#her emotions are so contagious | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

igwb · 1 month ago

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Fate, Fortune and Jungkook's Misfortune.

pairing: jeon jungkook x oc

genre: strangers to lovers au, fluff + slice of life + comedy

summary: hopelessly romantic, jungkook believed in all kinds of things—but mostly in fate. so when he stumbled upon what he thought was a sign from the universe, he took it seriously. maybe too seriously. but one way or another, he was determined to make her believe in fate too.

word count: 20K (one shot)

warnings: fem!reader, mentions of; astrology talk, fluff, fluff & fluff, and jungkook being jungkook (cute) ♡

playlist: sally when the wine runs out, goodnight n go, fallingforyou & you are the traffic

Jeon Jungkook had heard plenty of things about himself over the years, but three remarks seemed to follow him everywhere.

The first was that he was dramatic—sometimes a little too much. Jungkook wasn’t the kind of person who simply told a story; he performed it.

His hands would move wildly, his voice rising and falling with exaggerated emotion, as if every minor event in his life were a grand cinematic moment. It didn’t matter if he was recounting a near-death experience (which, in reality, was just him almost tripping on a sidewalk) or the time he spotted an unusually fluffy cat on the street—his excitement was all-consuming. His big, expressive doe eyes would widen as he spoke, drawing people in, making them listen, even if they had no idea why finding a cute cat had him this worked up.

And the worst part? His enthusiasm was contagious. No matter how absurd the topic, his friends always found themselves leaning in, hanging onto every word, caught up in the sheer energy of his storytelling.

The second thing was that Jungkook was persistent—relentless, even. When he set his mind on something, there was no stopping him. Once an idea lodged itself in his brain, he would pursue it with single-minded determination, as if failure wasn’t an option. And by determination, that meant everything was fair game.

Like the time his high school held a massive sports tournament. Most people saw it as a casual event, something to participate in for fun. Not Jungkook. He trained for months, pushing himself like he was preparing for the Olympics. In the end, he placed first—not necessarily because he was the most skilled, but because everyone else simply didn’t care enough to try that hard. But to Jungkook, a win was a win, and he would take it, no matter what.

And then, there was the last thing—perhaps the one that defined him the most. Jungkook was a hopeless romantic. Not just the kind who believed in love, but the kind who believed in fate. In soulmates. In every ridiculous, unrealistic notion that most people would roll their eyes at. Horoscopes? He checked them more often than the weather. MBTI? Not only did he know his own personality type by heart, but he had memorized everyone else’s, convinced that compatibility was written in the stars.

He believed in love at first sight, in grand gestures, in the idea that somewhere, out there, was the one meant just for him.

And if he ever found her?

Well, knowing Jungkook, he would do everything in his power to make her believe in fate too.

Jungkook had always enjoyed taking Yeontan for walks. The little Pomeranian technically belonged to Taehyung—his best friend—but Jungkook might as well have been his honorary second owner. Taehyung was overprotective when it came to his beloved dog, rarely trusting anyone else to handle him. But Jungkook? He was the exception.

And today, Jungkook had never been happier to be out walking the tiny ball of fluff. The sun was shining, the air was crisp, and Yeontan—small but ridiculously stubborn—was leading him rather than the other way around. Jungkook barely had a say in where they went, not that he minded. Yeontan had a mind of his own, and considering Taehyung had raised him like a pampered little prince, he was more than a little spoiled.

So when Yeontan suddenly yanked him toward a small, unfamiliar café, Jungkook let himself be dragged along, more amused than anything. He had never been here before, but the place looked exactly like something out of one of his guilty-pleasure romance novels—warm lighting, large windows fogged slightly from the temperature difference, plants hanging from the ceiling, and the faint scent of coffee and vanilla drifting through the air.

It was cozy. Inviting. The kind of café where love stories began.

And Jungkook, hopeless romantic that he was, couldn’t help but wonder—was fate trying to tell him something today?

Jungkook immediately pulled out his phone, completely oblivious to the fact that he was standing right in front of the café’s entrance, probably blocking customers from coming and going. But he didn’t care. There were priorities in life, and checking his horoscope at a potentially fated moment like this was one of them.

His browser was already open to his favorite astrology site—it always was—so all he had to do was scroll down to his sign. Virgo. He barely had time to process the words before—

Yank.

His eyes widened as the leash suddenly tugged forward, nearly making him stumble. Before he could react, Yeontan had already charged straight into the café.

“Yah—Tannie!” Jungkook yelled, frantically shoving his phone into his back pocket as he took off after the tiny troublemaker. He pushed through the doorway, eyes darting around in search of the little fluff ball. Yeontan was small but fast, and knowing him, he was already causing chaos somewhere between the tables.

Jungkook weaved past a few customers, muttering rushed apologies, his head swiveling as he searched. “I swear, if you embarrassed me in front of strangers again—”

And then he saw him.

Or rather, he saw her.

Because Yeontan wasn’t just causing trouble—he was happily sitting at the feet of a girl Jungkook had never seen before. A girl who, at that moment, was peering down at the fluffy little traitor with an amused look, one hand resting on her coffee cup, the other scratching behind his ears like she had all the time in the world.

Jungkook came to an abrupt stop. His brain short-circuited for a second, and suddenly, he remembered something very, very important.

His horoscope.

He scrambled to pull his phone out again, nearly dropping it in the process. His eyes scanned the words quickly, his heart rate picking up as he found what he was looking for.

Virgo: Today, fate will lead you to an unexpected encounter. Pay attention—this person might change everything.

Jungkook swallowed hard, gaze flickering back to the girl.

No way.

Jungkook walked toward the table with slow, measured steps, unsure of how to proceed. The girl was so engrossed in petting Yeontan that she didn’t even notice him approach. She had a laptop in front of her, a large coffee cup beside it, and a soft smile on her face as she looked down at the dog. Yeontan, for once, was happily soaking up the attention, his little tail wagging furiously.

And Jungkook?

He never wanted more to be a dog than in that exact moment. At least then, he’d have her full, undivided attention.

A few more seconds passed before she finally glanced up, eyes briefly meeting his, before they flicked back down to Yeontan. She didn’t even seem phased by the random guy suddenly appearing at her table. Instead, she offered a soft, almost amused smile, glancing at him only for a moment.

“He’s so cute,” she commented, her voice light and warm.

“He may look like an angel, but he’s far from it.” Jungkook crouched down to Yeontan’s level, gently tugging the leash back into his hands, hoping the dog would finally acknowledge him for once. Now that they were at the same height, he couldn’t help but hope that she would finally look at him too, not just at the dog.

Yeontan, as expected, didn’t seem to care about Jungkook’s presence, too busy enjoying the scratch behind his ears. Jungkook shot the dog a glare, as if silently scolding him. Seriously, dude?

When her eyes finally flicked back to him, the smile she gave wasn’t judgmental, just amused.

“I can tell,” she said, her tone teasing, “He definitely looks like he’s got a little mischief in him.”

“I don’t know if ‘mischief’ is enough to describe his personality. He’s chaotic,” Jungkook replied, a small laugh escaping as he ruffled the dog’s fur. “But yeah, he’s definitely not as innocent as he looks.”

For a moment, there was a comfortable silence as both of them watched Yeontan enjoy his little moment of fame. Jungkook was still crouched down, hands resting on the leash, his heart racing.

She pulled her hand back from Yeontan, her fingers lingering for just a second before retreating to her lap. Then, she glanced around the café, her eyes briefly scanning the space. It was such a small, insignificant movement, but Jungkook was completely entranced.

The soft glow of the café’s warm lighting reflected off her glasses, her round, chocolate-brown eyes peering through the lenses with quiet curiosity. Strands of hair had fallen loose from the bun on top of her head, perfectly framing her delicate features. Her lips—plump and pink—were slightly parted, like she was lost in thought.

Jungkook was so busy memorizing her face that he almost didn’t notice when she turned back to him.

Panic.

He shot up from his crouch so fast that he almost lost his balance, awkwardly straightening his posture as if that would somehow make up for the fact that he had very obviously been staring.

And then she smiled. Not a flirty smile, not even an encouraging one—just a small, polite curve of her lips that almost felt like she was expecting him to leave now. Like the moment had run its course, and she was giving him an easy out.

Jungkook’s heart dropped.

“Oh—uh, I’m sorry,” he blurted out, looking down at Yeontan as if the dog could somehow save him from his embarrassment. His cheeks burned, and he hated that he was so bad at this. He didn’t want the moment to end, but he also didn’t want to overstay his welcome.

But then his horoscope flashed in his mind again.

Virgo: Today, fate will lead you to an unexpected encounter. Pay attention—this person might change everything.

His fingers tightened around Yeontan’s leash.

No. If this was fate—and Jungkook knew it was—then he had to do something.

“Uh…” He forced himself to look up at her again, ignoring the heat in his face. “Are you familiar with this place?”

She raised an eyebrow, a small hmm leaving her lips as if urging him to go on.

Jungkook swallowed. “Which drink is the best?”

For a second, she just blinked at him, like she wasn’t sure if he was serious or not. Then, slowly, a small, knowing smirk appeared on her lips.

“You’re just asking that to keep talking to me, aren’t you?”

Jungkook’s breath hitched.

Oh, she’s dangerous.

“I—” He cleared his throat, scrambling to regain his composure. “I mean… maybe?”

She chuckled, shaking her head slightly as she leaned back in her chair, tilting her head at him in amusement. “Alright, I’ll bite.”

Jungkook held his breath.

“The best drink here? Definitely the caramel macchiato,” she finally said, voice smooth, teasing. “Sweet, a little strong, and pretty addictive.”

Jungkook grinned, his confidence returning in an instant. “That does sound like my type.”

She raised a brow. “The drink?”

Jungkook met her gaze, the corner of his lips quirking up. “Maybe.”

For the first time since he’d walked in, she actually looked surprised. Just for a second—just a flicker of something in her expression before she composed herself again.

Yeontan was getting impatient. The tiny fluff ball kept tugging on his leash, huffing dramatically, clearly annoyed that he was no longer the center of attention. His little paws shuffled against the café floor, his determination unshaken.

Jungkook sighed. Okay, maybe walking the dog wasn’t fun anymore.

Each time Yeontan yanked harder, Jungkook’s arm jerked forward, nearly throwing him off balance. He knew it was time to leave—there was no point in fighting when Yeontan had already decided he wasn’t going to lose.

Jungkook let out a small laugh, looking back at the girl, reluctant to let the moment end.

“You heard the brat,” he said, nodding toward the demanding Pomeranian. “Guess that’s my cue.”

She smiled, watching the little dog’s antics with amusement.

“Thanks for the recommendation,” Jungkook added, dragging out his words just slightly, lingering for a response. A name. Anything to keep this from being just another fleeting interaction.

For a second, she hesitated, lips pressing together like she was debating something. But then—

She said it.

Her name.

And oh, Jungkook was not prepared.

It rolled off her tongue so effortlessly, so naturally, and yet it felt like it echoed in his mind, settling into a permanent place inside of him. It was pretty—too pretty. Almost unfair.

For a split second, he nearly lost his composure, his grip tightening on Yeontan’s leash as he processed the way it sounded.

He forced himself to keep his cool, offering a grin that (hopefully) didn’t expose just how much he was freaking out inside.

“Pretty name,” he said casually, though inside, his brain was already in overdrive.

Because tonight—without a doubt—he was going to a name compatibility site, typing her name next to his, and testing their fate.

The day had been horrible. No amount of Hoseok’s usual sunshine-like energy, nor the comforting sight of his signature heart-shaped smile, could do anything to lift your mood. It was just one of those days—the kind where everything felt ten times heavier than it should.

The lecture was dragging on endlessly, your professor droning about legal cases and justice articles in a tone so monotonous that it almost felt like a personal attack. You fought to keep your eyes open, blinking rapidly every few minutes in a desperate attempt to stay focused.

Sometimes, you genuinely questioned your decision to pursue law. Why had you willingly subjected yourself to this? You could have been anywhere else—on a beach, running away to the mountains, maybe even opening a tiny coffee shop where you wouldn’t have to read through endless legal texts every night.

And yet…

No matter how often the thought of quitting crossed your mind, it never truly stuck. Because deep down, as exhausting as it was, as frustrating as some days could be, you had always loved it. The way logic, facts, and concrete evidence could build a path toward justice. It felt structured—rational. There was a process, a way to piece everything together, then the truth would always reveal itself. It wasn’t always easy, but at least it made sense.

That was more than you could say for Hoseok’s field of study.

You never quite understood how he could immerse himself so deeply in literature and poetry—worlds filled with metaphors, abstract emotions, and meanings that changed depending on who was reading them. Everything in his world felt so… out of place, detached from reality. There were no clear answers, no right or wrong, just endless interpretations.

While he found meaning in verses and prose, you found it in arguments and evidence.

And you were perfectly fine with that.

The moment you stepped into the small coffee shop, you let out a quiet sigh of relief. This place had always been your little escape. Today, it was a bit more crowded than usual, but you didn’t mind. You could wait.

Shuffling into place in the line, you let your thoughts drift to your usual order. Iced coffee. Large. No second-guessing. Caffeine had practically become your lifeline at this point, the only thing keeping you awake during long nights buried under case studies and legal articles.

The line moved painfully slow. You tapped your fingers lightly against your arm, eyes flicking toward the counter. The customer in front of you took forever, hesitating over their order like they were making a life-altering decision.

By the time they finally stepped aside to wait for their drink, you swore an entire hour had passed.

Suppressing a groan, you took a step forward, ready to place your order—when a voice beside you made you pause.

“Oh, what a funny coincidence! Didn’t know you were familiar with this place. It must be destiny.”

And there he was.

The boy from the other day, standing next to you with wide boba-like eyes, filled with excitement like he’d just stumbled upon something life-changing. His dark hair was messy, parted in the middle, and strands of it fell over his forehead like he had run here without a care. His thin lips curled around the straw of his drink, cheeks puffing slightly as he sipped.

You scoffed, shaking your head just as the barista handed you your iced coffee. “I knew this place before you,” you reminded him, fingers wrapping around your cup. “I was the one giving you a recommendation.”

You turned on your heels, making your way to your usual booth. You’d been looking forward to sitting alone, letting the familiar hum of the café settle your mind as you worked through another exhausting day.

But apparently, he had other plans.

He followed right behind you, still sipping on his drink, the straw stuck between his lips as he trailed after you like a lost puppy.

“Oh yeah, right,” he chuckled, sliding into the seat across from you without asking.

You stopped mid-motion, blinking at him. He had just… invited himself?

You always sat alone. That was the whole point of coming here. It was your time to work in peace.

“I forgot,” Jungkook continued casually, settling into the booth like he belonged there. “It’s been such a long time since I last saw you.”

“One week,” you corrected, raising an eyebrow as you took a sip from your coffee.

Jungkook grinned, unbothered. “One week too long.”

He placed his drink on the table, leaning forward so his mouth hovered just above the straw, refusing to use his hands as he took another sip.

You glanced under the table, half-expecting to see a familiar ball of fluff staring back at you. Instead, all you found were a pair of worn-out dark Converse, one foot lazily crossed over the other.

Your lips pursed slightly in disappointment before you looked back up. “Where’s the cute dog?”

As you spoke, you pulled your laptop from your bag, subtly hoping the boy would get the message—you had work to do.

“Oh, he’s got a hairstyle appointment,” he said, shrugging like this was a completely normal thing.

You blinked. “A what?”

He chuckled at your reaction before elaborating. “His owner treats him like a total brat, so he has to go to the groomer every month. Haircuts, fancy shampoo, the whole celebrity dog experience.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. Honestly, it made so much sense. From what you had seen, the dog had more attitude than most people you knew.

“So he’s not your dog?” you mused, arching an eyebrow.

“Hopefully not,” he scoffed, leaning back in his seat. “I love bigger dogs. Ones that don’t act like princesses.”

“What’s his name?” you asked absentmindedly, turning on your laptop.

You were trying to focus—you really were. But it was proving impossible when the person sitting across from you was sipping his drink obnoxiously loud, making a whole production out of it.

Though, if you were being honest, the real distraction was the way his big, boba-like eyes peeked at you from over your screen, watching you with far too much amusement.

Jungkook smirked. “You know, I’m a bit offended that you asked for the dog’s name before mine.”

You glanced up, unimpressed, as he leaned back in his chair, seemingly forgetting about his drink entirely now that he had a new source of entertainment.

“My name is Jungkook, by the way,” he added, like he was offering the most valuable piece of information in the world.

You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your lips betrayed you, curling into the beginnings of a grin.

“I didn’t ask for yours, did I?” you shot back, shutting your laptop halfway and placing it beside you, clearly accepting the fact that you weren’t getting any work done anytime soon.

Jungkook gasped dramatically, clutching his chest like you had personally wounded him. “Wow. That hurts.”

And just like that, you had a feeling you weren’t getting rid of Jungkook anytime soon.

And you were right.

Because every time you stepped into the coffee shop, he was already there.

Somehow, Jungkook always managed to arrive before you, sitting comfortably in your usual booth like he owned the place. And as if that wasn’t enough, he had the audacity to have your favorite drink already waiting on the table, like he had perfectly timed your arrival.

He’d wave at you the moment you walked in—enthusiastically, unashamed, completely oblivious to the way people turned to stare at you because of it. Your face would heat up every single time, a mix of embarrassment and exasperation, but Jungkook never seemed to care. If anything, he loved making a scene.

But, despite everything, you still made your way over to the table. Because, well—it was your table first. And Jungkook wasn’t about to scare you away from your favorite spot.

(Okay, and maybe because he was kind of nice. Just a little.)

Over time, you learned quite a few things about him. Mostly because Jungkook never shut up, and even if you hadn’t wanted to know, he would have told you anyway.

Like how he was obsessed—his words—with toe socks because he hated regular ones. Or how he was a hardcore astrology fan (again, his words).

That one, in particular, made you roll your eyes. And instead of working like you had planned, you found yourself in a full-blown debate with him about how horoscopes were absolute nonsense, a way for people to trick themselves into believing fate controlled their lives instead of taking responsibility for their own choices.

Jungkook had gasped, genuinely offended, and spent the next twenty minutes passionately explaining why he believed in them, rattling off birth charts and compatibility readings like he was reciting holy scripture.

And then, of course, there was this.

“What a coincidence,” Jungkook mused, voice dripping with fake innocence as he leaned back in his seat. His hands flew to his head in mock shock. “You coming here while your favorite drink is already on your favorite table? Fate really wants us together.”

You shot him a deadpan look, crossing your arms.

“I already told you,” you huffed, “fate is bullshit—a lazy excuse for naïve people who don’t want to take responsibility for their own choices.”

Jungkook grinned. “Exactly. And I’m choosing to sit here, waiting for you, every time. So really, it’s the same thing.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “That is not—”

But Jungkook was already sipping his drink again, looking far too smug for his own good.

And, annoyingly, you had no idea how to argue with that.

Jungkook cleared his throat, straightening in his chair with the kind of exaggerated seriousness that only he could pull off.

You sighed, already knowing what was coming as he pulled out his phone. Still, you sat down anyway, setting your laptop in front of you, pretending—really pretending—that you weren’t listening.

Jungkook, of course, wasn’t fazed.

He called your name, deepening his voice dramatically as he read aloud, “Today, your horoscope is telling you to take a deep breath, look at the grass, and let your heart talk while your mind relaxes.”

You raised an eyebrow, meeting his mischievous gaze over the top of your laptop screen. “Does it really?”

Jungkook grinned, nodding, but you weren’t convinced.

“What if you’re just bullshitting already bullshit facts?” you mused. “That would be defamation, and you could—”

Before you could get into any legal technicalities, Jungkook clicked his tongue, cutting you off. He wasn’t about to let logic ruin his fun.

He slid his phone across the table toward you. “It’s real, and I’m pleading non-guilty.” He lifted his hands in mock surrender.

You narrowed your eyes suspiciously before glancing at his phone, scanning the text quickly. To your surprise—and mild annoyance—he was actually telling the truth.

But then, your eyes landed on a line he had conveniently skipped.

“Oh, look,” you drawled, smirking as you pointed at the screen. “It also says I should be careful with who I’m interacting with today.”

Jungkook gasped, clutching his chest like you had stabbed him. “Are you implying I’m the bad influence here?”

You took a slow sip of your coffee. “I mean, if the stars say so…”

Jungkook scoffed, shaking his head as he dramatically took back his phone. “Unbelievable,” he muttered, typing something quickly before flashing the screen back at you. “Well, guess what? My horoscope says, ‘Don’t give up on people who challenge you—they may be the greatest blessing in disguise.’”

Your lips parted slightly at that, but before you could respond, Jungkook leaned forward, resting his chin in his hand as he smirked.

“So really,” he teased, “we’re the perfect balance.”

You rolled your eyes—but you didn’t argue.

Jungkook was absolutely ecstatic.

If he could, and if people wouldn’t look at him like he was a total weirdo, he would have definitely started dancing right there on the streets. With papers and colorful pens in hand, his movements would have been free and wild, just like his energy.

But instead, he grinned like an excited puppy as he made his way toward the coffee shop. And there you were, sitting in your usual booth, brows furrowed in intense concentration, typing away like a madman in the middle of a frenzy.

He couldn’t help but smile wider, his heart swelling with an odd kind of pride and joy.

He set his papers and pens on the table with a loud sigh, purposely making the sound dramatic as if to announce his grand entrance.

“It’s time for a break,” he declared, flopping down next to you with the flair of someone who was about to deliver the most important news of the century. “With the one and only Jeon Jungkook.”

You barely spared him a glance at first, but then you sighed, closing your laptop halfway with a sharp exhale. Your eyes were drawn to the chaos now sprawled on your table: a mess of papers, pens, and bright markers.

“Are you planning a drawing contest?” you asked, clearly unimpressed by the mess, already feeling the overwhelming urge to organize everything into neat piles. You hated working in a disorganized space. “Something the stars told you last night—something about you sucking at coloring?”

Jungkook scoffed loudly, leaning back in his chair like he was some kind of rebellious artist. He slid a sheet of paper toward you, the kind you’d get during an exam—multiple pages stuck together with nothing but your name scrawled on the front.

“It’s something I made,” he said, his voice oddly soft now, despite his playful tone. He quickly placed his hands over yours to stop you from reading it immediately. “For you.”

You blinked at him, confused. “You want me to take a break while doing something that looks like work?”

Jungkook shifted slightly, adjusting himself so that he was facing you more directly, his eyes wide with enthusiasm as he began explaining.

“It’s called an MBTI test,” he said, his voice bright with excitement, as if he were unveiling the secret to the universe itself. “It’s to see what your personality type is.”

You glanced at him skeptically, still unsure of where this was going. His face was utterly serious as he continued, the intensity in his eyes almost comical. “You have to answer the questions with what feels right to you—don’t overthink it, just go with your gut.”

You blinked at the stack of papers on the table, the colorful pens scattered around, and then back to him. The way he spoke—so intent, so dead serious—made it seem like he was about to launch into a criminal law exam or a high-stakes courtroom drama. But instead, it was… an MBTI test? Something Jungkook had created on a whim last night and printed out like it was some kind of official document?

It was absolutely ridiculous, and you couldn’t help but hide a grin. This was so Jungkook.

He was practically on the edge of his seat, as if waiting for a massive breakthrough in your psychological evolution. He tapped the paper a couple of times, as if he were an expert ready to reveal some deep, profound truth about you.

You stared at him, amused, eyes half-lidded, realizing that this was not the high-minded academic discussion you were expecting today. This was Jungkook at his finest. You tried not to laugh out loud, but his earnestness was too much.

“Right…” you drawled slowly, clearly entertained by how seriously he was treating this. “So this is like… a personality analysis? Just like that?”

“Exactly! This will tell you everything you need to know about who you really are.”

And there it was—another perfect example of Jungkook’s chaos, his unapologetic belief that everything, no matter how ridiculous, was important enough to be taken seriously. You shook your head in disbelief, but couldn’t help but feel entertained.

“Alright,” you finally said, eyes narrowing in mock suspicion. “What type are you then, Mr. Expert?”

Jungkook sat up a little straighter, tapping his chin thoughtfully before dramatically proclaiming, “I’m an ENFP. The campaigner—enthusiastic, creative, and full of ideas!”

You rolled your eyes. “Of course you are.”

He grinned proudly, unfazed by your skepticism, before nudging the test closer to you. “Now, your turn. Answer honestly!”

You sighed, knowing this was going to be a lot more entertaining than you had planned for your break.

You hated how focused you were on the test. Reading each question carefully as if it were one of the most important exams of your life, when, in reality, you should’ve been studying for something much more significant. But Jungkook had a way of pulling you into whatever chaos he created, and before you knew it, you were marking your answers like they actually mattered.

The only sound in the air was Jungkook’s rhythmic slurping through his straw, interrupted only by the occasional dramatic sigh that escaped his lips. He would never comment on your answers—probably terrified that if he did, it would somehow influence your responses and ruin the results of his serious experiment.

It took you almost twenty minutes to finish the entire thing. You handed him the test with a slight feeling of disbelief that you had actually gotten sucked into this. “Verdict, Mr. Jeon?” you asked, raising an eyebrow, half-tempted to make fun of him but curious at the same time.

Jungkook took the test from your hands and began reading your answers with the utmost seriousness. His brow furrowed deeply, as though he were an experienced psychologist analyzing a patient’s deepest fears and desires. He nodded at the answers with a distracted expression, as if processing your choices was a very complex task.

“Hmmm…” He nodded again, this time a little more dramatically, as if everything was starting to make sense. “Interesting… Very interesting…”

You waited for the reveal, feeling both a sense of dread and amusement as Jungkook continued his mock analysis, clearly savoring the moment. He rubbed his chin like an old-timey detective piecing together the clues.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he dropped the paper back on the table and leaned back in his chair with a confident smirk.

“Well,” Jungkook said, drawing out the word like he was preparing to make the grandest announcement of his life. “You, my dear friend, are… an INTP!” He paused dramatically for effect, before adding in a whisper, “The Thinker.”

You blinked at him, waiting for the punchline, but he just grinned, clearly satisfied with himself.

“INTP?” you repeated, not entirely sure whether to laugh or question his methods. “The Thinker? Really? That sounds like a terrible description.”

Jungkook shrugged with mock seriousness, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s the best one! It’s all about being logical, analytical, and deeply curious. It says you tend to overthink everything and live in your own head—oh, and you’re probably the type to avoid emotional decisions, too.”

You stared at him, not sure whether to be offended or impressed by how well he seemed to have pegged you. “That sounds… vaguely accurate.”

“See? I told you this was legit.” Jungkook leaned forward, his excitement palpable. “I’ve been studying this stuff for weeks!”

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes at Jungkook’s theatrics. He was truly relentless. When he pulled out another sheet of paper from the mess and lowered his voice.

“And guess what,” he said, his voice dipping into a conspiratorial tone as that annoyingly adorable bunny smile appeared on his face. “INTP and ENFP are very, very much compatible.”

You let out an exasperated sigh, shaking your head as you pushed your foot against his ankle lightly, your patience starting to wear thin. “I should’ve known it would turn out like that.” You reached for your laptop, already preparing to tune him out.

Jungkook wasn’t deterred, of course. He was practically pouting now, his bottom lip sticking out in that way that always seemed to make his charm even more potent. “Everything is telling us to do something about that match the stars have made!” he whined loudly, his hands flailing dramatically in the air. “Come on, you can’t fake that!”

You gave him a long look, almost unimpressed but definitely entertained by his determination. “You really think just because the stars said so, we should… what, embrace the fate of this ‘match’?”

“Yes!” Jungkook’s eyes lit up like he’d just won the lottery. “I mean, come on—do you really want to deny the stars? The universe is practically begging us to be in sync!”

But you weren’t going to let him win that easily. “I don’t know, Jungkook. It sounds like a whole lot of nonsense to me.”

Jungkook pouted again, leaning toward you with his chin propped up on his hand. “Well, maybe you’re just too rational for this,” he said, teasingly. “Maybe you just need to believe a little bit more in… magic.”

You glanced at him, the corner of your lips tugging upward despite yourself. “I’ll believe in magic when you start acting like an actual gentleman,” you shot back with a playful smirk.

Jungkook raised his eyebrows dramatically. “I’m already a gentleman, thank you very much,” he said, half-mockingly, half-seriously. He leaned forward again, fixing you with a teasing gaze. “But if it’ll convince you to give this whole ‘fate’ thing a chance, I’ll do anything.”

“Oh, really?” you asked, eyes narrowing as you folded your arms on the table. “Anything, huh?”

“Anything,” he said, with complete sincerity. The way he said it almost made you believe he meant it, and that’s when you realized… Jungkook was a lot more convincing than he had any right to be.

But you weren’t going to let him off the hook that easily. Not this time.

“Alright then, Mr. Gentleman,” you said, raising an eyebrow. “First, get me a refill of my coffee. I’ll need it to survive this… soulmate talk.”

Jungkook’s face lit up immediately. “Anything! I’ll be back in a second!” he said, already jumping up from his seat like he had just been given the best mission of his life.

As you watched him rush to the counter, you couldn’t help but shake your head. Maybe you did secretly enjoy Jungkook’s chaotic, persistent antics more than you’d admit…

When Jungkook promised he would do anything, you should have been more cautious.

You knew it came from a guy who believed in every whimsical, far-fetched thing under the sun and, more importantly, he was determined to get you to believe in it too. And maybe, just maybe, he was succeeding—just a little bit.

It was another ordinary day as you left your lecture, walking alongside Hoseok, who was happily recounting the poems he had just studied. He was going on and on about the beauty of love as described in each verse, the words almost spilling from him as you tried to tune him out, but as usual, his enthusiasm was contagious—still, you couldn’t help but roll your eyes at his idealistic notions of love.

You had no idea that the moment you stepped outside the lecture hall, your day would take yet another wild turn. The campus, full of people, should have made it impossible for you to spot someone. But there, amid the crowd, you saw him—the one and only Jeon Jungkook.

And no, it wasn’t because you’d gotten used to recognizing his face, his messy dark hair, his trademark bunny smile, or those absurdly bright boba-like eyes.

It wasn’t only you who noticed him, either. Hoseok, ever the curious one, immediately turned to you with a puzzled expression, clearly caught off guard by the spectacle in front of him.

“Why is there a guy holding a giant sign with your name written on it, standing next to a cute dog?” he asked, his voice a mix of confusion and amusement.

You were frozen, your feet rooted to the spot, unable to fully process what was happening. There he was, Jungkook, right in front of you, with a massive banner bearing your name in bold letters and Yeontan by his side. The crowd around him parted like the sea, but it was clear: Jungkook was waiting for you.

And you? You were speechless. You couldn’t move, couldn’t form a coherent thought. You were stuck there, watching him scan the crowd, eyes darting back and forth, until they locked on you, his expression lighting up.

Jungkook practically sprinted toward you, but his momentum was cut short when Yeontan decided he had no intention of moving. The tiny dog sat stubbornly in place, tail flicking like he was some kind of royalty, completely unbothered by the fact that his leash was still in Jungkook’s grip.

Jungkook let out a dramatic sigh, tapping his foot impatiently. “Stupid dog, just stand up,” he muttered under his breath. When Yeontan remained firmly seated, looking up at him with a level of indifference that only Taehyung’s dog could master, Jungkook resorted to threats. “If you don’t, I swear I’ll tell Taehyung to make you sleep on the floor tonight.”

Yeontan, predictably, didn’t budge. Worse, he let out a small, high-pitched bark—almost as if he was mocking Jungkook.

You couldn’t hold back your laugh. “Can’t handle a tiny dog, Jungkook? How do you expect to handle a bigger one, then?” you teased, stepping closer and standing on your tiptoes to peek over his shoulder. Your eyes lit up as you turned your attention to the spoiled little dog. “Yeontan, hi!”

And just like that, as if he had only been waiting for the right person to acknowledge him, Yeontan immediately stood up and strutted toward you, his fluffy body practically wiggling with excitement.

Jungkook let out an exaggerated groan, rolling his eyes as he watched you crouch down to greet the dog like he was the most important being on earth. “Unbelievable,” he muttered.

“Maybe he was just angry,” he said after a beat, crouching down beside you, watching as Yeontan happily accepted your affection. “He doesn’t like seeing men. Yeontan hates guys who aren’t me or Taehyung.”

You scoffed, turning your gaze from the dog to Jungkook, who was wearing the smuggest grin imaginable. “Oh, really?” you said, raising an eyebrow. “Yeontan or Jungkook?”

“Both,” he admitted without an ounce of shame.

Jungkook shot a glare at Hoseok as he walked off, a little annoyed at how casually he had brushed past him, clearly unfazed by Jungkook’s grand gesture. He was about to ask who he was when you spoke again, your voice teasing.

“So, what’s with the ridiculously large sign?”

Jungkook straightened up, feeling the weight of the oversized cardboard sign hanging awkwardly from his hands. “I needed to make sure you would see me,” he said with a sheepish grin.

You tilted your head, smirking. “Fate couldn’t do it for me?”

Jungkook chuckled, lifting the sign a little higher as if to prove a point. “Sometimes you need to take matters into your own hands.”

You rolled your eyes, but a small grin tugged at the corners of your lips. Without saying anything further, you stood up, stretching a bit, and started walking beside him. Neither of you had said where you were headed, but for once, it didn’t matter.

It was Tuesday, and usually, you would’ve been heading home by now—because it was 7 PM, and you had your usual routine of getting some rest and preparing for the next day. But tonight, for reasons you couldn’t quite pinpoint, you found yourself letting your feet carry you wherever Jungkook was going. Something about his presence had a way of making you forget about your usual need for structure, leaving you open to the idea of spontaneity.

You walked in silence for a while, the evening air crisp, but there was a sense of comfort in it. Something that felt easy. Even though it wasn’t part of your plan, you didn’t mind.

Jungkook beamed, motioning toward the arcade entrance as if it were some grand discovery. “Look where fate has brought us,” he said, excitement lacing his voice.

You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms as you watched Yeontan enthusiastically tug at his leash, barking at the door as if demanding to be let inside. “So, fate is Yeontan now?” you teased, shaking your head with a small smile.

Jungkook followed your gaze to the tiny dog at his feet, and though he hated to admit it, maybe—just maybe—the little troublemaker had actually led them here. But there was no way he was going to let Yeontan think he was in charge.

“Are you up for some arcade games?” he asked instead, his voice casual, but there was a hopeful glint in his eyes.

You hesitated. You had an early start tomorrow. A long, exhausting day filled with classes, readings, and responsibilities you couldn’t afford to neglect. And you knew yourself well—without at least eight hours of sleep, you’d be miserable.

But then you looked at Jungkook. His wide, expectant eyes darting everywhere except at you, as if afraid of your answer. The way he fidgeted slightly, like he was already bracing for rejection. And then there was Yeontan, tongue out, tail wagging, practically vibrating with anticipation.

And somehow, against all logic, you found yourself sighing in defeat.

“Fine,” you muttered, already regretting it and yet… not really.

Jungkook’s face instantly lit up, as if you’d just agreed to something life-changing. “Really?”

You rolled your eyes, already stepping toward the entrance. “Don’t make me change my mind, Jeon.”

And just like that, you let yourself be pulled into another one of his ridiculous, impulsive adventures.

“Alright, buddy. Stay with the nice man, okay? And please—please—don’t make a scene.”

Jungkook crouched down to Yeontan’s level, placing both hands on his tiny, fluffy face as he spoke in a hushed but serious tone.

Jungkook sighed, reluctantly handing the leash to the bodyguard stationed at the entrance. The man arched a brow, clearly questioning why he was suddenly assigned dog-sitting duties, but before he could refuse, Jungkook flashed him a bright, pleading smile—eyes wide, all innocence and desperation.

And just like that, the bodyguard gave in with a resigned sigh. No one could say no to Jeon Jungkook’s puppy eyes.

“Good choice, sir,” Jungkook said with a dramatic bow before turning on his heel and striding into the arcade, Yeontan’s protests ringing behind him.

“You are literally the worst dogsitter,” you said, shaking your head as you followed. “You just abandoned him with a total stranger for some arcade games.”

Jungkook glanced over his shoulder at the entrance, watching as the bodyguard—who initially looked reluctant—was now gently scratching Yeontan’s head, looking far too soft for his intimidating size.

“He’ll be fine,” Jungkook shrugged, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Honestly, it’s better this way. If Yeontan could talk, I’d be dead. Taehyung would bury me alive for this betrayal.”

You rolled your eyes. “And yet, you’re still so proud of yourself.”

“Of course I am,” he said, grinning as he came to a stop in front of the claw machine. He rubbed his hands together, cracking his knuckles as if preparing for battle. “Because—I’m about to win you a plushie.”

Jungkook bounced on the balls of his feet, rolling his shoulders like an athlete preparing for a high-stakes match. His fingers flexed in anticipation before gripping the joystick with the confidence of someone who had spent far too many hours mastering the art of claw machines.

“Alright, tell me—which one’s coming home with you?” he asked, his eyes gleaming with excitement.

You scanned the collection of plushies crammed inside the machine, your gaze immediately settling on one in particular.

“The bunny,” you said without hesitation.

Jungkook followed your line of sight, nodding in approval. The plushie was soft-looking, slightly lopsided, with tiny front teeth peeking out in a way that made it seem both mischievous and endearing. Unknowingly, a small smile tugged at your lips—it reminded you of someone.

Jungkook didn’t miss the way your expression softened, but instead of commenting, he shot you a wink, his usual playful confidence dialed up to maximum.

“Consider it yours,” he declared, cracking his knuckles dramatically before gripping the joystick like he was about to defuse a bomb.

“You do know that claw machines are scams, right?” you say, crossing your arms as you lean over the machine.

“Nothing is a scam if you’re skilled enough,”

You roll your eyes. “Right. And let me guess—fate is on your side?”

Jungkook grins. “Fate, skill, and pure determination.” He pushes the button.

The claw descends. Grabs the bunny. Lifts it.

And then—drops it right before the prize slot.

Jungkook’s jaw drops. His hands go to his head like he’s just witnessed the betrayal of a lifetime. “No way,” he whispers.

You snort. “I told you. Scams.”

But Jungkook isn’t one to admit defeat. Oh no. He pulls out more coins, inserting them like a man with a mission. “I will not lose to a machine,” he declares.

Attempt #2—fail.

Attempt #3—even worse.

Attempt #7—Jungkook is full-on yelling at the machine now. “You're rigged. Just admit it!”

By now, a small crowd has gathered to witness the absolute tragedy of Jeon Jungkook vs. the Claw Machine.

You sigh, shaking your head. “Let me try.”

Jungkook, looking utterly defeated, steps aside with a pout. “Fine. But if you win on your first try, I might actually cry.”

You take his spot, glance at the plushie you want, and move the claw with ease. One button press later, the claw grabs onto a cute little bunny plushie, lifts it, and—

Drops it perfectly into the prize slot.

Jungkook screams. “No way. No. Way.”

You bend down, grab the plushie, and hand it to him with a smirk. “For you, since you clearly can’t win one yourself.”

Jungkook clutches the plushie to his chest, looking at you with something close to awe. “I think I might be in love with you.”

You snort. “Shut up.”

You tugged at Jungkook’s sleeve, pulling him along with a surprising sense of urgency. You had a goal in mind, and there was no way you were going to let him chicken out. The moment you spotted it, the shooter laser game stood out like a beacon—something you used to love as a kid. Your dad used to take you there, and you’d always win, no matter how many times you played.

You hadn’t planned on telling Jungkook that, though. You wanted to see how determined he would be first, how seriously he would take this. It wasn’t just about winning—it was about making it fun, and seeing if he could keep up with your competitive side.

“Let’s do that,” you said, pointing at the brightly lit, futuristic shooter zone. Jungkook barely hesitated before his eyes lit up with excitement.

“Ready for some action?” he asked, almost too eager, as he handed his plushie bunny to the girl at the counter, his grin never fading. He slid on the neon vest with practiced ease, strapping the plastic gun around his waist with an exaggerated flourish.

“Okay, let me protect you,” he teased with a wink, stepping in front of you and walking toward the entrance of the game area, shoulders straight, as if he was about to face down a villain in a movie.

The mission was clear—this was going to be your game, and Jungkook was about to find out what it meant to face off against a determined opponent.

The moment the game started, you immediately fell into the zone, your eyes locked on your targets, fingers steady as you aimed and shot. But then, there was Jungkook, totally living his own action-movie fantasy. As you focused on picking off other players, he started yelling, “Cover me!” and then, with no hesitation, he dropped to the floor and did a full-on combat roll—completely unnecessary, but so Jungkook.

While you were racking up points, carefully picking off your targets, Jungkook seemed determined to make this game a one-man mission. He wasn’t playing it safe like the others, crouching behind barriers and taking strategic shots. Instead, he would rush directly into the fray, charging at his opponents with a reckless abandon, all while you watched in disbelief as he kept getting shot down, over and over again. It was like he was playing a completely different game.

The arena was dimly lit, the flashing lights of the game casting shadows and colors everywhere. But every time you caught sight of Jungkook, your attention was momentarily pulled away from the game. His face would light up with an almost childlike joy, his eyes locked in concentration, and his lips pressed tightly in a determined grimace as he aimed, his brow furrowed. Despite the madness of it all, you couldn’t help but grin at his antics.

As you watched him get shot again you leaned closer and whispered, “You’re not doing it right.” You quickly reached out, guiding his hands to hold the gun correctly, adjusting his stance so he’d be able to actually aim and shoot properly.

“It was right,” he muttered, a stubborn edge to his voice, but he didn’t protest as he immediately followed your correction, the gun now resting more naturally in his grip.

“You keep dying,” you pointed out, trying not to get distracted by the ridiculousness of the situation. “And you’re losing points because—”

Suddenly, he spun around, eyes wide as he shouted, “Behind you!” into your ear, as he shot at an enemy who had snuck up on you. His face lit up as he made the shot, turning back to you with a cheeky grin. “Call me if you need help,” he winked, clearly pleased with himself, and then, with zero regard for the other players, he dropped to the floor and started crawling across the arena like it was some kind of military operation.

You blinked, stunned for a moment. Literally no one else was crawling on the floor like him. But Jungkook? He was on his hands and knees, dragging himself across the ground as if there were some kind of tactical advantage to it. You couldn’t stop yourself from laughing, shaking your head at how ridiculously serious he was taking it all.

As the final seconds of the game ticked down, you caught sight of Jungkook once more. He had, once again, gotten himself shot for what felt like the thousandth time. He was lying dramatically on the floor, his body limp and still, as if he had been mortally wounded. But then, just as you were about to walk past, he reached out, grabbing your shoulder for support, and whispered in a voice that was way too serious for the situation.

“You must go on without me,” he said, gripping your hand with exaggerated intensity, his voice shaking as if he were facing his last moments.

He fell back dramatically, playing up his ‘dying’ act. But you weren’t about to fall for it.

You rolled your eyes, barely able to hide your smirk as you shoved him off. “You’re so annoying.”

And when the final scores flashed across the screen, your name was on top with a higher score than his. You couldn’t resist the small, victorious smirk that tugged at your lips. “Guess I don’t need your protection after all.”

Despite his over-the-top drama, he still grinned, following you like a lost puppy, not missing a beat. “Alright, alright, you may have won this round,” he said with a playful huff. “But the night is young. Let’s see who comes out on top in the next game.”

Jungkook knew he had to play this one smart. He had strategized this moment down to the last detail, carefully guiding you toward the dance battle game. This was his domain. If there was one game he could dominate, it was this one.

So, with all the confidence in the world, he turned to you and declared, “Fate says if I win, you owe me a wish.”

You scoffed, arms crossed. “When did fate ever say that?”

Jungkook waved a hand dismissively. “Just now. She whispered it to me.”

You rolled your eyes but stepped onto the dance pad anyway, letting him have his moment.

The game started, and that’s when you realized you were in trouble. Jungkook wasn’t just playing—he was performing. He was jumping, spinning, and moving like he was on a concert stage, while you were desperately trying to keep up with the arrows flashing across the screen. It was clear within seconds that he wasn’t holding back.

And then, as if he needed to rub it in, he ended the routine with a dramatic knee slide, stopping just in front of you. With a cocky smirk, he pointed at you like he had just finished a world tour concert.

“You must grant my wish now,” he said, completely out of breath but grinning like he had just won the lottery.

You, still panting, narrowed your eyes. “And what exactly is this wish?”

Jungkook didn’t hesitate. He leaned in slightly, eyes twinkling with mischief. “A date.”

Your breath hitched. You scoffed, trying to play it cool even as you felt warmth creeping up your neck. “You just embarrassed yourself in front of a bunch of strangers for a date?”

Jungkook only grinned wider. “I’d embarrass myself anywhere if it gets me one with you.”

Yeah. That shut you up real quick.

That night, sleep was impossible. You tossed and turned, flipping your pillow to the cooler side, only to sigh in frustration when it didn’t help. At some point, you kicked off your sheets, but even the newfound freedom didn’t stop the restlessness creeping through your body.

And then there was the bunny plushie. Sitting there. Staring at you.

It was ridiculous how something so small could feel so significant. But it wasn’t just any plushie—it was the one you had won and gave to Jungkook, the one you had picked without really thinking, the one he had insisted you keep.

“You won it. You chose this one for a reason.”

His words played in your mind, looping like a song you couldn’t turn off. And what irritated you the most was that he wasn’t wrong. You had picked it instinctively, drawn to its slightly reckless charm—the little front teeth peeking out, the way its ears flopped in different directions. It reminded you of something. Of someone.

But that was the part you hated. Because you couldn’t explain it. There was no rational reason, no evidence, no logical conclusion to why this plushie—why he—was suddenly taking up so much space in your thoughts. It was an unsolved case, an unfinished puzzle, and that alone should have been enough to frustrate you.

And yet… somehow, it felt right.

And that? That was the most confusing part of all.

The first thing Jungkook did when he woke up was check his messages, his heart momentarily freezing in his chest before he sighed in relief.

Taehyung had only sent him a picture—an ugly close-up of himself mid-yawn, Yeontan happily licking his cheek. That was it. Nothing unusual. Nothing suspicious. Which meant… he didn’t know about his betrayal.

Shaking off the thought, he did what he always did—instinctively opened his favorite astrology website, scrolling straight to his sign.

Virgo: Don’t let yourself get down because of your poor love life!

Jungkook nearly threw his phone across the room.

He bolted upright, staring at the screen like it had personally offended him.

“Poor love life?!” he scoffed, running a hand through his messy hair.

He read it again. And again. As if, by some miracle, the words might shift and correct themselves.

“My love life isn’t poor,” he muttered defensively, brows furrowed. “It’s… just slow. A slow burn. Romantic. Building suspense.”

But then his expression faltered.

Three days.

It had been three whole days since that night at the arcade. Since he walked you home. Since you laughed at his dumb jokes and promised to text him.

And yet, his phone remained silent.

At first, he told himself you were just busy. No big deal. Then, by the second day, he convinced himself you were doing it on purpose, making him wait—a power move. But now? Now, as the third day stretched on, he was starting to wonder if… if maybe the website was right.

Maybe his love life wasn’t just slow.

Maybe it was dead on arrival.

With a dramatic groan, he flopped onto his back again, phone resting on his chest. His mind was racing, spiraling into increasingly dramatic scenarios.

Was this karma? Was this because he let Yeontan stay with a stranger at the arcade?

Jungkook sat up, eyes wide with realization.

It was the dog. It had to be.

He gasped, sitting up. “Shit. Is the universe punishing me?!”

Panic surged through him as he hovered over your contact.

(not) my crush.

His fingers twitched, itching to type something—anything. But what was he even supposed to say?

hey, did u forget about me? No, too desperate.

hey, are you mad at me? No, too pathetic.

hey, my horoscope just wrecked my entire self-esteem, please respond so I can prove it wrong? …Okay, maybe that one was the closest to the truth.

But instead of texting, he groaned and shoved a pillow over his face, muffling his frustration.

He was losing his mind.

And the worst part?

He was starting to think the stupid website was right.

Jungkook grabbed his phone with newfound determination, scrolling down urgently until he found your horoscope. If there was anything in this world that could give him an answer, it was this.

His eyes darted over the words, his heart pounding as he read: Today, you may feel a little more anxious than usual… maybe it’s time to open your heart?

Jungkook exhaled, a slow breath of relief washing over him.

Finally. Something to work with.

If you were feeling anxious, he could fix that. If you needed comfort, he could be there. And if there was even the smallest chance that you were truly considering opening your heart—like the blog suggested—then he would make damn sure that heart was opening for him.

That was all the confirmation he needed.

Jungkook barely took the time to breathe as he rushed through his morning routine.

Shirt—on. Shoes—on. Teeth—brushed, face—washed. Hair? A mess. But he didn’t care. He had bigger things to focus on.

Your horoscope had given him an opening, a chance—an actual sign from the universe. And if there was one thing Jungkook believed in, it was signs.

As he ran, Jungkook quickly glanced at his phone. Saturday, 10 AM. Which meant you were probably at the coffee shop by now.

He could already picture it perfectly—your usual spot by the window, an oversized cup of iced coffee sitting beside you. You once told him you liked it because you could leave it untouched for hours and it would still be the same temperature. He had laughed at the logic, but the way your eyes had lit up when you explained it had made it seem like the most brilliant thing in the world.

Then there was your laptop, decorated with colorful stickers—each one telling a small story. Jungkook loved those stickers. Loved watching you focus so intensely on your screen, completely lost in thought, before he inevitably interrupted with a question about one of them. You’d roll your eyes, sighing in mock annoyance.

“You’re distracting me,” you would say, but you’d always answer anyway. The thought made him grin.

Yeah. You were definitely at the café.

And Jungkook was going to be there too.

By the time Jungkook reached the café, he was out of breath. He couldn’t remember the last time he had run this fast—maybe during the high school tournament when he had spent months training for the final match.

He slowed his pace as he reached the front of the café, his eyes scanning the window. And there you were. Your face was pressed against the table, looking exhausted or maybe just lost in your own thoughts. Your usual large iced coffee was nowhere to be seen—replaced by a small cup, barely touched. But your laptop, with all its little stickers, was still there. You were still there.

Jungkook felt a rush of relief, but also a tightening in his chest. Something was off, and it was clear now. His horoscope had said you were feeling anxious, and everything about the way you were sitting, slumped over your table, told him his hunch was right. You weren’t just having a bad day; it seemed like something more. And he wasn’t going to let that slide.

With one last deep breath, Jungkook pushed open the door to the café, his focus sharp. He wasn’t here for some grand gesture today. No, this time, his mission was clear: he had to make your day feel better. Because if your horoscope was even half right, you needed someone to help. Someone to show up.

And that someone, he decided, would be him.

“Weather’s good, the sky’s blue, and I think we should go for a little bit of a run,” Jungkook said with a smile, his voice light but full of purpose as he approached your table. He tucked his hands into the pockets of his joggers, giving you an amused look.

Your head jerked up at the sound of his voice, and before you could even process it, you found yourself screaming, your face flushing bright red. The sound was involuntary, escaping you before you could stop it. In a panic, you slammed your laptop shut, suddenly feeling self-conscious, though you couldn’t even pinpoint why.

“Why? Am I that ugly?” he muttered under his breath. But it wasn’t that at all—it was the opposite. Jungkook stood there in front of you, and suddenly, you couldn’t breathe right.

For the past three days, it had been hard to even focus on anything other than him. Ever since the arcade, you couldn’t stop thinking about him. Your mind was constantly drawn back to the things he did, the things he said, his mannerisms, and the way he made you feel. There was something about him—something undeniable and confusing that stirred your emotions.

It wasn’t love, you were sure of that… but it wasn’t just attraction either. It was something in between, something you couldn’t wrap your head around. And that only made it worse. You hated not being able to define what you were feeling. You were used to rational thoughts, to clear explanations, and this? This wasn’t it. And that made you anxious.

He stood there, dressed in a full oversized Nike tracksuit that was beige and blue. His hair was messier than usual, like he hadn’t bothered to fix it before rushing out the door. It seemed to have grown a bit longer since the last time you saw him, though you couldn’t even believe it had only been three days. He looked out of breath, cheeks flushed from his little sprint to the café, and somehow, that only made him more irresistible.

“So, how about that run?” he asked, voice light, but his gaze never leaving yours. It was almost like he was waiting for you to say something—anything—that would break the tension.

“You know I can’t go running, Jungkook. My finals are in two weeks, and—”

Before you can finish, he flops down onto the couch beside you. Not just beside you—right beside you. Close enough that you can see the curve of his eyelashes, the way his round eyes widen with innocent pleading. Close enough to notice a faint scar on his cheek, one you’ve never noticed before.

“Please?” He blinks up at you, fluttering his lashes in an exaggerated attempt to be cute.

You narrow your eyes. “That’s not gonna work on me.”

“Okay, fine,” he huffs, crossing his arms. “Then let’s talk logic. You owe me a date. I won the dance battle, fair and square.” He frowns, eyebrows scrunching like he’s personally offended that you’d forget such an important event.

“You seriously want our date to be… running?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

Jungkook beams, but you don’t miss the way his eyes flicker to your hands—how you’re already packing your stuff despite your protests. “It’s not what I originally had in mind,” he admits, standing up and—without hesitation—grabbing your backpack for you. “But if it’s the only way to get you to spend time with me, then sure. Let’s make it a date.”

“You really can’t take no for an answer, can you?”

At that, he simply shrugs, tilting his head in a way that makes him look entirely too smug. “Maybe I should become a lawyer too. I clearly know how to argue my way to a win.”

You roll your eyes, following him out of the café as he leads the way toward your apartment, two blocks away.

“Yeah, well, cases can’t be solved with astrology or whatever,” you tease, nudging his shoulder playfully.

Jungkook gasps, dramatically clutching his chest. “Excuse me? Are you suggesting the stars don’t have all the answers?”

You roll your eyes. “I’m implying that the stars didn’t predict you annoying me into a run today.”

Jungkook clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “Oh, but they did,” he says, reaching for his phone. “Your horoscope literally said you should open your heart today. And what better way to open your heart than a little bit of cardio?”

“You have a serious problem,” you mumble, but you don’t stop walking beside him.

He grins, triumphant. “And yet, here you are, willingly going on our first official date. Running,” he emphasizes, like it’s the most romantic thing in the world.

“You really think this is a date?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

Jungkook stops in his tracks, turning to face you with the biggest, most innocent puppy-eyed look you’ve ever seen. “Of course it is,” he says, completely serious. “Spending time together, getting our hearts racing, maybe even falling dramatically into each other’s arms if one of us trips—”

“That’s just you being clumsy.”

“—And afterward, we get smoothies, because every date needs a cute ending,” he finishes, ignoring your interruption.

After making a quick stop at your apartment to change into something more comfortable, you step outside to find Jungkook already waiting for you. He’s stretching, his arms reaching up toward the sky, head tilted back slightly as he loosens his muscles. The sight is almost too much—like he walked straight out of a Nike ad.

“You know, I’m very competitive,” he warns, rolling his shoulders as you step beside him. “So you’d better be ready to keep up.”

Without hesitation, you mirror his movements, stretching your arms as well. “Please,” you scoff. “I was in track when I was thirteen. You should be the one worried.”

Jungkook raises an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Oh? Guess we’ll see about that.”

And just like that, the two of you are standing there in the middle of the street, stretching like absolute idiots. But somehow, you don’t care. Because at least you’re two idiots together.

And you should have known—Jungkook was a fitness guy. The kind of person who could run for hours, barely breaking a sweat, and still have enough energy to challenge you to a push-up contest afterward. His stamina was unreal, almost unfair.

You had always been pretty confident in yours, but something about this run was different. Maybe it was the way he decided to casually shrug off his jacket, leaving him in just a fitted white shirt that clung to him way too well. Or maybe it was the way your breath hitched—not just from running, but from realizing you were definitely staring.

Jungkook was always ahead, glancing back every now and then with that ridiculously bright smile of his, teasing you, daring you to catch up. And when you did—because, of course, he slowed down just enough to let you—he only grinned wider, as if this was exactly where he wanted you to be.

And for the first time today, you weren’t thinking about finals. Or stress. Or anything else weighing you down.

Because that’s the thing about Jungkook. He’s this endless ball of energy, always smiling, always pulling you into moments that feel lighter, better—like today. And maybe that’s exactly why you—wait, like! Like. That’s why you like Jungkook.

You wonder how he knew today was a terrible day. Maybe his horoscope nonsense wasn’t so much nonsense after all. The thought makes you laugh—only to immediately regret it when you realize laughing while running is a terrible idea.

Your breath catches, and within seconds, you’re doubling over, coughing like an idiot. Great.

Jungkook stops instantly, his teasing grin replaced with concern as he jogs back to you.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice softer now as he gently pats your back. You barely manage to throw a thumbs-up between coughs, and he sighs in relief.

“Let’s take a break, okay? You’re doing so well.”

And just like that, your heart does something weird. Because suddenly, it’s not the run making it race—it’s him. His voice, his touch, his stupidly sweet encouragement.

Honestly? You think you could run for another hour now. Maybe even two.

The two of you sit in silence for a moment, watching as other joggers pass by, their rhythmic footsteps blending into the sound of the wind rustling through the trees.

“It’s so pretty,” Jungkook murmurs, his voice softer than usual, his eyes fixed on the river. “I love running.”

For once, there’s no teasing lilt in his voice, no mischievous glint in his doe eyes. Just quiet admiration. Peace. Relief.

It’s a side of him you haven’t seen before. A side you—unknowingly, unconsciously—want to know more about.

“You know,” you say after a moment, your breath finally evening out, “I don’t actually know anything about you.”

Jungkook turns to you, his usual grin creeping back onto his face. “You know my name is Jungkook,” he starts, tilting his head slightly. “I have a best friend named Taehyung, who has a terrible dog.”

You huff out a laugh, shaking your head as he continues.

“You also know I’m a Virgo. And an ENFP.” He lifts a finger, as if he’s listing off important facts. “You know I’m a dance machine, and a—”

“Okay, okay, I get it,” you interrupt, rolling your eyes before he can spiral into one of his dramatic monologues.

Jungkook just chuckles, nudging your knee with his. And as you sit there, catching your breath beside him, you realize something—maybe knowing Jungkook isn’t about the big things. Maybe it’s about the small moments like this.

Jungkook exhales slowly, his gaze dropping to his feet. “I just don’t feel like there’s a lot to know about me,” he finally admits, voice quieter than before. “I’m not doing anything prestigious like law school. Or, well… anything at all.” He lets out a small scoff, but you can hear it—that vulnerability laced beneath his usual playfulness.

You frown slightly. “You don’t have to do something like that to be worthy.”

He doesn’t look up, just keeps staring at his shoes. His toes wiggle inside them, like some kind of nervous habit, and he lets out a small chuckle—but you know it’s not real.

“You probably think I’m an idiot for believing in stupid stuff like this,” he mutters, scratching at the back of his neck. “I mean, you’re a law student. You obviously like solid facts. Things that aren’t based on some random website.”

You don’t say anything, just let him keep talking.

“Today, my horoscope said I was gonna have a bad day,” he continues, exhaling sharply through his nose. “And every time I read something like that, I do everything in my power to prove it wrong.”

For the first time, you really listen. You’ve always thought horoscopes were just an excuse—something people used to justify things happening to them instead of taking control of their own lives.

But maybe Jungkook sees it differently. Maybe, for him, it’s not about letting the universe decide his fate. Maybe it’s about fighting against it—choosing to seek out the good, even when the bad feels inevitable.

And maybe… that’s not so stupid after all.

After what felt like a long minute of silence—a silence that, surprisingly, wasn’t uncomfortable at all—you both finally start walking home. Conversation with Jungkook is always effortless, flowing like a river with no real destination, just moving naturally from one topic to another. He never lets the quiet stretch too long before filling it with something, whether it’s an observation, a joke, or a random thought that pops into his head.

And you love that.

By the time you arrive in front of your apartment, smoothies in hand just like he promised, you almost wish you could go for another round—just to spend more time with him.

You hesitate for a moment, watching as he sips on his drink, seemingly in no rush to leave either.

Then, just as you turn to head inside, you stop. “By the way—”

Jungkook instantly turns around at the sound of your voice, eyes wide, like he’s afraid he missed something important.

“I’m still waiting for the real date,” you say with a teasing smile, tilting your head slightly.

And before he can respond, before you can see whatever stunned expression is on his face, you finally step inside.

Jungkook stares at your closed door for a long second, then looks down at his smoothie, shaking his head with a laugh.

Yeah. He’s never been happier than right now.

If Jungkook had to describe what he was feeling right now in one word, it would be: terrible.

He was a walking disaster, pacing around his room, running a frustrated hand through his already-messy hair as he stared at the absolute war zone that was now his bed. Clothes were scattered everywhere—shirts he had tried on and tossed aside, jeans that didn’t feel quite right, shoes lined up in pairs as if they were about to be judged in a runway competition.

And still, nothing felt good enough.

The worst part? He had to swallow his pride and FaceTime Taehyung for advice. And that was truly, truly humiliating.

Because now, instead of being helpful, Taehyung was leaning into the camera, squinting like he was examining a piece of evidence.

“Bro,” Taehyung finally said, exasperated, “you look good in everything. Just wear clothes and leave the house.”

Jungkook groaned, rubbing his face. That should have been reassuring, but it wasn’t.

Still, after much internal debate (and Taehyung threatening to hang up if he didn’t stop whining), Jungkook finally decided: he just had to be himself.

And if that meant showing up in his usual slightly-effortless-but-still-cool style, then so be it.

Honestly? You weren’t doing any better.

Jungkook hadn’t even told you what the plan was. Instead, he had sent a series of texts that were so Jungkook that you almost regretted asking for clarification in the first place.

jk sexy virgo boy [4:32 PM] :

at least have something on u!

not that i would mind if not!!! :00

ewwww no!!! i know i shouldnt ask fucking taehyung for advice when it comes to that

you know what? just put on sneakers

oh and something you don’t mind really

…Yeah. That helped absolutely nothing.

You stared at your wardrobe for a moment, trying to make a decision that wouldn’t be too much, but also wouldn’t look like you were just casually hanging out with him as if you were old friends. You considered a dress, but it felt like overkill. Jeans were too laid back, too easygoing.

You finally decided on a pair of pants that were comfortable, but not too casual, and paired them with a simple t-shirt. You hoped that, by whatever weird cosmic force Jungkook believed in—maybe fate, or whatever the universe was trying to tell him—he would see that you weren’t trying to look good, but maybe just trying to survive this. You just hoped he wouldn’t see it as you dressing to impress. After all, you were definitely worried about looking like complete shit.

Jungkook was still a mess by the time he pulled up in front of your building.

Today was supposed to be his chance to impress you, so he had taken Taehyung’s advice—again—and took his car. Apparently, girls liked cars. Especially sleek, black ones like his. Jungkook had been skeptical at first, but Taehyung had said it with such confidence that he figured, why not?

Now? He deeply regretted listening to him.

At first, he had done his best to look smooth—one hand confidently gripping the steering wheel, the other resting lazily on the passenger seat like he was starring in some kind of car commercial. But the moment he actually arrived, all that supposed confidence vanished.

Because now, there was no avoiding it. In just a few minutes, he’d see you again.

His pulse picked up, thoughts racing faster than they should. It wasn’t even a big deal—just a date. A casual date. A hangout, even. So why did it feel like his brain was short-circuiting? Why did his palms feel clammy against the leather of the wheel?

And why, for the love of everything holy, had he decided this was the perfect time to struggle with parallel parking?

Five minutes. That’s how long he had been at this. Five whole minutes of inching forward, reversing, adjusting, reversing again, somehow making it worse every time. There were other parking spots, easier ones, but he had stubbornly chosen this one—the one closest to your front door. It made sense. It would make things smoother when you got in the car.

Except nothing about this was smooth.

He exhaled sharply, gripping the wheel. Alright. One more time. Just a few small movements, and—

A sudden knock on his window made him jump.

A noise—something between a squeak and a gasp—escaped him before he could stop it. His heart slammed against his ribs as he turned his head in pure panic, only to find you standing outside, arms crossed, amusement dancing in your eyes.

Jungkook froze. His mind blanked.

For a second, all he could do was stare at you, caught like a deer in headlights. Then, in a desperate attempt to salvage his dignity, he quickly shifted—one arm thrown back over the seat, posture adjusting into what he hoped was a nonchalant pose. With exaggerated ease, he rolled down the window, schooling his expression into something cool.

“Hey,” he said, voice only slightly strained. “What’s up?”

You raise an eyebrow, arms crossed as you peer down at him through the open window. “Having some trouble there, Fast & Furious?” your voice is light, teasing—but not unkind.

Jungkook visibly tenses, his grip on the steering wheel tightening for a split second before he clears his throat. “Uh, yeah… just, you know, making sure I’m not blocking anyone.” He runs a hand through his already-messy hair, a nervous habit you’ve started to pick up on. “Gotta be considerate of others.”

Your eyes flick toward his car—angled awkwardly, one wheel nearly kissing the curb while the other juts out into the street in a way that is definitely not considerate of anyone. You raise an eyebrow, amused.

“Right,” you drawl, nodding slowly. “Super considerate. I’m sure the other drivers will really appreciate the creative use of space.”

At that, Jungkook groans dramatically and throws his head back against the seat. “Okay, fine, I suck at parking. Happy?”

You laugh, leaning against the door. “A little.”

His head snaps toward you, scandalized. “Wow. You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“I don’t remember signing up for that.”

Jungkook narrows his eyes, but there’s no real bite to it. He’s fighting a smile, the tension in his shoulders finally loosening. With a sigh, he shifts the car into reverse. “Alright, one more time. If I don’t get it this time, we’re Ubering.”

You smirk. “Deal.”

Jungkook straightens up, hands gripping the wheel with newfound determination. You step back, watching with amusement as he very slowly attempts to correct his angle, his bottom lip caught between his teeth in deep concentration.

And, to his credit—he does manage to park properly on the next try.

You make a show of clapping as he steps out of the car, locking it behind him. “Wow. Look at you. A functional adult.”

Jungkook rolls his eyes, but he’s grinning now, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he falls into step beside you. “Ha ha. Let’s just go before you hurt my ego even more.”

Still smiling, you nudge him playfully. “No promises.”

Jungkook, ever the gentleman (when he wants to be), holds the passenger door open for you before settling into his own seat. He’s still keeping up this air of mystery, refusing to spill any details about where exactly he’s taking you. It’s your date—still such a weird thing to call it—but apparently, you’re not allowed to know a single thing about it.

You try everything. Nudging his shoulder lightly, poking at his arm, even giving him your best puppy eyes. But all you get in response is a dramatic sigh and a warning.

“If you keep that up, I swear I’m gonna crash this car,” he mutters, gripping the wheel like it personally offended him.

“You’re so dramatic,” you huff, leaning back into your seat with an exaggerated whine when it becomes obvious he won’t budge. “At least give me a hint.”

“Nope.”

“You could literally be kidnapping me right now.” You glance out the window, as if hoping that alone will make him talk. “Hoseok asked me to send my location, by the way.”

Jungkook scoffs, barely sparing you a glance as he switches lanes. “Well, tell that Hoseok guy that tonight, you won’t be giving him any updates. You’ll be way too busy with me.” He grins proudly, wiggling his eyebrows like he just said something outrageously smooth.

You give him a long, unimpressed look before deadpanning, “You sure are taking my time. Five minutes to park? Yeah.”

His smile immediately drops. “Oh my God, let it go!”

“Never.”

You were glad you hadn’t pressed Jungkook for more details because, as soon as you saw where he had taken you, excitement bubbled up in your chest so fast you practically bounced in your seat.

“Karaoke?” you exclaimed, eyes lighting up as you took in the neon sign above the entrance.

Before Jungkook even had the chance to step out and open the door for you like he had originally planned—because he was, in fact, on his best gentleman behavior tonight—you were already scrambling out of the car, clapping your hands together like a little kid who just got the biggest candy bar in the store.

Jungkook, now standing on the other side of the car, stuffed his hands into the pockets of his trousers, willing himself to stay cool and collected. But inside? He was screaming. You loved the idea just as much as he had hoped, and that was enough to make his heart do a full-on gymnastics routine.

Still, he played it off like it was no big deal. Running a hand through his hair, he shrugged, forcing a casual expression onto his face. “Yeah,” he said, voice dripping with feigned nonchalance. “I think it’s time for you to witness my legendary singing skills.” His tone was cocky, the kind that made you roll your eyes and laugh at the same time.

“Oh, legendary, huh?” You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms. “I hope you know I take karaoke very seriously.”

Jungkook only smirked, stepping ahead of you as he pulled open the door. “Then you better bring your A-game, because I don’t lose.”

As you both made your way toward the entrance, Jungkook suddenly picked up his pace, clearly determined to be the first one inside. But you weren’t about to let him win that easily. You mirrored his steps, speeding up just as fast, the two of you now locked in a completely unnecessary—and yet highly competitive—race to the door.

Unsurprisingly, Jungkook reached the counter first, flashing a triumphant smirk as he leaned against it, effortlessly slipping into his “bad boy” act. He gave his name to the staff with an air of cool indifference, as if he hadn’t just practically sprinted to get there first. You rolled your eyes at his theatrics but followed along as the employee led you both toward the private booth he had booked.

The moment you stepped inside, the dimly lit karaoke room came to life with glowing neon lights, casting streaks of pink and blue across the walls. Jungkook took one look around, nodding in satisfaction before turning to you with a cocky grin.

“Alright,” he announced, completely serious. “This is the place where you’ll fall in love with me.”

The words left his lips so casually, so matter-of-fact, that it took you a second to process them. When you did, you let out a scoff, but no sarcastic remark came to mind—because the truth was, you had already fallen.

And if you let yourself think about it any longer, you knew you’d realize something even worse.

That no matter how much you fought it, no matter how ridiculous he could be… you were probably going to fall even more.

It was nearly impossible not to laugh at Jungkook’s antics. The way he threw himself into every song—whether it was an intense rock performance, complete with dramatic jumps and exaggerated guitar riffs made with his mouth, or a heartbreaking ballad where he closed his eyes and poured his entire soul into each lyric—was something out of a fever dream. He wasn’t just a good singer, he was a great one. And beyond that, he was a performer. Every move, every exaggerated gesture, was so unapologetically him that you couldn’t even think about taking the mic away.

By the time he finished his latest emotional masterpiece, a song so devastating that you half-expected him to drop to his knees in despair, he turned to you with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Come on,” he said, slightly out of breath but grinning. “I’ll show you how good we work together.”

Before you could protest, he grabbed your hand, effortlessly pulling you up from the couch. The warmth of his touch sent an embarrassing flutter through your stomach, and as he handed you a microphone, you caught sight of the song selection. A duet.

“Seriously, Jungkook?” You groaned, but the smile on your face betrayed you.

He didn’t even answer, too busy scrolling through the lyrics like he was preparing for the most important performance of his life. And when the music started, he went all in—grabbing your hand and twirling you in place before you could even sing a single note.

You tried to be serious. Really, you did. But how could you when Jungkook was dramatically belting out the lyrics, jumping around like a five-year-old who’d had too much sugar? It was ridiculous, and absolutely unfair, because the moment he pulled you close and started singing like you were the only person in the world, you completely lost it.

Laughter bubbled out of you, your voice cracking as you tried—and failed—to get through your lines. “Jungkook, I can’t—” you gasped between giggles, clutching your stomach as he twirled you again, this time nearly making you stumble.

“Oh, come on,” he teased, his own laughter mixing with yours as he tightened his grip on your hand. “At least try to keep up!”

You didn’t stand a chance. By the time the song ended, you were breathless—not from singing, but from laughing so much. And as Jungkook stood there, hands on his hips, chest heaving like he’d just finished a full-blown concert, you realized something.

This was the most fun you’d had in a long, long time.

“How was I?” Jungkook asked, his bunny smile stretching wide across his face, eyes gleaming with excitement. He was practically bouncing on his feet, ready to soak in every compliment you had to offer.

You opened your mouth, ready to tease him, but the way he looked at you—so expectant, so earnest—made you pause. His eyes were shining, round and full of innocent anticipation, like he truly needed to hear what you thought.

You smiled softly, tilting your head. “I think that not even the stars could have predicted how happy I am right now.”

Jungkook’s breath hitched. He hadn’t expected that. His confidence wavered for half a second before he let out a choked laugh, quickly turning his head away. “Aish, what is that?” he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck as a faint pink dusted his cheeks.

But you saw the way his fingers curled slightly, the way he ducked his head just enough to try and hide his flustered expression. And you knew, without a doubt, that it was the best answer he could have possibly hoped for.

Jungkook continued to sing, each performance just as energetic as the last. It was almost exhausting just watching him, yet somehow, he never seemed to run out of energy. His voice never wavered, his movements never slowed—he was a force of nature, completely in his element.

You leaned back against the couch, watching in amusement as he jumped onto the small table in the middle of the room, using it as a makeshift stage. The neon lights reflected in his eyes as he belted out the chorus, dramatically pointing at you like he was dedicating the song to you and only you.

It was refreshing, really. How someone could be so alive, so unapologetically himself. While you often felt drained and stressed, weighed down by responsibilities and expectations, Jungkook was the complete opposite. He carried an energy so contagious that it made you forget about everything else—your finals, your worries, the anxiety that had settled in your chest all day.

Jungkook had a way of making the world feel a little lighter. And tonight, you let yourself enjoy that feeling, completely and without hesitation.

Just like every morning, Jungkook checked his horoscope the moment he woke up. It had become a ritual at this point—his little way of preparing for the day ahead. He checked yours too.

So, still half-asleep, he grabbed his phone, scrolling through the daily horoscope predictions. Everything seemed fine at first, but then… an idea struck him.

What if he checked your full zodiac chart?

It was stupid, probably. But Jungkook never did things halfway. If he was going to believe in astrology, he was going to do it right. So he sat up in bed, grabbed his laptop, and started searching. He input your birth details, cross-checking them with what little information he had gathered from your conversations. He even went down a rabbit hole of different astrology sites, just to be sure.

Jungkook stared at the screen, completely frozen. His heart, which had been doing happy little flips since last night, suddenly felt like it had plummeted straight into his stomach.

INCOMPATIBLE.

A big, glaring red warning taunted him from the astrology website, as if the universe itself was shaking him by the shoulders, screaming ABORT MISSION. His hand twitched toward the laptop, fingers hovering over the trackpad like he was contemplating slamming it shut and pretending he had never seen this. Maybe if he refreshed the page, the result would change. Maybe the website was wrong.

But no. There it was. The hard, cold truth.

Your rising sign? Disastrous.

Your moon placements? A ticking time bomb.

Your Venus signs? Literally the worst possible match.

Jungkook let out a strangled noise of distress, running his hands through his already-messy hair. This was bad. So bad.

He had been so sure—so sure—that the stars had aligned perfectly when he met you. But now? Now it felt like the universe was playing some kind of cruel joke on him. What if this meant something? What if this was a sign that things would go wrong?

He groaned, rolling onto his stomach to scream into his pillow.

And so, in true Jungkook fashion, he did the only logical thing: he decided to avoid you.

Just for a little while. Just until he could figure out what to do. Because what if he was leading you both into disaster? What if, despite how good everything felt, you were destined for heartbreak? He wasn’t ready to test fate like that.

He already missed you.

It didn’t help that the first thing Jungkook saw when he checked his phone was a message from you.

(not) my crush [9:54 AM] :

i went to the same website as you and my horoscope told me i would have really bad news!!! can u believe that? ahahaha!!!

Jungkook stared at the text, his brain short-circuiting.

Oh.

Without thinking, he flipped his phone face-down on the bed as if it had personally offended him. Then, after exactly three seconds of trying to process what he’d just read, he groaned dramatically and kicked his feet against the mattress, his frustration spilling out in the most childish way possible.

Why hadn’t he thought to check that sooner?!

Here he was, spiraling into an identity crisis, convinced the universe had doomed him to a tragic love story before it even began.

You hated it. Hated how Jungkook still hadn’t answered your text, even though it had been almost two hours.

Two whole hours.

It wasn’t like him. Jungkook always answered, even if it was just to send a ridiculous meme or a dramatic voice note about whatever chaos he’d gotten himself into. But now? Nothing.

You found yourself checking your phone every two minutes, staring at your last message, hoping—praying—that he’d at least open it. But he didn’t.

No read receipt. No typing bubble.

The more you thought about it, the worse it got. You couldn’t even focus on your lecture anymore, your professor’s words fading into white noise as your mind spiraled. Had you done something wrong last night? Had you said something that made him want to avoid you? You replayed every interaction, every joke, every single moment—but nothing stood out.

And yet, the silence felt like an answer in itself.

You didn’t want to be this kind of person. The kind who overanalyzed a single text, who let a tiny thing ruin their entire morning. But Jungkook’s weird antics had apparently rubbed off on you, because before you even realized what you were doing, your fingers were already typing into his favorite horoscope website.

Maybe, if Jungkook wouldn’t give you an answer, his precious astrology nonsense would.

The second the page loaded, you groaned, already hating yourself. How had it come to this? How had Jungkook managed to pull you into his ridiculous superstitions? You swore you weren’t like this. You swore you didn’t believe in this stuff. And yet, here you were, scrolling through planetary alignments like they held the key to your entire existence.

Just as you were about to give up, a familiar voice interrupted your crisis.

“Since when do you check horoscopes?”

You nearly jumped out of your seat as Hoseok dropped into the chair across from you, cracking open a can of Sprite. His brows were raised, eyes filled with pure amusement. “You always make fun of me for this,” he added, taking a sip.

Before you could even attempt to defend yourself, he leaned forward and glanced at your phone screen. His eyes widened.

“…You’re not even a Virgo.”

You tried desperately to hide your screen, quickly swiping the phone away from Hoseok’s curious gaze. “I’m trying to find answers,” you muttered, feeling the shame creep up your neck as you admitted the ridiculousness of what you were doing.

Hoseok raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “I didn’t think you were the type to believe in that stuff. You always said it was stupid.”

And you still thought it was stupid.

Virgo: It’s a wonderful day for you! You will feel happier than ever.

You couldn’t contain the scoff that escaped your lips. Happier than ever? Yeah, sure. If ignoring your texts and leaving you hanging was his version of a “wonderful day.”

Frustration bubbled up in your chest, and you quickly locked your phone, trying to push the whole situation out of your mind.

“And I still think it’s bullshit,” you muttered, half to yourself, half to Hoseok.

The hours dragged on as you sat at the coffee shop, staring out the window and occasionally glancing at your phone, hoping for some sign, some message, or at least a glimpse of Jungkook’s bright smile. But nothing.

The words from the horoscope kept playing in your head, an incessant loop. And all you could imagine was Jungkook, carefree and happy, doing exactly what he wanted, while you sat there, feeling like an idiot waiting for a message that wasn’t coming. It was infuriating.

You hated this feeling—the irritation, the frustration that bubbled up in your chest every time you thought about how he could be living his best day while you were left waiting, wondering what went wrong.

You had always admired Jungkook’s happiness. It was contagious, that energy of his. But today, for some reason, it felt like he was hiding it from you. You wanted to see it, feel it, share it with him. Why couldn’t he just reach out?

The sun began to set, casting long shadows across the coffee shop, but there was still no sign of him. The usual excitement in your chest slowly faded, replaced with a gnawing emptiness. He wasn’t coming.

As you walked home, the weight of your frustration grew heavier with every step. Your fingers hovered over your phone, unsure, but the pull to send something—to send anything—was too strong to ignore. You didn’t know if you were really that type of girl, the one who couldn’t handle being ignored, the one who overthought every message or lack thereof. But the truth was, you couldn’t be cool about it. You couldn’t just let it slide. The silence, the waiting, the unanswered texts—it was eating away at you, minute by minute, as if every second without a reply was slowly driving you insane.

You knew you should probably wait longer. You knew you should probably play it cool, pretend you were unaffected. But you couldn't.

So you did it. You sent the message.

You stared at the screen after sending it, the nerve-racking weight of regret hitting you. Was it dramatic? Yes. Was it over the top? Absolutely. But it felt like the only way to break through the silence, the only way to make your presence known in this strange waiting game you were playing.

As soon as Jungkook received your text, his heart skipped a beat. His phone had been sitting in front of him all day, and he had been checking it every few minutes, hoping for something from you. So when he saw your message light up the screen, he reached for it almost instantly, nearly leaping off the couch.

His eyes scanned the words, and then it hit him:

(not) my crush [7:03 PM] :

the stars have spoken, and they predict that if i dont get a reply from u soon, i will accidentally manifest a series of very very very weird, unexplainable events in your life this week!!! hope ur ready for it jeon. </3333

He froze. The audacity. The way you used his own horoscope—his stars—as a weapon against him had him laughing and groaning at the same time. He couldn’t help it. You were threatening him, but in the most playful, ridiculous way.

His heart was racing, but he immediately turned off his phone, swiping the screen as if that would somehow protect him from the impending doom of your horoscope wrath.

He slumped back into the couch, shaking his head. “Why did I even get into this?” he mumbled to himself, feeling both entertained and somewhat panicked.

But the more he thought about it, the more he realized: He didn’t really mind at all.

Turns out it was much harder than Jungkook had anticipated to ignore you.

First of all, his heart was screaming at him to see you. It had been four days without any interaction, and it felt like an eternity. He missed you more than he was willing to admit.

And second, you seemed to be everywhere. Or maybe it was just him. Jungkook swore that wherever he went, there you were. Walking down the same aisles at the grocery store, standing in line at the coffee shop, laughing with friends just a few feet away. It was like the universe was playing a prank on him, throwing you in his path at the most inconvenient times.

Like right now, for instance.

He’d been casually strolling through the grocery store, his mind distracted by the mundane task of picking out produce. When he turned a corner, he froze. There you were, casually walking through the aisle, completely oblivious to him standing just a few feet away. He blinked, his heart racing, not prepared for this sudden encounter.

He cursed under his breath, looking for a quick escape. His eyes darted around the store, and in the split second that followed, he spotted a shelf of canned beans directly behind him. Without thinking, he quickly ducked behind it, crouching down and trying to steady his breath. What the hell is wrong with me?

From behind the shelf, he peeked over the top, trying to gauge whether you had seen him. But you were still strolling along, picking out items, completely unaware of the mess he was making of himself. Jungkook felt both relieved and utterly embarrassed. He let out a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding, shaking his head at his own ridiculousness.

Jungkook cautiously peered around the corner, his heart pounding as he tried to check if you were still nearby. His plan was simple—sneak out of the store without you noticing. Without thinking twice, he started to move swiftly toward the exit, hoping to escape unnoticed.

But fate, as usual, had other plans.

As he rushed past one of the aisles, a shopping cart suddenly came out of nowhere, rolling in his direction. Jungkook, not expecting it, collided with the cart full force. It sent him sprawling across the smooth floor, his feet flying out from under him and sending him into an awkward slide, his arms flailing like a windmill trying to regain some kind of balance.

“Oof,” he groaned, but before he could even recover from the fall, he heard a familiar voice, smooth and teasing.

“Oops,” you said, barely trying to hold back a laugh as you casually strolled by with your shopping cart in tow. The mischievous grin on your face made it clear that you were enjoying the sight of him on the floor more than you probably should have.

Jungkook watched you walk away, his heart sinking as you didn’t even spare him a glance. He had wanted to explain everything—about the horoscope, about his stupid overthinking, about how he’d been going crazy trying to figure things out in his head—but now it was too late. You were already too far away, leaving him standing there in the same spot on the floor.

The next few days were a blur for him. He couldn’t focus on anything. It didn’t help that he couldn’t stay away from you. No matter how much he tried to distract himself, his thoughts always circled back to you. He found himself at the coffee shop, the one he knew you frequented, even though he had no real reason to be there.

He threw on his black bucket hat, sunglasses, and a big, oversized hoodie, trying to make himself as unnoticeable as possible. It was hot as hell, but he didn’t care. He was desperate to catch a glimpse of you, just a fleeting moment to see if you were okay.

As he hid behind the tree, peeking out just enough to watch you, Jungkook’s heart ached. There you were, sitting in your usual spot with your laptop in front of you, a steaming cup of coffee by your side. You looked so peaceful, so engrossed in whatever you were doing, and it only made him miss you more. He had been a fool, hadn’t he? He should’ve never let things get this weird, should’ve never let his insecurities get in the way.

He stayed there, trying not to make a scene, wishing he could just walk up to you and fix everything. But no, he was too scared to make the first move. So, he remained in the shadows, watching from afar, longing for a chance to make things right.

Jungkook’s heart skipped a beat when a voice suddenly snapped him out of his nervous thoughts.

“What are you doing, you freak?” The words hit him like a bucket of cold water, and he nearly jumped out of his skin as he spun around to face the source. A man stood a few feet away, eyebrow raised in confusion, a can of Sprite casually dangling from his hand. The stranger’s gaze flicked between Jungkook and the tree, clearly puzzled by the odd sight of someone trying to hide behind it.

“You should probably leave before I call the cops for stalking,” the man added, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Jungkook’s face flushed a deep shade of red. He didn’t know whether to be embarrassed or to just make a run for it. He quickly reached up and pulled off his sunglasses, hoping to defuse the situation.

“I swear it’s not like that! I’m not a freak, I—” Jungkook stammered, his nerves now in overdrive.

The guy squinted at him, his expression shifting from confusion to realization. “Wait, you’re the guy with the cute dog, right?” He pointed at Jungkook, then made a show of lifting his finger to Jungkook’s bucket hat as if trying to get a better look. The recognition hit Jungkook like a ton of bricks. Of all the people in the world to see him in this ridiculous state, it had to be your friend.

“Seriously, man?” the guy called out again, clearly still amused, but not pressing the issue further. “You’re just gonna hide behind a tree like a creep?”

Jungkook winced, wishing the earth would swallow him whole. He could already feel his cheeks burning with embarrassment, and the last thing he wanted was for you to turn around and see him there, looking like a complete idiot. He couldn’t even face the guy properly, so he just mumbled something inaudible, turning around quickly and starting to back away.

“Alright, alright,” the man muttered, taking a sip of his Sprite. “But, hey, next time, try not to stalk people in broad daylight.”

As soon as Hoseok came to your table, he couldn’t hold back the grin on his face as he told you about Jungkook’s little hide-and-seek stunt behind the tree. You couldn’t help it. The sound of his description hit you like a wave, and you burst into laughter, the kind of laugh that makes your stomach hurt.

“He really hid behind a tree?” you asked, still chuckling as you wiped tears from the corners of your eyes. “That’s a new level of awkward.”

You weren’t angry at him anymore, not after hearing that. In fact, you were kind of amused. It seemed like Jungkook had finally realized how ridiculous his avoidance had been.

Still, you couldn’t let your guard down too much. Your chest ached with how much you missed him. The silence between the two of you had become unbearable, but your pride kept you from reaching out first. You needed him to make the first move, to come to you and explain why he had been acting so distant.

And just as you were starting to feel like maybe he’d never reach out, your phone buzzed with a message.

jk sexy virgo boy [4:37 PM] :

i failed the mission. meet me at the park pls pls pls? :(

It was like a breath of fresh air after holding your breath for days. The urge to jump out of your seat and run to the park was overwhelming. You didn’t even think twice. Your ego might have tried to hold you back, but the excitement in your chest was stronger. You were already putting on your shoes before your mind even caught up with what was happening.

You couldn’t say no. Not when he sounded so… genuine. Plus, how could you resist seeing him again, after all this time?

As you walked into the park, you couldn’t help but feel a smile tugging at the corners of your lips as you saw him. Jungkook was sitting on a bench, his gaze fixed on the river. There was something oddly calming about seeing him like that, lost in thought, but it only made you more aware of how much you missed him.

His hair was longer than you remembered, the strands falling gently over his forehead. He looked even more beautiful than before—if that was even possible. Maybe it was the time and distance, but you found him even more striking now. He was still the same boba-eyed boy, the one you’d been both frustrated with and drawn to. It was hard to be mad at him when everything about him still made your heart race, even though you’d spent the past few days fuming over his silence.

What caught your eye, though, was the little fluffball sitting next to him. Yeontan was there too, his tiny tail wagging excitedly at your arrival.

“Hi, Yeontan,” you said, your voice soft as you crouched down to greet the dog. You purposely ignored Jungkook for the moment, focusing your attention on the little puppy as you gave him a gentle pat. Yeontan, ever the social one, eagerly licked your hand, wagging his tail even faster as if he knew he was the bridge between you and Jungkook.

Jungkook sighed, his voice low but tinged with a playful frustration as he watched you focus entirely on Yeontan. “The little brat always gets more attention than me whenever he’s around,” he muttered, tugging gently on the leash, trying to get you to turn your attention back to him.

You feigned confusion, looking around dramatically. “Who is speaking? Can you hear that, Yeontan?” you teased, purposefully ignoring him. You had told yourself you’d eventually listen, but that didn’t mean you were going to make it easy for him. You were enjoying the moment a little too much, watching him squirm just a bit.

Jungkook let out a soft sigh, shoulders slumping. “Guess I deserve that,” he muttered, but he didn’t let the silence linger for too long. Reaching behind him, he pulled out a sheet of paper and handed it over to you.

“Here,” he said, a little nervous now.

You raised an eyebrow, inspecting the piece of paper as you took it. “What is this? Is this a picture of me you took while hiding behind the tree?” you teased, your voice dripping with amusement. Jungkook’s cheeks flushed a deep shade of red as he stammered.

“It wasn’t like that, I swear. Don’t make it worse than it was!” he quickly protested, reaching for your hand to pull you up beside him on the bench.

You snickered, shaking your head as you glanced at the sheets in your hand. “You had a bucket hat and sunglasses, Hoseok told me everything,” you said, practically bursting with laughter. “What was the plan? Hide from me like a secret agent?”

Jungkook groaned, sinking his head into his hands. “It wasn’t that bad,” he mumbled, but his voice was laced with embarrassment.

You finally looked down at the sheets in your hands, the title at the top reading: Reason Why Jeon Jungkook Was Ignoring You And Why You Should Forgive Him.

“Oh wow,” you said, your voice laced with mock intrigue. “Okay, this is gonna be interesting.” You began flipping through the pages, smirking to yourself as you saw the first point listed:

1. You know how I always trust the universe’s timing, right? Well, I checked our zodiac compatibility, and it was a red flag—like, flashing neon lights red. I had to listen to the stars, or else the consequences would have been disastrous. It’s really not personal, I swear.

You couldn’t help but burst into laughter, your eyes scanning the screenshots that Jungkook had sent you, his so-called proof of why he had been avoiding you. Your complete zodiac chart, one that you didn’t even know existed, was now paired with his, glaring back at you with all its astrological implications.

“Really?” you said, still chuckling. “You’re basing all of this on a website and the stars?”

Jungkook bit his cheek, clearly trying to hold back a smile but failing miserably. “It’s not funny. I had multiple mental breakdowns because of that,” he insisted, his voice barely hiding the frustration. But the way his eyes flicked back to the screen made it clear he was invested in this whole thing far more than he was letting on.

You continued reading, curious about the next part of his dramatic saga. When you got to the second reason, your laughter intensified. You could barely keep it together as you read:

2. Yeontan gave me some tough love advice. He said, ‘Jungkook, the stars have spoken, and sometimes love can be as confusing as a game of fetch.’ I think he’s onto something, but I’m still unsure whether it’s me or the cosmos making me do this.

“Jungkook, are you for real?” You couldn’t stop laughing now, your hand pressed to your mouth to stifle the sound of your amusement.

Jungkook looked at you, his face serious despite the ridiculousness of the situation. “Yeontan gives great advice,” he said earnestly, his voice filled with mock sincerity.

You raised an eyebrow. “Yeontan, huh? You mean the same Yeontan who doesn’t have the ability to speak?”

“Well, yeah,” Jungkook started, then hesitated. “It’s actually Taehyung who told me that, but… you know what, let’s just say it was Yeontan.” He gave you a sheepish grin, clearly trying to make up for the fact that the whole story was a bit far-fetched.

You shook your head, still smiling despite yourself. “A little lie to make me forgive you, huh?”

“Exactly.” He nodded seriously, though you could see the glint of amusement in his eyes. “A little white lie can’t hurt, right? Especially when it involves the world’s wisest dog.”

“Fine,” you said with a dramatic sigh, though you couldn’t suppress your smile. “But next time, just ask Yeontan for relationship advice before we end up in a cosmic catastrophe.”

Jungkook’s hand wrapped around your wrist, his grip firm but trembling slightly. His wide eyes locked onto yours, a mix of fear and urgency swimming in them. He looked terrified—like he had just thrown himself off a cliff and was bracing for the fall.

“Wait. Please,” he pleaded, voice softer than you’d ever heard it. “Read the next page.”

Something about the way he said it made your breath catch. His fingers didn’t loosen around you, like he was afraid you’d let go before you saw what he needed you to see.

With a small, reassuring smile, you finally lowered your gaze to the page in your hands.

It was a mess. Words were scribbled over, sentences scratched out so violently they nearly tore through the paper. His handwriting, usually neat and precise, looked frantic—like he had rewritten the same thought a hundred times, fighting with himself over the words before finally settling on the one line that remained untouched.

3. I decided I didn’t care about all of that because I love you, and I don’t think zodiac charts (as terrible as they look) can change what I feel for you.

Your fingers tightened around the edges of the paper as your heart did something strange—something impossible to ignore.

Slowly, you lifted your eyes back to him.

Jungkook was watching you like his entire world depended on what you’d say next. His jaw was tight, his chest rising and falling a little too quickly, his free hand clenching into the fabric of his jeans.

Your heart was pounding. You swallowed, trying to find the right words, but your mind was blank. He loved you. Jungkook loved you.

“Jungkook…” You looked up at him, and for the first time, the usual confidence in his gaze wavered.

“I know it’s dumb,” he rushed to say, his free hand rubbing the back of his neck. “I just—I got in my head about it, and then I panicked, and I thought maybe the universe was trying to tell me something, and then I realized—” He took a shaky breath. “I realized I didn’t care. Because none of it matters if it means losing you.”

Your fingers curled around the page, gripping it tightly like it was the only thing keeping you grounded.

“You… really love me?” The words left your lips softer than you intended, but they hung in the air between you, heavy and real.

Jungkook nodded, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. “Yeah. I do.” His voice was quiet, but there was no hesitation.

You blinked, feeling the sting of tears you hadn’t expected. And then—because it was Jungkook, and because you had been waiting for this moment without even realizing it—you smiled.

“So… are you saying the stars were wrong?” you teased, holding back a laugh.

Jungkook groaned, dropping his forehead against your shoulder dramatically. “God, don’t start.”

But his arms wrapped around you anyway, pulling you in close, and you could feel the way his heart was racing against yours.

“You know,” you murmured, gently pulling his head away from your shoulder so you could look him in the eyes. “Now more than ever, I think astrology is bullshit.”

Jungkook didn’t argue this time. He just looked at you, his eyes soft, almost embarrassed. Because you were right. He had let some random website tell him you weren’t meant for each other—when everything about you, about this, felt exactly right.

He exhaled a small laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah… I think I might have overreacted a little.”

“A little?” you raised an eyebrow, hands settling firmly on his shoulders. Yeontan whined between you, attempting to wriggle into your lap, but you ignored him. Your focus was solely on Jungkook. “But,” you continued, tilting your head slightly, “I do believe in one thing now.”

Jungkook blinked, leaning in unconsciously. “What’s that?”

“Fate,” you said simply, your fingers moving up to cup his round cheeks, brushing against the warm skin.

His lips parted slightly, his breath fanning against your face as he searched your gaze. “You really think that?” he asked, and when he smiled, it was his bunny one—the one that made your heart ache and your stomach flip all at once.

And oh, how you wanted to kiss him right then and there. But first, you needed to say it.

“Because I met you,” you whispered, your thumbs tracing over his cheekbones, “and I love you.”

Jungkook didn’t let you finish another word. Before you could even blink, his hands had found your face, his lips pressing against yours in a way that stole the breath right out of your lungs.

It wasn’t just an apology, and it wasn’t just relief. It was Jungkook—stubborn, overthinking, hopelessly romantic Jungkook—showing you exactly what he felt without needing any more words.

And as you kissed him back, fingers curling into his hoodie, you knew.

The stars might have been wrong, but this?

This was written in the universe just for you.

#bts jungkook #jeon jungkook #jungkook x reader #jungkook fic #jungkook #jungkook imagines #bts fanfic #jungkook fanfic #bts imagines #jungkook fluff #bts jk #bts #jungkook x oc #jungkook x you #bts x reader #bts imagine #bts fanfiction #bangtan

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caitified · 6 months ago

Note

Hi can you please try to do Paige x reader wife. Where in they both want to have kids so they do IVF and after a year of trying reader is finally pregnant and Paige is so thrilled. Also, can it please be like first trim, second trim, and last trim until she gives birth? I hope you try this one out please. Thank you so much! And I just want to say how I love your witting!🩷

beginning

paige bueckers x reader

warnings:none, this will be the start of my new paige family series! feel free to drop ideas in my inbox. hope this is ok for you, i can into more detail if you’d like!

the first time you see the positive pregnancy test, you don’t believe it. after months of negative results, doctors’ appointments, and so many nights spent comforting each other when it felt like nothing was working, it doesn’t feel real.

but it is.

you call paige into the bathroom, your hands trembling as you hold the stick. “paige,” you whisper, your voice breaking.

she looks at you, confused for a second, before her eyes fall on the test. when she sees the two pink lines, her face lights up like you’ve never seen before.

“oh my god,” she breathes, taking the test from your hands and staring at it, her lips curving into a shaky smile.

“it’s happening,” you whisper, tears spilling down your cheeks.

paige pulls you into a tight hug, burying her face in your neck. “we’re having a baby,” she murmurs, her voice thick with emotion.

the first trimester is a mix of excitement and nerves. paige is constantly hovering, making sure you’re eating enough, resting enough, and not lifting anything heavier than a pillow.

“babe, i can carry the groceries,” you laugh one afternoon as she insists on hauling every single bag into the house.

“not a chance,” she replies, grinning. “our baby’s in there, and i’m not taking any risks.”

she spends hours reading parenting books, bookmarking baby names on her phone, and talking to your growing belly even when it’s too early for the baby to hear.

“hi, little one,” she whispers one night, her hand resting gently on your stomach as you lie in bed. “it’s me, your mama. i can’t wait to meet you.”

you can’t help but fall more in love with her every day.

by the second trimester, your bump has started to show, and paige is obsessed.

“look at you,” she says one morning, her hands gently cupping your belly as you get dressed. “you’re glowing.”

“i’m sweating,” you reply, rolling your eyes, but her grin is contagious.

she goes with you to every doctor’s appointment, holding your hand during the ultrasounds and tearing up when you hear the baby’s heartbeat for the first time.

“that’s our baby,” she whispers, her voice full of wonder.

she also becomes extremely protective. when a random person at the grocery store tries to touch your belly, paige steps in with a polite but firm, “please don’t.”

“you’re like a guard dog,” you tease later, and she shrugs, unapologetic.

“i’m just taking care of my girls,” she says, pressing a kiss to your temple.

the third trimester is harder. your back aches, your feet are swollen, and you’re more exhausted than ever. but paige is there for you through it all, rubbing your feet at night, running out to get your weird cravings, and reminding you how beautiful you are even when you don’t feel like it.

“you’re amazing,” she says one night as she helps you settle into bed, her hand resting on your belly. “i don’t know how you’re doing this.”

“because i have you,” you reply, your heart swelling as she leans down to kiss you softly.

she’s the one who sets up the nursery, carefully assembling the crib and decorating the walls with soft colors and tiny basketball decals.

“our kid’s going to be a baller,” she says proudly, and you laugh, knowing she’s probably right.

when the contractions finally start, paige is a mix of nerves and excitement. she holds your hand the entire time, whispering words of encouragement and brushing your hair out of your face.

“you’re doing so good, baby,” she murmurs, her voice steady even though you can see the tears in her eyes. “i’m so proud of you.”

and when your baby is finally born—a tiny, perfect girl—paige is the first to hold her, her hands trembling as she cradles your daughter against her chest.

“she’s perfect,” paige whispers, tears streaming down her face as she looks at you. “thank you. thank you for her.”

you smile, exhausted but so full of love, watching as paige presses a gentle kiss to your daughter’s forehead.

“we did it,” you say softly, and paige nods, her eyes never leaving your baby.

“yeah,” she whispers, her voice full of awe. “we did.”

#paige bueckers imagine #paige bueckers x reader #paige bueckers #wnba x reader #wnba imagine #wbb x reader #wbb imagine #uconn wbb #uconn huskies

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jungkoode · 27 days ago

Text

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 20

˗ˏˋ DIY bracelets ˎˊ˗

"You were not expecting to really enjoy the MoMA exhibition, but Jungkook looks so interested and in his element that his energy is contagious. Even with a IUD in your uterus staging mutiny, and him trying to evade your questions throguh a DIY bracelet shop."

next | index

⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 10,4k

content: working hours at B&N, books, jk being goofy as usual, subway touches (what was that?), jk's genuine interest in photography, uterus pain, kids asking questions (lmao), jk being bff w boundaries as usual, soft conversations, avoiding certain topics, and making friendship bracelets (ew gay???) (p.s. i'm literally queer, shush it.)

✧ author's note ✧

*descends from the sky on a sparkly cloud of serotonin and unresolved sexual tension* GREETINGS, MY LITTLE PSYCHOTIC DAFFODILS. *ducks the knife thrown at my head* RUDE. *throws it back, it lands in someone’s thigh, probably Jungkook’s*

Okay okay okay okay. *deep breath.*

Hello, my beloved kikizens. If you’re reading this… I’m most likely abroad, roaming the earth like the girlboss nomad I pretend to be on Instagram, while in reality I’m crying over the outline of chapter 23 in the Notes app and eating overpriced airport pastries. Yes. I wrote this ahead of time. Yes. I am the most responsible irresponsible person you’ve ever met. Time traveling author note from Past!Kiki, sending love and ibuprofen to Future!You. Let’s hope the plane didn’t crash because, if so, Fuck Me Up Jungkook is now your responsibility. Please keep him fed and slightly emotionally constipated, just as I left him.

NOW. LET'S TALK. This chapter. THIS CHAPTER. We are entering the land of slow burn intimacy and micro-shifts in character dynamics that make me froth at the mouth. I need to scream about it. I am screaming about it. Nix at Barnes & Noble? A concept. Her choosing a retail job because she wants to save someone the way books saved her??? Yeah okay I'm totally fine, I'm just on the floor sobbing about it in a public bathroom.

AND JUNGKOOK. THAT BASTARD. Being respectful?? Giving her space while still being present?? Letting her lead and following her cues like a man who understands autonomy and emotional nuance??? Jail. Absolute jail. He’s so annoying and so HOT about it. I love writing him because he’s cocky and feral and dumb, but also deeply perceptive and compassionate when it counts. Like okay yes he's a little insufferable, but also, he's the kind of man who listens when you talk about your reproductive health without flinching and I think that's worth something.

Also. Let’s talk about the bracelets. Phoenix and Rogue. Fire-coded losers who pretend they don’t care while making color-coded matching jewelry??? WHO SAID YOU COULD BE CUTE. WHO SAID.

Anyway. This chapter is the beginning of a shift. A very soft shift. We’re not in love yet. We’re not even close. We are in that horrible, confusing, liminal space where friendship might be possible eventually but everyone’s still too scared and too stupid to say it out loud. They’re not friends yet. But they’re getting there. We’re watching in real time as they learn each other’s pressure points—what to push, when to pull back. It’s very ugh my chest hurts but also my heart is fluttering kind of vibe. Which is my favorite thing to write. Obviously.

Now. To talk about me, because I love attention: I’ve only been posting for a few months and I’m already overrun with WIPs like some kind of literary hoarder. It’s a problem. I start stories, then my ADHD bitchass brain says “new shiny idea???” and next thing I know I’m drowning in three AUs, an enemies-to-lovers high school AU I wrote at 3AM, and a secret smutty one-shot I can’t stop thinking about. It’s a whole ecosystem of chaos. But I do want to write them all. I do. I just also want to nap. And read. And rot.

So yeah. I think about y’all waiting for updates more than you know. I stress about it. I chew on it like emotional gum. My Spirk fic hasn’t updated in two months and it haunts me in my sleep. But I’m trying to accept that writing is better done when it feels good, not when I’m spiraling in guilt. So. If I ever start something and it takes me ages to finish, just know I do want to get there. I just move at the speed of depression and distraction.

AND A GENTLE REMINDER: this is a slow burn. A SLOW slow burn. Not the kind where they kiss in chapter 5 and you pretend it’s slow because they didn’t bang yet. No. I mean they will not start catching actual feelings for a while. There will be distractions. Other people, love interests. Awkwardness. Denial. You will watch them flounder. You will scream at your phone. You will think “surely they must realize it now,” and I will look you in the eyes and say, “no. no they do not.” Because the point is the journey. The point is the becoming. Not the kissing. (Okay fine also the kissing. But later.)

We are 20 chapters in, and I am being so serious when I say we are maybe… 20% into the full story. If that. I want to go all the way. From strangers to roommates to fuckbuddies to friends to best friends to oh my god it was you all along. I want to write every beat. Every change. Every stupid, messy, human moment. And yes. We will suffer. You, me, Nix, Jungkook, Yeji, Taehyung, everyone.

So I'd say sorry, but let's be honest, if you’re here right now—chapter 20, still with me—I know what kind of sick little freak you are. Masochist. You're not fooling anyone.

And I adore you for it. Thank you for choosing violence with me. Thank you for loving these two idiots. Thank you for reading. I mean it. So much.

Okay. Enough rambling. Go read. Go cry. Go scream. Tell your friends. Tattoo “Phoenix x Rogue” on your ass if you feel so inclined.

Mwah.

(Shameless reminder to support me on Ko-fi if you like my unhinged writing mess).

Edit because apparently I need to make this clear; my stories are extremely slow paced. This is STATED in the author’s INTRO I EXPLICITLY mention you must READ before delving into any of my works. I am tired of messages complaining about the pacing. You are warned beforehand. You chose to read this knowing it’s going to be slow as hell. Nobody is holding you hostage. If you’re bored, you can leave. I seriously don’t care. I am writing my stories because I crave this type of storytelling where everything is narrated in detail and nothing is glossed over. My readers know that and they choose to stay because they want the same thing. 80% of stories out there are fast-paced. I am catering to the people who want this type of organic development. If that’s not your thing, that’s absolutely fine. But you don’t get to complain and whine about something when there’s 100 fanfics out there you can read instead. You don’t get to come for me or my writing—lest of all my readers. I said what I said.

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

Books have always been your lifeline in a world that feels like it's trying to drown you.

You've loved them for as long as you can remember, though you can't pinpoint the exact moment they became your refuge. It wasn't a dramatic epiphany or a life-changing event. Just a gradual realization that between the pages of a book, you could breathe easier.

Kafka speaks to the part of you that feels constantly out of step with the world (though you'd never admit that to Taehyung—his smug "I told you so" would be unbearable).

Murakami paints surreal landscapes that make your own reality feel a little less suffocating.

And now Donna Tartt, because you're tired of Jimin's scandalized gasps every time you confess to not having read her yet.

You weren't the stereotypical bookworm growing up. No thick glasses perched on your nose, no disdainful sniffs at the mention of pop culture. You didn't turn your nose up at Harry Styles concerts or roll your eyes at school dances.

But even as you navigated the treacherous waters of adolescence—first periods and friendship fallouts, the constant drama of simply existing as a teenager—books were always there.

A constant, even if sometimes pushed to the background.

They became your armor when the weight of expectations threatened to crush you. When disappointment hung heavy in the air, threatening to send you away in a chokehold, you'd retreat into worlds made of paper and ink.

It was easier to face fictional monsters than the very real ones lurking in parent-teacher conferences and college application deadlines.

Now, standing amidst the shelves of Barnes & Noble, surrounded by the comforting smell of new books and possibility, you can't help but feel a sense of belonging. Like you've come full circle. From the little girl who used to hide under her covers with a flashlight, devouring stories long past bedtime, to the woman who's made words her life's work.

It's not always easy.

Sometimes the words on the page blur together, your mind too full of real-world worries to lose yourself in fiction.

But even then, the weight of a book in your hands is grounding.

A reminder that there are always other worlds to explore, other lives to live, if only for a few hundred pages.

Maybe that's why you're here, arranging displays and recommending titles to strangers.

Because somewhere out there is another person drowning in expectations, desperate for a lifeline.

And maybe, just maybe, you can be the one to hand them the right book at the right moment—help them with their very own small act of rebellion against a world that sometimes feels too heavy to bear.

Mark hovers nearby as you arrange a new display of bestsellers, lanky frame, loose shirt and baggy pants. He's the one who picked up your application when you and Yeji came in last week—the one with the kind eyes and the nervous habit of clutching his hands together every five seconds.

Blonde, blue-eyed. You’d dare say he’s not bad-looking. For a man.

"So basically," he explains, voice pitched low like he's sharing state secrets instead of retail procedures, "most days you'll either be on register, floor assistance, or shelving. Today you're just shadowing me on the floor."

Floor assistance, as it turns out, is mostly wandering around looking approachable (but not too approachable) and occasionally directing lost souls to the bathroom or the manga section. You're also expected to straighten displays, check for misplaced books, and maintain what Mark calls "the Barnes & Noble aesthetic."

"Which means?" you ask, adjusting a copy of the latest Sally Rooney that's slightly out of alignment with its siblings.

"You know," he shrugs, hands doing that awkward hovering thing again, "like... cozy but sophisticated. Inviting but not cluttered."

You nod like this makes perfect sense, though privately you think it sounds like the kind of bullshit corporate memo someone got paid way too much to write.

"What about recommendations?" you ask. "Do we have any input on displays or—"

"Oh, totally!" His face brightens. "We each get to curate an employee picks shelf. You can start working on yours next week."

That, at least, sounds promising.

Already your mind is cataloging possibilities—perhaps a mix of classics and contemporary, maybe something unexpected thrown in. Definitely not the usual suspects everyone claims to have read but hasn't.

And just like that, the morning quickly blurs into afternoon.

Your tasks are the same all day: shelving, straightening, and following Mark around as he points out the minutiae of bookselling. It's mindless work, but not unpleasant. There's something soothing about putting things in order, about knowing exactly where everything belongs.

By the time your lunch break rolls around, you've settled into a comfortable groove. The break room is empty except for you and your sad turkey sandwich, the ancient TV in the corner playing a rerun of The Office. One where Jim is pulling some elaborate prank on Dwight. You find yourself smiling despite the mediocrity of your lunch.

The afternoon passes in much the same way—quiet, uneventful, almost peaceful. You help an elderly woman find the latest Louise Penny mystery. You alphabetize a section of poetry that looks like it's been hit by a tornado. You dust shelves that probably haven't seen a feather duster since Obama was president.

And then, suddenly, it's 5 PM.

You glance at your phone, mildly surprised that eight hours have passed without a single customer meltdown or retail horror story. No one has asked to speak to your manager. No one has tried to return a clearly read book with coffee stains on page 47. No one has even approached you with one of those vague "I'm looking for a book with a blue cover about a thing that happens" requests.

In fact, you've barely interacted with customers at all. It wasn't your turn on register, and most browsers seemed content to wander without assistance.

It's been... nice.

Quiet.

The kind of job where you can disappear into your own thoughts for stretches at a time.

You could get used to this, you think, clocking out and grabbing your bag from the locker.

Maybe it won't be the soul-crushing retail experience Yeji warned you about. Maybe you've lucked into the unicorn of part-time jobs—one that pays the bills without completely draining your will to live.

Or maybe it's just the first-day honeymoon period, and next week you'll be dealing with entitled parents who think the children's section is a free daycare.

Either way, as you push through the employee exit into the early evening air, you feel a strange sense of… accomplishment?

Surely, it's not saving lives or changing the world, but you can’t deny it’s satisfying; a day spent surrounded by books, putting things in order, creating small pockets of calm in a chaotic world.

And now, apparently (because God forbid the universe lets you forget) you have plans.

With Jungkook, of all people.

The thought should make you anxious.

It doesn’t.

You check your phone and see his text:

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚊? 𝚊𝚖 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎

You scan the street and spot him leaning against a lamppost, scrolling through his phone, looking unfairly good in a simple black t-shirt and jeans. Your roommate. Your sometimes-hookup. Your... friend?

The word still feels strange, but maybe it's time to try it on for size.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚑 𝚒'𝚖 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚠

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚞

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚊𝚜 1𝚜𝚝 𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗 𝚋𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚙𝚙𝚕

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚢 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚗𝚘 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚒𝚏𝚝𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚢 𝚜𝚘 𝚒'𝚖 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚠𝚒𝚗

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚠𝚘𝚠 𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚋𝚊𝚛 𝚗𝚒𝚡

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚞 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚌𝚞𝚝𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚝𝚠

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚝 𝚛𝚘𝚐𝚞𝚎

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚒 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚜 𝚛 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚡

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚒'𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝚞𝚛𝚜

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚐 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙 🙄

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚎'𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚙𝚞𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚌

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚞 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚎'𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚕 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛?

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛?

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚟

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚑𝚝𝚘

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚍?

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚌𝚘𝚘𝚕

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚒 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚞 𝚋𝚝𝚠 𝚒𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚒'𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚠

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚡

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒'𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚘 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚗𝚘 𝚞 𝚠𝚘𝚗𝚝

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚖𝚎

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗 𝚞 𝚙𝚑𝚎𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚝𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚢 𝚊𝚏

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚢

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚛

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚑𝚝𝚘

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚐 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚖𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚑𝚑𝚑𝚑𝚑

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚒 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚞 𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗 𝚞𝚛 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒'𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚝𝚎𝚡𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚎

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚘𝚔 𝚋𝚢𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚞 𝚒𝚗 𝟹𝟸𝟷

You spot him leaning against the lamppost, scrolling on his phone like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Hands shoved into his pockets, shoulders relaxed, black t-shirt fitting just right—not too tight, not too loose. It’s casual. Effortless.

And yeah, you’ve seen him in casual before—sweats, pajamas, even that stupid hoodie he refuses to throw out—but this is different. This is casual street Jungkook in the wild, outside the apartment.

Casual street Jungkook who’s here with you to do something normal and non-sexual and… friendly.

He looks good. But then again, you already knew that. There’s a reason you fuck him despite his infuriating personality.

Even when he says things that make you want to strangle him with his own belt.

He catches sight of you approaching and grins, that stupid lopsided grin that’s all teeth and confidence.

“Hey,” he says, voice light like this is just another day.

You don’t respond. Don’t even look up from your phone as your thumb swipes through apps in search of Maps.

“We have a twenty-minute ride from Union Square to the MoMA,” you say flatly. “The exhibit starts in thirty-five, so let’s go.”

“Sure,” he says easily, pushing off the lamppost with a lazy shrug. “What line?”

“N, Q, R—whichever comes first.” You finally glance up at him as you say it, but only briefly. Just long enough to catch the slight raise of his eyebrows before he nods.

“Okay.”

And then you’re walking side by side toward the subway entrance like this is normal. Like this isn’t the first time you’ve agreed to spend time together without sex as the unspoken endgame.

The stairs down to the subway are crowded—typical for a weekday evening—and you both swipe your cards at the turnstile without a word. There’s a guy pissing in one corner of the station (because of course there is), and Jungkook widens his eyes in a grimace like he’s trying to wipe away the sight of it. You don’t comment, just keep moving toward the platform like nothing happened.

It shouldn’t feel awkward. It’s never been awkward with him before—not even when things got messy or complicated or downright stupid between you two.

But now?

Now it feels like there’s this invisible weight hanging between you, pressing down on every step you take together.

Maybe it’s because he brought up that whole “trying to be friends” thing this morning—friends who have expectations, and expectations lead to disappointment, and disappointment leads to losing control.

Or maybe it’s because now that he said it out loud—now that he put friendship on the table—you can’t stop overthinking every little thing about this outing.

What does he expect from you? Does he want small talk? Does he want silence? Is this supposed to feel casual or meaningful or something else entirely?

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye as you both stop near the edge of the platform. He’s standing close but not too close—hands still in his pockets, gaze fixed on some ad plastered across the opposite wall. He doesn’t look uncomfortable or tense or anything remotely resembling how you feel right now.

Which makes sense because Jungkook never overthinks anything. He just does whatever feels right in the moment and deals with the consequences later (if at all).

It’s one of the things that drives you crazy about him—and maybe one of the things you secretly envy.

The train isn’t here yet, so now what? Do you say something? Ask him about his day? Pretend this is normal and fine and not at all weird for you?

“So…” Your voice comes out hesitant—too hesitant—and you immediately hate yourself for it.

Nice going, stupid bitch.

He glances at you but doesn’t say anything right away, waiting for you to finish whatever thought you’re trying (and failing) to articulate.

“What did… what did you do?” You clear your throat awkwardly, shifting your weight from one foot to the other as if that’ll somehow make this less painful for both of you. “Until… y’know… five?”

His lips twitch like he’s fighting back a smirk—like he knows exactly how much effort it took for you to ask such a simple question—and for some reason that makes you want to shove his head against the next train.

“Not much,” he says finally, his tone casual but not dismissive. “Watched some YouTube tutorials. Tried making sourdough again.”

You blink at him. “Sourdough?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal, like baking bread is just a totally normal thing for someone like him to do in their free time. “Didn’t come out great though.”

“Oh.”

You don’t know what else to say to that—to him—so instead you just nod and glance down at your phone again like there’s something urgent demanding your attention.

But then, as if destiny decided (for once) to make things easier for you, the train arrives with its usual screech of brakes and rush of stale air, saving you from having to come up with any more awkward small talk on the platform.

So you step onto the train together—side by side but not touching—and you can’t help but wonder if this whole ‘trying to be friends’ thing is going to be harder than either of you realized.

Inside Jungkook moves instinctively to the metal bar overhead, reaching up to steady himself as the train lurches forward. You follow suit, your fingers wrapping around the same bar just a few inches away from his.

It’s fine. It’s normal. People share subway bars all the time. Nothing weird about it.

Except your hand shifts slightly as the train rounds a corner, and suddenly your pinky brushes against his. Just barely—a fleeting touch—but it’s enough to make you freeze for half a second.

And…

You don’t look at him.

You refuse to look at him.

Because if you do, you’ll see that stupid smirk he always gets when he knows he’s gotten under your skin, and you’re not sure you can handle that right now.

But then his hand shifts too—like, on purpose?—and his pinky brushes yours again.

Softer this time.

Lingering.

Your stomach twists in a way that feels equal parts annoying and… something else you don’t want to name. You glance up at him despite yourself, ready to snap something sarcastic or dismissive or whatever it takes to make this moment feel less charged than it suddenly does.

But he’s not smirking. He’s just… looking at you. Calmly. Quietly. Like this is nothing more than two people sharing a subway bar in a crowded train.

And maybe it is nothing. Maybe you’re just overthinking it because that’s what you do—because every little thing with him feels like it carries more weight than it should.

Still, when his fingers shift again—this time curling slightly so the side of his hand presses against yours—you don’t pull away.

You don’t say anything either, just let your fingers relax against the bar as the train rattles onward.

It’s small. Subtle. Barely even noticeable in the grand scheme of things.

But somehow, in the cramped chaos of the subway car—with strangers pressed against you on all sides—it feels like the quietest moment you’ve had all day.

You don’t look at him again—not directly—but out of the corner of your eye, you catch the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. Not cocky or teasing or anything remotely resembling his usual expressions.

Just soft.

And for some reason, that makes your throat tighten all over again.

You never expected to find Jungkook beautiful.

He stands in front of a massive black and white photograph with his head tilted slightly and dark brown eyes narrowed in concentration.

The lightning inside the space makes everything feel way more thought-provoking than it actually is. All you notice, really, is how it deepens the line of his jaw, the slight furrow between his eyebrows. His lips, and how they move silently, like he's having some private conversation with the image before him.

Stupid, handsome motherfucker. Why does he exist in your space?

You've seen him naked. You've seen him laughing so hard he nearly falls off the couch. You've seen him half-asleep and grumpy at 6 AM.

But you've never seen him like this—completely absorbed, genuinely focused on something that isn't getting laid or annoying the shit out of you.

"The composition is fucking incredible," he says without looking at you, gesturing at the photograph. "See how they've used negative space to draw your eye to the subject? And the depth of field is so deliberate—keeps you just slightly off-balance."

You blink, caught off guard by the sudden technical analysis. Since when does Jungkook know smart words?

"You actually know about photography?" It comes out more surprised than you intended.

He turns to you then, one eyebrow raised. "Film major, Nix. Kind of comes with the territory."

"Yeah, but—" You stop yourself, not sure how to articulate that you assumed his interest in film was mostly about looking cool and impressing girls.

"But what?"

"Nothing," you mutter, moving closer to the photograph. "Just didn't realize you paid attention in class."

He snorts. "I maintain my GPA through pure charm and good looks alone. No actual knowledge required."

You roll your eyes, but there's no real annoyance behind it. "Seriously though, you seem like you actually know what you're talking about. It's... weird."

"Weird that I'm not a complete idiot?" He steps back from the photograph, hands sliding into his pockets. "Gee, thanks."

"That's not what I meant."

He shrugs, already moving toward the next piece—a series of distorted portraits that seem to melt into one another.

"I just like this stuff. Always have."

You follow him, curiosity getting the better of you.

"Since when?"

"Since forever," he says, stopping in front of the portraits. "My mom was into photography. Had this old Pentax she used to carry everywhere. Taught me how to develop film in our bathroom when I was like, eight."

His voice always turns weirdly soft when his mom is involved. It makes you pause.

This is the most he's ever shared about his family, you realize.

You're not sure whether to press further or let it go.

Before you can decide, he continues, "These portraits are using multiple exposure. See how the faces blend together? It's like—when you overlay two negatives, you get this ghost effect. The new digital stuff makes it easier, but there's something about doing it on actual film that hits different."

His enthusiasm is... surprising. And weirdly contagious. You find yourself leaning in closer to see what he's pointing out, actually interested in the technical explanation.

"The photographer probably used a really slow shutter speed too," he adds, gesturing at the blurred edges of the subjects' features. "Makes movement look like this—sort of ethereal, you know?"

You don't know, not really, but you nod anyway.

Because his voice picks up speed when he talks about this, his hands do slightly more animated movements as he explains, and there’s genuine passion coloring his words and it’s…

It's... different. Seeing him care about something so much.

"What?" he asks suddenly, catching you staring at him.

You hadn't realized you were. Heat creeps up your neck, and you look away quickly.

"Nothing."

"Nah, you were looking at me weird."

"Just..." You shrug, aiming for casual. "You're a huge nerd, that's all."

He blinks at you, then barks out a laugh. "Wow. I share my vast knowledge and expertise, and that's what I get?"

"Vast knowledge? Your head barely fits in the room as it is."

"That's it," he declares, turning away dramatically. "I'm not explaining anything else. Figure it out yourself, philistine."

You swat at his arm, fighting a smile. "Oh come on, I was joking. Keep nerding out. It's..." Cute? Interesting? Surprisingly not annoying? "...Educational."

He gives you a suspicious look but seems mollified. "Fine. But only because I'm generous with my brilliance."

You snort, following him to the next piece. "So generous."

And it's strange, this feeling—this easy back-and-forth that doesn't have the usual sharp edges.

For a moment, it almost feels like you could be friends. Real friends, not just roommates who occasionally fuck and mostly argue.

The thought is so unexpected that it—

Pain.

Sharp and sudden, like someone stabbing a hot poker into your lower abdomen. Your breath catches, body instinctively curling in on itself.

Your hand flies to your stomach as another wave hits, this one even more intense than the first.

It's the IUD again—has to be. But this is worse than before. Much worse.

You stop walking, one hand gripping the nearby wall for support as you try to breathe through it.

Just breathe. It'll pass. It has to.

It doesn't.

The third wave nearly brings you to your knees, a cold sweat breaking out across your forehead.

Jungkook makes it several steps before realizing you're no longer beside him. He turns back, eyes falling on your hunched form, and his expression shifts instantly from relaxed to concerned.

"Yo, what's wrong?" He's back at your side in three quick strides, voice pitched low but urgent.

You shake your head, not trusting yourself to speak yet. Just need a minute. Just need to breathe.

"Phoenix?" His hand hovers near your elbow, not quite touching. "Hey, talk to me. What's happening?"

"It's—" Another stab of pain cuts you off, and you bite down hard on your lip to keep from making a sound. "It's nothing. Just—cramps."

His frown deepens, eyes scanning your face.

"Bullshit. You look like you're about to pass out."

"I'm fine," you insist. "Just give me a second."

The lie tastes bitter on your tongue, but the alternative is worse.

Admitting weakness? Letting him see you crumble?

Absolutely fucking not.

Your uterus twists again—sadistic little organ—and you clench your jaw so hard you're surprised your teeth don't crack.

Breathe. Just breathe. You've handled worse.

(Have you, though?)

He's hovering now, that frown cutting deeper between his eyebrows, and you hate it.

Hate how his eyes flick over your face, cataloging symptoms.

Hate how his hand lifts halfway toward you before dropping back to his side, like he's afraid to touch you without permission.

"Ibuprofen," you manage, the word strained but determined. "I just need some ibuprofen."

"Nix, you seriously look like you're about to pass out—"

"Ibuprofen," you cut him off, sharper this time. "Seriously. I'll be okay. Just need. Ibuprofen."

You're not going home. Not happening.

You just got this fucking copper IUD on Wednesday—of course it's being a bitch. Three days of cramping is normal, right? Has to be.

And this is your first real attempt at being normal humans together, plus it's his birthday and Yoongi's expecting you to keep him out until eight. Your goddamn uterus is not ruining this.

A particularly vicious cramp rips through you, and you have to bite down on your lip to keep from making a sound. Jungkook notices, because of course he does. His eyes narrow, jaw working like he's physically biting back whatever argument he wants to make.

Finally, he sighs—loud, frustrated, dramatic in that way only he can be.

"Okay."

The surrender in his voice shouldn't feel like a victory, but it does. Even as another cramp threatens to fold you in half.

"Okay," he repeats, softer. "Let me see if I can get you one. Just—wait here, alright?"

He wraps his fingers around your elbow, not gripping, just guiding, and you let him because walking feels like a monumental task right now. .

Focus. One foot, then the other.

There's a cushioned bench a few feet away. A kid sits at one end, maybe seven or eight, swinging his legs and staring at the floor with the bored expression of someone dragged to a museum against his will.

Jungkook walks you toward it, his hand steady on your arm.

"Hello," he says to the boy, voice gentler than you've ever heard from him. "Sorry, my friend over here is in pain and really needs to sit down."

The kid looks up—first at Jungkook, then at you—eyes widening slightly. He doesn't say anything, just scoots over, fingers drifting to his mouth as he continues to stare.

"Thanks, buddy," Jungkook says, helping you sit.

You sink onto the bench, the relief immediate but not enough. It still feels like someone's playing Operation with your insides, fishing out organs with a pair of rusty pliers.

Jungkook lingers for a second, hesitant.

"You sure you'll be okay if I—"

"Go," you grit out, not trusting yourself to say more.

He gives you one last look—concerned, frustrated, something else you can't name—before turning and striding away with purpose, disappearing around a corner.

And then it's just you, the kid, and the agony twisting through your abdomen.

Great. Fantastic. You can't even make it through one normal human interaction without your body staging a fucking rebellion.

Every time you try to—what? Be a decent person? Spend time with someone who isn't Yeji? The universe laughs in your face.

The kid is still staring at you, blue eyes huge in his small face. You force what you hope is a reassuring smile but suspect looks more like a grimace.

"Your face is becoming white," he says matter-of-factly.

"Thanks," you mutter. "I'm aware."

"Like a ghost," he adds helpfully. "Are you gonna throw up?"

Jesus Christ. This is your life now. Being assessed by a tiny human while your reproductive system wages war against the rest of your organs.

"No," you say, though you're not entirely sure that's true. "Just need some medicine."

"My mom says medicine is for when you're really sick," he informs you, kicking his heels against the bench. "Are you really sick?"

Another twist of pain, and you have to close your eyes for a second.

"Something like that."

"Is that man your boyfriend?"

God, children and their questions. No filter, just an endless stream of curiosity with no regard for social niceties.

You should lie.

Should say yes, it would be simpler than explaining the complicated mess that is you and Jungkook.

"No," you say instead. "Just a... friend."

The word still feels strange. Foreign. Like you're saying it in a language you barely speak.

"Oh." The kid looks disappointed. "He looks like a superhero."

Despite everything—the pain, the frustration, the growing concern that the gyno didn't warn you about this level of copper IUD hell—you almost laugh.

Because Jungkook? Oh he would fucking love that. His ego is already the size of Manhattan; the last thing he needs is child-based validation of his supposed heroism.

"More like a supervillain," you mutter.

The boy's eyes widen further. "Really?"

"No, not really. Just a regular person who's..." You pause, not sure how to finish that sentence.

Annoying? Complicated? Stupidly attractive even when he's being insufferable?

"...helping me out."

You press your palm harder against your abdomen, hoping the pressure will somehow counteract the pain. But truthfully, it doesn't. If anything, it's getting worse, spreading from your core outward until your lower back aches and your thighs feel weak.

This can't be normal.

Well, maybe it is.

You've never had an IUD before—what the hell do you know?

Clearly should've read beyond the first page of that pamphlet they gave you, but you were too busy trying not to think about the actual insertion part.

"I have lots of friends," the kid announces proudly. "But none of them are girls."

He wrinkles his nose like this is the most disgusting concept imaginable.

Despite everything—the pain, the frustration, the knowledge that this day is slowly derailing—you almost smile.

"Girls aren't so bad."

He shrugs, unconvinced. "They like stupid stuff."

"So do boys."

"Nuh-uh. Boys like cool things. Like dinosaurs."

"Girls can like dinosaurs too."

He considers this, head tilted.

"I guess. My sister doesn't though. She just likes her stupid boyfriend." The contempt in his voice is impressive for someone whose feet don't touch the floor.

You're saved from further insights into his sister's love life by Jungkook's return. He's walking toward you with a small paper cup in one hand and a bottle of water in the other, his expression still caught between concern and that strange new softness.

"Got you covered," he says, dropping into a crouch in front of you. "They had a first aid station. Ibuprofen and water."

You take the pills and water with hands that shake slightly, downing them quickly.

"Thanks."

He sits beside you on the bench, close but not touching—some sort of distance that feels both considerate and maddening.

You realize now Jungkook is not one to push boundaries. Not when they’re firm, not when you’ve made them clear. Like when you told him this thing between you two stayed between you two and he just accepted it.

"Should take about twenty minutes to kick in," he says, voice low and even.

You nod, focusing on your breathing.

In and out. Slow and steady. Just get through this. You've handled worse.

(Have you, though? Because right now it feels like your insides are trying to claw their way out.)

"We can go home," he offers, so subsided it's almost comical coming from him. "If you want."

"No." The word comes out sharper than intended, and you soften it with, "No, I'm fine. Just need a minute."

He doesn't argue, just nods like he expected this answer.

Of course he did.

He knows you're stubborn, knows you hate showing weakness, knows you'll suffer through just about anything to avoid admitting you can't handle it.

The silence stretches between you, but it's not uncomfortable. Not exactly. It's... waiting. Patient. And you note how his knee bounces slightly, the only sign of restless energy in his otherwise still form.

"Thanks," you say again, quieter this time.

He glances at you, surprise flitting across his features.

"For what?"

"For not..." You gesture vaguely, searching for the right words. "Making it a thing."

His lips twitch, almost a smile but not quite.

"It's your body, Nix. Your call."

Something warm and unexpected unfurls in your chest at that—at the simple acknowledgment of your autonomy, your right to decide how to handle your own pain.

He could push. Could insist on taking you home, on calling a doctor, on making decisions for you "for your own good."

It's what most people would do, have always done, their concern overriding your independence.

But he doesn't.

Just sits beside you, a quiet presence in the middle of this mess, respecting your boundaries even as his knee keeps bouncing with what you suspect is concern he's trying not to voice.

It's... nice. Weird, but nice.

The kid on the bench has gone quiet, watching both of you with curious eyes. His mother appears suddenly, a harried-looking woman with a museum map clutched in one hand.

"Aiden, there you are! I told you not to wander off." She gives you and Jungkook an apologetic smile. "Sorry if he bothered you."

"He's fine," Jungkook says, easy and casual. "Just keeping us company."

Aiden slides off the bench, taking his mother's outstretched hand.

“They're friends," he informs her solemnly. "But not boyfriend and girlfriend."

His mother looks mortified. "Aiden!"

"It's okay," you manage, fighting back a laugh that would probably hurt like hell. "He's just observant."

Aiden's mother drags him away, his sneakers squeaking against the polished floor as he waves one last time.

And then it's just the two of you, sitting in silence on a bench in the middle of the MoMA like you belong there. Like this is normal.

All the while, the pain persists, still twisting through your abdomen.

Jungkook hums quietly—something soft and melodic that takes you a moment to recognize.

John Mayer. Of course it's fucking John Mayer.

Your gaze drifts to the floor, tracing the patterns in the polished concrete as another thought forms, heavy and insistent.

Should you tell him? About the IUD?

He's worried. You can see it in his eyes, the way his fingers tap restlessly against his thigh, the occasional glance he throws your way when he thinks you're not looking.

But he's not pushing. Not demanding explanations or insisting on taking you home.

Because that's not what he does.

He suggests, offers, hints... but never forces. Never demands.

Just accepts whatever you're willing to give, even when it's clear he wants more.

This morning he talked about being friends. About sharing things. About being more than just roommates who occasionally fuck and mostly argue.

Maybe this could be a first step. A tiny gesture toward whatever it is he's proposing.

But also...

Also what if you tell him and he smirks? Makes some stupid joke about how you wanted him raw that badly?

You know how quickly he covers discomfort with humor, how reliably he turns to sexual innuendo when a moment gets too real or too heavy.

And this moment is nothing if not heavy.

But overthinking it is getting you nowhere, and the silence is stretching too long, becoming its own kind of weight.

So you take a breath, summon what little courage the pain hasn't eaten away, and speak.

"I got an IUD." The words come out soft, hushed, almost hoping he won't hear them. "Wednesday."

His head tilts toward you, and you brace yourself. Wait for the snort, the smirk, the inevitable sexual commentary that will make you regret this tiny moment of trust.

But it never comes.

He just sighs softly, a small shrug lifting his shoulders.

"That's good."

Your eyes drift to him, confusion replacing the defensive tension you were building, because what does he mean?

He meets your gaze, then looks back at the photograph on the wall.

“I mean, it's good you're taking care of yourself. Your sexual health." Another shrug, this one smaller. "That's good, Nix."

Something in your chest loosens—a knot you didn't realize you were holding tight.

It's... not what you expected. Not from him.

Not from anyone, really.

"Yeah, well." You shift on the bench, wincing as the movement sends a dull throb through your lower abdomen. "Not feeling particularly great about it at the moment."

His lips quirk, not quite a smile.

"Pain that bad?"

"Like someone's playing Operation with my insides, but they're losing."

A soft laugh escapes him. "Fucking brutal."

"Pretty much."

Another stretch of silence, but this one feels different. Lighter, somehow. The pain is still there, but it's muted now, less all-consuming.

"Copper or hormonal?" he asks, voice casual like he's asking about the weather, not your reproductive choices.

You blink at him, genuinely surprised.

"You know the difference?"

"I do actually pay attention in health class, Phoenix. Plus, you know. Been with people who've had them."

"Copper," you answer, focusing on the question instead of whatever that feeling was. "I had a feeling hormones would mess with me."

He nods like this makes perfect sense. "Those are the ones that hurt more at first, right? Take longer to settle?"

Again, that surprise. "Yeah. How do you know that?"

"My ex." He shifts slightly on the bench, angling more toward you without actually moving closer. "She had one. Copper. Cramped like hell the first few months."

"Months?" The word comes out more alarmed than you intended.

His eyes widen slightly. "Not like, continuously. Just periodically. Mostly when she got her period. It got better though. Less intense over time."

"Great," you mutter. "Something to look forward to."

"Sorry." He winces. "Not helping, am I?"

"Not really, no."

"Do you..." He hesitates, eyes scanning your face like he's checking for warning signs. "Do you regret getting it?"

The question catches you off guard. Not because it's invasive—it's actually pretty reasonable given the context—but because of how genuinely he asks it. Like he really wants to know what you think. Not to judge, just to understand.

"No," you say after a moment. "No, I don't regret it. I wanted it. Chose it. This—This is just the shitty part. It'll pass."

"And this is something you want? Long-term?"

You nod, a little less certain than before but still sure enough.

"Yeah. I like not having to worry about it. Worth some pain now."

"Make sense. That's... smart." He tilts his head, that thoughtful look you rarely see crossing his features. "Planning ahead."

"One of us has to," you say without thinking.

His eyebrows shoot up. "Ouch. Direct hit, Nix."

"Sorry, I didn't mean—"

"Nah, it's fair." He cuts you off with a small laugh. "I'm not exactly Mr. Responsibility."

The self-awareness surprises you.

"You're not that bad."

"I’m not?”

“Okay I take it back.”

He chuckles.

The pain stabs again, sharper this time, and you can't quite hide the wince. His expression shifts immediately.

"Need to move around? Sometimes that helps."

You consider it. Sitting here isn't doing much except letting you focus on how much it hurts.

“Maybe."

"Think the ibuprofen's kicking in at all?"

His eyes scan your face, and you wonder what he sees there. Probably not the composed, controlled person you're trying to project.

"A little. It's not as bad as before."

"That's something." He stands, offering a hand but not insisting when you ignore it and push yourself up on your own. "We could head to the next gallery? Or go back to the one with that series you liked—the urban decay stuff."

The fact that he noticed which photographs caught your interest earlier shouldn't feel significant. It's just basic observation. Nothing special.

But it does. Feel significant, that is.

"Let's try the next one," you say, taking a tentative step. The pain doesn't immediately floor you, which is an improvement. "Slowly, though."

"No rush." He falls into step beside you, hands shoved in his pockets in that casual way he has, like he's completely at ease no matter where he is.

You nod, trying not to think about the surprise dinner. Trying even harder not to think about the stupid Mayer vinyl you bought him and the fact that all his film bros will be there.

"Thanks," you say after a few steps. "For not being weird about the IUD thing."

He glances at you, something almost like surprise flickering across his features before settling into a small smile.

“Nothing to be weird about. It's your body, Nix. Your choice."

"Yeah, but." You struggle to articulate what you mean. "Most guys would make some gross joke or get all squirmy talking about it."

"I'm not most guys."

"Okay pick me boy."

“And here we go again.” He snorts.

“Hey, you’re the one who said that generic ass shit.”

"Uh-uh, so," he says, deliberately casual as you round the corner into the next gallery space. "How do you feel about Mayer?"

You groan, shoving him lightly.

"I knew it. I fucking knew you were humming that shit on purpose."

He laughs, the sound warm and surprisingly genuine.

"Gravity is a classic! You can hate on the man all you want, but you can't deny the music."

"Watch me."

And just like that, you're arguing about John Mayer in the middle of the MoMA, the pain still there but somehow less important than this stupid debate about whether "Your Body Is A Wonderland" is the worst song ever written or just mostly terrible.

It's strange. Unexpected. Almost... nice

Maybe this friend thing isn't completely impossible after all.

New York smells different right before sunset.

The city air mellows somehow. Still dirty, still chaotic, but softer now. Like the golden hour light filtering through the buildings is actually changing the molecular structure of everything it touches.

Or maybe that's just the ibuprofen finally kicking in and making life worth living again. Hard to say.

Your phone pings as you walk beside Jungkook, the busy street full of that weird liminal energy between work day and evening. People rushing home, people headed out, everyone caught in that transitional space of not-quite-done and not-quite-started.

It's Yoongi, his message simple and direct:

𝐘𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐬🎧: 𝙷𝚘𝚠’𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐? 𝚂𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚔?

You glance at Jungkook, who's completely absorbed in his own phone, thumbs tapping absently against the screen.

Focused. Unaware.

Perfect.

You send back a quick thumbs up emoji, ignoring the follow-up questions Yoongi's already typing. The less you engage, the less likely you are to give something away.

6:30 PM.

Just over an hour until you need to steer Jungkook to the ramen place for his surprise. An hour to fill without either dying from secret uterine rebellion or accidentally revealing the plan.

You slide your phone back into your pocket and lean slightly to see what's so captivating on Jungkook's screen.

Not that you care. Just curious. Normal curious, not weird curious.

Instagram?

He's editing a photo—one of the abstract architectural shots he took at the museum when you weren't paying attention.

It's actually... pretty good.

The photo highlights the sharp angles of the stairwell, light cutting through the space in a way that transforms something mundane into something almost ethereal.

"You have a photography Instagram?"

He startles, immediately angling the phone away from you with the guilty reflex of someone caught looking at porn in public.

"Yeah, but it's nothing important. Just, you know. Silly stuff."

That's... suspicious. Jungkook doesn't do self-deprecation, not about things he's clearly good at.

He's the first person to brag about his skills, his looks, his whatever. The fact that he's downplaying this is weird.

"What silly stuff?" You raise an eyebrow, trying to peer around his shoulder at the now-hidden screen. "Show me."

"No, seriously, it's no big deal." He actually puts his phone in his pocket, which is basically equivalent to locking it in a vault given how attached he usually is to the thing. "Just a hobby."

"Since when are you shy about anything?" You nudge his arm with your elbow, oddly intrigued by this sudden reluctance. "Come on, I’ll show you mine, you show me yours."

"Not everything has to be an innuendo, Phoenix."

"That wasn't—" You stop yourself, because okay, that did sound suggestive. "Come on, I let you drag me through an entire photography exhibition. The least you could do is let me see your supposed 'silly' photography Instagram."

He's not looking at you now, eyes fixed somewhere to the left, scanning the street like he's searching for an escape route.

Then his face changes, relief washing over his features as he spots something across the way.

"Hey, wanna check that out?"

He points toward a small storefront wedged between a vintage clothing shop and a bubble tea place. The sign reads 'String Theory: DIY Jewelry & Crafts' in quirky hand-painted letters.

"A bracelet shop?" You follow his gaze, genuinely confused by the abrupt change of subject. "Seriously?"

"Yeah, why not?" He's already moving toward the crosswalk, clearly eager to leave the Instagram conversation behind. "Could be fun."

"Since when do you care about DIY bracelets?"

He shrugs, the movement a little too casual to be genuine. "Since right now. Come on, Nix. Live a little."

You narrow your eyes, suspicious of this sudden interest in arts and crafts, but follow him anyway.

Because in all honesty… The distraction isn't unwelcome—you've still got an hour to kill, and arguing about his secret Instagram account wasn't exactly on your agenda for the day.

Plus, whatever he's hiding must be good if he's willing to make friendship bracelets to avoid talking about it.

You approach the shop, and it is small but bright, walls lined with colorful spools of thread, beads in every imaginable shape and size, and an assortment of charms that range from the typical (hearts, stars, moons) to the bizarre (tiny plastic dinosaurs, miniature food items, and what appears to be a collection of famous dictators' faces).

A twenty-something with purple hair and more piercings than you can count greets you from behind the counter.

"Welcome to String Theory! Let me know if you need help finding anything."

Jungkook nods in acknowledgement, already wandering toward a display of leather cords and metal clasps. You follow, still puzzled by this whole detour.

"So this is what we're doing now? Making friendship bracelets?" You pick up a spool of neon green thread, turning it over in your fingers. "Is this your way of making our friendship official? Should we be getting cards and flowers too?"

He snorts, examining a tray of silver charms with unexpected interest.

"If anyone's getting flowers in this scenario, it's me. I'm high maintenance."

"Yeah, no shit."

He glances at you, that familiar half-smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

“We don't have to stay if you don't want to. Just thought it might be..." He trails off, shrugging again in that way he does when he's trying to seem indifferent.

"What? Entertaining? A good way to avoid showing me your Instagram?"

"Both." He picks up a small wolf charm, turning it over in his fingers. "But mostly I thought it might be fun. You know, do something with our hands that isn't..."

He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.

"And there's the innuendo. I was wondering how long you could go without making it weird."

"About thirty seconds, apparently." He sets the charm down, moving on to a collection of colored stones. "So, you want to make something or not?"

You consider it.

On one hand, making bracelets seems like a throwback to summer camp or middle school sleepovers—not exactly your usual Saturday night activity.

On the other hand, you've got time to kill, and it's oddly... refreshing to see Jungkook interested in something so innocuous.

Plus, you're still curious about that Instagram account, and maybe if you play along with this diversion, he'll eventually let his guard down enough to show you.

"Fine." You grab a small plastic basket from a stack near the entrance. "But I'm not making anything with your name on it, so don't get any ideas."

"Wouldn't dream of it." His smile widens into something more genuine. "Though I bet you'd rock a ‘Kuko 4-Ever' bracelet."

"I'd rather die, thanks."

You move along the wall, selecting threads in deep blues and purples because they're pretty, not because they remind you of the way Jungkook's hair sometimes looks in certain light. That would be stupid.

"So," you say casually, examining a tray of small metallic beads, "are you going to tell me about this secret Instagram account or what?"

He sighs, the sound more resigned than annoyed. "It's not secret. It's just... separate."

"Separate from what?"

"From me. From Jungkook. It's just a creative outlet, okay? Nothing special."

"But good enough that you don't want to show me."

He looks at you then, really looks at you, and there's something unexpectedly vulnerable in his expression.

"It's not that I don't want to show you. It's just... people get weird about it."

"Weird how?"

"They either think it's pretentious or they make too big a deal out of it." He moves to another display, this one filled with various charms. "It's easier to just keep it separate."

You follow him, curiosity piqued even further.

Jungkook, who walks around the apartment half-naked without a second thought, who leaves his dirty laundry in the most inconvenient places possible, who has absolutely no qualms about sharing the explicit details of his sex life—this same Jungkook is suddenly shy about his photography?

"I won't make it weird," you offer, surprising yourself with the sincerity in your voice. "Promise."

He looks skeptical. "You make everything weird, Nix. It's your special talent."

"Fuck off." You snatch a small charm from the tray without really looking at it—something circular with delicate metalwork. "I can appreciate art without being weird about it."

"It's not really art. Just photos."

"Of what?"

He hesitates, fingers tracing the edge of a tray.

"Mostly urban stuff. Architecture. Shadows. Light. Some nature." A shrug. "Just things I find interesting."

"That actually sounds cool."

He glances at you like he's checking for signs of mockery, then seems to decide you're being genuine.

"Yeah, well. Maybe I'll show you. Someday."

It's not a yes, but it's not a hard no either.

You'll take it.

"Cool." You move to the register, where the purple-haired employee is arranging a display of finished samples. "So how do we actually do this bracelet thing? I haven't made one since I was like, twelve."

"You think I have?" Jungkook laughs, setting his basket beside yours on the counter. "I'm flying blind here too."

The employee—Ash, according to their name tag—smiles.

“That's what I'm here for. What kind of bracelet are you thinking? We've got traditional friendship styles, leather wraps, beaded, charm..."

"Whatever's easiest," you say at the same time Jungkook says, "The coolest one."

Ash's smile widens. "How about a leather cord with beads? Simple but looks great."

"Sounds good," Jungkook agrees, emptying his basket on the counter. "Can we work on them here?"

"Absolutely. Let me set you up at the table in the back."

As you follow Ash toward a small workshop area in the rear of the store, your phone buzzes again. You check it discreetly.

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢. 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚋𝚢 𝟾. 𝚑𝚘𝚋𝚒’𝚜 𝚊��𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜.

You glance at the time.

6:45 PM.

Just over an hour left of... this. This strange, not entirely unpleasant detour into something that feels almost like friendship.

You slip your phone away before Jungkook can see, ignoring the small voice in the back of your mind that wonders what other secrets he might be keeping, and why you suddenly care so much about finding them out.

Ash sets you up at a small wooden table pressed right against the front window.

"So, what are we making?" Jungkook asks, already rummaging through his selection of beads like a kid sorting Halloween candy.

You don't answer immediately, an idea taking shape as you run your fingers over the threads and beads scattered across the table. Your eyes catch on the small containers of alphabet beads near the edge of the table, then drift to the vibrant collection of orange, red, and yellow beads in various shapes and finishes.

Perfect.

You pull the alphabet containers closer, fishing out specific letters: P, H, O, E, N, I, X. Setting them in a neat line in front of you, you reach for more: R, O, G, U, E.

Jungkook watches, brows drawing closer together as he pieces together what you're doing.

When recognition hits, he laughs—short and surprised.

"Okay, seriously? You're making Phoenix and Rogue bracelets now?"

You shrug, reaching for the orange, red, and yellow beads, arranging them between the letters.

"What? Hell yeah. We already branded each other, might as well make it something to remember each other by."

"You think I want to walk around with a bracelet that says 'Rogue' on my wrist?"

He looks genuinely baffled, like you've suggested he tattoo your face on his ass.

"I don't care what you do with it." You roll your eyes, already threading through the first bead. "I'm making mine."

He snorts, but instead of arguing further, he actually helps you sort through the letter beads, pushing the ones you need closer. Then, to your surprise, he reaches for the same fiery-colored beads you've been using.

"What?" he says, catching your look. "If we're doing this ridiculous twin bracelet thing, they might as well match."

"I thought you'd go for all black or something."

He shrugs, picking out a particularly vibrant red bead.

"Rogues can be fiery too. Besides," he adds with a half-smile, "these are my colors."

"Your colors?"

"Yeah." He lays out a pattern—red, orange, yellow, just like yours. "Warm tones. Bold. Kind of obnoxious if you use too many at once."

"Sounds like someone I know," you mutter, and he chuckles.

Your fingers work almost automatically, threading beads onto the leather cord. You're not being symbolic on purpose. It just looks nice.

When you glance up, Jungkook is staring at his own pile of beads, expression oddly distant.

He's rolling a small sun charm between his fingers, back and forth, like he's trying to make a decision.

"What?" you ask, because his silence feels weird.

He shrugs, the motion feeling slightly too forced on him.

"Nothing. Just..." He sets the charm down, picks up a red bead instead. "I actually had one of these. A bracelet. When I was a kid."

This feels like something—a small piece of himself he's offering without being pushed.

So you keep your tone light when you ask.

"Yeah? What kind?"

"Leather, like this." He picks up one of the cords, wrapping it around his wrist to measure before cutting it. "With these bright beads my mom found at some market. Reds and oranges, kind of like these. I wore it until it literally fell apart."

"How old were you?"

"I don't know. Ten? Eleven?" He shrugs again. "Young enough that it was still cool, not lame."

"And now?"

His eyes flick up to yours, then away. "Now what?"

"Is it lame now?"

His expression wavers, tightening around the mouth.

"Nah, it's whatever." He starts threading red and orange beads onto his cord, precise and quick. "Just not something guys usually wear, you know? Unless they're trying to be edgy or something."

"Since when do you care about what's 'usually' done?"

He laughs, but it sounds different than his normal laugh—a little hollow, a little forced.

"Fair point."

You work in silence for a few minutes, with some accompanying sounds; like the soft click of beads and the occasional muttered curse when you drop one.

A yellow bead rolls across the table toward Jungkook, who catches it easily.

"Thanks," you mutter as he hands it back.

"No problem." He pauses, looking at the half-finished bracelet in his hands. "I lied, by the way."

"About what?"

"My mom didn't find the beads." He keeps his eyes on his work, not looking at you. "I did. She just helped me put it together because I was too small to handle the clasps."

Something about the way he says it makes your chest tighten—like this isn't just a random childhood memory but something… soft.

Something he doesn't share often.

"That's sweet," you say, matching his tone. "You don't talk about your mom much."

He tenses, and you inwardly curse yourself.

"Not much to say."

That's a lie if you've ever heard one, but you don't push. Whatever this is—this small opening, it feels fragile. Like pressing too hard would make him shut down completely.

"Mine would've hated this place," you offer instead. "Too messy. Too handmade. Not enough structure."

His lips twitch, almost a smile.

"Mine would've loved it. She was always into this crafty shit. Had a whole room full of art supplies back when..." He trails off, shakes his head. "Anyway. How's yours coming?"

The abrupt subject change is obvious, but you let it slide.

"Almost done. Just need the clasp."

You hold up your creation for inspection. It's nothing fancy—just a simple leather cord with 'PHOENIX' spelled out in silver letter beads, filled with the fiery colored ones you picked.

But it looks kind of cool, in a childish, summer-camp sort of way.

Jungkook leans forward to look, his expression warming.

"Not bad, Nix. Very on-brand."

"Let me see yours."

He hesitates, then holds out his own bracelet. It's just like yours to match, with 'ROGUE' spelled out in metal letter beads. But he’s added a small sun charm that catches the light when he moves.

"Shit," you say, genuinely impressed. "Yours is way better than mine."

He shrugs, but you can tell he's pleased by the compliment.

“I have an eye for design. Part of my many talents."

"And so humble, too."

"Humility is overrated." He sets his bracelet down, reaching for the clasps Ash left for you. "Here, let me help you finish yours."

His fingers brush against yours as he takes your bracelet, the touch brief but somehow startling.

You watch as he attaches the clasp with surprising dexterity, tattooed fingers moving deftly, and it’s kind of attractive, really.

How good he is with his hands when he wants to be.

"There," he says, holding it out to you. "All set."

“Wait,” you announce, searching through the charms box.

You swear you had seen a rain charm earlier, and you had briefly snickered at it. But now that he’s wearing the sun charm it feels oddly… like yours needs to have the rain one, just to contrary him.

So you pick it up, add it to your bracelet.

And then you smile at him, show him.

He snorts.

You turn it in your hand. It feels solid, real. A physical manifestation of the nickname he gave you—the one that used to annoy you but now feels almost like a strange term of endearment.

Ash then approaches your table, a small fabric-lined box in her hands.

"All finished? Those look great!"

You both nod, holding up your creations for inspection.

"Phoenix and Rogue," she reads, smiling. "And they match! The fire colors work perfectly for both."

"Yeah," Jungkook says, and you're surprised by the hint of pride in his voice. "Kind of the point."

"Perfect timing, then," Ash says, setting the box on the table. "We're actually starting a new community art project. Would you be interested in contributing your bracelets?"

You frown, confused.

"Contributing how?"

"We're collecting handmade bracelets from customers to create a wall installation," she explains, gesturing toward a corner of the shop where several bracelets are already displayed on a corkboard. "It's part of our five-year anniversary celebration. Everyone who contributes gets a polaroid of their bracelet and a discount on their next visit."

"Oh." You look down at your bracelet, feeling an unexpected reluctance to part with it.

Which is stupid, because what were you going to do with it anyway?

Wear it?

That would be weird.

"You don't have to," Ash adds quickly, picking up on your hesitation. "It's totally optional."

"No, it's cool," Jungkook says, already placing his bracelet in the box. "I like the idea."

You glance at him, surprised again.

"You do?"

"Yeah. Creating something that stays here, becomes part of the place." He shrugs. "Better than it ending up in a drawer somewhere, right?"

There's something about the way he says it—like he's not just talking about the bracelet anymore—that makes you pause.

But then he's looking at you expectantly, waiting for your decision, and you place your bracelet in the box beside his, the matching colors side by side.

"For the record," you say as Ash takes a polaroid of your creations side by side, "I would've worn mine."

Jungkook's smile is slow and surprisingly gentle.

“Yeah?"

"Maybe not in public," you clarify quickly. "But yeah."

"Me too," he admits quietly, and it feels like he's sharing another secret—small but somehow significant. "Don't tell anyone, though. Ruins my image."

"What image? The one where you pretend to be cool but actually know an alarming amount about John Mayer's discography?"

"Exactly that one." He grins, the most genuine expression you've seen from him all day. "It's carefully curated."

Ash returns with your polaroid and receipt, both bracelets now part of the store's growing collection.

"Come back anytime to see them. They'll be here as long as we are."

"Thanks," Jungkook says, taking the polaroid and tucking it carefully into his wallet.

As you step back out onto the sidewalk, the city bathed in the deepening gold of late afternoon, you feel strangely light despite the lingering pain in your abdomen.

You reach for your phone to check the time, only to find your pocket empty.

"Shit," you mutter, patting your other pockets frantically. "My phone."

Jungkook stops mid-stretch.

"You lose it?"

"Must have left it in the shop." You're already turning back toward the door. "Wait here, I'll be quick."

"Want me to—"

"No, it's fine," you say, perhaps too quickly. "Just give me a second."

The bell chimes as you push back into the store, Ash looking up from behind the counter, eyebrows raised in question.

"Forgot my phone," you explain, gesturing vaguely toward the table where you were sitting.

"No problem. Take your time."

You move quickly to the table, eyes already scanning for your missing device.

Three minutes later, you're back outside, phone safely in hand. Jungkook's leaning against a lamppost, scrolling through something on his own phone.

"Got it?" he asks without looking up.

"Yeah."

You slip it into your pocket without checking the time.

"Ready?"

He pushes off the lamppost.

"Lead the way."

You start walking toward the subway entrance, mentally calculating the time. It must be around 7:20 now. Perfect timing to get to the restaurant by 8.

"Hungry?" you ask, as casually as you can manage.

Jungkook stretches again, arms reaching skyward in a motion that draws your eyes despite yourself.

"Starving. What did you have in mind?"

"I know a place," you say, already angling toward the stairs. "Trust me."

And the weird thing is, from the way he falls into step beside you without question, it seems like he actually does.

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pucksandpower · 7 months ago

Text

Big Bad Wolf

Day 27 → Hunter/Prey 💋 Max Verstappen

Warnings: 18+ content and Jos Verstappen

Kinktober Masterlist

You sit on the edge of your bed, fingers nervously twisting the hem of your dress. The laughter and chatter from the other girls preparing fills the small room, but it only makes your heart pound harder. The scent of pine and earth wafts through the cracked window, mingling with the sharp tang of nerves and excitement.

Tonight is the night. Your first run.

“Are you ready?” The question comes from Emma, sitting at the mirror across from you. Her voice is steady, calm. Of course it is. She’s been through this twice already and hasn’t been chosen. Tonight’s her third, and the final chance. She looks at you through the mirror, her eyes soft with understanding. “I was terrified the first time too.”

You shake your head quickly. “I’m not terrified,” you mutter, even though the words sound like a lie as soon as they leave your mouth. “Just … nervous.”

Emma lets out a laugh, light but knowing. “Nervous is just another word for terrified when it comes to the run. Everyone is. Even if they don’t admit it.”

Across the room, Sara slips on her shoes, her lips pulling into a smirk. “Some of us aren’t scared at all,” she says, flipping her hair over her shoulder in a practiced motion. “Some of us are ready for whatever the night brings.”

Emma rolls her eyes, and you can’t help but smile. Sara’s been talking nonstop about how this is her year, how she can feel it. She’s been practicing for this night as long as anyone can remember, and her confidence is nearly contagious.

“Not everyone can be the next Alpha’s mate, Sara,” Emma says, rising to adjust her dress. “Some of us are just trying to make it through without tripping over our own feet.”

Sara gives Emma a playful shove. “Hey, speak for yourself. The run is all about instinct. If you trip, maybe it’s just the universe’s way of telling you you’re not cut out for this.” She throws you a glance, her smile softening. “But don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll be fine. Just … stay out of my way.”

You let out a breath, trying to relax the tightness in your chest. “I don’t think you need to worry about me being competition,” you say with a wry smile.

Sara shrugs. “Hey, you never know. There’s always a chance.”

Emma shoots you a reassuring look before slipping her hand into yours, squeezing briefly. “You’ll be fine. You just have to breathe and trust yourself. It’s not about being perfect. It’s about being you.”

The sentiment is nice, but it does little to calm the storm of emotions inside you. Everyone here has been through it before — at least once. You’re the newcomer, the one who’s never run, who’s never had to face the possibility of being chosen — or worse, not chosen.

“You’re gonna do great,” Emma says again, as if saying it enough times will make it true.

“I just don’t want to embarrass myself,” you admit quietly, your hands fiddling with the laces on your boots. The soft leather feels grounding beneath your fingers, but it does little to stop the whirlwind of thoughts racing through your mind.

“You won’t,” Emma assures. “Trust me, it’s not as bad as it seems. Sure, you’re gonna be running for your life, but … y’know, in a romantic way.”

Sara snorts from across the room. “That’s one way to put it.”

Emma glares at her. “What? It’s true! It’s about the chase, about the excitement. That’s what makes it so exhilarating.”

“But it’s also about who’s chasing you,” Sara adds, leaning against the wall with a smug smile. “You know the males are going to be out in full force this time. The rumors about Max have everyone on edge. Every girl out there tonight is going to be hoping to catch his eye.”

Your stomach twists at the mention of his name. Max. The future Alpha. The one everyone’s talking about. The one everyone wants.

Emma’s expression softens as she notices your reaction. “Don’t worry about him,” she says quietly. “You’re not out there for Max. You’re out there for you. Just … focus on the run. Focus on the moment.”

But how can you not think about him? How can you not feel the weight of his presence, even though he’s nowhere near? Max has always been in the background of your thoughts — unreachable, untouchable. He’s the future of the pack, the one every girl dreams of, even if she pretends not to. And tonight, for the first time, you’ll be running with the possibility of crossing paths with him.

“Max doesn’t even know who I am,” you mutter, mostly to yourself, but Emma hears it.

“He doesn’t need to,” she replies softly. “It’s not about that.”

Sara’s smile grows wider, more self-assured. “Well, he’s gonna know my name after tonight.”

The room falls into a brief silence as you all continue to get ready. The weight of the night ahead presses down on you, and the laughter that fills the space seems to grow quieter as the minutes tick by.

You stand up, adjusting the hem of your dress, trying to steady your breathing. The forest is calling, the run is calling. This is the moment you’ve been preparing for your whole life, even if it doesn’t feel like it.

Emma stands beside you, offering a smile that’s meant to calm you, but it only heightens your awareness of what’s about to happen. “We should head down,” she says. “It’s almost time.”

Your heart stumbles in your chest as you follow her out the door, Sara leading the way with her head held high. The packhouse is bustling with activity as girls from all corners of the pack gather, excitement buzzing in the air like electricity. You weave through the familiar faces, feeling the weight of each glance that lands on you.

As you reach the edge of the forest, the moonlight filters through the trees, casting everything in an ethereal glow. You can hear the whispers of the pack, the murmurs of anticipation, the rustle of leaves beneath boots. The males are out there, somewhere, waiting.

You feel Emma slip her arm through yours. “Just remember,” she says quietly, her voice soft against the noise of the crowd, “It’s not about them. It’s about you.”

A loud howl echoes through the trees, signaling the start. The sound is like a jolt of electricity through the group, and the girls around you tense, their postures straightening. It’s time.

The scent of the forest is strong, filling your lungs as you take a deep breath. Every instinct in your body tells you to run, to move, to go.

Sara glances over her shoulder, a playful grin on her face. “Catch me if you can,” she teases, before sprinting off into the trees, her laughter echoing behind her.

Emma gives you one last look, her eyes filled with encouragement. “Just run,” she says softly. “Don’t think. Just run.”

And then she’s gone too, disappearing into the shadows of the forest.

You stand there for a moment, frozen, the weight of everything pressing down on you. The run has begun. The chase has begun. The thrill of it pulls at you, your heart hammering in your chest.

Then, with one last breath, you push off from the ground and run.

The forest swallows you whole.

***

Max stands in front of the mirror, rolling his shoulders and adjusting the collar of his jacket. The reflection staring back at him is stern, cold, and unreadable. It’s the face of an Alpha-to-be, someone expected to lead, to dominate, to find a mate tonight and secure the future of the pack. But behind his composed expression, there’s an undercurrent of restlessness. Another run. Another chance to find a mate. Another night where he’s likely to be disappointed.

His fingers trace the rough scars on his hands from years of training, running, fighting. He’s done everything expected of him, worked harder than anyone in the pack, pushed himself beyond what was necessary. But none of that has made this process any easier. No one has caught his interest.

His father’s voice cuts through the silence, and Max doesn’t need to turn to know Jos has entered the room. The old Alpha’s presence is unmistakable, a heavy, oppressive energy that has always suffocated Max. Jos doesn’t need to say much to convey his disappointment, his impatience, his expectations.

“You’re ready?” Jos asks, though it’s not really a question. It’s a demand.

Max doesn’t turn from the mirror. “I’m always ready.”

“Good. You need to be.”

Jos steps into view, his hands clasped behind his back, his posture rigid. Everything about him screams control, dominance, power — the kind that’s forced, the kind that Max has always despised. Jos has led the pack with an iron fist, and he expects Max to do the same when the time comes.

“You’ve let too many runs pass without finding her,” Jos says, his tone low, but laced with warning. “It’s time. Tonight is the night.”

Max clenches his jaw. He’s heard this speech before, every year. “I won’t choose someone just to choose,” he says firmly, his voice colder than he intends. “I need to feel it.”

Jos scoffs, the sound filled with disdain. “Feel it? You’re the Alpha. You don’t need to feel anything. You need to decide. This is about the pack, not your emotions.”

Max turns to face his father, his blue eyes flashing with irritation. “I won’t be tied to someone I don’t want. The pack will suffer if I choose the wrong mate.”

Jos’ eyes narrow, his lips curling into a sneer. “The pack suffers every day you remain unmated. Do you think they respect you more for dragging this out? Do you think they see strength in your indecision?”

Max doesn’t answer. He knows his father’s not entirely wrong — there’s been talk, whispers about why Max, the pack’s future leader, has yet to find a mate. The runs are supposed to be about instinct, about connection, about claiming. But Max has never felt it. Not once.

“Max,” Jos says sharply, stepping closer, his voice lowering into something more dangerous. “You are expected to lead. You are expected to find a mate, and tonight, you will. I don’t care who it is. Just make the choice. You’re not a pup anymore.”

Max meets his father’s gaze, holding it, the tension crackling between them like a live wire. This is the dance they’ve always done — Max pushing back, Jos demanding more. It’s been this way since Max was old enough to understand what being Alpha meant.

“Why do you care so much?” Max mutters, unable to keep the frustration from his voice. “What difference does it make if it’s this year or next?”

Jos’ eyes darken, and for a moment, Max wonders if his father will lash out. But Jos simply lets out a slow, deliberate breath, his expression hardening into something colder, more calculated.

“Because the pack needs stability,” Jos says, his voice clipped. “They need to know that you can make decisions, that you have control. Right now, you look weak. Indecisive. And if you don’t find someone tonight, they’ll start looking for that stability elsewhere.”

Max knows what his father’s implying. He’s been aware of the murmurs within the pack — those who question if Max is fit to lead, if his hesitation means he’s not strong enough to be Alpha. His father has always used fear and control to keep the pack in line, and Max can see now that Jos expects him to do the same.

But Max won’t be like his father. He can’t.

“I’ll find her when the time’s right,” Max says evenly. “Not when you decide it’s convenient.”

Jos lets out a derisive laugh, shaking his head. “You sound like a fool. This isn’t about fate or some fairytale. You’re the Alpha. You take what you want.”

Max’s chest tightens at the words. It’s never been that simple for him. The bond he’s searching for, the connection he craves, is something more. It’s not just about the run, the hunt. It’s about finding someone who challenges him, who understands him, who makes him feel something more than the empty duty that has been drilled into him for years.

“Tonight,” Jos says again, his voice sharp with finality. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Max doesn’t respond, and after a moment, his father turns and leaves the room, the door clicking shut behind him. The silence that follows is heavy, suffocating. Max stands there for a moment, staring at the empty space where his father stood, his fists clenched at his sides.

He knows what’s expected of him. He knows what the pack needs. But he also knows that he can’t — won’t — settle.

The run. It’s always the same, always a rush of bodies through the forest, the scent of pine and damp earth filling the air, the thrill of the chase. And every year, Max has found himself watching, waiting, hoping for something to shift inside him. But nothing ever does. None of the females have ever sparked anything in him, no matter how fast they run, no matter how close they come.

He runs a hand through his hair, trying to shake the thoughts loose. Tonight is different, though. He can feel it — an itch beneath his skin, a restlessness that’s been building for weeks. Something is coming. He doesn’t know what, but it’s there, just out of reach.

Max steps away from the mirror, grabbing his jacket and slipping it on, the leather molding to his form like a second skin. The pack is already gathering outside, the air buzzing with anticipation. He can feel the energy of the night crackling around him, the promise of the run vibrating through his bones.

He pushes open the door and steps out into the night. The moon hangs low in the sky, casting long shadows across the ground. The other males are scattered throughout the clearing, their eyes gleaming with excitement. They’ve all been waiting for this. The hunt. The chase. The chance to claim.

Max moves through the crowd, his presence commanding attention without him saying a word. He doesn’t need to assert himself. The others know who he is. They know he’s the one they all look to, even if they don’t say it aloud.

“You think this is the night, Max?” One of the males, Daniel, calls out, a sly grin on his face. “You gonna finally pick someone?”

Max gives him a sidelong glance, the corner of his mouth lifting in a humorless smile. “We’ll see.”

Daniel laughs, clapping Max on the shoulder. “Well, here’s hoping. The girls are looking better every year, aren’t they?”

Max doesn’t respond, his attention already shifting toward the edge of the clearing, where the females are beginning to gather. The energy around them is palpable, their excitement radiating into the night air. He can feel it — the pull, the tension, the unspoken anticipation of the chase.

The females are lined up, their gazes flickering between the males, their bodies taut with nerves and eagerness. Max’s eyes scan the group, searching, waiting for something — anything — to catch his attention. But as he watches them, that familiar feeling creeps in. The same sense of detachment, of distance.

None of them stir anything inside him. Not yet.

The pack elder steps forward, raising his hands to signal the start of the run. The air grows still, everyone poised on the edge of movement, waiting for the signal. Max tenses, his body ready, his senses sharp.

The elder’s voice booms through the clearing. “Let the hunt begin!”

In an instant, the females scatter, sprinting into the forest, their laughter and shouts echoing in the trees. The males are quick to follow, their bodies shifting, muscles coiling as they take off after them.

Max doesn’t move right away. He stands at the edge of the clearing, watching the others disappear into the woods, his heart thudding in his chest. He feels it — the pull, the instinct to chase, to claim, to find.

But something holds him back. Something feels different tonight.

And then, he catches a scent. Faint, barely there, but unmistakable. It cuts through the night air like a thread of warmth, pulling at him in a way he’s never felt before. His muscles tense, and for a moment, he’s frozen.

You.

Without another thought, Max takes off into the forest.

***

The wind rushes past your ears as you weave through the trees, your feet light on the forest floor. The moonlight filters through the canopy, casting dappled shadows across your path.

You run, but not with any real urgency. At first, it feels more like a game, something you’ve watched from the sidelines for years but never truly been part of. The thrill of the run is there, but muted, like you’re waiting for something to shift, something to make your heart race for real.

You laugh to yourself, feeling a bit of the tension from earlier melt away. The other girls had sprinted into the forest as if their lives depended on it, but you aren’t so sure. You’ve heard the stories of what happens during the run — the wild, frenzied chase, the heat of the hunt — but none of it seems real to you yet. Right now, it just feels like a midnight run through the woods.

You slow down slightly, breathing in the cool, earthy air, letting it fill your lungs. The scents of pine and damp leaves swirl around you, grounding you in the moment. There’s no need to rush. You know there’s a time limit, but the males will be busy chasing the faster girls first. You’re not on anyone’s radar, and that’s fine by you.

Ahead, the trees thin slightly, and you pick up your pace just enough to reach a small clearing. It��s quiet here, the distant sounds of the run — footsteps, laughter, shouts — fading into the background. You stand there for a moment, catching your breath, letting yourself soak in the stillness of the night.

“This isn’t so bad,” you whisper to yourself, brushing a stray lock of hair out of your face. You can still feel the remnants of nerves, but they’ve settled now, replaced by something calmer. You glance over your shoulder, half-expecting to see the others, but there’s no one. The forest is empty.

You think about what Emma had said — about running for yourself, not for them. Maybe she was right. Maybe this doesn’t have to be about being chased or caught. Maybe this can just be your moment to feel free.

But then you feel it.

It’s subtle at first, just a prickle at the back of your neck, like the sensation of being watched. You pause, your heartbeat picking up slightly as you turn in a slow circle, scanning the trees around you. The clearing is still empty, but the hairs on your arms stand on end. There’s something out there. You can’t see it, but you can feel it.

You swallow, a nervous laugh escaping your lips. “Okay, I get it. It’s a mating run. I’m supposed to feel like this.” But your own voice does little to settle the sudden unease creeping into your chest.

For the first time, the run doesn’t feel like a game anymore. There’s a shift in the air, something heavier, something more dangerous.

You take a step backward, your eyes darting to the shadows between the trees. “Hello?” You call, half-joking, half-hoping for a response. Silence answers you, but that feeling — being watched — grows stronger.

Another step back. This time, your heart skips a beat. You turn sharply, scanning the edge of the clearing again. Nothing.

Maybe you’re just imagining it. Maybe your nerves are playing tricks on you.

You shake your head and take a deep breath. “Relax,” you whisper to yourself. “You’re fine. It’s just the forest.”

But your body doesn’t listen. Every instinct is telling you to move, to run, to go.

You try to ignore it, taking another step forward, but that’s when you hear it. The faintest crack of a branch behind you.

You freeze. The forest, which had seemed so peaceful moments ago, now feels alive with danger. The prickle on the back of your neck is now a full-on chill running down your spine.

Someone’s there.

Without thinking, you bolt.

Your feet hit the ground hard, faster than before, your body moving on instinct now. The easy, leisurely run from earlier is gone, replaced by something wild, something urgent. Your pulse pounds in your ears as you sprint through the trees, your breath coming in quick, sharp bursts.

You don’t know who’s out there — whether it’s one of the males from the pack or something else entirely — but you can feel them. You can feel the weight of their gaze, the way they’re tracking you, following your every movement.

Your heart races as you dart around a thick trunk, the sound of your footfalls blending with the rustling of the leaves overhead. The forest blurs around you as you push yourself faster, harder. You don’t look back. You can’t. You just have to keep moving, keep running.

But they’re getting closer.

The trees are a blur now, your muscles burning as you force your legs to move. You can hear them behind you — the faint, almost inaudible sound of footsteps, the crack of branches, the soft rustle of leaves as someone — something — moves through the forest with a precision that makes your heart race even faster.

Whoever they are, they’re faster than you.

You veer off to the right, trying to lose them in the thick undergrowth, but it doesn’t matter. They’re gaining on you. You can feel it.

A low growl rumbles through the air, and your stomach flips. You push yourself harder, your breaths coming out in ragged gasps. Every step feels heavier, the weight of the chase pressing down on you, making your legs ache with the effort.

And then, suddenly, the ground gives way beneath you.

You stumble, your foot catching on a root hidden beneath the leaves, and before you can catch yourself, you’re falling. You hit the ground hard, the impact jarring through your bones as you roll to a stop at the base of a large tree.

Dazed, you blink up at the canopy of branches overhead, your breath coming in shallow gasps. The world spins for a moment, and you try to push yourself up, but your body feels sluggish, weak.

It’s too late.

Before you can even think about getting to your feet, you feel a strong arm wrap around your waist, pulling you up off the ground in one swift motion. A startled gasp escapes your lips as you’re lifted effortlessly, your back pressed against something solid — someone solid.

For a moment, you can’t breathe. The world narrows to the feeling of their body against yours, the heat radiating off them in waves. The scent of pine and earth fills your senses, stronger now, more potent, and you know without a doubt that this is no ordinary chase.

A voice, deep and rough, growls in your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. “Got you.”

You freeze, your body going rigid in their grasp as the words sink in. The voice is low, commanding, filled with an authority that makes your heart stutter. Whoever this is, they’re not just some random male from the pack. This is something else entirely.

For a moment, neither of you move. The forest seems to hold its breath, the sounds of the chase fading away, leaving only the pounding of your heart and the sound of your ragged breaths. You try to think, try to process what’s happening, but your mind is a blur of confusion and adrenaline.

“Let me go,” you manage to gasp, though your voice is weak, trembling.

They chuckle softly, the sound vibrating through their chest and into your back. “You’re not in a position to make demands.”

Your pulse quickens as you feel their grip tighten slightly, just enough to remind you that they’re in control, that you’re at their mercy.

Your mind races, trying to come up with a plan, something to get you out of this, but there’s no use. They’re stronger, faster, and right now, you’re trapped.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” they say, their voice softer now, though no less commanding. “But I’m not letting you go either.”

You swallow hard, your breath hitching in your throat. This isn’t how you imagined the run would go. You never expected to be caught so quickly, so easily. And you certainly didn’t expect the one chasing you to be … this.

You feel their breath against your neck, warm and steady, as they lean in slightly. “Run all you want,” they murmur, their voice sending a shiver down your spine. “But I’ll always catch you.”

Your heart races, your mind reeling as you try to make sense of the situation. But there’s no time to think, no time to process what’s happening.

You’re caught.

And there’s no escaping now.

***

Your breath comes in shallow gasps as the figure behind you tightens their hold. The warmth of their body presses against your back, strong and unyielding. Every inch of you is tense, muscles coiled like a spring. You don’t dare move, barely able to think beyond the pounding of your pulse in your ears.

His hand slides from your waist to your shoulder, and before you can even process the movement, he spins you around. The world blurs for a second, the shadows of the forest twisting into one another, until your back hits the rough bark of a tree.

You look up — straight into the wild, burning eyes of Max Verstappen.

Your stomach drops.

Max.

Max caught you.

You’ve seen Max a thousand times before — calm, controlled, his power coiled tightly behind those cold blue eyes. But this? This is something else entirely. His eyes are dark, almost feral, like something untamed has been let loose inside him. His usual stoic expression is nowhere to be found, replaced by a snarl that twists his lips, a deep growl rumbling from his chest.

You’ve never seen him like this. You never even thought it was possible.

“Max-” His name comes out as a breathless whisper, but the second the sound reaches him, his snarl deepens, his grip on your shoulders tightening as he pushes you harder against the tree. You can feel the rough bark biting into your back, but the discomfort is nothing compared to the heat radiating from him, the way his gaze pins you in place.

“Mine.” His voice is low, guttural, barely recognizable as the Max you’ve known for years. “You’re mine.”

You blink up at him, your heart racing. “What are you-”

But before you can finish the sentence, Max lowers his head, burying his face in the curve of your neck. His breath is hot against your skin, and the scent of him — earthy, primal — fills your senses. You can feel him trembling, his entire body vibrating with some barely contained need, as if he’s fighting to hold himself back.

“Max,” you manage, your voice shaky. “What are you doing?”

His hands grip your waist, pulling you impossibly closer, his chest pressing against yours. The growl that comes from him is so deep it vibrates through your body. “You don’t get it, do you?”

Your mind is spinning, trying to make sense of what’s happening. “Get what?”

“I’ve waited for this,” he growls, his lips brushing your skin. “For you.”

Your breath catches in your throat. You? Max has waited for you? The words don’t make sense, not with the way he’s always been distant, cold, focused on his role as Alpha-in-waiting. You never imagined-

“Mate,” Max says, his voice rough and thick with a possessiveness you’ve never heard before. “You’re my mate.”

The world seems to tilt on its axis, everything around you narrowing to just him — his body pressed against yours, his breath hot on your neck, the word mate hanging in the air like a spell.

“No,” you whisper, shaking your head, though your body betrays you, leaning into his touch despite your confusion. “That’s not-”

But your words die in your throat when you feel his lips brush over the sensitive spot on your neck — your mating gland. His mouth hovers there for a second, his breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps, and suddenly, you realize what he’s about to do.

“Max, wait-” you gasp, but it’s too late.

With a low, primal growl, Max sinks his teeth into the tender skin of your neck, biting down hard.

The moment his teeth break the surface, the world explodes.

A shockwave of heat and sensation pulses through your entire body, starting from the point of contact and radiating outward, like a fire igniting inside you. Your vision blurs, your breath catching in your throat as the bond begins to form, snapping into place with a force that leaves you dizzy.

It’s overwhelming, like nothing you’ve ever felt before. Half of the bond, the part that Max has just claimed, roars to life, flooding your senses with an overwhelming need. Your body reacts instinctively, pressing closer to him, needing more — more of him, more of this connection, more of everything.

You can feel his emotions now — raw, intense, and powerful. There’s hunger, desire, possession, all wrapped up in a fierce need to protect. But beneath it all, there’s something deeper, something softer, almost vulnerable.

He’s waited for you.

The thought is dizzying, impossible to fully grasp, but there’s no denying it now. The bond is real, and it’s pulling at you, drawing you into him like a force of nature.

Max pulls back slightly, his mouth leaving your skin but staying close enough that you can feel his breath, warm and ragged, against your neck. His eyes are wild when he looks at you, dark with an intensity that makes your heart skip a beat. “Mine,” he growls again, his voice low, possessive.

You should be angry. You should be scared, maybe. But you’re not. Instead, the only thing you feel is the need to complete the bond, to claim him as yours just as he’s claimed you.

Your body moves before your mind can catch up. You grab him by the shoulders, pulling him closer, and he growls in approval, his hands sliding down to grip your waist. You can feel the strength in his fingers, the way he holds you like you’re something precious and breakable, but also like he’ll never let go.

“Max,” you whisper, your voice shaky, filled with the same need that’s been coursing through him. “I-I need-”

You can’t finish the sentence, but you don’t have to. Max’s eyes darken, his jaw clenched tight as he watches you, waiting for you to make the move.

And then, you do.

You don’t think. You just act, leaning in and sinking your teeth into his neck, right where his mating gland is. The second your teeth break the skin, the bond snaps into place completely.

The world shifts.

It’s like nothing you’ve ever experienced — waves of emotion crashing into you, one after the other, until you’re drowning in it. The connection between you and Max flares to life, and suddenly, you can feel everything. His desire, his possessiveness, his need for you, but also something deeper — something softer. There’s a fierce protectiveness in him, an unwavering determination to keep you safe, to claim you not just because he’s supposed to, but because he wants to.

It’s intoxicating, the way the bond pulls at you, flooding your senses with heat and need. You can feel Max’s pulse racing beneath your lips, matching the frantic rhythm of your own heart, and it only makes you want him more.

He growls low in his throat, his grip on you tightening as you bite down harder, completing the bond. His entire body tenses, a shudder running through him, and you can feel the shift in him, the way the bond affects him just as much as it affects you.

When you finally pull back, gasping for breath, Max is staring at you with a look so intense it sends a shiver down your spine. His blue eyes are dark, his pupils blown wide, and there’s a wildness in him that hasn’t diminished, even with the bond in place.

“Now you get it,” he says, his voice rough and low. He leans in, his lips brushing against your ear, sending another shiver through you. “You’re mine. And I’m yours.”

The words are a promise, a claim, but there’s something else there too — something deeper. The bond may have snapped into place like a chain locking around you both, but it’s more than that. It’s a connection, a tether that pulls you together in a way you never expected, never even thought possible.

You swallow, still trying to catch your breath, your mind racing. The bond is overwhelming, but it feels right — like something inside you has finally clicked into place, something you didn’t even know you were missing.

“I-” You try to speak, but the words catch in your throat. You don’t know how to explain what you’re feeling, how to put it into words.

But Max seems to understand. He presses his forehead against yours, his breath still ragged, his body trembling slightly as he tries to control the raw emotions coursing through him. “I know,” he says, his voice softer now, but still filled with that same intensity. “I feel it too.”

The weight of his words settles over you, and for a moment, the world around you seems to fade away, leaving only the two of you — connected, bound, and inseparable.

The run, the chase, everything that led to this moment — it all falls away, leaving only the undeniable truth.

You’re his. And he’s yours.

The world is still spinning from the intensity of the bond, every sense heightened, every nerve alight with sensation. You feel like your body is on fire, a primal need pulsing through your veins, a need you’ve never experienced before. Max’s forehead is still pressed to yours, his breath warm against your skin as he holds you close, his hands firm on your waist.

But the bond isn’t done.

It’s there between you, humming with energy, demanding more — more of him, more of this connection. You feel it in every fiber of your being, a pull so powerful you can’t ignore it. And neither can Max.

His hand moves from your waist to your hip, his fingers digging into your skin as his breathing deepens. His eyes are dark, pupils dilated as he gazes at you with an intensity that makes your heart race. The feral look from before hasn’t left him — it’s only deepened. There’s a hunger in his eyes, raw and untamed, and you can feel it reflected in your own.

Max’s voice is low, almost a growl. “I’m not done with you.”

Your heart skips a beat. There’s no mistaking his meaning. The bond, the bite — it was only the beginning. The weight of what’s about to happen hangs in the air between you, thick and charged with tension. You should feel embarrassed, maybe even shy, but all you can think about is him — how badly you need him, how badly you want him to complete what he’s started.

He watches you closely, waiting for any sign of hesitation, but you don’t give him one. Instead, you reach for him, your fingers curling around the front of his shirt, tugging him closer, wordlessly giving him permission. The bond hums in approval, urging you both forward, pulling you together like a force of nature.

That’s all the confirmation Max needs.

Without warning, he tears at the fabric of your dress, the sound of it ripping in half echoing through the forest. Your breath hitches, heat flooding your cheeks as the cool night air hits your skin, but you don’t stop him. You can’t. The need coursing through your veins is too strong, too overwhelming.

Max wastes no time, his own shirt following your dress in a shredded heap on the forest floor. His hands are everywhere — on your skin, in your hair, gripping you as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. His touch is firm, possessive, and it sends a shiver down your spine, every inch of you alive with sensation.

His lips crash into yours, hot and demanding, as he pulls you closer, his body pressing against yours. You feel his heat, the hard planes of his chest against your own, and it only stokes the fire inside you, making the bond between you thrum with even more intensity. The forest around you fades away, the sounds of the night swallowed by the rush of blood in your ears, the frantic beating of your heart.

Your hands fumble with the waistband of his pants, and he growls low in his throat, his hands moving to help you, tearing them off with a speed and strength that leaves you breathless. His hands, large and rough, move down your body, and then, with a swift motion, your panties are gone too, discarded somewhere in the forest.

You’re both bare now, the night air cool against your heated skin, but it barely registers. All you can focus on is him — on Max and the way he looks at you, like you’re the only thing that matters. There’s no hesitation in him, no shame. He’s completely unbothered by the fact that you’re standing there, naked and vulnerable, in the middle of the woods. He doesn’t care who might find you, doesn’t care about anything except you.

But you can’t help it — you feel a flicker of embarrassment, heat rushing to your face. You try to cover yourself, but Max catches your wrists, pulling your hands away, his eyes locked on yours.

“Don’t,” he growls, his voice low and rough. “You’re perfect.”

His words send a rush of warmth through you, and before you can respond, Max lowers you down onto the forest floor, his body hovering over yours, his weight a comforting presence. The ground is cool beneath you, but Max is anything but. His skin is hot, his muscles tense with barely restrained control, as if he’s holding himself back, waiting for you to say something, to give him the final permission to take what’s his.

Your heart races as you look up at him, his blue eyes burning with need, the wildness still lingering in his gaze. You don’t have to say anything. The bond between you speaks for itself.

“Max,” you whisper, breathless, your voice trembling with anticipation.

He leans down, his lips brushing against your ear, his voice a low, rumbling growl. “I’m going to make you mine.”

And then he does.

Max moves with a slow, deliberate intensity, his hands gripping your hips as he enters you, filling you completely. The bond between you flares, snapping into place with a finality that leaves you gasping for breath. The connection is deeper now, more than just physical — it’s emotional, spiritual, a melding of souls that leaves you trembling beneath him.

Every movement sends a wave of pleasure through you, your body arching into his as he moves above you, his pace steady and controlled, but filled with the same raw intensity that’s been there from the start. You can feel his need, his desire, but there’s something more — something deeper that pulses through the bond.

His hands grip you tighter, his body pressing you harder into the earth as he claims you completely. There’s no gentleness here, no hesitation. This is primal, animalistic, a raw expression of the bond between you, and it’s everything you didn’t know you needed.

Max leans down, his lips finding yours in a bruising kiss, his breath hot and ragged as he deepens the connection between you. You’re lost in him, in the feeling of him, in the way the bond pulls you together with every thrust, every touch. Your hands find his back, your nails digging into his skin as he pushes you closer and closer to the edge, the bond between you tightening with every second.

“I’ve waited for this,” Max growls against your lips, his voice rough and filled with emotion. “You’re mine now.”

The words send a shiver down your spine, and all you can do is nod, your body trembling beneath him as the bond reaches its peak, the connection between you solidifying in a way that leaves you breathless.

“Say it,” he demands, his voice low and commanding.

“I’m yours,” you whisper, your voice shaky but filled with truth. “I’m yours, Max.”

The bond flares, and suddenly, everything snaps into place. Your body arches, your breath catching in your throat as the final piece of the bond falls into place, locking you and Max together in a way that feels unbreakable, eternal.

Max groans, his grip on you tightening as he follows you over the edge, his body shuddering above you as the bond completes fully, sealing you to him in a way that leaves you both breathless and trembling.

For a long moment, the only sound is the ragged breathing between the two of you, the forest around you forgotten. Max’s weight is heavy on top of you, grounding you in the moment, in the reality of what just happened.

You’re his. And he’s yours.

Finally, Max pulls back slightly, his body still pressed against yours as he looks down at you, his blue eyes softening just a little. There’s still a wildness there, still that possessiveness, but there’s something else now — something gentler, more protective.

He leans down, brushing a kiss against your forehead, and you can feel the bond between you humming with contentment.

“Mine,” he whispers again, but this time, there’s no growl, just a quiet certainty.

You don’t have to respond. He knows.

For a moment, the two of you lie there, tangled together, the cool night air brushing against your heated skin. The bond between you is strong, solid, and you can feel it thrumming with life, with energy, as if it’s still settling into place.

But then, Max moves, slowly pushing himself up and off of you. He stands, completely unbothered by his nakedness, his body still radiating that same confidence and control that he always carries with him. You, on the other hand, feel the flush of embarrassment creeping up again, the reality of the situation hitting you.

You’re both completely naked in the middle of the forest.

Max doesn’t seem to care. He bends down, scooping you up into his arms with ease, holding you close to his chest as if you weigh nothing at all. His eyes are on you, filled with pride and something that looks like satisfaction, but there’s no shame, no embarrassment. He’s triumphant.

You, however, feel your face heat as you instinctively try to cover yourself, but Max’s arms hold you firmly against him.

“Max,” you whisper, your voice filled with mortification. “We’re not wearing anything.”

He chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that vibrates through his chest. “I know.”

He starts walking, carrying you effortlessly through the trees, heading back toward the pack house. You can’t help but bury your face in his chest, trying to hide your embarrassment as the reality of what’s about to happen sinks in.

Everyone will see. Everyone will know.

But Max doesn’t care. He’s proud. You’re his mate, and he’s going to show the world.

***

Max strides through the forest, each step deliberate, his arms cradling you against his chest as if you’re the most precious thing in the world. He doesn’t bother hiding the satisfied smirk that pulls at his lips — he’s found his mate, and he knows it. He can feel the bond humming between the two of you, powerful and undeniable.

The night air is cool, brushing against both of your bare skin, but Max is too focused to care. You, however, squirm slightly, the awareness of your nudity heightening as the sounds of the pack grow louder in the distance.

“Max,” you murmur, glancing up at him, your voice filled with uncertainty.

He doesn’t even look down, his eyes fixed ahead, laser-focused on the clearing where the rest of the pack waits. “Don’t hide,” he says, his voice low, but firm. “They need to see.”

You swallow hard, feeling the heat rush to your cheeks again. It’s one thing to be with Max like this, alone in the forest, but the thought of everyone else seeing you — seeing both of you — sends a wave of embarrassment through you. But Max is unmoved. His grip on you tightens, his arm like iron around your waist as he walks with purpose, unashamed.

The clearing comes into view, the faint glow of firelight illuminating the figures waiting there. The non-participating pack members are gathered, eager to see who’s returning with whom. A hush falls over the group as they catch sight of Max emerging from the treeline, his broad frame unmistakable even in the dim light. He carries you as if you weigh nothing, his steps sure and unhurried, his pride palpable.

A murmur ripples through the crowd as they realize what’s happened. Max Verstappen, their Alpha-in-waiting, has finally found his mate.

Max’s chest swells with pride, and without warning, he throws his head back and lets out a deep, resonating roar that echoes through the clearing. It’s a primal sound, one of triumph, of victory, and it sends a shiver down your spine. His voice reverberates through the air, silencing the crowd as they stand in awe of their future leader.

The reaction is immediate.

Cheers erupt from the pack, a cacophony of hoots, hollers, and whistles. They all know what this means — Max has chosen. He’s claimed his mate, and now, there’s no turning back. The weight of the moment is heavy in the air, but Max takes it all in stride, his posture confident, his gaze sweeping over the gathered wolves like a king surveying his subjects.

You, on the other hand, feel your cheeks flush with heat as all eyes turn to you. Instinctively, you try to shield yourself, your arms moving to cover your exposed body. But Max is having none of it. He shifts you in his arms, catching your wrists in his large hands and holding them firmly against his chest.

“Max, please,” you whisper, your voice barely audible over the noise of the pack.

He leans down slightly, his breath hot against your ear. “I said don’t hide.”

His words are not a request — they’re an order. And though a part of you wants to disappear into the forest again, another part of you can’t help but feel the power of his command, the certainty in his voice. He wants them to see. He wants them to know that you’re his, that this bond is real, and he’s not going to let anything or anyone diminish that.

As the noise of the crowd grows louder, you realize there’s no use fighting it. Max’s grip on you is unyielding, and the pride radiating from him is almost tangible. He wants the pack to see you, to see him, to understand that you belong to him now — and there’s no room for hesitation.

“Max!” A voice breaks through the din, and you see Jos stepping forward from the crowd, his face a mix of approval and indifference. Jos had always been more focused on ensuring Max fulfilled his duties as the future Alpha than on any personal connection his son might have to his mate.

Max barely acknowledges his father’s approach, his attention still fixed on you, though his expression hardens slightly. “Father,” he says, his voice steady.

Jos’ eyes flick between you and Max, a calculating glint in his gaze. “So, it’s done then?”

Max’s jaw tightens, but he nods once. “It’s done.”

Jos’s lips twist into a smile, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Good. I’ve waited long enough for you to make your choice. The pack’s waited long enough.”

There’s a tension in the air between father and son, unspoken but undeniable. Max doesn’t respond to Jos’ veiled challenge, his eyes narrowing slightly as if daring his father to push further. But Jos seems content with the knowledge that his son has finally taken this crucial step. He gives a curt nod, stepping back into the crowd, clearly uninterested in who Max has chosen — only that he’s done it.

The congratulations continue, pack members approaching Max with grins and slaps on the back, though none of them dare get too close. You’re acutely aware of every gaze, every cheer, as wolves you’ve known for years now look at you differently. You’re not just one of them anymore — you’re the future Alpha’s mate.

Max accepts the praise with a tilt of his head, his hold on you never wavering. His grip is possessive, grounding, and you can feel the intensity of his emotions radiating off him. Pride, satisfaction, and something deeper — something darker that thrums through the bond between you.

“Max! You finally did it!” One of the younger wolves calls out, a grin stretching across his face. “About time!”

Max smirks, his eyes flashing with amusement as he looks over at the young wolf. “I wasn’t going to settle,” he says, his voice carrying easily over the noise. “When you know, you know.”

The pack erupts into another round of cheers, their excitement palpable. But Max’s gaze flicks back to you, his eyes darkening again as the bond between you hums with a new kind of tension. He’s barely keeping himself in check, his control hanging by a thread as the reality of the situation sinks in.

He leans down, his lips brushing against your ear again, his voice a low growl that sends a shiver down your spine. “I want to take you back.”

Your heart skips a beat, the heat between you intensifying. He doesn’t mean back to the pack house for rest. He means back to continue what you’ve only just begun.

You glance around, acutely aware of the eyes still on you, but Max doesn’t seem to care. He’s made his claim, and now he’s ready to follow through with it. You feel the blush creep up your neck again, but Max’s confidence is unshakable.

“Let’s go,” he mutters, his grip on you tightening slightly as if he’s already made the decision for both of you.

Before you can respond, a chorus of howls and whistles erupts from the crowd as they catch on to Max’s intent. One of the older wolves grins, his voice carrying over the others. “Give the girl a break, Max! Let her breathe for a second!”

Max’s lips twitch into a smirk, but he doesn’t slow down. He’s already moving toward the pack house, his focus entirely on you. The sounds of the pack fade into the background as Max carries you through the clearing, his pace quickening as the bond between you pulls tighter, urging him forward.

“Max,” you whisper, your voice a mix of embarrassment and something else — something deeper that thrums in time with the bond.

He doesn’t answer, but you can feel his resolve, the way his grip on you is unyielding, his steps purposeful. He’s done waiting. Done with the formalities, the congratulations. All he cares about now is getting you back to the pack house, where he can finish what he started.

As you approach the entrance, you feel the weight of everything settle on your shoulders — the bond, the pack, the future that stretches out in front of you. But Max doesn’t seem to falter. He’s never been one to hesitate, and now, with you in his arms, there’s no question in his mind.

You’re his. And he’s going to make sure everyone knows it.

***

Max doesn’t slow down as he crosses the threshold of the pack house, his grip on you unrelenting. His focus is laser-sharp, his footsteps echoing in the quiet as the distant sounds of the pack fade into the night. He moves through the familiar halls with a purpose, barely acknowledging anyone who dares to glance his way.

You can feel the tension in him, coiled like a spring, ready to snap. And you? You’re caught in it, completely tangled in the intensity that rolls off him in waves.

Your heart is still pounding from everything that’s happened — from the run, from being claimed, from the eyes on you in the clearing. But now, in the privacy of the pack house, that pounding becomes something else entirely.

Anticipation. Need. You can’t ignore the way your pulse quickens the closer you get to Max’s room, your body still thrumming with the lingering effects of the bond.

Max kicks the door open with ease, stepping inside without hesitation. The door slams shut behind him, the finality of the sound sending a shiver down your spine. He sets you on your feet, but before you can even take a breath, his hands are on you again, gripping your waist and pulling you flush against him.

“You thought you could run,” he growls, his voice low and dangerous. His eyes are dark, almost feral, and you can see the possessiveness etched into every line of his face. “But you were never going to get away.”

You open your mouth to speak, to say something, anything, but the words catch in your throat. Max doesn’t give you time to respond anyway. He crushes his lips against yours, the kiss rough and all-consuming, his hands sliding down your body as if he’s determined to remind you exactly who you belong to.

The kiss leaves you breathless, your knees threatening to give way beneath you, but Max doesn’t relent. He’s a force of nature, untamed and relentless, his touch both commanding and electric.

“Max-” you manage to gasp, but he silences you with another kiss, his hands already working their way across your skin.

“I told you,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice a dark promise, “I was always going to catch you.”

There’s no room for argument, no room for anything but the overwhelming heat between the two of you as he pulls you toward the bed. The moment your back hits the mattress, the air crackles with something wild, something uncontrollable. Max is on you in an instant, his hands sliding up your thighs, pinning you in place as his eyes lock onto yours.

“This time,” he says, his voice low and dangerous, “there’s nowhere to run.”

Your breath catches as he lowers himself over you, his presence overwhelming, his weight pressing you into the mattress. His lips find your neck, and you can feel the rumble of his growl against your skin as he kisses the sensitive spot just beneath your ear. His hands grip your hips with enough force to leave marks, but the thought only sends a fresh wave of desire coursing through you.

You can barely think, barely breathe, as Max claims you again, the bond between you tightening with every touch, every kiss. This is nothing like the forest. Out there, it was raw, primal, an instinctive act of possession.

But here, in the privacy of his room, it’s something else entirely. It’s as if Max has no intention of holding back — no intention of stopping until every part of you knows exactly what it means to be his.

He shifts, moving his hands beneath your back, pulling you closer to him as his mouth moves down your body, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. You arch into him, the intensity of the bond overwhelming as you cling to him, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, needing more.

“Max,” you breathe, your voice barely more than a whisper.

His answer is a low growl, one that vibrates through your entire body, and before you can say anything else, he’s pushing your legs apart, positioning himself between them with a hunger that leaves you gasping. The moment he enters you, it’s like a dam breaks inside you, the bond coming to love so hard it almost knocks the breath from your lungs. It’s overwhelming, every nerve in your body on fire as Max claims you fully, his body moving against yours in a rhythm that sends shockwaves of pleasure through you.

The bed creaks beneath you, the wooden frame groaning under the force of Max’s movements. You can feel it — the raw power in him, the unrelenting strength as he drives into you, his grip on your hips like iron. The bond between you pulses with every thrust, a tangible thing that seems to tighten and twist, pulling you closer, deeper into each other until it’s impossible to tell where one of you ends and the other begins.

You can barely form words, barely think beyond the sensation of Max surrounding you, inside you, his breath hot against your skin, his growls vibrating through your entire being. You feel the bed shift beneath you, the groaning wood reaching its breaking point, but Max doesn’t care. He doesn’t slow, doesn’t stop — if anything, it seems to spur him on.

The moment the bed frame finally gives way, splintering beneath you, Max lets out a low, satisfied growl, his lips curling into a smirk as if this is exactly what he wanted. He catches you before you can fall, his arms wrapping around you, holding you against him as the broken pieces of the bed frame scatter beneath you.

“Max-” you start, but he cuts you off with another bruising kiss, his hands tangling in your hair as he pulls you impossibly closer.

“I’m not stopping,” he growls against your lips, his voice rough with need. “Not until you understand.”

You feel the heat rise in your cheeks, the embarrassment from earlier flooding back. You’d thought you understood — thought the intensity of the forest floor was the peak of what Max could offer. But this … this is different. This is Max unrestrained, Max with no one watching, no expectations to hold him back. And it’s almost too much.

He shifts again, pushing you down into the now broken bed frame, his body covering yours as his lips move down your neck, his teeth grazing the mark he left earlier. The reminder of the bond sends a shiver through you, your body responding to him instinctively, your fingers digging into his back as you arch into him.

“You can’t run from this,” Max mutters, his breath hot against your skin. “You can’t run from me.”

“I wasn’t-” you try to protest, but his lips find yours again, swallowing your words as his pace quickens, the rhythm of his movements relentless, leaving you breathless and overwhelmed.

“I was always going to catch you,” he growls, his voice low and dark, sending another shiver through you. His hands grip your hips again, pulling you against him with a force that leaves you gasping. “I will always catch you.”

You can feel the bond tightening, pulling you closer to him, until it feels like the world narrows down to just the two of you. Max’s growls are low and possessive, his body moving against yours in a way that leaves no room for doubt — you’re his.

There’s no escape from him. And you don’t want there to be.

The bed beneath you is in ruins, but Max doesn’t seem to care. He’s unrelenting, his pace increasing until you can barely keep up, every thrust sending shockwaves of pleasure through you, pushing you closer to the edge until it feels like you might shatter.

And when you finally do — when the bond snaps fully into place and the pleasure crashes over you in waves — it’s like nothing you’ve ever experienced before. Max follows a moment later, his growl vibrating through you as he collapses on top of you, his body still pressed tightly against yours, his breath ragged.

For a moment, the world is still. The only sound is the heavy breathing between the two of you, your heartbeats syncing together as the bond settles, the overwhelming intensity of it fading into a deep, unbreakable connection.

Max doesn’t move for a long time, his arms still wrapped around you, his breath hot against your neck. And though the bed is in ruins beneath you, though everything feels like it’s been torn apart, there’s a strange comfort in the aftermath. Max was always going to catch you. And now, there’s no running from him — or from what you’ve become.

***

The morning light filters softly through the curtains of Max’s room, a faint golden glow that dances across the tangle of sheets and broken bed frame beneath you. The world feels still — quiet in a way that seems almost surreal after the storm of the night before.

Your body aches in the best way possible, every muscle sore and tender, a reminder of how intense things had been. You shift slightly, the warmth of the blankets pulling you back into the heavy drowsiness that clings to your limbs, but something — someone — keeps you grounded.

Max.

He’s beside you, his body still wrapped around yours, his chest pressed against your back, one arm draped protectively over your waist. The possessiveness in his touch is unmistakable, even now. But it’s gentle, too — tender in a way that contrasts with the ferocity he’d shown you only hours ago.

You can feel his fingers in your hair, stroking through the strands with slow, deliberate movements. It’s soothing, almost hypnotic, and you let out a soft sigh, the sound unbidden, as the sensation lulls you back toward sleep. But before you can fully drift off, you hear his voice, soft and low, cutting through the stillness of the room.

“Mijn kleintje hertje …” His voice is thick with affection, the Dutch words rolling off his tongue like a private lullaby. His little deer. There’s something about the way he says it, so gentle and reverent, that makes your heart skip a beat.

His fingers continue to comb through your hair, and for a moment, you let yourself just feel it — let yourself melt into the way he touches you, the way he holds you like something precious. You had seen him as the alpha, the fierce, dominant force who claimed you without hesitation. But now, there’s a softness to him that you hadn’t expected. A tenderness that makes it hard to breathe.

“You can run, you know,” he murmurs, his voice low and teasing, the barest hint of a growl underneath. “But I’ll always catch you.”

There’s a playfulness in his tone, but it’s layered with something deeper, something that sends a shiver down your spine. He shifts slightly behind you, his arm tightening around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer as his lips brush against the back of your neck.

“I’m the big, bad wolf,” he continues, the smile in his voice evident. “And you’re my little deer.”

Your heart flutters, heat creeping up your cheeks. It’s absurd — being compared to prey when you’re his mate, when you’re just as much a wolf as he is, when you’ve already been claimed so thoroughly. But there’s something about the way he says it, something that makes your pulse quicken.

“You’re teasing me,” you mutter, your voice still thick with sleep, though you can’t help the small smile that tugs at the corner of your lips.

Max hums in response, the sound vibrating against your skin. “Maybe,” he admits, his hand still stroking your hair, the rhythm slow and deliberate. “But you like it.”

There’s no point in denying it. Not with the way your body responds to him, to the possessiveness in his voice and the way he holds you so close. You don’t say anything, though. Instead, you turn slightly in his arms, shifting so that you can see his face.

He’s watching you, his blue eyes dark and intense, but there’s a softness in them now that makes your breath catch. He looks different in the morning light — less like the fierce alpha and more like the man behind it all. His hair is tousled from sleep, his stubble more prominent in the soft glow of the room, and there’s a warmth in his gaze that makes your heart ache.

“You were always going to catch me, weren’t you?” You ask softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Max’s lips curve into a small, satisfied smirk. “Always,” he says, without hesitation. His fingers trail down from your hair, brushing softly against your cheek, and his eyes darken just slightly as he looks at you. “I told you, I was never going to let you get away.”

You bite your lip, your heart pounding in your chest as the intensity of his gaze settles over you. It’s hard to imagine now, how you ever thought you could escape him — how you thought you could run from the bond that had been pulling the two of you together from the moment you first felt his eyes on you.

Max’s hand moves to your chin, tilting your face up toward his. “You’re mine,” he murmurs, his voice low and possessive. “Every part of you.”

You nod, unable to find your voice. There’s something about the way he says it — like it’s an indisputable fact, something as fundamental as the rising of the sun. And you can feel it, deep in your bones. The bond between the two of you is unbreakable now, solidified by the mark on your neck and the night you spent together.

“I still can’t believe this is real,” you admit quietly, your voice barely above a whisper. “It feels like a dream.”

Max’s expression softens at your words, and he leans down to press a soft kiss to your forehead. “It’s real,” he murmurs against your skin. “You’re real. And you’re mine.”

His words send a shiver through you, and you find yourself leaning into his touch, craving the warmth and safety that radiates from him. Max shifts, his hand moving to cup your cheek as he tilts your face up to his, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip.

“You can try to run,” he says, his voice teasing but laced with that same possessiveness. “But I’ll always find you.”

You meet his gaze, your heart pounding in your chest, and you can see the truth in his eyes. Max is relentless. He always has been. Whether it’s in the pack, in the hunt, or in his pursuit of you, he doesn’t back down. He doesn’t stop.

And a part of you — the part that’s known since the moment he caught you in the forest — finds comfort in that. In knowing that no matter what, Max will always be there. He’ll always find you.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you say softly, your voice steady even though your heart is racing.

Max’s eyes darken, his thumb still tracing slow, deliberate circles on your lip. “Good,” he growls, the word a promise. “Because I’d hate to have to chase you again.”

There’s a flicker of something in his eyes — something wild and unrestrained — and it sends a thrill through you, your body responding instinctively to the shift in his energy. Max leans down, capturing your lips in a slow, deliberate kiss, his hand still cradling your face as he presses you into the mattress beneath him.

The kiss is softer than the ones from the night before, less hurried and more intentional, but the intensity is still there — unrelenting, just like Max. His lips move against yours with a possessiveness that sends a shiver down your spine, and you can feel the bond between you tighten, pulling you even closer together.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead resting against yours, his breath is ragged, but there’s a softness in his gaze that makes your chest ache.

“I’ll never let you go,” he whispers, his voice rough with emotion. “Never.”

You swallow hard, your heart pounding in your chest as the weight of his words settles over you. You can feel the truth in them, feel the bond that connects you both thrumming with life. It’s overwhelming — this connection, this need. But it’s also grounding in a way you never expected.

“I don’t want you to,” you whisper back, your voice barely audible.

Max smiles, a slow, satisfied grin that makes your stomach flip. He leans down, pressing another kiss to your lips before pulling back just enough to look at you fully, his eyes dark and intense as they roam over your face.

“Good,” he murmurs, his hand still resting on your cheek. “Because you’re stuck with me now.”

You can’t help but laugh softly at that, your heart feeling lighter despite the intensity of everything that’s happened. Max’s eyes soften at the sound, and he leans down to nuzzle his face into the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your skin.

“Mijn kleintje hertje,” he whispers again, his voice soft and affectionate. His little deer. The words wrap around you like a blanket, and you close your eyes, letting yourself sink into the warmth of him, into the bond that ties you both together.

For a moment, everything is still. Quiet. Perfect.

And you realize, with a sudden clarity, that you wouldn’t want it any other way.

857 notes · View notes

alygator77 · 5 months ago

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.˚✶˚. motherhood and matrimony ・❥・ wrapped in love .˚✶˚.

ꨄ︎ pairing. au ceo! satoru gojo x single mom secretary fem! reader

ꨄ series summary. satoru gojo, the arrogant and irresistible heir to a billion-dollar corporation and the son of your boss, the ceo... but when satoru’s father dies unexpectedly, his inheritance hinges on a stipulation: he must marry and have a child, but the child doesn't necessarily have to be his, right? together, you strike a deal: a fake marriage that promises financial stability for you and corporate control for him. as the lines between business and emotion blur, you must decide if your partnership is purely contractual or if it could evolve into something real.

ꨄ chapter summary. christmas morning at the gojo estate has always been a display of elegant grandeur—but this year, the true magic is found in the quiet, heartfelt moments shared with you. for satoru, it’s a holiday that finally feels like home.

ꨄ︎ warnings/tags. pure tooth rotting fluff. satoru being the best step dad. lots of domesticity. it does get a bit suggestive at times.

ꨄ words: 12.6k

ꨄ a/n. this is a part of my series motherhood and matrimony, however it can also be read as a fluffy holiday oneshot (you'll probably appreciate some of the references more if you've read the series though!) this entire ch is written from satoru's perspective! also, for those that have read the series, i would definitely read this after ch 7 ♡

ꨄ taglist: closed (ao3)

♬ playlist ꨄ series masterlist ꨄ

side ch // wrapped in love

Christmas had always been a spectacle at the Gojo estate. Extravagant decorations that seemed to glisten with the weight of their price tags, a towering tree so grand it nearly grazed the vaulted ceilings, and a meticulously curated guest list for the Gojo’s annual holiday gala.

Business, wrapped in tinsel—topped with a bow.

Yes, for Satoru Gojo, Christmas always felt cold. Not the kind of cold that nipped at your nose or made you long for a crackling fireplace—it was the emptiness of grandeur.

Growing up in the Gojo estate, Christmas wasn’t a celebration; it was a stage. Takemi Gojo orchestrated the performance with precision, weaving an illusion of family warmth while the frigid reality of their relationship sat heavy within the corners of the mansion.

Twinkling lights adorned every surface, crystal ornaments shimmered under the tree’s glow, and tables overflowed with feasts meant to impress, not to savor.

His father had called it tradition. Satoru had called it lonely.

And from a young age, Satoru had learned that gifts were currency, not sentiment—the meaning of the season buried beneath layers of duty and pretense.

But this year… something was different.

Satoru lounges on the couch, long legs sprawled out as he watches you and Haru at the tree. You crouch low, holding an ornament in your hand, gently guiding Haru as she reaches up to find the perfect spot.

Her giggles fill the room like the sound of bells, bright and contagious, and she claps her tiny hands when the ornament finally stays.

Turning to her, your smile and the warmth in your expression is enough to melt something in Satoru’s chest.

It’s a feeling he can’t quite name—foreign, yet achingly familiar. Like standing outside during the first snowfall—the cold biting at your cheeks, but the beauty of it stealing your breath.

For the first time, Christmas doesn’t feel like an obligation. It feels like… home.

But it isn’t the decorations, nor the estate’s grandeur—it’s you. It’s Haru. It’s the way you’ve taken this cold, hollow place and filled it with laughter, warmth, and life. It’s the way you’ve turned this house into a home—a home he doesn’t want to leave.

“What do you think, Satoru?”

He blinks, glancing up at you—your voice pulling him out of his reverie. You were holding up two ornaments, one red and one blue, with a quirked brow and a soft smile.

Haru, meanwhile, was standing on her tippy toes, trying to reach the highest branch she could manage.

“Oh, uh… hmm?”

You roll your eyes with mock exasperation, shaking the ornaments for emphasis.

“Red or blue? We can’t have both; it’ll clash. Focus, Gojo.”

His lips twitch into a lazy grin as he leans back, folding his arms behind his head.

“Oh, definitely blue,” he says with a teasing lilt. “It matches my vibe better. Don’tcha think?”

You snort, rolling your eyes with a grin—muttering something about his ego—and as you turn back to Haru, Satoru takes the opportunity to watch you again.

The sight of you—your hair falling loose over your shoulders, the way your smile makes even your oversized sweater seem elegant—It isn’t just the room you light up. It’s him.

‘Gifts are just another transaction, Satoru. A display of wealth and power.’

His father’s voice lingers in his mind, sharp and cold as ever. But you—you’ve shown him a different kind of wealth. One that can’t be bought, or wrapped in shiny paper.

And for the first time, he feels it. Not the chill of the season, but… the warmth of belonging.

But with that warmth comes something else—something he’s not used to.

Panic.

Christmas is just days away, and for the life of him, he has no idea what to give you.

He’s Satoru Gojo. He could buy you anything. Diamonds. Designer clothes. Hell, an entire island, if he felt like it. Money has never been an obstacle—it’s always been a solution.

But when it comes to you, every option feels… wrong.

You—who sighs in exasperation at the estate’s staff, grumbling about how you’re perfectly capable of pouring your own glass of water, thank you very much.

You—who pokes at the extravagant feasts from world-class chefs, saying they could feed an entire village, yet they still couldn’t make your favorite comfort food the way you liked it.

You—who wrinkles your nose at his pretentious lifestyle, rolling your eyes every time he casually mentions the price of something without even realizing.

A necklace dripping in diamonds? You’d probably say it was heavy to wear. A vacation to a private island? You’d tell him you’d rather spend the time with Haru in the backyard, making snow angels.

A car? A house? Exquisite art? Fuck, a horse?

None of it feels enough.

He groans quietly, running a hand through his hair, cursing himself under his breath.

When did this happen? When did he get so comfortable letting his guard down around you, so at ease that now, sitting in his own home, he feels utterly vulnerable? Utterly lost?

And worse, he knows you can probably sense it.

“Satoru.”

Your voice cuts through his spiraling thoughts, drawing his attention back to you.

Standing a few feet away, the soft glow from the Christmas tree casts a gentle light on your features—a slight furrow to your brow as you tilt your head, holding a new ornament in your hand.

“Are… you okay? You look like you’re plotting something.”

He straightens instantly, schooling his features into an easy grin, but it’s a little too late for that—you’re watching him too closely, as if trying to unravel the puzzle in his head.

“Me? Plotting? Never.” He leans back, resting an arm across the top of the couch. “Just wondering if we need a bigger tree. This one’s lookin’ a little small.”

Your eyes narrow suspiciously, and for a moment, he wonders if you can see straight through him.

You always do.

“Satoru,” you deadpan, and fuck—he knows he’s lost. “This tree is ten feet tall.”

He shrugs, as though you’ve just proven his point.

“Yeah… but like… wouldn’t fifteen feet look better? That’d be a real statement.”

Your groan comes with a roll of your eyes, but it’s paired with the grin he was hoping for.

“Sure, let’s just knock down the ceiling while we’re at it. Maybe put the Empire State Building in here for good measure.”

He chuckles, relieved by your sarcasm, and for a moment, his deflection works—you turn away, back to the tree. He watches you carefully loop another ornament onto a branch while Haru tugs at your sweater, babbling about a penguin ornament.

But as soon as your attention has shifted, it’s back—that gnawing uncertainty, that quiet panic clawing at the edges of his mind.

Good lord, when did this get so hard?

He’s Satoru Gojo. He can charm his way through anything, pull the strings of the world’s most powerful people, and yet he’s paralyzed by the thought of picking out a gift for you.

The longer he thinks about it, the worse it gets. You deserve something perfect—something thoughtful. But what does perfect even look like?

What do you give someone who doesn’t want anything money can buy? How does he give you a gift that carries the weight of what you’ve given him?

“Santa’s gonna like our tree, right, Mama?”

Haru’s voice rings up like a bright chime, tugging him back to the room—to reality.

He watches as you glance down, and a soft smile blooms across your lips as you tuck a loose strand of hair behind Haru’s ear. That look—the one you reserve for her, the kind that could thaw glaciers—hits him squarely in the chest.

“He’ll love it, sweetheart.”

Your voice is as light and sure as the snow falling gently outside the frosted windows, and Haru grins, pivoting to Satoru now.

“’toru!” her face lights up like the tree behind her, “Santa’s coming! He’s gonna bring presents, and cookies, and he loves hot cocoa!”

Raising a brow, Satoru slouches further back into the couch with that practiced ease—masking the chaos still whirling behind his nonchalant façade.

“Hot cocoa, huh? With marshmallows?”

Haru nods so hard, her little curls bounce and her entire being vibrates with conviction.

“He loves marshmallows! And cookies. And maybe waffles too.”

Satoru huffs out a soft laugh, his smile easing.

“That’s a pretty sweet deal for Santa,” he murmurs.

With all the grace of a puppy on ice, Haru scrambles up onto the couch cushion beside him, wiggling her way into place. Her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper, though it’s far from quiet.

“Mama makes the best hot cocoa. We should have some.”

The confidence in her tone makes him snort quietly, and he raises a brow—playing along.

“The best, huh? Mmm.. I dunno. That’s a pretty big claim, kid.”

“It’s true!” she insists.

And then there’s your laughter—soft, light, and entirely unguarded as it floats from behind him. It’s a sound he’s learned to treasure, one he’d bottle up if he could, a warmth that sinks beneath his skin and quiets everything else.

He swears it’s one of his favorite sounds.

“You know what? That’s a good idea,” you say, ruffling Haru’s hair as you step behind the couch.

But then, you pause beside him, leaning down to press the faintest kiss to his temple—a feather-light touch, and it strikes him like a match catching fire, warmth unfurling from that single point of contact.

Oh, how he loves the touch of your lips.

“I’m gonna grab some hot chocolate—with marshmallows, of course,” your hand brushes briefly through his hair before pulling away. “Watch Haru real quick, yeah?”

Tilting his head back to look at you, he swallows down the tightness in his chest, masking it all with another lazy smirk—because he doesn’t know how to show you just how much that tenderness means to him. How much he loves when you touch him like that, so unthinking, like it’s natural.

And for Satoru, masking it is second nature—it always has been.

“Yeah, yeah… I’ve got it covered,” he waves you off with a dramatic flick of his hand.

You roll your eyes with an affectionate huff, and he lets himself watch you for a moment longer as you disappear into the kitchen, your humming trailing softly behind you like a ribbon that tethers him to you.

And then, silence.

The moment the door swings shut, he lets out a slow, quiet exhale, the tension uncoiling from his shoulders as if he’s been holding himself together for too long.

He slumps back against the couch, his head tipping against the cushion, feeling the ghost of your touch where your fingers had been in his hair. With a sigh, he runs a hand through the same spot, smoothing the strands down absently as if he can capture what’s already gone.

It’s ridiculous how much you’ve undone him. How a single kiss, a fleeting touch, can dismantle the person he’s spent so long pretending to be.

Because in those fleeting moments, when it’s just him and the lingering warmth of you, Satoru Gojo—the man who never lets his mask slip—realizes just how tightly wound he’s become. Just how much of himself he’s spent trying to hold it all together when, in moments like that, you make it so damn easy for him to fall apart.

He closes his eyes for just a breath, letting himself feel it—the calm, the weight of it all, the way his heart stirs.

But then—

A sudden rustling sound shatters the quiet, pulling him sharply from his thoughts. One eye cracks open, blinking lazily as he scans the room.

His gaze lands on Haru, and the breath leaves his chest in a sigh that’s somewhere between disbelief and resignation.

There she is—somehow, in the span of seconds—teetering precariously on the armrest of the couch, her tiny arms outstretched like she’s on a tightrope, her face scrunched in determination.

Satoru stares at her for a beat, utterly disheveled and utterly defeated. His head tilts lazily to the side as he watches her.

“Oi,” he drawls, dragging a hand down his face with a groan that’s more exasperation than anything. “Munchkin. What do you think you’re doing?”

Haru doesn’t even flinch. She grins, wide and triumphant, wobbling dangerously like a baby deer.

“I’m tall, ‘toru!”

He blinks at her, deadpan, before letting his hand fall limply to his lap.

“Yeah? Well, you’re also gonna fall on your face.”

“Nu-uh!” she insists, wiggling her feet against the cushion for emphasis.

“Kid…” He straightens with a reluctant sigh, reaching out with one hand, just in case she topples over. “You’re gonna get me in trouble. You do realize your mom’ll murder me if she catches you pulling stunts like this, right?”

Haru giggles—loud, unbothered, entirely unfazed.

“It’s okay. I’m good!” she declares proudly, as if she’s just conquered Mount Everest.

“You sure about that?” Satoru raises a brow, though the smirk tugging at his lips betrays him. “Because… you’re about two seconds away from face-planting into the tree. And I’ll tell ya right now—Santa’s not gonna bring you anything if you wreck his setup.”

Haru freezes, her expression suddenly serious.

“He won’t?”

Satoru shrugs, as casual as ever, though there’s a sly gleam in his eye.

“Nope. Santa’s big on the whole naughty or nice thing, you know? Pretty sure ‘tree-destroyer’ lands you on the naughty list.”

Haru’s jaw drops like he’s just shattered her entire world.

“But I’m nice!”

“Yeah, well…” he sighs dramatically, “You’re not exactly convincing me right now, short stack.”

She gasps—a flurry of tiny limbs as she clambers down from the armrest in a dramatic tumble onto the cushions.

“I’m nice!” she insists again, louder this time, as if sheer volume might make it more convincing.

Satoru huffs out a laugh, ruffling her hair in an act of surrender.

“Yeah, yeah… crisis averted, princess. You’re nice. I’ll put in a good word for you with the big guy. Just… no more stunts, kay? Santa’s watching.”

She squints at him suspiciously, like she’s testing the limits of his authority over Santa Claus, before finally settling back with a small huff.

But then, Haru shifts entirely to look at him—her brows pinching together, her tiny face suddenly serious.

The shift catches him off guard—how a two-year-old can go from giggling chaos to this kind of weighty focus will always baffle him.

“‘toru.”

He quirks a brow, leaning an elbow against the back of the couch.

“…yeah?”

“You hafta tell Santa to get Mama something.”

The words catch him off guard. His grin falters just a fraction as he blinks, straightening a little to study her tiny, earnest face.

How the hell does this kid always seem to know exactly what’s on his mind?

“Oh yeah? Something for your mom, huh?”

Haru nods solemnly, as if she’s just handed him the most important mission of his life.

“Mhmm. Santa forgot last year.”

At that, his heart stumbles, the smile fading from his face.

“W-What? He… forgot?”

“Uh-huh.” Haru props herself on her elbows, swinging her feet idly against the couch. “Mama didn’t get a present.”

The simplicity of her words hits him like a punch to the gut. Innocent and unassuming, but full of a truth she doesn’t fully understand.

Satoru doesn’t respond right away, his mind suddenly swirling.

That unsettles him. The fact that no one thought to bring you anything at all?

You—who pours so much of yourself into others, who has brought a warmth into his life he didn’t think he deserved—spent last Christmas with nothing?

No gifts. No family. No one?

He hates the thought. He knows it shouldn’t surprise him though... you’ve never asked for anything, and it’s not hard to fill in the blanks.

You don’t talk much about your family—he knows there’s distance there, silence where there should be connection—and Naoya, well… he was never part of the picture. But still, the realization knocks something loose in Satoru, a quiet ache settling into the spaces he didn’t know could hurt.

“It’s no fair, ‘toru. Mama’s nice too!”

Satoru swallows hard, dragging a hand through his hair as he forces a smile back onto his face.

“Yeah… you’re right, kid…” he murmurs quietly. “Your mom’s on the very top of the nice list.”

Haru beams, her hands clasping together like she’s already imagining the magic of Christmas morning.

“Tell Santa, ’kay? Mama needs something really nice.”

The simplicity of her words hits him like a sledgehammer.

Something really nice.

As if it’s that easy, as if fixing the pieces of your world can be done with one perfect gift. But to Haru, it is that easy. Because to her, Santa fixes things.

And for the first time in his life, Satoru Gojo feels the weight of expectation—not from a boardroom, or a title, or the world that demands he be untouchable—but from a tiny girl who trusts him implicitly to fix the one thing he’s been so afraid to get right.

Fucking hell. Now he’s back to square one. What the hell is he going to get you?

He leans back into the couch, one arm draped lazily along the back, but his mind is already turning—the gears clicking into place.

“Something… nice, huh?” he says softly, more to himself than to her.

Haru beams, her little legs kicking against the cushion again as she settles back, satisfied that her request has been heard.

“Yup!”

Satoru tilts his head toward her, studying her with a thoughtful squint. Kids always seem to know the answers to things grown-ups can’t figure out. She’s managed to pry into his thoughts with frightening accuracy already, so maybe—just maybe—she’s his best shot at figuring this out.

After all, who knows you better than Haru?

“Well…” he says after a beat, angling a glance toward her, “what do you think Santa should bring your mom then?”

Haru gasps—like this is the most important question she’s ever been asked—and sits up straight, her little face lighting up.

“Me?”

“Yeah, you.” He flicks her nose lightly, earning a squeak and a giggle. “You know your mom better than anyone, right? So… what do you think she wants for Christmas?”

Haru’s brows furrow as she thinks very hard, her tiny hands tapping against her chin for emphasis. Satoru watches her expectantly, the smallest spark of hope flickering to life in his chest.

“Well…” she starts slowly, drawing the word out as though she’s stalling for time. “Mama likes cookies.”

Satoru blinks. “Uh… cookies?”

“Uh-huh.” She nods solemnly, as if this is the most serious answer in the world. “Chocolate cookies. With milk. I like them too.”

Ah… right. To Haru, the solution is simple—because to a two-year-old, happiness is simple. And for a moment, Satoru envies her for it.

Satoru exhales sharply through his nose, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he humors her.

“Of course you do, princess. Alright. Noted. So Santa’s supposed to bring your mom cookies. What else?”

Haru’s face lights up as another thought strikes her, and she bounces slightly in place.

“Oh! A teddy bear!”

“A teddy bear?” Satoru quirks a brow, half-amused, half-resigned.

“Yeah!” Haru stretches her arms out as wide as they’ll go, as if trying to contain the sheer size of her vision. “A big one. Pink! Really fluffy. Mama can hug it.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. So much for getting a serious answer out of her.

“Okay... so cookies and a big pink bear… anything else?”

Haru pauses again, tapping her chin with her finger like she’s pondering the great mysteries of the cosmos. Then—her eyes go wide, and she gasps, louder this time.

“A pony!”

Satoru stares at her, deadpan. “Really? A pony.”

“Uh-huh!” Haru nods emphatically, little curls bouncing with enthusiasm. “Pink! With sparkles.”

“A… sparkly pink pony?”

“Yes!” She beams, practically vibrating with excitement. “Mama can ride it. I can ride it too. And—and we can give it cookies!”

That does it.

A sharp bark of laughter escapes him before he can stop it, his shoulders shaking as he slumps back against the couch.

With a deep groan, he drags a hand down his face like she’s aged him ten years in two minutes.

He’s getting nowhere.

“Kid… you’re killing me here. Cookies, a teddy bear, and a pony? You’re just listing stuff you want.”

Haru puffs out her cheeks, crossing her arms in protest.

“Nuh-uh! Mama likes ponies. And cookies. And bears.”

Satoru sighs again, tilting his head back against the couch with an exaggerated groan.

This kid.

Her world is so simple—so bright and innocent. Cookies, teddy bears, and ponies.

Haru doesn’t overthink it. She doesn’t make it complicated. To her, happiness is just that—simple.

And maybe… that’s what he needs to remember.

They’re terrible suggestions, but she’s right about one thing: you deserve something really nice. Something that makes you smile—something that feels as bright and simple and warm as Haru’s world.

And if Santa won’t fix it, then damnit, he will.

“Everything okay in here?”

Your voice calls out lightly, followed by the soft clink of mugs. The moment Satoru hears you; he straightens a little, his casual mask snapping back into place.

Stepping in, a tray balances carefully in your hands, three steaming mugs of hot chocolate wobbling precariously as you nudge the door shut with your hip.

The smell hits the room before you do—sweet, rich cocoa laced with the sugary promise of marshmallows—and Satoru thinks that it might as well be magic, with how Haru perks up.

“Mama!” she bounces on her knees so enthusiastically; Satoru thinks it’s a miracle the couch doesn’t catapult her into orbit. “Yay!! Hot cocoa!”

“Mhmm. Hot chocolate delivery!” you announce proudly, lowering the tray onto the coffee table with a dramatic flourish and a smile of pure satisfaction. “Marshmallows included, as requested.”

The soft glow of the Christmas tree dances in your eyes as you kneel in front of Haru, carefully handing her a small mug.

“Two hands, Haru. It’s hot, okay?”

Haru nods solemnly, as if you’ve just bestowed upon her the Holy Grail itself. Her little fingers curl reverently around the mug, and she murmurs softly, “’kay.”

Rising, you hand Satoru his mug next, and he clears his throat—mumbling a quiet “thanks.” When you settle on the couch beside him, he doesn’t miss the way your shoulder brushes against his—your own mug cradled in your hands.

For a moment, it’s calm. The Christmas lights flicker across the room like soft, lazy stars, the cocoa steaming faintly in the air, and Satoru almost lets himself believe this is pure perfection.

But then you ask it.

“And what were you two talking about?” you peer between the two of them with a teasing smile. “I heard lots of giggling.”

Satoru freezes, his mug halfway to his mouth. He’s ready to spin some ridiculous excuse—he’s a master at bullshit, after all—but before he can get the words out, Haru beats him to it.

“We were talking about presents!” Haru announces proudly.

Fuck. That tiny traitor.

Satoru schools his expression, plastering on his best lazy grin as if Haru hasn’t just sold him out for free. He doesn’t need you catching on to the fact that he’s been silently losing his mind trying to figure out what to get you for Christmas.

You arch a brow, amused as you blow lightly on your cocoa.

“Presents, huh? What about presents?”

Haru doesn’t even hesitate. She launches into her list like a kid on a mission.

“Mama, ‘toru is gonna tell Santa we need cookies. And a big pink bear. And a pony!”

Satoru lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, relaxing fractionally against the cushions. Of course. The kid’s list is nonsense—pure, two-year-old chaos—and she’s so earnest about it that you’ll never suspect Satoru was fishing for information.

He’s safe.

“Uh-huh,” you hum, nodding indulgently as you sip your drink. “Sounds like quite the Christmas list, sweetheart. Anything else?”

Satoru almost smiles into his mug. It’s ridiculous how close he was to panicking—there’s no need.

But as Haru stops, her face scrunches in concentration before it lights up again. She looks straight at you, eyes wide and earnest, as she adds brightly:

“And I want a little brother!”

Oh, shit.

Satoru chokes—actually chokes—mid-sip, sputtering and coughing like he’s forgotten how to drink liquid. You don’t fare much better, nearly inhaling your cocoa as your head jerks up, eyes wide as saucers.

“A—what?” you croak.

Satoru’s shoulders shake, one arm flung over his face as he tries to muffle his laughter. It’s no use—his wheezing breaths betray him, and he can’t help but grin through his coughs.

“Haru, kid—”

“A little brother!” Haru repeats, utterly unfazed by the chaos she’s unleashed. Her tiny hands still cradle her mug, looking up at you with innocent conviction. “Santa can bring one. Like how he brings the toys.”

Satoru peeks out from behind his hand, tears pricking the corners of his eyes as his laughter tumbles out in unfiltered bursts.

Oh, this is gold. Pure gold.

You whip your head toward him so fast he thinks you might pull something. Your cheeks are flushed—whether from the cocoa or mortification, he’s not sure—and your glare could cut steel. It would have him worried for his life if it weren’t so damn funny.

“Satoru Gojo, what did you say to her?”

“Me?!” he splutters, desperately trying to get his composure back. He throws his hands up in mock innocence, laughter shaking in his shoulders. “Hey, don’t look at me! That’s all her!”

Haru blinks at the two of you, her expression perfectly innocent.

“Santa brings presents, right? So he can bring a brother. A nice one. And he’ll ride the pony with me.”

Your hand flies to your face, pinching the bridge of your nose as you shake your head, biting back the laughter threatening to spill out.

“Haru… sweetheart, that’s… not how it works.”

“Why not?” she asks, and it’s like she genuinely can’t fathom why Santa wouldn’t pull through on such a reasonable request.

Satoru, finally breathing normally again, leans forward with his elbows on his knees—the smirk on his face nothing short of diabolical.

“Yeah, Mama,” he drawls, dripping with mischief. “Why not?”

Your glare sharpens as you turn toward him. “Do not encourage her.”

“Hey,” he’s utterly unrepentant as he leans back lazily, one arm draped over the back of the couch. “I’m just saying—if Santa’s listening, we wouldn’t want Haru to be disappointed, right?” Tilting his head, he smirks at you. “Looks like Santa’s got his work cut out for him this year.”

You groan, burying your face in your hands as Satoru lets his laughter spill out again, unbothered and thoroughly entertained.

Meanwhile, Haru hums to herself, swinging her legs and sipping her hot chocolate contentedly.

“It’s okay, Mama,” she assures you with a confident nod. “Santa’s magic. He can do it.”

ꨄ

The past few days had been a blur of snow, laughter, and tiny hands tugging Satoru in every direction.

If someone had told Satoru Gojo that he’d spend his holiday season wrangling a two-year-old in the snow and actually enjoying himself, he would’ve laughed them out of the room. But here he was, standing knee-deep in the white fluff while Haru shrieked with glee, launching another snowball his way.

“Take this, ‘Toru!” she cried.

The kid’s aim was absolute trash, her snowballs missing him by a mile, but the way she shrieked with delight when Satoru “pretended” to get hit—well, it made it impossible for him not to play along.

“Kid, you’re ruthless,” he’d groaned dramatically after she tackled him into the snow for the third time.

And then there was you. You—standing off to the side like some winter painting coming to life—warm coffee in hand, wearing that smug smile he couldn’t decide if he wanted to kiss or wipe clean with a snowball.

He swore you’d been the one to tip Haru off about aiming for his knees. Traitor.

The snow had been Haru’s personal playground—and, by extension, his. For days now, his life had been an endless stream of winter chaos: sledding trips that left his muscles aching (Haru’s favorite phrase seemed to be “One more time!”).

Oh, and inside the Gojo estate? More chaos, pure and simple.

Haru’s Christmas cookie baking turned into an all-out war zone—flour dusting the countertops, chocolate chips mysteriously vanishing before they made it into the dough (a crime Satoru was not-so-secretly guilty of), and Haru wearing more icing than she’d used.

Still, the chaos didn’t bother him. He was struck, again and again, by the realization that this—this messy, chaotic, perfect life—was because of you.

And the high-end galas you’d been forced to attend as the faces of the Gojo Corporation—the press, the flashing lights, the constant conversations—all of it felt easier with you beside him.

And you? Well… you carried yourself with a poise that Satoru was genuinely impressed with. But beneath that, he could tell that these past few weeks had taken a toll on you.

You were exhausted.

The late nights catching up on work, the charity events, the endless holiday prep—you hid it well, but Satoru noticed the way your shoulders slumped when you thought no one was looking. The way you sighed as you kicked off your heels by the door.

And it bothered him more than he cared to admit.

It wasn’t just the exhaustion, though. It was this look in your eyes—something wistful, like you were watching all the joy and chaos around you, but holding yourself at a distance.

Satoru didn’t like that. Not one bit.

And still, despite everything, he hadn’t figured out what the hell to get you for Christmas.

The frustration simmered under his skin, gnawing at him whenever he thought about it. You deserved something perfect—something that would remind you how much you were loved. But every time he thought he had it, every idea felt wrong.

Too extravagant, too impersonal, too damn meaningless.

And now, tonight, as he sits at the kitchen table pretending to sip his hot chocolate (while sneaking glances at you sorting through Christmas cards), the idea struck him like a light bulb flickering on.

If he couldn’t figure out the gift just yet, there was one thing he could do.

He could give you a moment. Just one night to breathe—to feel cared for.

Leaning back in his chair, his legs stretch out underneath the table as he watches you—that little furrow of concentration in your brow. You aren’t even faintly aware of how tired you look, or notice when his voice breaks the quiet silence.

“Hey.”

You hum absently, still focused.

“Tomorrow night, don’t make any plans.”

Your gaze lifts, brows raising slightly as suspicion flickers across your face.

“Okay… why?”

“Mmm… ‘cause I’m kidnapping you,” he teases, folding his arms behind his head. “Just dress warm. It’s a surprise.”

That earns him a proper look—you eyeing him skeptically, your lips twitching like you were already fighting back a smile.

Bingo. That’s the look he lives for.

ꨄ

The night air is crisp, biting at his cheeks in a way that’s sharp but oddly pleasant, like winter itself is showing off. Snowflakes drift lazily from the dark sky, glowing gold as they pass through the light of the estate’s lanterns, and the world is blanketed in that perfect kind of quiet—soft, still, almost fragile. A nice kind of quiet.

It’d be perfect, really, if not for the sound of your increasingly dramatic sighs cutting through it.

Satoru tugs his scarf higher around his neck, not because he’s cold—he never seems to feel the cold—but because he’s trying to hide the grin pulling at his lips. He glances over his shoulder to find you trudging through the snow like a grumpy little marshmallow, bundled so thoroughly in your coat and scarf that you look like you’re about to tip over.

“You’re gonna freeze to death if you keep trudging like that,” he calls easily over the snow, making no effort to hide the amusement in his tone.

“I wouldn’t have to trudge if you’d slow down, Gojo,” you snap back, and your exasperation is muffled slightly by the scarf wrapped around your face. “Not everyone has legs like a damn giraffe.”

The laugh he lets out is rich and unbothered, a puff of white against the dark sky. Deliberately, he slows his steps to a near-comical saunter, his boots sinking into the snow with every exaggerated step.

“Better, princess?”

“Barely…” You catch up, though you don’t look particularly grateful about it. “I swear, if you keep dragging me through the Arctic tundra—”

“Oh, come on,” he interrupts, stopping in his tracks. His grin is pure mischief, bright even in the dark. “Where’s your holiday spirit?”

“It died about twenty feet ago,” you mutter, shoulders hunching as you try to burrow deeper into your coat.

He holds out his hand to you with a dramatic flourish, fingers wiggling like he’s offering you salvation itself.

“Here,” his sighs affectionately. “Before you collapse and I have to carry you.”

You stare at his hand for a long moment, clearly torn between taking it and smacking it away. The tension only makes his grin widen.

“C’mon now… you’ll bruise my ego if you say no.”

With a sigh that sounds like a thousand reluctant decisions being made at once, you slip your gloved hand into his. It’s small and warm, even through the layers, and Satoru’s grin falters for just a second when he feels your fingers curl around his.

Did he just get butterflies? That’s dangerous. He’s gotta keep it together.

“Atta girl…” he says softly, a bit too softly for his own comfort. But he covers it up with a gentle tug, pulling you closer as the two of you trudge forward.

The path winds through the trees, the branches drooping under layers of snow. Some of them stretch over the walkway, woven with twinkling lights, so it feels like you’re walking through some kind of enchanted tunnel.

It’s the kind of thing that could make anyone believe in magic, and Satoru would probably be soaking it all in… if he wasn’t so preoccupied with watching you out of the corner of his eye.

Your nose is pink, your cheeks dusted with color from the cold, and there’s a light in your eyes that makes something stir in his chest. He tugs his scarf a little higher, like that’ll help somehow.

Then, just ahead, golden light spills onto the snow. A sleigh comes into view, and Satoru slows his steps as you round the corner and see it.

It’s impressive, even he has to admit. The carriage looks straight out of some over-the-top fairytale, polished black and draped with garlands of evergreen—dusted in fresh snow. Strings of soft golden lights wind along the edges, glowing warmly in the dark.

The horses, two massive creatures with sleek dark coats, stand tall and still, their breath misting in the air. Tiny bells dangle from their bridles, giving a soft jingle every time they shift.

It’s almost too picturesque, like something out of one of those cheesy Christmas movies Satoru always pretends to hate.

He doesn’t look at the sleigh, though. He looks at you.

Your eyes go wide, your mouth parting slightly in surprise, and for a moment, you’re so still he wonders if the cold finally got to you. The snowflakes catch in your hair, the glow of the lights reflecting in your wide-eyed expression, and there it is again—that quiet spark that makes his chest tighten.

“Well?” he breaks the silence with a quiet murmur. “Was it… worth the trek through the Arctic tundra?”

You blink, dragging your gaze away from the sleigh to look at him. There’s something different in your expression now—softer, quieter.

“You did all this?”

He shrugs, slipping his free hand into his coat pocket and forcing a grin onto his face.

“What can I say? I’m a man of many talents.”

“Ridiculous…” you murmur, shaking your head with a faint smile, but there’s no edge to your words. Just that quiet disbelief, like you’re still trying to figure him out.

He gestures to the sleigh with an exaggerated sweep of his hand.

“Well? You gonna stand there and let the snow bury you, or are you getting in?”

The driver steps aside with a polite nod, and Satoru’s already moving to help you—steadying you as you step up into the sleigh, his hand lingering at your waist.

When you settle into the plush seat with a quiet exhale, Satoru’s brain takes a quick pause to tell himself that he’s absolutely screwed.

Because if Satoru thought walking through the snow with your hand in his was dangerous, this is a death blow.

But he still climbs in beside you, moments later—tugging the blanket over your laps as the sleigh jolts softly forward.

The bells chime faintly as the horses’ hooves crunch against the snow. They carry you both down the path, allowing the forest to melt away completely as the sleigh crests a small hill, and suddenly, the town comes into view—a world awash in color and magic.

Lights shimmer from every surface—woven through trees, strung like ribbons between lamp posts, wrapped snug around shopfronts as though the entire place has been dipped in starlight.

Shop windows gleam with warmth, framed by wreaths and garlands dusted with frost, while displays of tiny trains, glowing reindeer, and spinning nutcrackers turn slowly behind the glass.

As the sleigh turns fully onto the main street, Satoru glances at you, and predictably, you’re completely mesmerized.

He knows, because you’ve gone completely still beside him—your breath visible in the cold as you take it all in—and he doesn’t even bother to look at the lights anymore, not when you’re staring at them like you’ve stumbled into a dream.

That glow in your expression—soft and open—that’s what mesmerizes him. And the reflection of the lights in your wide eyes gives him the urge to bottle this moment—keep it tucked in his coat pocket forever, so he can pull it out and look at it whenever the world gets too loud.

The bells from the horses chime softly, blending seamlessly with the hum of life ahead—children laughing, carols echoing, the soft crunch of fresh snow.

But Satoru can’t focus on any of that.

Snowflakes have caught in your hair, little flecks of white like frost spun from the lights above. Your lips, soft and faintly parted, are far too close to his line of sight, and his gaze catches there for longer than it should.

Satoru’s brain is short-circuiting.

He’s never been good at this. Restraint. Holding back. Not when it comes to things he wants, things he craves—and God, does he crave your lips so badly.

You shift slightly, burrowing deeper into his side with a soft hum of contentment that nearly knocks the wind out of him.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” you murmur suddenly, as soft as the snow.

He clears his throat lightly, tipping his head back in a lazy attempt at distraction—trying to focus on literally anything else.

“Yeah… not bad,” his voice carries the faintest edge of smugness. “Bet you’re glad I dragged you out here now.”

You hum softly, a little laugh under your breath.

“Yeah… guess I’ll give you this one.”

But as you shift slightly again, your head tilts, and your gaze lingers on something ahead.

In the square below, a father spins his daughter in his arms as she shrieks with laughter—bright red mittens flailing in the air. The mother stands beside then with a warm soft smile, brushing the snowflakes gently out of the little girl’s hair as she settles still.

It’s simple—a fleeting moment of joy—but Satoru notices the way your expression changes. The glow in your eyes dim, just slightly, fading into something distant, something far away.

He doesn’t like it.

It’s not the first time he’s seen that look either. It’s lingered in your eyes at odd moments during the month when you think he isn’t watching.

“Hey… you okay?”

The question snaps you from whatever memory you’ve fallen into. You blink quickly, turning to him with a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“What? Oh… yeah. I’m fine.”

It’s a lie. A bad one.

Satoru knows it instantly because your voice wavers, just slightly, and your hands fidget under the blanket like they’re looking for something to hold onto.

He doesn’t push right away. Satoru isn’t great at handling fragile things—he’s all big, teasing words and careless confidence—but seeing this?

You—retreating into yourself, suddenly quiet? Yeah… it never really sits right with him.

“You know…” he starts carefully, voice softening as he watches you, “you’ve already heard all about my old man. But you… you don’t really talk about your family much. What was Christmas like for you growing up?”

The words settle like snow between you—soft, quiet, but heavy. You stiffen slightly.

Fuck. Maybe he’s said too much. Regret flickers in the back of his mind. He’s half-expecting you to deflect.

You hesitate, staring at the lights again as though they’ll save you from answering, and for the first time, Satoru curses those damn Christmas lights. They feel like they’re pulling you away from him.

But then you sigh, and the sound makes something twist low in his chest. It’s too careful. Too practiced.

“Mmm… there’s not much to talk about,” you admit quietly. “My parents weren’t exactly… involved, so Christmas wasn’t really a thing for us.”

Satoru doesn’t say anything right away. He just watches you carefully, like he’s waiting. He knows there’s more, and he’s careful not to push, not yet.

“I used to watch all the Christmas movies, though,” a faint wistful smile tugs at your lips. “The ones where families sat by the fire… wrapping gifts and baking cookies, singing carols together. It felt… magical. Safe. Like they belonged there.”

The smile slips slightly, and Satoru sees the moment the words shift—when they stop being a memory and start being something else entirely.

“But…” your voice dips to a whisper, “Honestly it was like watching through a window. I felt like a spectator. Always outside looking in.”

There it is.

The words hit him square in the chest, sharp and unrelenting, and Satoru hates it. Hates how small you sound when you say it, like you don’t realize how wrong it is for someone like you—you—to feel that way. It makes his jaw tighten, his fingers twitching faintly under the blanket.

“That’s not fair,” he blurts out, faster than he means to. The sharp edge in his voice surprises even him, but he doesn’t care. “I hate it. It’s not right. You shouldn’t have had to feel like that.”

Your head turns slightly, your eyes flicking back to him, startled.

“Satoru—”

“It’s not fair,” he repeats, reining it in slightly this time. He shakes his head, turning to look at you fully now. “And you know what? It’s not like that now. You’ve done the exact opposite.”

You blink again, your brows furrowing faintly.

“What do you mean?”

The surprise on your face makes him huff a quiet laugh. He can’t believe you don’t see it.

“C’mon now sweetheart… I mean, look at Haru.”

Your expression softens at the mention of her, and Satoru feels that familiar twist in his chest—this inexplicable warmth that’s only grown stronger since you and Haru came crashing into his life.

“She’s a happy kid,” he says simply, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You’ve made her a happy kid. Kind of a little terror sometimes—definitely gets that from you—but happy nonetheless.”

You roll your eyes faintly, but there’s a tug at the corner of your mouth that you can’t quite hide.

“Seriously,” he continues, a smirk teasing at his lips now. “That kid lights up at the dumbest stuff—like that ornament she found with the penguin in a Santa hat. You’d think she struck gold. She made me stare at that thing for ten minutes straight.”

You groan, pressing a gloved hand to your face, but there’s a small laugh behind it now.

“She did the same to me.”

Satoru chuckles, low and easy, though his expression softens as he looks at you.

“Because to her, it is magic. You made that happen. You gave her something real, something she’ll hold onto forever. The kind of magic you didn’t have.”

You open your mouth like you want to say something but can’t quite get there yet, and he leans in closer.

“And it’s not just her…” he murmurs hesitantly. “You’ve done that for me too.”

His blue eyes fix on yours with a quiet vulnerability, and your brows furrow faintly as you stare at him.

“What? Really?”

For a moment, Satoru freezes.

Vulnerability isn’t something he’s good at—it doesn’t come naturally to him; he’s always kept people at arm’s length. But somehow, around you, it slips out easier than he expects. Like you’ve managed to dismantle his walls one smile, one moment at a time.

Around you, he doesn’t have to try so hard. And it’s fucking terrifying.

His throat tightens, but he shrugs, playing it off like it’s nothing—even though he knows it’s everything.

“Look… I used to sit in these massive rooms my dad filled with people. All the decorations, all the noise—he made sure it looked perfect. Trees the size of small buildings, tables stacked with enough food to feed an army.”

Satoru pauses, his blue gaze flickering to the snow-dusted path ahead before settling back on you.

“But… none of it mattered. I’d sit there, surrounded by hundreds of people, and still felt so damn alone. Like I wasn’t really there, y’know?”

Your face softens, and he feels it again—that warmth that only seems to exist when you’re looking at him like this, like you can see straight through him. You always do.

“But now?” he exhales, breath curling into the cold air like smoke—his eyes meeting yours fully. “Christmas feels… different. Doesn’t feel so empty anymore.”

“…yeah?”

“Yup…” he shakes off the tension with a sigh, and smugly adds, “You’ve officially ruined Christmas for me, sweetheart. Thanks a lot. Can’t have it any other way now.”

Your laughter comes quietly, and God, there’s that sound that he loves again. Your gloved hand finds his underneath the blanket.

“Well…” your fingers curl around his. “Thanks to you, I finally don’t feel like a spectator anymore… ‘cause you’re in my life.”

Shit.

Satoru swears his heart trips over itself. For a guy who never feels the cold, he’s never felt this warm.

The sleigh jolts suddenly, rolling over a bump in the snow, and the movement sends you swaying against him with a soft gasp.

You’re so close—close enough that he can see the faint blush on your cheeks, the soft part of your lips as you glance up at him.

Your gaze flickers—just once—down to his mouth.

That’s it.

He leans in, his hand slipping out from under the blanket to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing softly along your skin as he kisses you.

The first press of his lips against yours is careful, tentative, but then you sigh softly, tilting your head slightly, and Satoru’s restraint snaps like a wire pulled too tight.

The kiss deepens, slow but deliberate, as Satoru tilts your face up to meet him properly. His other hand finds your waist, the curve of it fitting perfectly under his palm as he pulls you closer—closer, because he needs you like he needs to breathe.

He swears he’s losing his mind.

You respond just as eagerly, your fingers curling into the front of his coat, and Satoru groans softly against your mouth—equal parts relief and desperation.

He’s screwed. Utterly, completely screwed.

Because now that he’s kissed you, he doesn’t know how the hell he’s supposed to stop. All he can think about—all he wants—is to pull you into his lap right here on this stupid sleigh and kiss you until the world stops spinning.

His mind betrays him, flooding with images he has no business thinking about right now. Your legs straddling his hips, your coat slipping off one shoulder, coaxing sounds from you that he’s dying to hear—fuck he’s losing himself completely.

He wants to take you—away from the prying world, away from everyone—somewhere that’s just the two of you—home.

When he finally pulls back, it’s only because even Satoru Gojo can’t survive without air forever. But he doesn’t go far. His forehead rests gently against yours and his thumb brushes softly along your jaw.

The corner of your mouth curves faintly and your eyes linger on him—just enough to make his heart skip like it’s forgotten how to work.

It’s torture. Absolute, pure, devastating torture.

His thumb drifts lower along your jaw, reverently tracing the soft line of it. He could stay here forever, just like this—your breath mixing with his in the cold air, your lips pink and kiss-bruised from him.

God, you’ve never looked more beautiful. He wants more.

Shifting slightly, his breath fans across your lips as he murmurs, “You’re so perfect… you’re making this really hard for me, y’know that?”

Blinking up at him, your lips tug into a soft, teasing smile. “Oh?” you murmur, breathlessly. “And what exactly am I making hard, Satoru?”

His breath hitches. Shit. You’re going to be the death of him. He chuckles softly—strained and fraying like his self-control.

“Careful, sweetheart. Keep asking questions like that, and I might just take you home right now.”

Tilting your head, your voice lowers—a quiet challenge.

“…why don’t you, then?”

God, what the fuck are you doing to him?

For a moment, he wants to say screw it. Forget the stupid sleigh, the town, his plans. Forget the world and take you straight to bed where he doesn’t have to hold back anymore.

Take her. Have her all to yourself.

But then your wide, daring eyes lock onto his, and it hits him—you’re playing him—you’re winning. And Satoru Gojo does not lose.

With a slow, shaky breath, he pulls back just slightly. The smirk curling at his lips is lazy, practiced—masking the fact that he’s literally about five seconds from falling apart.

“Mmm… tempting,” he drawls, brushing the pad of his gloved thumb against your bottom lip. “But I’m not that easy to break, sweetheart. Besides, we’ve got more to explore.”

Your eyes narrow faintly, suspicion flickering beneath the teasing curve of your lips.

“You’re unbelievable…”

“Mm, you say that now,” he sighs, “But you’ll thank me later.”

You scoff quietly, rolling your eyes as you lean back just an inch.

“More to explore, huh?”

“Yeah.” His grin widens, lazy and lopsided. ��And if you’re good, I might even let you hold my hand the whole time.”

ꨄ

“You’re going to rot your teeth, you know,” you say, watching as Satoru unwraps yet another snickerdoodle cookie—his fifth, by your count.

“Excuse you.” He pauses dramatically, holding the cookie up like it’s a priceless artifact. “I’m single-handedly funding this poor vendor’s retirement. Call me generous.”

You snort into your hot chocolate.

“More like you’re single-handedly making sure they run out of stock before dinner.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” He takes a slow, deliberate, obnoxiously loud bite, eyes locked on you the whole time. “I’m boosting the economy, sweetheart.”

“You’re boosting your dentist’s next paycheck, honey.”

Satoru groans, tossing his head back like you’ve just deeply insulted his honor.

“You wouldn’t understand. You don’t appreciate the artistry of sweets like I do.”

“Oh, I appreciate them,” you retort smugly, tugging him away by his coat sleeve before he can eye the next vendor’s table. “I just don’t inhale sugar like I’m storing it for winter.”

“Amateur,” Satoru quips, biting into the cookie with dramatic flair. “You’ll learn.”

“Yeah yeah… I’m cutting you off before you go into a sugar coma.”

“Cutting me off?” He presses a hand to his chest like you’ve insulted his entire existence. “Sweetheart, you wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, I would,” You grin victoriously, striding ahead of him through the snow-dappled streets.

“Cold. Heartless. A tyrant, really.” Satoru’s voice follows dramatically as he trudges after you, shoving the final bite into his mouth with zero shame. “This is abuse, I tell you.”

“You’ll live.”

“Barely.”

The two of you wander together through the town, your shoulders brushing every so often as you pass small stalls and shops.

The shop windows glow faintly, wreaths and garlands framing every corner, and the air smells of roasted chestnuts and warm cinnamon.

You stop suddenly ahead of him, your steps faltering as your gaze locks onto the massive Christmas tree at the center of the square.

Satoru follows your gaze, and the thing is ridiculous—exactly the kind of over-the-top nonsense Satoru’s father would brag about back in the day. Towering, glittering, competing with the stars like it thinks it has a chance.

But for once, Satoru doesn’t care about the ridiculousness. He only cares about you.

You stand perfectly still, staring up at the tree with something quiet and awed in your expression, like you’ve forgotten the rest of the world exists.

The golden lights catch in your eyes, snowflakes drifting lazily into your hair, and the faintest pink lingers across your cheeks from the cold. You’re glowing—and maybe it’s the lights, or maybe it’s just you.

You look perfect. You look his.

There’s that urge again—capturing this moment, bottling in up, keeping it for himself.

The feeling is so sudden, and before he can second-guess it, his hand slips into his coat pocket, pulling out his phone.

The shutter clicks.

Your head whips around instantly, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

“Did you just take a picture of me?”

Satoru freezes, phone still half-raised, trying to look as nonchalant as a man caught red-handed can. “Nope.”

Your eyes narrow further, shifting on your feet. “Satoru.”

“I was… texting someone,” he says weakly, his grin betraying him.

“Texting who?” you press, eyebrow arching.

“Santa,” he deadpans. “Telling him you’re being mean to me. Again.”

The flat look you give him is priceless. “Good lord. You’re impossible.”

Satoru grins triumphantly, twirling the phone between his fingers like a magician showing off a trick. “Fine, fine. You caught me. I couldn’t help it. You looked cute.”

The faint flush of your cheeks deepens slightly—probably the cold, he tells himself, but he’ll take it anyway.

“Let me see it.”

“Not a chance.”

Your glare sharpens, and Satoru swears you’re plotting his demise. “Satoru. Hand it over.”

He snorts, immediately shoving the phone into his coat pocket. “You’re cute when you’re bossy, you know that?”

You step closer, determination lighting your expression. “I will fight you.”

“You wanna wrestle me in the middle of town?” Satoru raises a smug brow, delighting in the way you’re glaring up at him. “With kids around? Heartless, sweetheart. Absolutely heartless.”

Before you try to snatch his phone from his coat pocket, he moves faster—his arm looping lazily around your waist, tugging you into his side with practiced ease.

The suddenness knocks you off balance for a moment, and you let out a soft, startled laugh. Satoru can’t help but grin, using the moment to pull you even closer.

“Alright, alright…” he murmurs, pulling out his phone. “Here. Let’s take one together. Our first real photo together—no work, no press. Just you and me.”

You blink, your eyes flickering up to meet his, the faintest surprise crossing your face. “Really?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs like it’s nothing, though the warmth in his voice gives him away. “Gotta document the occasion. Might be the only proof I have that you tolerate me. C’mon, lean in.”

You roll your eyes, though there’s no hiding your smile as you let him pull you closer. He adjusts the camera, keeping his arm secure around you.

“Alright,” he says, angling the phone just right. “Say ‘Gojo Satoru’s the love of my life.’”

You snort, laughing as you nudge him. “I’m not saying that.”

“Mmm… I’ll wait.”

Your laughter bursts through the square, bright and unrestrained, just as the shutter clicks. Before you can recover, Satoru leans in, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek as he steals another shot—your laughter caught mid-breath.

“Hey!” you yelp, pulling back to glare at him, but you’re still smiling.

Satoru grins down at the photo as he flips the screen to show you. “Look at that. Photographic evidence that you adore me.”

You gape at him, incredulous. “Adore you?”

“Yep.” He winks, tucking his phone back into his pocket before you can swipe it, catching your hand instead. “Captured for infinity. You’re welcome.”

Your grip tightens on instinct, and you open your mouth to argue, but Satoru beats you to it.

“C’mon,” he swings your hand lightly as he starts pulling you forward again. “The candy stall up ahead has fudge.”

ꨄ

The two of you wander back through the streets, hand in hand as the shops blur by in warm, golden streaks of light.

Satoru doesn’t mind wandering—especially when it means you tugging him along by the hand, pausing every so often to peer into window displays. It’s cute, he thinks, the way you light up at the smallest things.

But then you stop abruptly in front of one shop in particular.

It’s so sudden that Satoru nearly keeps walking, your hand tugging him gently to a halt. When he glances over, he follows your gaze straight to the window of an antique shop tucked snug between two cafes.

And there it is. The locket.

It rests beneath a glass dome, perched on velvet as though it’s worth more than the shop itself. The silver surface gleams faintly under the soft, golden light, delicate and timeless, and engraved across the front is an infinity symbol—curved and flowing endlessly into itself.

Satoru tilts his head slightly, his brows lifting in quiet curiosity as he watches you stare at it—as if that locket holds the entire universe within it.

“See something you like?” he murmurs, looping his arms around your waist and pulling you gently into his chest.

He feels the way you relax into him almost immediately, your hands curling lightly around his forearms.

“Infinity…” you whisper.

He hums, burying his face into the curve of your neck, nuzzling there like he’s trying to steal the warmth of you.

“Hmm?”

You don’t answer right away, your gaze still locked on the locket. Satoru takes the opportunity to press a lazy kiss against the soft skin of your neck, his lips curving into a grin when he feels you shiver slightly beneath him.

“What’s got you so lost in there, huh?” he teases.

“Hmm? Oh…” You blink, your cheeks tinged faintly pink as you glance back at him. “I was just thinking about what you said. About infinity.”

He raises a brow now, a slow grin spreading across his face as he straightens just enough to nudge his chin toward the locket.

“Yeah? You been pondering the mysteries of the universe without me?”

You turn slightly in his arms, your gaze lifting to meet his, and for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of you.

“Well,” you begin, smiling faintly, “I’ve been thinking… you’re… well, you’re kind of like infinity, aren’t you?”

Satoru blinks, his grin faltering for a split second.

“Me?”

“Yeah… you’re always moving, always bigger than life, like there’s no end to who you are. You don’t stop—don’t ever really slow down. You’re... limitless.”

For once, Satoru’s brain stalls. Completely. He’s torn between a smug She thinks about me like that? and the sudden ache in his chest that he doesn’t know what to do with.

He sees the way you’re looking at him—soft, honest, like you’re laying something fragile and important at his feet—and it hits him harder than anything he’s prepared for.

Satoru tightens his hold on you, pulling you closer as though that’ll somehow ground him.

“You really think that?” A softness creeps into his voice. “That I remind you of infinity?”

You nod slowly, your fingers curling into the fabric of his coat. Your gaze drops for a moment before lifting again, steady this time.

“Yeah… because no matter what... you’ll always protect me. You’ll always be here, won’t you? Like infinity. Always.”

Satoru’s breath catches. For once, he doesn’t have a clever comeback. He doesn’t have anything except this overwhelming, all-consuming feeling swelling in his chest.

He dips his head, brushing his lips softly against your forehead. It’s the only answer he has.

“Mhmm,” he murmurs quietly. “Always.”

For a moment, he lingers there, his forehead pressed to yours, your breath mingling in the cold. Then, with a small grin tugging at his lips, he pulls back slightly, arms still secure around you.

“C’mon,” he sighs affectionately. “There’s still fudge with my name on it.”

You let out a soft laugh, your hand slipping back into his as he tugs you gently forward. But as you fall into step beside him, Satoru’s gaze drifts back to the shop window, to the locket resting beneath the glass.

Infinity, huh?

The faintest smile plays on his lips as he squeezes your hand lightly. He finally knows what he’s getting you for Christmas.

ꨄ

For Satoru, Christmas morning felt… surreal.

The Gojo estate, usually silent and polished like a showroom, had transformed into something far more, filled with a warmth—Haru’s delighted squeals echoing down the halls, filling the empty spaces with pure, unfiltered joy.

“Mama! ‘Toru! Wake up! Hurry, hurry!”

Her voice carries like a one-person parade, punctuated by the rapid thump of her tiny feet sprinting towards the tree, and Satoru groans into his pillow—dragging a hand over his face as if that would erase the early hour.

The sun wasn’t even properly up yet, and here he was, reluctantly dragged from the cocoon of his bed by the infectious energy of a two-year-old.

He shuffled down the hall in his pajama pants and hoodie, stifling a yawn as he dragged a hand through his sleep-mussed hair.

Rounding the corner, he caught sight of Haru—a blur of bedhead and reindeer pajamas, arms flailing as she skidded to a halt in front of the Christmas tree. Her tiny hands clapped together as her wide eyes took in the mountain of carefully wrapped presents beneath it, glittering under the soft glow of twinkling lights.

“Mama! ‘Toru! Look! Presents!!” she squeals, bouncing on her toes, so full of excitement that Satoru half-expects her to rocket straight into the air.

He leans lazily against the doorframe, watching her with an amused grin. This kid… she was like a wound-up toy, running purely on joy and Christmas spirit. It tugged at something in him—a place he didn’t even realize had been empty until now.

“How does she have this much energy so early in the morning?�� he mutters, glancing over his shoulder just as you appeared behind him.

You looked impossibly cozy—wrapped in your pajamas, your hair tousled from sleep. In your hands were two steaming mugs of coffee, one of which you handed to him without a word.

“She’s almost three,” you say simply, a knowing smile tugging at your lips. “And it’s Christmas. Welcome to parenthood. This is her prime time.”

“Prime time for chaos,” he quips, taking a careful sip of his coffee.

He shoots Haru a mock-suspicious glance as she darts around the tree—tiny hands hovering over the presents like she’s trying to decide where to start.

“You sure Santa didn’t slip her a double espresso in her stocking?”

Your laugh is quiet and warm, the kind that made the corners of his mouth tug upward instinctively, and he couldn’t help but think how ridiculously domestic this all felt—Haru bouncing by the tree, you standing beside him with that soft, sleepy glow.

It was almost unsettling how much he liked it… how much he cherished it.

His gaze shifts back to Haru, who was now crouched in front of the tree, examining the tags on the presents like a tiny detective—a kind of joy so radiant it made something tighten in Satoru’s chest.

It hit him then—here he was, watching Haru’s eyes light up with the same wonder he never got to feel growing up. His Christmases had always been all flash and no magic. Gilded parties, perfectly wrapped gifts that lacked thought, and a cold sort of extravagance that filled rooms but never hearts.

But this?

This was different. Seeing Haru’s excitement now felt like reclaiming something he didn’t even know he’d lost.

“Mama! ‘Toru!” Haru’s voice snaps him out of his thoughts as she holds up a box triumphantly. “Look! Look! For me!”

“Man, Santa really outdid himself this year,” Satoru drawls, stretching an arms over his head as he plops onto the couch beside you.

He made a show of sipping his coffee like he hadn’t been the one painstakingly arranging the presents under the tree just hours earlier.

You’d handed him ribbons to tie, smirking as he fumbled with the tape, and rolled your eyes as he huffed about how ‘unnecessarily complicated’ wrapping paper was.

And then there’d been the cookies and hot chocolate Haru had left out for Santa, which he devoured with exaggerated flair. You’d caught him red-handed, crumbs still on his face, and he grinned sheepishly, muttering something about how Santa worked hard and deserved a snack.

It had been... nice. Warm. Like stepping into a life he always thought was meant for other people, not him.

But Haru?

She didn’t care about Satoru’s epiphanies. She was too busy shredding wrapping paper like her life depended on it.

The morning quickly descended into a delightful chaos—a whirlwind of torn ribbons, squeals of delight, and an ever-growing pile of toys. Haru didn’t just open her gifts; she paraded each one around the room like a prized trophy.

A dollhouse, a pink fluffy stuffed bear (that was for you, right?), and a set of art supplies. Every present came with an enthusiastic ‘Mama, look!’, making you laugh while Satoru grinned like an idiot.

And his attention… well, it kept drifting back to you.

The way you tucked your legs beneath yourself on the couch, leaning slightly into his shoulder as you sipped your coffee. The way your eyes softened whenever Haru ran to you, clutching another gift—her excitement bubbling over.

The way the light from the tree caught in your hair, making you look like you belonged in this moment… more than anything else ever had.

“Mama, look!” Haru gasps yet again, holding up a small box wrapped in gold paper. “Santa didn’t forget you!”

You blink, momentarily startled, as she thrusts the box into your hands before darting back to the tree—already rummaging for her next gift with boundless energy. Your gaze, however, shifts toward Satoru, narrowing with playful suspicion.

“Oh really?” you arch an eyebrow, grinning.

Satoru scratches the back of his head, feigning nonchalance even as a smug grin begins to tug at the corners of his mouth.

“Don’t look at me,” he shrugs. “That’s between you and Santa. Guy’s always been a softie for you.”

Rolling your eyes, you turn your attention to the package, peeling back the carefully wrapped paper to reveal a small rosewood box.

The craftsmanship immediately catches your eye—with rich, dark wood, smooth to the touch. Two turtle doves are etched with breathtaking detail across the lid—wings entwined in a delicate dance of devotion. As you trace the design with your fingertips, the doves seem to almost flutter underneath—a stunning work of art.

And as you lift the lid, your breath hitches.

Nestled inside is the platinum heart-shaped locket, glinting under the soft glow of the Christmas tree. Encircling the heart is a delicate band of diamonds, each stone catching light like tiny frozen stars. And there, at the center of the locket’s face, is that infinity emblem you know so well—etched with graceful precision.

Your breath catches—your chest tightening as you carefully lift the locket from its velvet cradle. The weight of it is delicate yet grounding in your palm.

“Satoru…” you murmur in awe.

Beside you, he nudges your shoulder gently—his grin softening into something quieter, something more vulnerable.

“Open it.”

With careful fingers, you undo the clasp, and the locket falls open, revealing the secret it holds.

On one side was the photo he’d snapped of the two of you in the town square—you laughing, your cheeks pink from the cold, while he pressed a kiss to your cheek with that obnoxiously smug grin.

On the other side was another photo—one you hadn’t even known he’d taken—a candid shot of you and Haru in the kitchen, flour dusting your nose as you helped her decorate cookies.

Your smiles were radiant, unguarded, and completely at ease.

For a moment, you just stare, your lips parting slightly as you tried to form words. Satoru leans closer, his hand brushing lightly over your shoulder.

“You said… infinity reminded you of me,” he says quietly. “So… I thought maybe this could remind you of us.”

Your eyes lift to meet his, shimmering with an emotion so raw and overwhelming it makes him hold his breath. Then, without a word, you reach up, cup his face with both hands, and kiss him.

It’s soft, deliberate, and unhurried—the kind of kiss that makes him feel like maybe the universe doesn’t have to be so vast and infinite. Not when it can be filled with moments like this.

Before he can fully bask in the moment, Haru’s delighted squeal cuts through the air like a firework.

“Mama! Look! A big one!”

Satoru turns to see her tiny hands tugging at a large, carefully wrapped box partially hidden behind the tree. She tries to drag it forward, but honestly the box is way bigger than her.

You laugh softly, already stepping up from your seat to guide her hands away.

“Oh… that one’s not for you, sweetheart. It’s for Satoru.”

Satoru blinks, caught off guard. For him?

He doesn’t even have time to process it before Haru’s face twists into the most dramatic pout he’s ever seen—complete with trembling lips and misty eyes. She crosses her arms like she’s about to stage a sit-in protest right then and there.

“What? No fair!”

Satoru chuckles, setting his coffee mug aside as he pushes himself up from the couch with an exaggerated groan.

“Alright, alright,” he ruffles Haru’s hair as he crouches beside her. “How about this? You help me open it, and I’ll share whatever’s inside. Deal?”

Haru’s pout vanishes like snow in the sun, replaced by a radiant grin as she nods enthusiastically.

“Okay!”

With Haru leading the charge, they attack the wrapping paper like a two-person wrecking crew. Satoru makes a big show of struggling with the ribbon, grunting and pretending to pull with all his strength. Haru giggles at his theatrics, and finally, the last shred of paper falls away.

As the box opens, Satoru stills.

Inside is a telescope—sleek and polished to perfection. His hand trails over the smooth surface, and suddenly he was eight years old again, lying on his back in the garden with a telescope propped on the grass, mapping constellations under a vast, endless sky.

But then, his eyes widen as his fingers brush across something etched on its side. Engraved with precision, is the constellation Lyra—the harp.

Satoru knows enough about stars to understand its meaning. Lyra represents love, devotion, and music. It’s the constellation of Orpheus and Eurydice—a love story as infinite as the stars themselves.

For a long moment, all he can do is stare, his thumb brushing lightly over the engraving as if to ground himself. He doesn’t even realize he’s holding his breath until your voice pulls him back.

“You recognize it?” you ask softly.

He glances up at you, the grin on his face softening into something quieter, something real.

“Mhmm... It’s Lyra.”

You step closer, the faintest hint of nerves in the way you tug at the hem of your pajama sleeve.

“I thought… I thought you’d like an upgrade…” you say shyly, “You love the stars, and I thought you deserved something that made you feel… closer to them.”

Satoru’s throat tightens, and he can’t speak right away, but before he even has the chance to, Haru tugs at his sleeve impatiently, breaking the moment.

“What is it? What is it?” she demands, eyes wide with curiosity.

Satoru lets out a breathless laugh, pulling her onto his lap as he turns the telescope slightly so she can see.

“This, my little star, is how we can see the sky up close. The stars, the moon, even planets if we’re lucky.”

Her eyes widen. “The stars? I wanna see the stars ‘toru!”

“Okay, princess. Tonight, I’ll show you the whole sky.”

“Yay!!” Haru gleams, bouncing on his lap.

Satoru chuckles, steadying her with one arm, but as Haru chatters away, his gaze drifts back to you.

You’re standing quietly a few steps away, watching the scene unfold with that soft, knowing smile that always makes his heart trip over itself. The glow of the Christmas tree casts a faint halo around you, and for a moment, Satoru wonders how he ever existed without this—without you.

Wordlessly, he tilts his head, beckoning you closer. When you step forward, his free arm slips around your waist, pulling you gently down to sit next to him.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Instead, he leans in, pressing a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then finally your lips—slow, unhurried, and laced with everything he can’t quite put into words.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests lightly against yours.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

It’s not just for the telescope. It’s for this moment, for this morning, for you. Your fingers trail softly over his cheek, and he swears you’re glowing.

“Merry Christmas, Satoru…” you murmur quietly.

“Merry Christmas… sweetheart.”

There’s a warmth in your eyes that feels like home, and for the first time in his life, he understands what it means to be content.

This—this moment, this family, this love—it’s everything. It’s infinite.

And as the three of you sit there, bathed in the glow of the Christmas tree, Satoru realizes something he’s never dared to believe.

He finally belongs.

a/n. i got in my feels writing this. as someone who struggles around the holidays, this was real cathartic to write. hope you guys have an incredible holiday season with the ones you love—thanks for reading, sending hugs! ♡

taglist:

@geniejunn @fortunatelyfurrygiver @acowboykisser @mikyapixie @rosso-seta

@shokosbunny @fire-child-kira @aluvrina @laviefantasie @kurookinnie

@poopypipi @painted-hills @stillserene @mira-lol @k-kkiana

@sebastianlover @blueberrysungie @kalulakunundrum @doireallyhavetonamthis @lingophilospher

@ichikanu @artist1936 @christiancj27 @watermelon-online @jkbangtan7

@angelina7890 @aruraa @han11dh @jonesmelodys @k1ttybean

@a-trashbag @jotarohat @khaleesihavilliard @tsukistopglazer @elliesndg

@maskedpacific @that-redheadd @lovelyartemisa @eolivy

@valleydoli @voids-universe @sukunadckrider @aishies-stuff

@saccharine-nectarine @illianasa @pinksaiyans @gojoslefttoenail

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alchemistc · 28 days ago

Text

Consider this the emotional sibling of the Eddie Makes It Worse series.

"I have thought about it, you know," Eddie says, and Tommy nearly inhales the straw of his stupidly sweet cocktail. That's what he gets for always accepting the drinks Buck decides a sip in aren't to his taste.

Eddie gives him a hearty slap on the back, and continues before Tommy's done more than wheeze.

"I had to recontextualize like, seven years of my life after Buck met you. After you turned him into an insane person and also somehow a teenage girl with her first crush and no control or understanding of her emotions."

Tommy's too busy trying to stretch the knot out of his neck and breathe through his nose to call him out on gendering his comparisons. In his experience, boys are the ones committing violence for attention. Not the point. So not the point, and he breathed half an ounce of vodka on top of that.

"I'm - sorry, what did you have to think about?"

Tommy absolutely knows what he's talking about. Eddie absolutely knows he knows. It's not quite out of left field, but definitely center field facing a righty before the shift got banned.

"About Buck. Me and Buck. Us and our... thing."

The shock of Eddie being introspective about this enough to be able to articulate it is enough to keep him quiet. He's not a dumb man. Far from it. It's just - in Tommy's experience Eddie tends to avoid looking internally with the same fervor you try to avoid latrine duty.

Eddie's watching him. Waiting for a reaction. They've already done this song and dance, so Tommy's not entirely sure what to do with this. What reaction Eddie's looking for.

"Okay?" Tommy prods, and Eddie rolls his eyes like the diva he is.

"Okay so, I'm saying. I am 100% sure I'm very straight. Because after Buck came out I thought about it."

"What are you saying?" That's his uncontrollably bitchy tone, right there. His eyebrows are probably putting in work. Eddie seems...incredibly nonplussed.

"I'm saying I thought about it."

Tommy rewinds. Considers the context that got them here, at the bar top, gathering a round for the table...Russo, Hen and Karen, Evan... Karen had made some offhand comment about Eddie and Evan that had made Eddie's eyes dart to his like he was looking for signs that Tommy was wearing Nike Zooms.

"Sorry, are you taking this opportunity, in this moment, to tell me you're definitely straight because you fantasized about fucking my boyfriend?"

Two stools down, a woman wearing a pair of neon suspenders and steel toe boots flicks her eyes away from them in the mirror over the bar.

Eddie's eye roll is always a marvel to behold, but this one might take the cake as far as disdainful energy rolling off him like an aura goes.

"Yeah, like you were worried about the physical attraction."

"Are you saying there is physical attraction?" What the fuck. What the fuck. Where the hell is he going with this?

"I'm saying we're each other's next of kin and he's in my will and I may be more subtle about it but I'm just as weird about him as he is about me. It's, like, contagious, man."

Tommy has to give him that point. His insanity levels have increased exponentially since meeting Evan Buckley. Realizing that taking the lid off of that actually made them stronger as a couple had really opened things up.

"I was having a nice night," Tommy says, and tries to wrangle this conversation back into some semblance of order. "What, exactly, are you trying to tell me?" Eddie opens his mouth and Tommy has to stop himself from smacking his hand across his lips to prevent him from speaking. He points a finger, instead. "If you say you thought about it, I swear to Christ, Diaz..."

"I think Buck probably had a crush on me when we first met. You know - pulling the pigtails, desperate to know way too much about me, that kind of thing."

Great. Cool. Tommy's feeling really good about where this is going.

"And I think I fucking desperately needed someone to love me, no strings attached. And Buck - he did that. No question. Almost from the jump."

Tommy downs the rest of the cocktail in one go. Yep. Still as bad as he remembered.

"So. After you guys got together, I... added some context. You weren't the only one who thought he was pissed at me for finding a second friend."

"What was your conclusion, exactly?"

"He's my best friend, Tommy. Family, in a way no one else will ever come close to. If he called and asked if I had a shovel, I'd be researching endangered plant species before we even got off the phone."

Getting Eddie into true crime podcasts was a mistake. "Ride or die, yeah, we all know."

"See, I don't think you do, Tommy. I really don't think you do."

If they could get to the point, already, Tommy might not have to gouge his own eye out with the cocktail straw poking temptingly out of the empty glass in front of him.

"Because as much as I care about him, as much as he cares about me - we'd never be what the other needed. I'm too in my own head all the time. He's - way too needy." Tommy wants to contest this assassination of his boyfriends character, but Eddie seems like he might actually be meandering somewhere near the point. "And, yeah, sure, I did once attempt to figure out if I was attracted to him."

Jesus fucking Christ. They're in a bar. They have an audience, at this point, even if it is just the lesbian couple two stools over and the bartender who's either needs to tap a new keg or learn how to pour without creating a drink that's mostly head.

"My point is the only reason you should be concerned about me is if you ever piss Buck off bad enough for him to need an alibi."

The words come out before he's had time to filter them through his brain. "Did you get off?"

Yeah. The cocktail was mostly vodka, but there's no way in hell he can blame that entirely on alcohol. He'd had a wallowing jack-off or two featuring more than just Evan, in the months he'd drive past Evan's loft hoping for some rain and for Sia to organically pop up on his Spotify station.

Eddie slides a shot of tequila in Tommy's direction. He doesn't remember ordering those. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"Edmundo."

"Thomathan."

Tommy takes the shot without bothering to cheers him. He doesn't deserve the time it would take for his mouth to form the "Salute". Hell, he's not even worthy of a "Cin Cin", not with his face doing whatever it's doing right now.

"Tell Buck he's welcome from me," Eddie says, and before Tommy can do much more than blink he's gathering up all but Tommy and Evan's drinks to take them back to their table.

This feels like a mind game. He isn't sure whether he's meant to be grateful, or murderous. Two stools down, Suspenders swivels to stare at him. "You look like you just got slapped in the face with a fish," she says. The bartender eyes him like she might be thinking of pouring him another shot.

"Hi," Evan says, directly into his ear, and Tommy jolts. "Eddie said you were right behind him. Did your arms stop working?"

"Just his brain, honey," Suspenders chimes in. The woman to her left titters into her hand.

"Give it to me straight," Tommy says, and Suspenders snorts into her drink. "Has Eddie told you about his Thinking About It process?"

"Oh, with the trying to picture enjoying me naked?"

Tommy pinches his nose and makes a valiant effort to ignore the hand slapping down on the bar top to his left, the canned attempt at hiding a choked laugh. "Sure. That. Normal best friend things."

"If it makes you feel any better, I think I got even less enjoyment out of it than he did."

Suspenders wheezes.

"You did it together?"

"Gross, Tommy."

"Oh, sure, I'm the one reacting weirdly to this."

"If it makes you feel any better, we were broken up. And the only reason I even thought of it was - you know. Tech- technically your fault. You were the one wining and dining my straight best friend while I was trying to get your attention."

Suspenders girlfriend is having a conveniently timed coughing fit.

"Am I having a stroke?" Tommy asks, but it comes out perfectly coherent, so knock that off the list.

"Do you wanna go home?" Evan has the ability to switch moods on a dime. Tommy's really never seen someone so good at it. "I can settle the tab. I - are you okay? Do you need - water, or - " he's reaching for a stool " - or we can sit."

Tommy's been resistant to being taken care of since he can remember. There's something to the way Evan approaches it - purposeful, the opposite of effortless - that makes Tommy want to crumble like a house of cards. He snags Evan's wrist in his hand. "Evan."

As usual, that's all it takes to still him, for a moment. The cheeks rise, the dimples grow more prominent, his eyes alight on Tommy's like he's seeing something worth looking at.

"I love you. Your best friend is insane and you're half a step behind him, and I love you."

It's not the first time. Thank fuck, that would be a terrible way to drop that bomb. But it's still new enough not to be casual. New enough to make Evan's cheeks burn a rosy pink.

Evan smirks. "You wanna get out of here?"

He'd been enjoying a conversation with Karen, twenty minutes ago, but he doubts he'd be able to form a single coherent thought anymore. The green demon he's kept under wraps for forever now has somehow both gone dormant and is currently trying to convince him to toss Evan over his shoulder and make a break for it.

Tommy makes eye contact with the bartender. Raps his knuckles against the bar top.

Evan's grin goes a little feral.

#bucktommy #don't look at me #bucktommy fic #tevan fic

538 notes · View notes

yandere-daydreams · 1 year ago

Text

Title: Idolification.

Pairing: Yandere!Itadori Yuuji x Reader (JJK).

Word Count: 5.0k.

TW: No Curse/College AU, Fem!Reader, Non/Con, Prolonged Stalking, (Unintentional) Emotional Manipulation, Oral Sex, Drunk Sex, Unprotected Sex, Age Gap (Reader's 27, Yuuji's 22), Intimidation, Brief Mommy Kink, Pepper Spray, and Obsessive Behavior. Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.

“I’m so, so, so, so sorry.”

“It was an accident, you don’t have to—” Yuuji was cut off by another splash of milk, quickly followed by another jet of water. Her makeshift treatment was harsh, the temperature alternating unpredictably between ice cold and scalding hot, but Yuuji took the abuse with a smile that was almost bright enough to distract you from the red, aggravated skin around his eyes. Almost. “It’s alright,” he managed, eventually, doing his best not to sound like he was being slowly drowned in your bathtub. “Believe it or not, that’s only the second worst thing I’ve gotten in my eyes.”

Knowing him, it was probably closer to the fourth or fifth, but that did little to ease your guilt. He’d been leaving as you were getting home from your second twelve-hour shift of the week, and from there, it’d been a comedy of errors. He spotted you coming down the hall, haggard and bleary-eyed, and saw the babysitter who’d spent more summers than not keeping him (and, by association, his older half-brother) out of trouble before their family fell off of the face of the planet, and reacted the way Yuuji reacted to most things – with open arms and a contagious smile. You’d looked at him, a far cry from the kid you’d spent so much time looking after, and seen a very strange, very grown man loitering outside of the door to your shoebox of an apartment before charging towards you with a manic expression and, well, you had always wanted an excuse to use the pepper spray you carried near-religiously. It was only a shame it had to be on someone as sweet as Yuuji.

Now, you were on your knees on the floor of your bathroom, your fingers tangled in Yuuji’s hair as your roommate gently waterboarded him with a cartoon of organic oat milk in one hand and your decade-old showerhead in the other. The front of his t-shirt was soaked through, his lung half-flooded at least, but he was still grinning like you’d greeted him with a blank check and a litter of puppies. “Honestly, it’s on me,” he insisted, his enthusiasm too potent not to be genuine. “Miss Shoko mentioned she was living with someone.”

At the mention of your roommate, Shoko Ieiri, your attention shifted to the woman in-question. You weren’t an idiot. After the shock died down, it hadn’t taken long for you to piece together why a young man would be rushing to get out of your apartment while your attractive (albeit, socially dead) roommate was home alone. When she met your prying eyes, you shot her a pointed glare. “Cradle rocker.”

She threatened to turn the showerhead on you, but relented as soon as you flinched away. “He’s in one of my classes,” she muttered, then pushed herself to her feet with a soft groan. “We’re out of milk,” she said, shaking the empty carton. “Let his eyes air-dry. I’ll be in my office – come get me if he starts crying again.”

“I’m a doctor too, y’know.”

“You’ll be a doctor in another year. Right now, you’re an intern.” She eyed Yuuji wearily. “An intern who physically assaults her patients, at that.”

Without any real way to retort, you stuck your tongue out – a gesture Shoko mimicked as she slipped out of the crime scene that was your bathroom. Despite Shoko’s advice, you fished a towel off the nearest rack and handed it to Yuuji, who accepted it with a grateful hum. “I really am sorry,” you repeated, burying your face in your hands. “It’s just, it’s been so long, and you look so different, and god, it’s been—”

“—ten years,” Yuuji filled in, probably tired of hearing you repeat the same two excuses. “I remember, ‘cuz you invited us to your graduation that year. I wanted to go, too, but Gramps got sick and…” He trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck with an airy chuckle. “You know how it is.”

“Oh my god,” you gasped. “I loved your grandfather. How is he?”

Yuuji’s smile wavered for the first time. “He passed, actually. A few years ago.”

Fuck.

If the building was going to collapse and bury you in the rubble, that would’ve been the time.

“Sukuna’s doing good, though,” Yuuji went on, kind enough to pretend there hadn’t been a lapse. “He opened a restaurant a few months ago. It’s a hole-in-the-wall kind of place, but it’s been keeping him out of the ring.” His expression brightened. “And you’re a doctor! I mean, I knew you would be, but you’re a doctor!”

You felt your face heat up his brother’s name, your eyes falling to the tiled floor. “Almost a doctor. I just started my internship.” And they’d already managed to work you half to death. “You’re in med school, right? Shoko never teaches undergrad.”

“It’s my first semester,” he said with a slight laugh. “It’s harder than I thought it’d be, though. Miss Shoko offered to give me a few pointers, but, y’know—” He sighed, let his head lull back. “I’m starting to think I’m just not smart enough for stuff like this.”

“You shouldn’t say that kind of thing about yourself. You’ve always been—” You cut yourself off with a sudden gasp, clapping your hands together. “If you’re struggling, let me help you study! I have tomorrow off, and I promise, I’m not as strict as Shoko.”

Immediately, he straightened up, your towel still strung around his neck and his smile returned to its full brightness. It only dimmed slightly when he glanced down at his damp shirt. “…there won’t be as much pepper spray this time, right?”

His smile was as contagious as it’d been when he was still a kid, begging you to let him stay up yet another hour past his already-lenient bedtime. Despite his bloodshot eyes and your lingering, only slightly lessened guilt, you found yourself biting back a grin.

“No pepper spray, this time. I promise.”

“Room for one more?”

She glanced over her shoulder as you struggled past the jammed sliding door, taking a moment to evaluate your stiff shoulders and strained smile over the thick frames of her glasses before nodding curtly. Your relief was immediate and all-encompassing. Honestly, you should’ve known better than to do anything but shake your head and flee the country when Yuuji invited you to hang out with a few of his friends, but he’d sworn up and down that it wasn’t a party and promised that you wouldn’t be out of place and pouted in a way you’d never been able to resist. You were starting to think that, no matter how old you got, you’d never learn to say ‘no’ to Yuuji.

The blaring music was only vaguely muffled by the glass, the blurry outlines of other guests playing behind thin curtains. There was a red solo cup in your hand, a lipstick stain on your cheek from a girl who’d passed out half an hour ago, but you were hyper-aware that you were too old to be at a college party with people at least half a decade younger than you, in the best cases. You braced yourself against the balcony railing with a soft groan, crossing your arms and hanging your head low enough to warrant a hum of sympathy from the woman next to you. She held up a box of cigarettes – the cheap kind you and Shoko used to split on the days you had to decide between food and rent – and you accepted her offer with the kind of gratitude you could only assume a starving lion would’ve shown to a limping gazelle.

“Maki,” she said, shaking one into your open palm and fishing a lighter out of her pocket. “You’re one of Itadori’s friends?”

“You could say that.” You let her light you up before taking a shaky drag, the bitter taste a welcome distraction. “I’ve been tutoring him for a few weeks. I think he just invited me as a way to say ‘thank you’.”

Her eyes flashed with recognition, the corner of his lips turning upward for the first time. “You’re the chick who used to babysit him. (Y/n), right?”

“He’s mentioned me?”

“He won’t shut up about you. Every other word out of his mouth is ‘(Y/n) this’ or ‘(Y//n) that’.” She tapped her cigarette against the edge of the railing, sending a few flakes of ash fluttering down to the street below. “Megumi gets it the worst, but we’ve all had to see the fucking pictures.”

“That… that sounds like him.” You forced out a half-hearted laugh, then wavered. “I’m sorry, pictures?”

Maki opened her mouth, but the balcony door was jerked open before she could respond. Yuji appeared in the open entryway, cheeks flushed and grin wide. He drawled your name in a single slur before moving on to more important topics. “We found a—We found a karaoke machine! ‘gumi thinks he can get it running!”

You sent Maki an apologetic look, but she only shrugged, a sliver of a grin. “Better get him tucked in.”

This time, when you smiled back, it didn’t quite reach your eyes.

It took a month for Yuuji to start ‘forgetting’ his textbooks when he came over for your little study sessions.

It took three for Yuuji to drop the pretense of studying at all – calling you out to some late-night diner or lethargic early-morning café or, better yet, showing up at your apartment door unannounced and empty-handed with only that unnerving smile and a half-baked excuse to spend time with you.

It took six for his hand to drift just a little lower than your shoulder while you watched some awful, b-rated horror movie on your well-beaten couch. You let him reach your waist before clearing your throat and shifting away, your smile pained.

“I… I think you should probably leave,” you half-mumbled, your voice shaking. “It’s getting late.”

“We haven’t even gotten to the best part yet.” Predictably, Yuuji was undeterred. His persistence used to be endearing, but now, it just felt unfair. “I don’t mind sleeping over, if that’s what you’re worried about. It’s not like we’ve never spent the night together.”

A nervous laugh, his hand planted just a little too close to your thigh. “I wish you wouldn’t phrase it like—”

“I mean, I know I’m your type.” It was almost impressive, what he could say with such an innocent expression. His free hand found its way to your other side, pinning you between the arm of the couch and his broad chest. “I know you had a thing for Sukuna, and everyone says we’re practically identical. That means you should be into me too, right?”

“Yuuji,” Your eyes darted to your phone, left absent-mindedly on your coffee table. The urge was there, but it wasn’t like he would actually hurt you. He’d always been a sweet kid – a little overzealous, but that wasn’t a crime. This was just… a bad decision, one you had to stop him from making before he did something he’d regret. “Sukuna is my age, and—”

“I don’t care about that.” He cut in swiftly, definitively. His bright eyes had glazed over, catching the dim light of your T.V. as he leaned in further, as his face came to hover less than a full breath away from yours. “I’ve loved you since I was eight. Can Sukuna say that?”

“That’s not—”

“I know you used to fuck him.” His chest was touching yours, now, his breath hot against your skin. “I know you’d fuck him again, if he was here. I know—”

You didn’t give him a chance to finish. It was a weak blow, simultaneously hesitant and instinctual, but your open palm made contact with his cheek with a deafening crack, his head snapping to the side and putting that much more distance between his body and yours. He moved to cup his swelling cheek, and you took the opportunity to slip out from underneath him and stumble to your feet. “I think you should leave,” you repeated, the words spat hastily enough to blend together. “Please, Yuuji.”

For a second, he didn’t move, didn’t speak.

Then, he turned to face you, his smile wiped away and his expression so blank, you couldn’t remember how you’d ever looked at him and saw anything other than void.

He didn’t say anything, only pushing himself to his feet and shambling out of your living room. You kept your eyes on the ground until his footsteps faded out of earshot, until you heard the front door creak open and slam shut with enough force to shake the walls.

When you were sure he was gone, you collapsed onto your couch and laid motionless while an actress screamed in the background.

“Your golden boy’s asking about you, again.”

You groaned, buckling at the waist and burying your face in your arms. Shoko glanced up from the exams she was grading, but whatever sympathy she might’ve felt apparently didn’t warrant the effort it would’ve taken to reach across the table to comfort you. “Satoru’s been getting it, too,” she went on. “That’s how you know it’s bad. I can’t remember the last time someone managed to talk over that narcissist.”

“I’m sorry.” You couldn’t remember how many times you’d already apologized for Yuuji’s recent fixation. “He’s… probably just worried about his grades, or something.”

Her lips quirked into a frown. “What are you talking about?”

“I was helping him study,” you admitted, reluctantly. As much as Shoko had to hear about your unruly patients and patronizing coworkers, you’d been less open about how much time you were spending with a student fresh out of undergrad. “He’s never been that good with school. I used to have to help him with his homework in elementary school, too.”

This time, she decided your conversation was important enough to earn her full attention. “Itadori’s one of my best students.”

You felt your chest tighten. “But, the first time he came over, you were tutoring—”

She said your name, curt and blunt, and you went quiet. With a sigh, she shook her head, dropping her pen entirely. “When was the last time I offered to personally tutor a struggling student?”

You swallowed dryly. “Never.”

“And when was the last time I gave our full address out to literally anyone?”

“Never,” you said, again. After a second, you added, “Well, there was that one time with Iori…”

“Not the point. I know you don’t want to hear it, but the kid’s a creep. You might have to—”

She was cut off by your phone buzzing against the table. Your eyes scanned over the caller’s name scrawled across the dim screen before moving back to Shoko, her gaze now narrowed into a sharp glare. “Don’t.”

And, for a second, you didn’t. You convinced yourself that you wouldn’t. You told yourself that, after you bought Satoru around of drinks as an apology, you’d do… you’d do something about Yuuji, even if you weren’t sure what you could do, just yet.

Then, you let yourself picture the kid you used to watch for a few dollars an hour while his grandfather was sick and his brother was on the other side of town doing something dubiously legal at best, dead in a ditch at worst – all wide eyes and scuffed elbows and lopsided grins. You let yourself remember the way he’d ramble about his day after you picked him up from school, and how excited he was the first time you made it to one of his school’s sports days, and how he’d clung to you and sobbed the day before his family moved to the other side of the country. At the time, you’d been thankful to have one less responsibility, relieved that you’d never have to see Sukuna again. You’d been selfish, even for a kid.

The phone was in your hand in a moment, the call answered in another. You stood as you brought it to your ear, hoping that would be enough to block out Shoko’s mumbled cursing.

“Yuuji?”

The silence in your car was thick, nearly suffocating.

It’d been one of Yuuji’s friends calling from his phone – the dark-haired one with the monotone voice, barely audible over the blaring music of whichever nightclub they were standing outside of. He’d asked you to, in his own words, ‘come get your problem child’, and when you’d asked why Yuuji needed you specifically, he’d only handed the phone back to Yuuji and let you listen to a full minute of whining, your name the only coherent thing to make it off of Yuuji’s tongue. Shoko urged you not to go, and yet, twenty minutes later, Yuuji was slumped over in your passenger seat, his eyes narrowed and his lips pursed in an uncharacteristic frown.

He was less talkative than he’d been on the phone. The clingier stages of his inebriation had passed, leaving room for a disassociated sort of passiveness that meant, even if you’d been brave enough to try and start a conversation, his response wouldn’t be anything worth that kind of effort. By the time you reached his apartment complex, the knot sitting at the pit of your stomach was equal parts dread and second-hand embarrassment, but you tried to keep your tone light as you turned to him. “It’s time to get out, Yuuji.” And then, when he failed to move, “You’re on your own from here.”

He looked at you, eyes unfocused and hands folded almost childishly over his lap. You softened more than you should’ve at the sight. “…do you need help getting home?”

A second of thought, a quick nod. You shouldn’t. You knew that you really, really shouldn’t.

And yet, somehow, you found yourself in front of Yuuji’s door, fussing over the lock as Yuuji clung to your side, his face buried in the dip of your shoulder. He was cooperative enough; able to stand on his own with minimum swaying but not so lucid that it took more than a gentle suggestion to lead him to his bedroom, where he was more than happy to collapse onto his unmade bed. With a shaky exhale, you turned to leave, but something caught on your sleeve – Yuuji’s hand, when you could bring yourself to check.

“Stay,” he mumbled, his voice dampened by the sheets his face was buried in. “Please?”

You felt your throat go dry. “I can’t.”

You expected him to go shrill and whiny, but he proved to be a touch more mature than the ten-year-old you used to babysit. Rather flatly, he asked, “Why not?”

How were you supposed to answer that? Would it be good enough to say that you didn’t want to, that you couldn’t spend your night looking after a drunk kid you’d known a decade ago, that you’d already done more than you should’ve just by giving him a ride? Was it worth trying to talk to him at all when he could barely hold his head up? Would it do anything to soften the burn of the bile rising into your throat to point out that, the last time you’d been in the same room as him, he’d tried to—

No, it wasn’t and it wouldn’t and you had to leave. With your heart racing in your chest, you tried to jerk yourself out of his hold, but his vice-grip only grew tighter, his head rising up from the mattress just enough to let him stare at you with those big, bleary eyes. “Why not?”

“Yuuji, this isn’t—”

He was so, so much stronger than he had been, the last time you’d seen each other. One second, you were on your feet, at his bedside, and the next, you were on the floor of his bedroom, forced onto your hands and knees while Yuuji’s body pressed into yours from above. “I love you,” he said, his voice as steady as it’d ever been. “I love you, and I—Fuck—” He panted against the back of your neck, something uncomfortably stiff grinding against your ass. “It makes me so fucking hard when you say my name like that.”

A hand slipped under the hem of your top, his palm pressing into the small of your back. You moved to speak, then thought better of it, biting into your bottom lip as your anxious squirming turned to full-blown struggling. Yuuji only laughed, the noise airy and affectionate, winding an arm around your waist and pulling you that much closer to him – making it that much more impossible to get away. His free hand worked clumsily at your top; drawing it up and over your head. You fought against it at first, but froze the first time you felt something stretch a little too far, heard fabric tear. This couldn’t happen, but you absolutely couldn’t be stranded in Yuuji’s apartment with no clothes and no way out.

With his face buried in the back of your shoulder, he cupped your chest, catching your nipples between his forefinger and thumb and pinching with just enough force to draw a low, strained whimper from the back of your throat. “So cute…” He nuzzled deeper into your neck as his touch drifted. Your skirt was drawn downward – a long piece, something you’d thrown on without much thought – then discarded completely, his own shirt wrestled off in the same motion. You felt his fingertips slip under the hem of your panties, but he pulled away and straightened his back, instead. For a second, you let yourself believe that he’d come to his senses, that whatever sick idea he’d gotten into his head had finally worn off, but the arm wrapped around your waist only drew tighter, hauling you off of the floor and into his arms. You were dropped unceremoniously onto the edge of his bed, and Yuuji sunk onto his knees between your open legs.

“I know you’ve probably slept with other people – aside from my brother, I mean. It’d be nice to find out you haven’t, though.” His tone was distant and dreamy. He was still drunk, but not drunk enough for how he’d been acting earlier. Not drunk enough for what he was doing now. He traced the pad of his thumb over your clothed slit, keeping a hand curled around your ankle to keep you in place. “I used to hear you with Sukuna – in his car, and his room, on the couch after you two thought I’d fallen asleep …” He trailed off into an airy laugh. “He likes to show off – always has. If he wasn’t my brother, I think I’d kill him.”

He sighed, pressing a lingering kiss into the inside of your thigh before shifting his attention to your pussy; his tongue laving over the thin material covering your cunt. You were crying, now, openly and audibly – your choked sobs almost loud enough to block out Yuuji’s quiet groans and pleased grunts. However his obsession might’ve made him think he felt about you, your distress didn’t seem to affect his appetite. Your panties were pulled down your legs and slid into some unseen pocket. With the last barrier between you and him gone, he was free to trace his tongue over your slit, to latch onto your clit and suck in a way that made you want to bury your face in your hands and scream. You tried to – crossing your arms over your face, but any sound you tried to make was quickly strangled into a broken moans as his tongue fucked shallowly into your pussy. It was invasive, disgusting, but your body didn’t care. You felt cunt clench around him as his nose ground into your clit, his need for air irrelevant while he spread you open with his tongue. Your thighs clenched shut, attempting to block him out, but his only response was a reverberating groan – and hand on your thigh encouraging you to squeeze him that much tighter.

You couldn’t tell which you hated more; the unwanted stimulation or the fact that your body was reacting to it, heating up where you needed it to go cold. As he sunk further into you, ate you out like a beast starved, you clenched your eyes and willed yourself to go numb, to ignore the sloppy sound of your slick on Yuuji’s lips. It was useless, though, as futile as trying to ignore him in the first place. Your back arched off the bed, legs twitching where they hung limply over his shoulders, and—

—and Yuuji pulled away with a sharp gasp. He was on top of you before you could process that he was moving, his mouth crashing into yours before you could think to avoid him. The kiss was brutal, rushed; all teeth and tongue and lips shoved against yours with enough force to bruise. The only hint of tenderness was the soft, satisfied noise he let out as his tongue raked across yours, the bright grin painted across his lips when he drew back from you. “It’s alright.” He brought a hand to your cheek, cupping your face and brushing away tears with his thumb. “I’ve slept with other people too, ‘cause I knew I’d need a little practice to catch up with you. Could never go all the way, though. I just thought about you, and…” He blushed, simpered, like he thought he could pass himself off as the shy, lip-biting schoolboy with your slick coating his chin. “I guess I just didn’t really want anyone else to touch me. Not when I knew I’d see you again.”

A horrified sob bubbled up from somewhere deep and primal in your chest. Yuuji didn’t seem to hear it, only sighing as he pressed a lingering kiss into your forehead. “You don’t have to do anything,” he muttered, his hands falling to your waist. “I want to take care of you, tonight.”

You watched in stunned, paralyzed horror as he pushed himself to his feet, as he hastily worked off his jeans, his boxers (the dark material already notably stained with proof of his arousal). You made one more feeble attempt to squirm out from underneath him, to get away before his attention turned back to you, but confused and betrayed and so, so exhausted, you didn’t stand much of a chance against Yuuji. All he had to do was glance your way, his expression as warm as it was soulless, to leave you helpless against him.

He was eager enough not to reposition you, not to draw this out with the pretense of romance. With one hand on your hip and the other planted near your head, he lined the head of his cock up with your entrance and forced himself into you, bottoming out in a single thrust.

It was agony – pure and unrelenting. Any semblance of gentleness, of restraint fell away as soon as Yuuji was inside of you, as soon as your hyper-sensitive cunt clamped down around his cock. He cursed under his breath before collapsing, his chest pressing into yours as he tried to bury himself that much deeper inside of you, to chase the feeling of your pussy milking him for all he was worth. As hard as you tried not to think about Sukuna, Yuuji hadn’t been lying when he said they were alike. He was just as insatiable as his brother had been any time you let him but his hands on you; just as rough in the way his hips ground into yours between sporadic thrusts. There’d been bruises, the next day. At least Sukuna had been the type to make sure he was gone by the time the damage set in. You doubted Yuuji would be so kind.

“I—I’m sorry,” he managed as he buckled into you. Panting against the dip of your shoulder, he took your hips in his hands and dragged your ass of the mattress, his brutal pace stuttering as he found a new angle to abuse. “Next time—I’ll be gentle next time, I just need to—”

His cock hit something soft and sensitive inside of you. Reflexively, your hands shot to his back, your nails finding skin and tearing. The moan Yuuji let out in response was nothing short of sinful; hitched and guttural, ragged and loud enough to block out the wet, slick sound of his cock pumping into your cunt. “M—” His hand wraps around your thigh, catching you under the knee and dragging it towards your chest, letting him fuck into you that much deeper, that much faster. His face never left the crook of your neck, as if he was afraid to give you space to breathe. “Mommy, ‘m sorry, I need to—”

His teeth sunk into your throat as something hot and thick flooded into your cunt, as your body went stiff and your vision burned white. While his climax was sudden, intense, the peak to a decade’s worth of patience, yours had to be dragged out of you despite your attempts to hold it back, to deny yourself pleasure in the vain hope that it’d somehow be able to convince Yuuji to stop what he’d already finished. It seemed to hold you there in that state of dark, distorted euphoria for minutes – Yuuji’s movements turning slow and languid as he nursed you through your orgasm.

Eventually, mercifully, he went still, going limp above you with his canines still planted in the curve of your neck. If there was any pain, any other unwanted burdens he could force onto you, you were too lost in your own despair to notice, too distant to feel anything other than the mildest tinge of dread as he pulled back, raising his head just far enough to stare down at you, adoration heavy in his eyes and his grin wide and love-struck.

A small, naïve part of you found the sight suffocatingly familiar, while the rest could almost convince itself that you were looking at a stranger.

4K notes · View notes

eu-nicola · 5 months ago

Text

non think

summary: your friendship with Rudy began naturally and fluidly, but when his girlfriend's jealousy begins to interfere, tensions arise

warnings: nothing (?)

word counter: 5049

author's note: english is not my first language, this is fiction, don't take it seriously

From the moment you stepped onto the Outer Banks set, you felt that unmistakable energy of a team completely in sync. But even though everything seemed to click, it was Rudy Pankow who you instantly connected with. It wasn’t something you could plan—it just happened naturally.

Your role wasn’t easy. Playing Isabella Cameron, the middle Cameron sibling, meant bringing depth, charisma, and a hint of rebellion that contrasted with Sarah and Rafe but still shared a certain sensitivity with Wheezie. Even though Isabella wasn’t a Pogue like JJ, her connection with him promised to be one of the season’s most interesting twists.

On your first day on set, the nerves were real. This wasn’t your first acting gig, but something about joining a cast with such strong chemistry was intimidating. Rudy was one of the first to approach you.

“New Cameron?” he asked, with that grin of his that always seemed ready to crack a joke.

“The one and only,” you replied, trying to hide your nerves.

He burst out laughing.

“I like it. I’m Rudy, but I guess from now on we’re calling each other JJ and Isabella.”

The conversation flowed like you’d known each other forever. From that moment, it became almost a tradition for the two of you to find each other between takes to talk about scripts, crack jokes, or improvise ridiculous lines just to make the rest of the cast laugh.

One afternoon, during a scene where Isabella and JJ were supposed to argue about something involving Sarah, the directors decided to let you two improvise a bit to explore your characters' dynamic. It was a mess… in the best way possible. Your quick comebacks and Rudy’s ability to keep up with sarcastic remarks had everyone on set laughing. After calling cut, Jonas Pate, one of the show’s creators, came over.

“You two have something special. I think we’re gonna lean into that.”

It wasn’t until weeks later that you understood what he meant. In one of the season two episodes, Isabella and JJ would share an unexpected kiss—a moment that would completely shift their dynamic.

“A kiss?” you asked, stunned after reading the script.

Rudy shot you a playful look.

“What? Not excited? I’m a great kisser.”

“Uh-huh, sure.” Your sarcastic tone made him laugh, like always.

Filming that scene was… interesting. Even though you got along great off-camera, you couldn’t help feeling a little nervous. But Rudy, ever the charmer, made sure to ease your nerves before the take.

“It’s like we’re mocking the cliché, but with style,” he said, adjusting JJ’s jacket.

The scene turned out so well that the director asked to shoot it from multiple angles. After every take, Rudy would wink at you, making you smile despite yourself. The funny thing was, even though JJ and Isabella’s kiss wasn’t originally meant to happen again in the series, the on-screen chemistry between you two led to more moments like that.

Still, the main storyline for Isabella revolved around Barry, the character who was supposed to be her big love interest. Barry was different, but his relationship with Isabella brought an emotional depth that fans quickly adored.

Even so, every time you and Rudy shared a scene, the vibe on set shifted. There was something contagious about the way you interacted, both on and off camera. It wasn’t uncommon for the other cast members to watch you two during breaks and joke about your 'explosive chemistry.'

“You two would be absolute chaos if they let you,” Chase said one day, watching you rehearse a particularly intense scene.

And he wasn’t wrong. Despite Isabella clearly being paired with Barry, you couldn’t deny that working with Rudy was one of the most fun and genuine parts of the production. That connection eventually led fans to start shipping Isabella and JJ, even though the show’s narrative had other plans.

The on-screen kisses quickly became a recurring topic among the cast and crew.

Everything was going perfectly fine between you and Rudy until the fans started noticing what you and the rest of the cast already knew: your on-screen chemistry was undeniable. Comments on Instagram, TikTok, and Twitter exploded as soon as the first kiss scene between Isabella and JJ aired.

'Does anyone else think JJ and Isabella should be endgame?'

'Barry has nothing on JJ-Bella tension. Sorry, not sorry.'

'The way JJ looks at Isabella when she walks away… CHEF’S KISS. I need more of them.'

'I don’t care what anyone says, Rudy and Isabella HAVE to be together, ON and OFF screen.'

At first, the comments didn’t bother you. After all, most of them were about the characters, not you as actors. Even the more insistent ones were easy to brush off. But things changed when fan theories started crossing the line.

'Have you guys noticed how Rudy is always around her in BTS? 👀'

'I refuse to believe there’s nothing going on between them off-screen. Look at their interviews.'

'Sorry, but Rudy’s girlfriend doesn’t hold a candle to her. Stay with Y/N.'

That last comment felt like a trigger. Suddenly, the presence of Rudy’s girlfriend, whose relationship with him had been private and mostly unknown to fans, became glaringly obvious. She hadn’t been around during the first few months of filming, but now she showed up on set often, always quiet but clearly watching everything.

At first, you tried to be friendly. She wasn’t part of the cast, but you understood her wanting to be near Rudy. However, the tension started becoming noticeable when she stopped hiding her discomfort around you.

“So, this is the famous Isabella Cameron?,” she said one afternoon during a break. Her tone was sharp, even though her smile tried to mask it.

“Yeah, I guess that’s me.”You smiled, trying not to let it affect you.

“Well, I hope you don’t take everything the fans say too seriously. Rudy and I have something real, not like those fake kisses you share with him.”

You were caught off guard. It wasn’t like you cared about what she thought, but her comment made it clear she didn’t really know where the line between fiction and reality was. From that moment on, her little digs became more frequent.

One day, while scrolling through your social media, you saw a comment she left under one of your photos promoting the show. It didn’t say much, but the sarcasm was obvious:

"Wow, working with Rudy must be the highlight of your career. You must love it."

Fans, as expected, picked up on it right away. ‘Why’s Rudy’s girlfriend so passive-aggressive towards her?’ was one of the top comments on your profile. You laughed it off, but the whole thing left a bitter taste in your mouth.

The tension hit its peak during one of the more intense scenes between Isabella and JJ, where the two characters had to share an intimate moment in the middle of an argument. You and Rudy had rehearsed the scene, and everything seemed fine until you noticed his sudden change in attitude.

“Everything okay?” you asked him before shooting.

“Yeah, it’s fine.” His answer was short, distant, and not like him at all.

You couldn’t help but think his girlfriend had something to do with it. She was sitting in a corner of the set, arms crossed, watching you both. She wasn’t doing anything obvious, but her presence was enough to throw him off and, by extension, ruin the dynamic you two usually had.

After the scene ended, you confronted him.

“What’s going on with you? We never had problems before, but now it’s like you don’t even want to be around me.”

“It’s not that.” He avoided your gaze, confirming what you already suspected.

“Then what is it? Your girlfriend? Because if it’s about her, I need you to tell me now if we’re going to keep working like we used to or not.”

Rudy sighed, running a hand through his hair. You knew he didn’t want to have this conversation, but it was necessary.

“She just… doesn’t get it. And I don’t want things to get messier than they already are.”

“And what about our work?” you asked, more frustrated than you intended to sound.

He didn’t answer, but his silence was enough to tell you that, fair or not, things wouldn’t go back to the way they were.

After that, Rudy started pulling away not just from you, but from the rest of the cast too. The jokes between takes became less frequent, and the fun improvisations you both used to enjoy practically disappeared. No one said anything, but it was obvious something was wrong.

Social media wasn’t helping. Every time you posted something about the show, fans kept fueling the drama with their theories and comments.

‘Rudy’s girlfriend is definitely behind this. They’re not even in interviews together anymore.’

‘It’s so sad that JJ and Isabella have such good chemistry, but off-camera, it’s a mess.’

You tried to ignore it, but some nights you couldn’t help feeling frustrated. Not because of the comments, but because you missed how things used to be. Rudy was one of the best co-stars you’d ever had, and now it felt like you couldn’t even be friends.

And the worst part? He wasn’t doing anything to fix it.

When the fourth season rolled around, the news hit like a bomb. During a cast table read, the producers announced that JJ Maybank’s arc would come to a tragic end with a heroic death. While everyone murmured in shock, you could only look at him. Rudy sat in silence, arms crossed, eyes glued to the script, avoiding eye contact with everyone—especially you.

“What does this mean?” you asked Jonas directly.

“It was Rudy’s decision,” he replied, with a tone that made it clear he didn’t want to elaborate.

You couldn’t believe it. You’d heard rumors that Rudy wasn’t as excited about continuing on the show, but you always thought they were just that rumors. But now it was clear he’d made the most drastic choice possible.

That night, you couldn’t stay quiet. You found him outside the set, sitting on one of the service stairs, like he was waiting for someone to confront him.

“What the hell are you doing?” you blurted out. He looked up, surprised by your tone, but said nothing. He just shrugged.

“I’ve got nothing left to do here. I’m done.”

That lit a fire in you.

“Done? Are you serious? Rudy, your character is one of the fans’ favorites. JJ still has so much potential, and you’re just letting him die because… what? Because your girlfriend can’t handle us doing our jobs?”

He frowned, clearly annoyed.

“This has nothing to do with her. It’s my decision, and it’s final.”

“Of course, it has to do with her. Ever since she started coming to set, you’ve changed. You’re not the same anymore. You can’t even joke around with me like you used to. Now you’d rather run away than face things.”

Rudy stood up, defensive.

“And what do you expect me to do? Ignore everything? Pretend like I’m not losing my relationship?.”

“You’re not losing your relationship, Rudy. You’re sabotaging your career. And along the way, you’re throwing away everything we had, our friendship, all of it. Why can’t you see that?.”

“Because it’s not as simple for me as it is for you,” he said, raising his voice. There was frustration and pain in his tone.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you asked, crossing your arms.

“It means not everyone can separate things like you. Do you know how hard it’s been for me? Everyone assumes there’s something between us, like there’s more… And she sees it, the fans see it. No matter how much I deny it, someone’s always pointing it out.”

The intensity of his words caught you off guard, but you weren’t about to back down.

“So what? You’re just going to throw it all away? Let her control every decision you make? That’s not professional. It’s childish.”

He shook his head like your words couldn’t break through the wall he’d built.

“Do what you want, but don’t expect me to stay quiet while you ruin something that meant so much to all of us,” you said before turning and walking away.

From that moment on, things went downhill fast. What used to be a natural and fun connection turned into pure tension. Arguments became frequent, both on and off set. Something as simple as a rehearsal could turn into a battleground, and it wasn’t long before it started affecting the whole team.

In scenes where Isabella and JJ had to interact, the tension was so obvious that even the directors began to notice something was off. After weeks of trying, they decided to use doubles for the shots where the two of you shared the screen.

The rumor spread quickly among the crew. People whispered behind your backs, some blaming Rudy, others blaming you, but most were just confused. It wasn’t easy to explain how one of the cast’s most beloved dynamics had turned into something so unsustainable.

By the time the last scene rolled around, the atmosphere on set was heavy. That day, JJ’s final scene was being filmed—a moment that would mark the end of an era for the show and the cast. While everyone tried to keep the energy upbeat and positive, all you could feel was an overwhelming emptiness.

It wasn’t just about JJ leaving; it was because Rudy was leaving too. Even though your relationship had deteriorated to the point of being unrecognizable, you couldn’t help but remember how things had started: the laughs, the improvisations, the jokes that even got the directors to join in. Now, none of that was left.

The scene you were filming was heartbreaking, probably the most emotional one of the entire season. JJ sacrificed himself to save Isabella and the other Pogues, dying heroically. You, as Isabella, had to hold him in your arms while he said his final words.

When the director called action, you threw yourself into character completely. Isabella was desperate, her hands covered in blood as she tried to hold back tears.

“No, JJ, don’t do this to me,” you said, your voice breaking. The script called for you to cling to him, as if you could stop the inevitable.

Rudy, as JJ, looked at you with a weak smile the same one that had always defined his character, even in the darkest moments.

“Don’t cry, Bella. You always knew I’d do something stupid like this.” He coughed, mimicking the character’s weakness, but there was something else in his voice something that felt way too real.

“Don’t say that!” you screamed as Isabella, feeling a knot in your stomach that went beyond acting. Tears streamed down your face, and for a moment, you wondered if they were yours or your character’s.

“Take care of them... all of them.” He tried to laugh, but his voice faltered. JJ’s eyes closed, and the camera captured your devastated face as you hugged him one last time.

“Cut!” the director yelled.

The set erupted in applause. The crew, the cast—everyone knew they had just filmed something unforgettable. But you couldn’t move. You kept holding onto Rudy, trying to steady your breathing, because even though the scene was over, the emotions were still there.

“You were incredible,” someone said, but you didn’t register who. You barely heard Rudy mumble a “thank you” to everyone as he stood up and walked off set.

As soon as you snapped out of character, the real tears came. You weren’t one to cry in front of everyone, so you slipped away from the set and found a quiet corner where you could be alone. Sitting on one of the folding chairs, away from the lights and noise, you let the emotions take over.

“Are you okay?” Madison asked, approaching cautiously.

You looked up at her and tried to smile, but you couldn’t.

“Yeah, just... haven’t gotten much rest.”

Madison nodded and stayed quiet beside you. You knew she didn’t want to push you but was still worried. After a while, she gave your shoulder a squeeze and went back to the set, leaving you with your thoughts.

Later, when everyone was gathering to say goodbye to Rudy, you couldn’t bring yourself to go near him. You watched from a distance as he was surrounded by hugs, encouragement, and smiles. He seemed happy—or at least relieved. But to you, it all felt like a façade.

You knew you’d eventually have to face him, but you were too angry to do it now. Every time someone asked if you were going to say goodbye, you just answered, “Maybe later.”

The anger you felt toward Rudy had become constant. No matter how much you tried to justify it or make sense of it, it always led back to the same thing: he acted like none of this mattered. Like losing his friends, his job, and everything you’d built together meant nothing.

But what bothered you most wasn’t just his apparent indifference it was how, deep down, you found yourself wanting him. You hated yourself for it. You tortured yourself with thoughts that if things had been different if his girlfriend wasn’t in the picture, if he could see things the way you did—you wouldn’t be here now. But you knew he wasn’t that kind of person, which is why you’d always tried to give him the best advice, even if it hurt.

The night before Rudy officially left the set, he came to find you. You had just finished packing up your things and were walking to the parking lot when you saw him waiting by your car.

“Can we talk?” he asked, his expression unfamiliar. He looked exhausted, almost desperate.

“What for?” you shot back, crossing your arms. Sarcasm had become your go-to defense. “To have one last argument? That seems to be all we do lately.”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair.

“I don’t want to argue. I just... I need to explain myself.”

You were caught off guard by that. You hesitated for a moment before tilting your head toward the passenger seat.

“Talk.”

He leaned against your car, staring at the ground before finally speaking.

“I know you think I don’t care about any of this. That I’m just walking away because none of it matters to me. But that’s not true.”

You rolled your eyes, unable to hide your disbelief.

“Oh, really? Because it sure seems like you don’t care. You’ve distanced yourself from everyone, didn’t even try to fix things, and now you’re just leaving. What do you expect us to think?”

“It’s not that I don’t care. It’s just... I don’t know how to handle it,” he admitted, with a sincerity you hadn’t seen in him for a long time.

You stared at him, trying to figure out if he really meant it or if it was just another excuse.

“Rudy, we’ve all tried to help you. Madison, Chase, even the directors. We all wanted to help, but you wouldn’t listen to anyone. And you can’t blame us for being upset when it seems like all you care about is keeping someone happy who doesn’t even understand what you do.”

“It’s not as easy as you make it sound,” he shot back, his voice rising slightly. “She didn’t ask for this. She didn’t ask to compete with fans, theories, or with you.”

“With me?” you asked, stepping closer to him, feeling anger boil inside you again. “Are you seriously saying this is my fault?”

“No, that’s not what I meant,” he said quickly, but it was too late.

“Listen, I never tried to make you choose between your career and your relationship. In fact, I always told you that you could have both if you just took a second to put things into perspective. But you didn’t. You chose to pull away, not just from me, but from everyone. And now, you’re leaving. So tell me, what else do you want me to do?”

For a moment, he didn’t seem to have an answer. He just looked at you, his lips slightly parted, like he was searching for the right words.

“I want you to understand that this wasn’t an easy decision,” he finally said. “And I want you to know that I never wanted us to end up like this.”

You laughed, though there was nothing funny about the situation.

“Is that it? You want my forgiveness? Or are you expecting me to sit here feeling sorry for myself because you decided to throw everything away?”

He took a step toward you, but you stepped back.

“No. I’ve had enough. Do what you have to do. Go live your life, but don’t expect me to sit here waiting for you to realize you made a mistake. Because you did. Not just with me, but with everyone who cared about you here.”

His eyes darkened, but he didn’t argue. He just nodded slowly, like he was accepting your words.

“Goodbye,” he said, with a sadness he hadn’t shown before.

“Goodbye, Rudy,” you replied.”

After that night, Rudy disappeared from your life. No immediate messages, no attempts to reconnect—at least not in the first few weeks. You didn’t reach out either. You’d made everything clear that last time, and you didn’t want to go back to a cycle of arguments that never seemed to end.

But as the weeks went by and the Outer Banks team started gearing up for the promotion of the new season, something inevitable happened: contact between you two. The first time you saw a message from him, you were going through emails, looking for info about the upcoming red carpet event.

It was simple, almost casual.

Rudy: “Hey. Hope you’re doing okay. How’s everything going?”

You read it a couple of times, trying to decide if it was worth replying. You knew he’d probably written and rewritten that message several times before sending it, but you still weren’t ready to fully open that door again. Finally, you typed:

You: “All good. You?”

It took him days to reply. When he did, it was just as brief.

Rudy: “Good too. Thanks for asking.”

It didn’t seem like much, but for someone like Rudy, who always avoided uncomfortable conversations, it was something. The messages continued—spaced out, always short. He’d ask how work was going; you’d reply politely, sometimes returning the question, other times leaving the thread hanging. It didn’t feel like a conversation between friends, more like an attempt to hold onto something that wasn’t really there anymore.

When the first promotional event for the new season rolled around, you knew it was only a matter of time before you saw him. The whole cast was there—except Rudy—but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t show up. Even though he wasn’t actively part of the show anymore, his character was still important, and the producers wanted him there to honor that legacy.

The anxiety hit days before the event. Even though you’d managed to respond to some of his messages neutrally, the thought of seeing him in person made your heart race. You didn’t know how you’d react. Would you ignore him? Act like nothing happened? Talk?

The day came quicker than you’d hoped. You got ready in your hotel room, surrounded by stylists and makeup artists doing their thing while you stared at your reflection in the mirror, lost in thought. You wore a stunning dress, something that screamed strength and confidence, but inside, you felt more vulnerable than ever.

When you arrived at the event, the usual chaos of red carpets consumed you—flashes, photographers yelling, rapid-fire interviews. Everything seemed to be going as expected until you saw him. Rudy was on the other side of the carpet, talking to a group of reporters. He wore a simple but sharp suit, and while his smile was polite, there was something in his eyes you couldn’t quite figure out.

Madison, standing next to you, nudged you lightly.

“There he is,” she murmured, not needing to clarify who she meant.

“I know,” you said, trying to keep your composure.

You knew you’d eventually have to cross paths with him, but you avoided it as much as you could. There were interviews to do, group photos to take, fans to greet, and you stayed as far away from him as possible the whole time.

The red carpet premiere was everything you’d expected—flashes, shouting fans, excitement everywhere. But for you, it all felt distant. Rudy and you barely glanced at each other the entire time. It was like you were both in your own worlds, aware of the crowd but completely detached from everything else.

There was an awkward tension in the air, one you couldn’t ignore. The pain from the past months was still there, but it wasn’t something you were willing to show in public. The press team and photographers fired off quick questions, and while the flashes lit up everyone’s faces, you responded just enough, smiling when necessary. Still, Rudy’s presence, even from a distance, made you feel shaky.

Every now and then, your eyes met his—brief, almost fleeting—but always heavy with something you couldn’t name. He didn’t approach you, didn’t try to break the ice. He kept his distance, and everything between you stayed frozen, like time had stopped. The laughter and chatter around you felt mechanical, as if all your emotions were locked away in a room neither of you wanted to enter.

It wasn’t until you moved inside the venue for the screening that things shifted. The photographers were still snapping group photos, this time with the entire cast. A bunch of people surrounded you, and among them, somehow, was Rudy. You didn’t even notice when he got closer, but when one of the photographers gestured for everyone to squeeze in, Rudy slid in beside you. Without a word, he put his hand on your waist, stepping closer to position himself next to you. The move caught you off guard.

The photographer, clearly waiting for that moment, shouted instructions.

“Closer, please!” he called as flashes started going off again.

Instinctively, you leaned into Rudy, the heat of his body almost too much, a reminder of everything you’d once shared. The closeness made you uneasy, but it also surprised you how natural it felt for him. Like nothing had changed. Like everything was fine.

The flashes kept coming. Then, in the middle of it all, Rudy leaned in slightly, his voice barely audible over the chaos of the cameras.

“Just for tonight,” he murmured, with a faint but genuine smile, like he was trying to ease the tension.

You froze for a second, staring at him. Annoyance bubbled inside you, but you knew this was part of the job. It was a moment neither of you could avoid, no matter how much you wished you could.

“Just for tonight,” you repeated, more to yourself than to him, taking a deep breath as you forced a smile onto your face.

The photographer kept directing the group, asking for different poses, more smiles, more closeness. A part of you wanted to pull away, but another part knew that would only make things worse. So you went with it, doing what was expected, perfect smile, flawless posture, all while Rudy’s hand stayed on your waist, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the photographer signaled that the shoot was done. Rudy’s hand dropped from your waist, but he didn’t step away. He looked at you, his gaze holding too many unspoken words.

“You okay?” he asked softly, his voice low, meant only for you.

You looked at him, feeling the words catch in your throat. There was something ironic about that question. You knew the answer wasn’t as simple as “yes.” Everything between you two was so tangled, so complicated, that words seemed pointless.

“I’m fine,” you replied, though it didn’t feel true. The answer came out more robotic than honest, but you weren’t willing to give him more than that.

Once again, the distance between you both became tangible. Rudy didn’t push. He gave you one last look before turning back to the group, rejoining the rest of the cast. You, on the other hand, stayed there for a moment, trying to process what had just happened.

Even though you’d had to interact with him for work, the frustration lingered in your chest.

The night went on, and you knew you’d have to face him again at some point. The red carpets, the events, the interviews—it was all part of the job. But at the end of the day, all that was left between you two was the weight of a past you still didn’t know how to let go of.

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