldn't stop his eyes from fluttering shut at the cooling sensation, earning you another deep groan from his throat and causing your breath to stutter.

He heard it and opened his eyes.

You stared at each other, lips parted as the air began to thicken with tension. His eyes flickered over your face, noticing the way your pupils appeared bigger as you gazed down at him. He took a risk and slowly brought his hand up to rest on your side, watching you carefully for any sign that he should stop. He pressed his fingertips lightly into your hip, the fabric of your shirt bunching up slightly from the pressure.

You dropped your eyes to his hand and blinked rapidly, then opened your mouth to speak when you heard sizzling at the stove. You whipped your head around just as his soup began to boil over the pot.

"Shit!" you yelped, dropping the half melted snow onto the towel and racing over to the range. You twisted the knob off and put the pot on one of the unused burners and the liquid immediately simmered back down. "Sorry," you said, refusing to look at him as you started to gather a bowl and spoon, embarrassment burning your cheeks.

"Don't be," he replied, still leaning back in his chair in the same position you left him. He watched you fumble nervously in the kitchen and he had to suppress a smile.

Maybe he still had a chance, after all.

Joel's temperature was a little high but nothing too concerning, so you pushed the fluids and he ate all of his soup and it helped put your mind at ease. You really didn't want to have to ask for ibuprofen unless it was absolutely necessary, especially considering how the same virus was hitting almost every house at the same time. You made sure to check on Ellie from her doorway, not wanting to risk her catching anything since she appeared to be fine, before helping Joel up to bed.

Once you followed him into the room and he turned on the light next to his bed, you realized you hadn't actually ever entered his bedroom before. Sure, you've walked past it when the door was open and glanced inside, but you never really looked. As he gathered some fresh pajamas and began to unbutton his flannel, you turned your back to him to give him some privacy and examined his bookshelf. Your eyes drifted over the titles on the spines of a handful of books, most of which you hadn't heard of before noticing a framed photograph sharing a shelf with his books. It was faded and a little torn, but you could still make out their faces. It was Joel - a far younger version of Joel - with his arm around a beautiful little girl with dark hair and eyes and a stunning smile. You felt your throat tighten when you realized who it was, and if you had any doubt, Joel's voice piped up behind you.

"That's Sarah."

You heard him shuffling his bedding around so you figured he was dressed.

"She's beautiful, Joel," you said, walking over to his side of the bed and popping the thermometer under his tongue one more time. "It's wonderful that you were able to find a picture of her. I wish I had some pictures of my family," you said sadly, watching the hands of the clock on top of his bookshelf tick, counting down the seconds until you could check the thermometer. "I would have loved for you to at least see them. I think you would have gotten along with my brother really well. Maybe too well," you added with a soft laugh, not realizing he was silently hanging on your every word as you continued to stare at the clock. "He was always looking out for me. Always protecting me, trying to shield me and it drove me nuts when I was younger, but as time went on, I understood it a bit more."

You pulled the thermometer out and checked the number. "Still the same," you told him, resting it on his nightstand.

"How much time?" he asked, and you gave him a confused look. "How much time did it take 'til you started to understand?" he clarified, and you realized what he was really asking.

"I don't know," you replied honestly, sitting on the edge of his bed with a sigh. "But I'm starting to... understand," you said, giving him a sideways glance. You really wanted to ask him about the Fireflies but seeing how sick he was, you decided to bring it up another time. His hand slipped out from underneath the covers and gently squeezed your knee.

"That's good," he said softly before furrowing his brow and turning his head to cough loudly into his pillow. You winced at how bad it sounded and rubbed his upper back. When the coughing fit passed, you handed him his water and he took a grateful sip.

"Do you need anything else before I go to bed?"

"Could you stay here?" he found himself asking before he could even think. Your eyebrows shot up in surprise as you struggled to answer. "Just 'til I fall asleep?"

"Oh," you replied, looking awkwardly around his rather sparse room. "Sure, let me just go wash up," you said, standing up from his bed. You were dead on your feet from your shift at work and you knew the next day wouldn't be any better, but you felt bad saying no, so you changed your clothes and grabbed one of the books Joel had found for you before dragging the chair from the corner of his room to the side of his bed.

"You can stretch out over there," he told you, pointing weakly to the other side of the bed before coughing into his closed fist. "I won't bite."

You smiled as you settled into the chair. "I'm alright, thanks," you said, opening your book and leaning back, trying to get comfortable. After a few minutes of reading, you looked up just to find him still watching you. You laughed and said "you need to get some rest if you want to kick this thing," then he grinned and finally closed his eyes.

You may not have been in bed with him, but you were close enough to help him relax and for the first time in months, he fell fast asleep within minutes.

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[imdoingsortagay]

And They Were Roommates

Summary: Rio get's a roommate in you and suddenly she can't function.

Warnings: Smut so 18+ , Rio doing suspicious shit, Top!Rio Vidal, Bottom!reader, pet names with this women, biting, some fluff, aftercare ( because it's important),

Word count: 3.4k

a/n: i was gonna spend a good week on this fic fuck it you get it now because my professors are already on midterm talk. also thank @yourlocalsaiko for the funny ask comment they left on the sneak peek of this for influencing me to finish this. And also happy birthday to @harknessdoll. If this does good maybe a part 2 or little series ????? who knows

Happy reading

Renting a small cottage in the middle of the woods, well not middle maybe like 10 miles away from town seemed like a good idea at the time. No having to deal with noisy neighbors, having a cute little driveway to not share with anyone and not to mention not being woken up to traffic. 

It sounded like the perfect thing until you heard a loud bang that woke you from your slumber, who in the fuck was in your cottage. 

“ Fucking hell,” you mumble to yourself. Good thing Kate had recommended buying that bat incase anyone came in, bedtime you do need to actually buy a weapon of some sort or at least invest in some security. The noise gets louder as you make your way to the kitchen, hear what seems to be a lady humming a tune while she’s looking for something to eat in the fridge. 

“ You leave for a couple of years to explore and someone can think they can just move in ? In my cottage? In my home?” She mumbles to herself. 

“ IM RENTING THIS PLACE YOU ASS” you yell as you try to hit her but her reflexes are faster than you. The lady quickly grabs the bat from you, throwing it somewhere in the kitchen but what she doesn’t expect you to do is bite her back. 

“ OWWWWWWWWWWW” 

Your smile fades quickly when the intruder quickly pins you to the kitchen floor preventing you from moving or biting her again. 

“ Who the fuck are you and why are you even in my house” She asks you

“ Someone posted this place on a realtor site to rent and he’s been renting it to me for the past 6 months,” you explain,” can you let me go now, I promise not to bite you again I swear”. 

“ Just cause I might have abandoned this place 40 years ago doesn’t mean some stupid man can come and rent it to some random person,” she tells you. 

“ Does this mean I need to find another place to live?” You say after a bit of silence which makes the woman giggle. She felt bad that you didn’t know this was her home but it had been years since she had shared her place with anyone besides her ex partner. 

“ If you give me whoever rented this place from you I might let you stay,” she pauses a bit ,” whatever your name is “. 

“ Y/n and no totally will do that, he kind of gave me the ick when he was showing me places too. Like he recommended me this house in New Jersey but the vibe was off so I said no then he was flirting with me way too-“ the mystery woman covers your mouth to prevent you from yapping anymore.

“ Gonna visit this man right away in the morning y/n, he sounds terrible,” and she leaves you to head to the other bedroom,”

“ Wait what’s your name ?” 

“ Rio,” she pauses dramatically ,” Rio Vidal, have a goodnight babe”. 

________________________

After the weird encounter with Rio, she had left around 9am to go talk with Anthony the realtor, not telling you anything else besides a bye. Left you with the cottage for most of the day to finish some emails for work, clean up the mess from late in the night and even make a chicken soup for Rio, or at least for you if she didn’t eat meat. Just as a thank you for not kicking her. 

“ Get Norm the email about next month’s projection sales,” you read around to nobody inside, wondering when she’d come back. 

She’s a grown ass woman who looks like she can easily defend herself. There’s no need to worry where she might be going. Rio has known you for less than half a day I doubt she’s gonna tell you her whereabouts. 

“ God that man is such a crybaby,” Rio announces as you hear the door open, pushing the relief away when she comes towards the kitchen to the smell of chicken soup. It smelled really good, she forgot how it was to not be the only person in this home or at least have someone even cooking at all. 

Rio sees you in the kitchen, trying your very best to act chill around. 

“ Here’s this back, I took care of Bob for you, “ she casually tells you as she goes towards the stove to serve herself some soup. 

“ What do you mean ‘ take care of bob ‘ Rio? “ 

“ Don’t worry about it babe” and when you look in the bad you find a large amount of money. 

“ All your rent money from the past couple of months from that fucking idiot” rio explains , you were gonna ask either way. 

“ so does this mean you’re kicking me out ? I can pay rent don’t worry or if not I can try to find another place to move to since this is your house and all”. 

Rio thinks about it. On one hand , she’s had this house for hundreds of years so there’s no need for you to pay rent. But on the other hand, you really didn’t know that this was her house so it would be rude to expect you to leave so soon. 

You were a little cute after all so this could work in her way if she wanted. 

“ I’ll let you stay on one condition,” you nod, too afraid to say anything due to her very serious demeanor. 

“ Keep doing what you’ve been doing around the place, don’t disturb me when I’m in my room and when I need a favor you do it,” she states. Should be simple enough for you to follow. 

“ You got it pretty ?” 

“ Yes “ 

“ Yes what ? “ 

“ Yes Ma’am?” You say more as a question than a statement. 

“ Good job honey” she coos, paying close attention to the way that you blushed a bit being called the pet name. 

————

“ What the fuck are you even doing up at 7am?” 

“ Good morning to you too princess,” she says as you walk into the kitchen, your slumber being interrupted by whatever she was doing inside. 8am was enough time for you to get ready for work, especially since you do remote work for the most part. 

It’s only been a day since Rio had let you stay and to stay the change was a bit weird for you was an understatement. 

Both of you have mostly been lightly joking with each other half of the time, maybe a bit of flirting to be honest but she’s pretty cute. Doesn’t help that she’s always calling you all these pet names. 

“ Breakfast is on the table babe,” you see a perfectly set plate on the table for you,” based on what you had stocked up in the fridge”.

“ Thank you Rio,”. 

“ No problem hot stuff” she says in the sweetest tone, leaving you alone in the kitchen to question what she might have planned.

———————

One week living with Rio and so far, she’s been wonderful as a roommate. Helps with dishes when you make dinner, keeps the living room spotless, a little loud at night but nothing you can’t handle. 

For a Saturday night, Rio was unsure why you decided to spend it at home and not out like most humans would do. 

“ Reading a book and enjoying some wine ? Boring “, Rio announces as she walks into the living room in her casual fit. Choosing to wear an oversized t shirt of hers and simple pair of shorts. 

“ It’s too far for me to go out rio,” you tell the woman sitting next to you, not bothering to tell her to move. It felt kind of nice to have the other woman sit next to you and not just a pillow of yours like most of the time. 

“ Awe someone as pretty as you doesn’t ever go out?” She coos. 

“ Not when it’s again, way too far to travel to a bar,” you repeat to her and before you can even get a sip of your wine she grabs it out of your hand. 

“ What the fuck ?” You yell back at her and before you can grab it back the woman in front of you chugs it. 

“ We need something stronger babe,” she tells you as she finishes the last of the drink with no shame,” follow me “. 

You don’t say anything when she grabs your hand, leading you to the one room in the cottage that she forbid you to going into, her room. 

Even before she had shown up back to her place, Bob had told you the room could not be unlocked and the windows were covered to anyone passing by and you felt weird about trying to unlock it yourself. When Rio had shown backup you never even got a peek at the inside of her room either so you were a bit excited to see what it was like. 

Was it just her room ? What colors did she choose? Is it decorated all nice or a bit of a mess ?  Did she have anyone in it before you were ? 

Wait, you guys are just roommates you can’t be thinking about that way about Rio at all. 

“ Close your eyes I can’t have you knowing how to open my room door can we princess???” She teases you. God you were not gonna survive this. 

A couple of seconds later you hear the door click open, Rio grabs your hand to lead you into her room and moves you a bit so you can stand in the middle of it. 

“ Open those pretty eyes for me,” you give yourself a couple of seconds to adjust to the light in the room to see the woman. Of course the wall are in her signature green color, a nice dark green to compliment the rest of the room. Paintings you assumed she made herself in the spare time, a mini fridge with what you assumed is where the alcohol she was talking about and a nice queen sized bed in the middle of the room.

“ Your’re the first person that I’ve had in here since my ex by the way y/n,” she starts off, pointing at the bed for you to sit in,” Your room was a guest room we’d use for our friends and this was our room. “ 

“ What happened to your ex ? “ you as casually and Rio makes a face at your question. 

“ Wait fuck I didn’t meant to intrude I am so-“ 

“ Baby it’s all good with me,” she assures you,” we broke up after ten years together because she wanted to explore other option in the world or whatever she fucking meant by that”. Least you know she’s single. 

“ Last time I heard about her, she was living in some town with her current girlfriend and their two cats. Which good for her I guess, I mean she was never the committed type when we were together, all I say is good fucking luck to her current gal or whatever,” she mumbles the last part while looking for a specific alcohol bottle for the two of you. The atmosphere room was pleaseant, Rio must have worked a lot on the room to make it as comfy as she could. 

“ You have any ex’s you wanna talk about y/n ? We only know the basics things about each other” Rio questions after finding the specific bottle of alcohol she was hiding for special occasions. She quickly finds her way onto her bed, placing herself on the right side of where you were sitting, as always leaving no space between the two of you. 

“ How strong is that bottle of alcohol in your hand?” You ask and rio smiles. 

This was gonna be fun. 

_________________________

“ You did not fucking steal Lilia’s jewelry from her cause she accidentally stole some of your food ?” You laugh as she tells the story. 

“ She was being petty with me for a tiny thing I did when we were living together y/n, and all I did was just give her a piece of her medicine is all” she shrugs then takes a big swig of the bottle infant of you both. It had been three hours since Rio had let you in her room and the both of you were talking about whatever as a way to get to know each other. An hour into this hangout session or whatever you both want to call it, rio had suggested you both cuddle with each other and in your tipsy mind you decided why it. 

On the inside, Rio appeared to you as quiet, funny and a little bit mysterious if you had to be honest with yourself. What you didn’t know was that she had been internally been freaking out since she found you here in the cottage. She felt bad kicking you out but it had been a couple of years since she’s had anyone here since Agatha. Rio hadn’t had anyone in the house since then and even if she did for a one night stand, she’d use the guest room to do it and not her own bedroom, making up all sorts of excuses as to why she didn’t have anyone in her own bedroom when she knew the real reason. 

She was afraid. 

Agatha had been her first relationship all those years ago when they met in Salem, built this house together from the ground up, shared so many happy memories together here then decided she wanted to leave Rio because she wanted to do more than just stay in Salem. She was other that woman but her insecurities got the best of her and she hasn’t had a meaningful relationship since. 

“ I don’t know how that would could fucking leave you when you look so fucking hot,” you blurt out of nowhere which takes Rio out of her thoughts. Well, at least she knows that you feel the same way. 

“ You think I’m hot ? “ Rio asks quietly enough for you to hear. 

“ The mysterious demeanor of yours, the hot ass outfit you had when you got here, and not to mention when I first met you in not to good circumstances you kind of made me blush so much” you explain while rubbing her arm. Her mind was going places as you were cuddling up next to her, yapping about how hot she was and then casually rubbing her arm as well.

Both of you were drunk and she wanted to test the waters and see how much she can get out of you, no harming trying to get any information out of you. 

“ How about you come sit on top of me while we talk then princess? “ She asks with a bit of a smile. 

You don’t think about it too much, Rio guiding you on her lap so you don’t accidentally do anything. 

“ Rio did I ever tell you that you look super nice from this angle , like really nice,” you giggle. It’s been years since anyone has said anything nice about her and she’ stumped with how to respond.

“ Can say the same thing about you sweet thing ,” the woman under you says in the most cool way, only eliciting a giggle from you and a confused face from her. 

“ Did you forget to flirt Rio? for a witch who’s been alive longer than I have , you sure don’t know how to flirt with someone when the opportunity arises, “ you say in a joking manner to the older woman. 

“ I might not know how to flirt but there is something else I can do babe,” she teases. 

“ Oh and what’s that honey?” You ask in a sweet tone. 

In an instant, Rio quickly changes positions so that she’s on top of you, pinning your arms above your head so that you don’t do anything with your hands. 

“ You look super pretty under me princess,” she holds your chin in place with one hand while other hand is still pinning you into the mattress, not that you’re complaining or anything. 

“ Just fucking kiss me Vidal,” you beg and you feel the other woman’s lips on yours in an instant. She forgot how good it felt to be in bed with someone she actually had some sort of attraction to. She can’t handle the way that you whine into the kiss, wondering what other pretty noises she can get out of you. 

“ God do you know how many times I fucked myself in this bed baby? We’ve barely known each other but your’re something special baby,” she tells you as she starts to kiss your neck, no shame in leaving marks all over your neck for anyone to see. The sound of your moans and whines while she marks your neck, Rio feeling you grind into her body to set any sort of friction and the feeling of her hands roaming your body make you never want to leave her bed anytime soon. 

“ Take this thing off of your body baby,” she says helping you get up,” I wanna see all of you”. You chose the right night to not wear a bra because the moment she sees that you had nothing underneath your shirt, Rio is on your tits. Sucking on your left nipple while tasting your other nipple with no mercy. 

“ Be good for your mistress while I suck on these titties babe,” she orders,” then maybe I’ll fuck you with my fingers, or you can grind on my thigh so I can see you fall apart above me”. 

“ Fingers! Please! I’ll be good for your mistress” you whine under her touch, you would let Rio let you do anything to you if it meant being pleasured by her . 

“ Good choice baby,” She says happily, her right hands going into your sleep shorts to feel just how wet you were for her. 

Still got it, she thinks to herself.

“ I didn’t even do much to you baby and your pussy is soaked,” she smirks and you moan as she continues to tease you. It won’t take long for you to cum with Rio teasing your pussy combined with her dirty talk. Rio wastes no time in taking off your shorts and underwear before she inserts two fingers into your wet pussy, groaning at the way her fingers go in easily. 

“ Maybe next time we do this you can let Mistress eat this pussy,” she says and you let out a long moan,” god just the way your finger are taking me just makes me want to make you cum over and over again”. 

It doesn’t take long for you to go over the edge with her fingers going at a fast pace, Rio taking in the sight before her. Praising you as she helps you down from your high, no shame in tasting yourself on her fingers, excited for the text time she might actually be able to taste the real thing from the source. 

“Brain feels floaty Rio ,” you mumble to the other woman as she brings you a bottle of water and a small rag to clean you off. You take the bottle with no arguments as she cleans you up. Rio helps you up a bit to help you into your shirt again, internally giggling as how cute you look at her. Looking at her like she was the only person on earth. She felt happy to be seen like that from someone after years of being alone. 

“ How you doing baby?” She asks and you mumble as she pulls you closer to her body. 

“ Fine,” you yawn ,” sleepy”. 

“ Okay baby,” she chuckles,” We can talk tomorrow about us”. 

“ I’d love that Rio,” you say before you fall asleep in her arms and Rio falls asleep not long after with a big smile on her face.