#how to fix dripping faucet

[blissfulbathroom]

Mastering the Art of Fixing a Dripping Faucet: Your Ultimate Guide

When it comes to dealing with the pesky nuisance of a dripping faucet, we understand your frustration. That incessant, rhythmic drip not only wastes precious water but can also disrupt your peace of mind. In this comprehensive guide, we, the experts in plumbing and household maintenance, will empower you with the knowledge and skills to fix that dripping faucet like a pro.

The Irritating Symphony of a Dripping Faucet

A dripping faucet is not just a minor annoyance; it's a hidden source of water wastage that can significantly impact your utility bills and the environment. According to the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA), a single faucet dripping at a rate of one drop per second can waste over 3,000 gallons of water in a year! Moreover, the incessant sound can lead to sleepless nights and frayed nerves.

Tools of the Trade

Before we delve into the step-by-step process of fixing your dripping faucet, let's gather the essential tools and materials you'll need for this DIY plumbing endeavor. Having the right equipment on hand will make the task smoother and more efficient.

1. Adjustable Wrench

An adjustable wrench is your trusty companion for loosening and tightening various faucet components.

2. Replacement Parts

Depending on your faucet type, you may need replacement parts such as O-rings, washers, or cartridges. Make sure to identify your faucet model and purchase the necessary components.

3. Screwdrivers

Both flathead and Phillips screwdrivers are essential for removing screws and accessing hidden parts within the faucet.

4. Plumber's Tape

Also known as Teflon tape, plumber's tape is crucial for preventing leaks in threaded connections.

5. Bucket and Towels

Be prepared for some water spillage by having a bucket and towels nearby to catch and clean up any mess.

Identifying the Culprit

Understanding the anatomy of your faucet is the first step in resolving the issue. While there are various faucet types, most dripping faucets can be attributed to one of the following common culprits:

1. Worn-Out O-Rings

O-rings are small rubber gaskets that create a watertight seal within the faucet. Over time, they can deteriorate, leading to leaks.

2. Damaged Washers

Washers, located in the faucet handles, can wear down or become damaged, resulting in a constant drip.

3. Faulty Cartridge

Cartridges control the flow of water in modern faucets. If the cartridge is defective, it can cause leakage.

4. Corroded Valve Seat

A valve seat is the connection between the faucet and the spout. Corrosion in this area can lead to leaks.

The Fixing Process

Now that we've identified potential issues, it's time to roll up our sleeves and get to work. Follow these steps diligently to fix your dripping faucet:

Step 1: Turn Off the Water Supply

Before you begin, ensure that the water supply to the faucet is completely shut off. Look for shut-off valves under the sink or at the main water supply.

Step 2: Dismantle the Faucet

Using your adjustable wrench and screwdrivers, carefully dismantle the faucet. Be sure to keep track of the removed parts and their order to facilitate reassembly.

Step 3: Inspect and Replace Components

Examine the O-rings, washers, cartridge, and valve seat for signs of wear, damage, or corrosion. Replace any faulty components with the new ones you've gathered.

Step 4: Reassemble the Faucet

Reassemble the faucet in the reverse order of disassembly. Ensure that all parts fit snugly and securely.

Step 5: Turn On the Water Supply

Once the faucet is reassembled, slowly turn on the water supply to check for leaks. If there are no leaks, congratulations! You've successfully fixed your dripping faucet.

Preventative Maintenance

To avoid future faucet troubles, consider implementing regular preventative maintenance:

Periodically clean and lubricate the faucet to prevent mineral buildup.

Check for and address leaks promptly to prevent further damage.

Install water-saving aerators to reduce water wastage and save on utility bills.

By mastering these simple techniques, you can keep your faucets in optimal condition and enjoy a drip-free, peaceful home.

Conclusion

In this comprehensive guide, we've equipped you with the knowledge and skills to conquer the annoyance of a dripping faucet. By identifying the root causes and following our step-by-step fixing process, you can save water, money, and your sanity.

Looking for more tips on bathroom maintenance and fixtures? Check out these informative articles on BlissfulBathroom:

Easy Ways to Fix a Dripping Faucet: Dive deeper into faucet troubleshooting and repair techniques.

Is Your Bathroom Vanity High Quality?: Learn how to assess the quality of your bathroom vanity and make informed choices during renovations.

How to Clean Bathroom Taps: A Step-by-Step Guide: Discover a thorough guide to keeping your bathroom taps sparkling and functional.

Are Faucet Cartridges Universal?: Gain insights into faucet cartridges and whether they are interchangeable across different brands.

So, don't let that pesky drip continue to torment you. Take control and become a DIY plumbing pro. Fixing a dripping faucet is not just a household chore; it's a step towards a more sustainable and tranquil living environment.

A well-maintained faucet is a happy faucet.

[grumblytumbleweed]

Moen Faucet Cartridge Replacement - Single Handle Bathtub Plumbing Repai... Step by step replacement of a Moen bathtub faucet cartridge with a specialty puller too.  I saved a lot of money by doing this repair myself instead of calling a plumber.  

[miks-delusional-blog]

Imagine BF! Jason Todd…

Imagine BF! Jason Todd, but he’s not very good with his words so he shows his love in other ways.

He remembers everything you say. Almost to annoying degree where he’ll quote you verbatim in an argument.

But, he will always remember everything you ramble about. So if you off handedly talk about a snack you had as a kid next time he’s at the store he’ll find it for you.

Maybe one day the two of you come back to you apartment, the door squeaks as you open and close it. You mutter to yourself “Need to oil that…” before continuing with conversation. After a few weeks you notice there’s no more squeaking from your door and perhaps it hasn’t been squeaking for a while when you reflect on it. You comment on it and Jason just replies “oiled it ages ago”.

Maybe Jason keeps doing these nice things without telling you. You never seem to run out of toilet paper. Your kitchen faucet isn’t dripping anymore. The locks on your windows work. Your fan spins without noise. You always have ice in the ice tray.

It sort of makes you feel insane. Not knowing what nice thing Jason has done without telling you. You’ve never seen him fix things around you apartment- or fill the ice tray!

So when you confront him about it, not with aggression but with slight bewilderment he’s a little bit stuck on how to respond.

“Are you… angry?” He asks with a tinge of embarrassment.

“No…I’m not…but… why don’t you tell me you do all of this?”

He averts his eyes for moment “I don’t know… guess I just… sort of do them without thinking too much about it. And I don’t want to make you think you have to thank me for all this stuff- I just… wanna make sure you’re comfortable.”

“Oh… well, that’s very sweet of you but I want to thank you. I want to appreciate everything you do for me-“

“You do.”

“No- I don’t… you- I want you to know how much I appreciate you. You do so much for me- even things that aren’t like urgent. I’ve never seen you fill that ice tray- but there’s always ice!”

Jason can’t help but let a small chuckle slip.

You feign a hard stare but your lip curls a little. “It’s not funny. Makes me feel insane. Like I got a-a magic house fairy that fixes things and buys toilet paper. You don’t have to do all that stuff for me you know.”

“I want to.”

“Why?”

“Cause I love you-…” it slips out before he can stop it.

Shit. Is it too soon to say that?

“…well. I love you too.” You return with a smile.

[kiwriteswords]

Yours, Mine, but Never Ours [Aaron Hotchner x Reader]

Masterlist|| Ao3||Word Count: 6.6k|| AN: This is inspired by the gifset of Hotch + his wedding ring last week. I really mulled over the idea of Hotch, his trauma, and likely idea of marriage. I had originally--and really went back and forth on this--planned out a sad ending for this, but I couldn't do that to you all. Tags/Warnings: female reader, established relationship, jack hotchner, mentions of Haley hotchner, fear of commitment, marriage issues, spoilers to seasons 3-5, Derek and Rossi giving Hotch shit for his personal issues, talks of marriage, talks of death, angst, hurt/comfort, anxiety, reader couldn't give two damns about marriage, but hotch is old fashioned and conflicted, happy ending Summary: For someone as traditional as Aaron Hotchner, the topic of marriage shouldn't be one he shied away from. But given his past? Nothing scares him more.

Aaron Hotchner stood at the kitchen sink, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the warmth of soapy water lapping at his wrists.

Golden evening sunlight spilled softly through the half-open blinds, casting gentle stripes of light across the countertop and illuminating the porcelain dishes he methodically rinsed.

Behind him, at the kitchen island, Jack sat with homework spread around him, colored pencils scattered like confetti across the marble surface.

Aaron listened quietly to the gentle rhythm of pencil scratches and Jack's occasional murmurs as he read aloud softly.

"Dad?" Jack’s voice broke through the quiet hum of the dishwasher.

"Yeah, buddy?" Hotch replied, glancing over his shoulder.

Jack looked thoughtful, head tilted slightly, his brow furrowed in a familiar expression—

One he'd inherited from Aaron himself.

"Are you going to marry her?"

The casual innocence of the question hit Aaron like a splash of cold water. 

He paused mid-motion, water dripping from the plate suspended above the sink, eyes fixed on the steady drip-drip-drip into the basin below.

"Marry who, Jack?" He managed a neutral tone, heart suddenly heavier in his chest.

Hotch expected your name to come from Jack, but it still continued to catch him off guard. Jack’s eyes sparkled, entirely oblivious to his father's sudden tension.

Aaron slowly set the plate down, turning off the faucet, and dried his hands carefully with a navy towel. He took a deliberate breath, calming the racing pulse beneath his carefully composed expression.

“Jack…” he hesitated slightly, keeping his tone even.

"Yeah!" Jack interrupted eagerly, nodding vigorously. "I really like her. I think she’d be a good wife for you. And she makes pancakes better than anyone."

Aaron felt the corners of his lips twitch, betraying the smile fighting to emerge at Jack’s earnestness. 

You had become such an integral part of their lives that he hadn’t fully realized how deeply Jack had attached himself to you. Or perhaps, he admitted quietly to himself, how deeply he himself had become attached.

"Well," he began, stepping slowly toward the island, where Jack sat expectantly. Aaron leaned forward slightly, meeting his son's bright eyes. "Sometimes, marriage is… it’s complicated."

Jack tilted his head curiously, brows knitting deeper. "Why?"

Aaron swallowed hard, suddenly conscious of the persistent ache that seemed permanently woven into the fabric of his heart—

A remnant of old wounds never fully healed.

"Because…when you marry someone, you promise to always keep them safe, to always be there. And sometimes…" He paused, gently ruffling Jack’s soft brown hair, searching for the right words. "Sometimes life makes it hard to keep that promise."

Jack’s expression softened, becoming thoughtful and mature beyond his years. "Like with mom?"

Aaron's heart clenched painfully at the simple acknowledgment, but he forced a gentle nod. "Yeah, buddy. Like with mom."

Jack considered this silently, carefully rolling a blue pencil between his small fingers. Finally, he looked back up at his father with steady, serious eyes. "But we still love mom. And I think you can still love someone else too. Like you love mom, but different."

Aaron’s breath caught sharply in his chest. He stared down at his son, astounded by the profound wisdom carried in such innocent words. Jack gave him a shy smile, small but deeply reassuring.

Aaron reached out gently, placing a steadying hand on Jack’s shoulder. He knew he owed his son honesty—

At least as much as he could comfortably offer.

"You know," he finally said, voice soft, vulnerable, and undeniably sincere, "I really care about her."

"Good." Jack nodded firmly, returning to his homework with newfound decisiveness. "Because we both like having her around."

Aaron straightened, letting out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Through the window, twilight began to deepen, colors bleeding into shades of lavender and deep blue, shadows stretching quietly across their small, familiar kitchen.

As the quiet settled once more, Aaron found himself thinking about you, about Jack’s words, and about the soft warmth he'd started associating with your presence. It terrified him, the depth of this feeling—

How easily and completely you’d settled into every corner of his life and heart.

Jack resumed his homework as if nothing monumental had just transpired, the gentle scratching of his pencil filling the contemplative silence. Aaron watched him briefly, a soft, affectionate ache filling his chest, before turning slowly back toward the sink.

In the quiet simplicity of the moment, he knew one thing clearly:

His son was right. You had quietly, undeniably woven yourself into their lives.

And now, Aaron had to figure out what to do about it.

The thought took root quietly, like an errant seed drifting into fertile soil, taking hold in the darkness and growing tangled and stubborn as it bloomed.

Marriage.

Aaron hadn’t intended for it to become something he thought about, but Jack’s innocent question echoed relentlessly in his mind—

At work, in meetings, late at night when he tried to find rest. It threaded through his thoughts when he watched you reading quietly on the couch, when he saw you laughing with Jack in the backyard, and even now, as he stood in the bullpen at the BAU, staring blankly through the window of his office, watching you across the bullpen.

You were speaking animatedly to Garcia, laughing at something she’d whispered. Your hand fluttered briefly to your hair, brushing a loose strand behind your ear—

A gesture so natural. 

So ordinary, yet lately, every little detail seemed steeped in meaning.

He wondered how he’d gotten here—

How you'd become someone he couldn’t imagine living without. 

The idea itself was quietly terrifying. After Haley’s death, after the brutal way that chapter of his life ended, Aaron had silently vowed to himself that he'd never step back into that vulnerability again. He’d convinced himself that emotional isolation was simpler, safer—

Far less painful.

But you were a soft disruption to his hardened rules, somehow slipping quietly through every defensive barrier he’d erected around his heart. 

Now, as he watched you laugh, your eyes sparkling and filled with warmth, he realized with stark clarity that he wanted to spend his life with you. But at the very same moment, something deep and raw within him recoiled, filled with dread at the risk that kind of love presented.

He thought of Haley—

The first time they'd met, their wedding day, the promises whispered softly in candlelight, promises of forever that had ended abruptly. 

Violently. 

Marriage meant vulnerability. It meant offering his heart, wholly and without reserve, knowing how easily it could be ripped away.

“You good, Hotch?”

Dave’s voice broke him sharply from his thoughts. Aaron startled slightly, turning to find Rossi leaning casually in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, observing him with careful eyes.

“Fine,” Aaron answered quickly—

Too quickly, he realized.

Rossi raised a brow, stepping slowly inside the office, nudging the door closed behind him. “You’ve never been good at lying to me, Aaron.”

Hotch sighed softly, rubbing his forehead. “Just...thinking.”

“Must be some pretty heavy thoughts,” Rossi observed, following Aaron’s gaze out toward you. Understanding crossed his face. “Ah.”

“It’s nothing,” Aaron deflected quietly, knowing it was useless even as he spoke the words.

Rossi moved further into the room, settling against the edge of the desk. 

Aaron shot him a quiet look, momentarily surprised. Rossi simply offered a sympathetic smile.

“You’re not exactly subtle, Aaron,” Rossi said gently. “I’ve seen that look before—the one where the past and the future start to blur together.”

Aaron hesitated, the tension in his jaw visible, emotions pressing beneath a carefully maintained surface. “Jack…Jack asked me if I would marry her,” He sighed, “It was just an innocent question. But—” He broke off, feeling foolish.

“But you’re terrified,” Rossi finished quietly.

Aaron’s eyes flickered back out the window. You had moved, crossing back toward your own desk, unaware of the turmoil raging inside him.

He felt selfish, torn between longing and fear, aching for the simplicity of your touch, your warmth, yet paralyzed by the haunting memories of what could happen—what had happened once before.

“Marriage almost destroyed me once,” Aaron admitted quietly, the words barely audible even in the quiet of the office. “Not just divorce—but the guilt, the danger, losing Haley the way I did. Losing everything. Jack almost losing both of us…almost losing Jack. I swore I’d never put anyone else through that. Especially someone I—”

“Someone you love,” Rossi interjected gently.

Aaron drew a sharp breath, giving a stiff nod. “Someone I love.”

Rossi pushed gently, cautiously. “Have you talked to her about it?”

Aaron shook his head slowly, eyes never leaving you as you settled at your desk, pen dancing lightly across paper. He took in every detail—the way your hair fell against your cheek, the graceful slope of your shoulders, the familiar tilt of your head—and suddenly felt the unbearable heaviness of what he stood to lose.

“It isn’t fair to her,” Aaron murmured, voice thickening. “She deserves certainty. Not my fears.”

Rossi placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Aaron, don’t underestimate her. You���re afraid because you’ve lived the worst-case scenario—but you’ve also survived it. You’re allowed to be happy again.”

Aaron was quiet for a long moment, absorbing Rossi’s words, feeling them settle somewhere deep and aching within him.

“I don’t know if I can put her at risk like that. I don’t know if I could survive losing someone else,” he admitted softly. “But God help me—I can’t imagine letting her go either.”

Rossi’s expression softened knowingly, compassionately. “Then don’t.”

Aaron let the simple truth of it sink in, a quiet ache lodged in his chest. His eyes returned to you again, watching as you tucked your hair behind your ear once more, your smile gentle, unburdened.

I can’t lose you, he thought desperately, even as fear tightened around him, relentless and choking.

And he knew—painfully, inevitably—that sooner or later, he’d have to face the possibility of opening that conversation, sharing those fears, or risk losing you anyway.

But for now, he stood quietly in the shadow of his past, trapped between memories of what had been lost and the quiet, terrifying beauty of what could still be found.

hat night, the darkness in the bedroom felt heavier, thicker somehow—each silence pulsing with uncertainty. Aaron lay on his back, eyes tracing the shadowy patterns along the ceiling as he felt your soft breathing beside him. His chest tightened with anxiety, as though every quiet breath was slowly stealing oxygen from his lungs.

He’d always been skilled with words—careful, purposeful—but tonight, they tangled uselessly on his tongue, caught by an invisible weight that felt impossibly heavy.

“Aaron?” Your voice broke through the quiet, gentle and sleepy, as your fingers brushed softly along his chest. “You’re tense.”

His breath stuttered briefly in his throat. Of course, you’d noticed. 

You always did.

“Can’t sleep,” he murmured, voice rough with the edge of nerves.

You shifted beside him, the bed softly creaking beneath your movements. Aaron felt his heart quicken as you propped yourself up slightly, your eyes studying him thoughtfully in the dim glow of moonlight.

“Something’s been bothering you,” you whispered knowingly. Your fingertips drew small, comforting circles against his chest. “You want to talk about it?”

For a long, hesitant moment, he almost didn’t. Aaron feared the weight of what he was about to say—

The risk of shattering everything he’d grown to love.

Yet the tenderness in your touch, the gentle patience radiating from your expression, urged him onward. You deserved honesty, even if he was afraid of what came next.

Slowly, cautiously, he met your gaze. “Marriage,” he said quietly, voice tight and guarded.

Your fingers paused, hovering briefly. Aaron’s heart pounded painfully as silence settled heavily between you. He braced himself for you to pull away, for hurt or disappointment to cloud your eyes. 

He wouldn’t blame you if you got up and left—

He knew what it sounded like, the fear in his voice. 

How could he expect you to stay if he couldn’t offer more?

But instead, your lips curved softly upward, surprising him. A quiet chuckle escaped you, gentle and warm. “Is that what’s been haunting you all week?”

Aaron frowned in confusion, blinking slowly. “You...knew?”

“I had a feeling something’s been bothering you,” you whispered, your eyes gentle, affectionate, reassuring. You shifted closer, your cheek resting against his shoulder, hand gently moving once more over his chest. “Aaron, listen. I understand why marriage scares you. You don’t have to apologize for it.”

He exhaled softly, relief mingling uneasily with confusion. “Y-You don’t mind?” he murmured uncertainly.

You shook your head gently against him, voice quiet yet firm. “Aaron, marriage—it’s just paperwork to me. A certificate. A legality.” You looked up at him, eyes sparkling with gentle humor. “As a former prosecutor, you should understand paperwork doesn’t always mean much.”

A small laugh escaped him—

Surprising.

Genuine. 

Breaking some of the tension that had been suffocating him for days. 

His chest loosened, though the shadow in his mind lingered. “Still,” he continued softly, “most people expect it at some point. A wedding, a ring—something.”

You squeezed him gently, your voice clear and steady in the quiet night. “If I ever married anyone, Aaron, I’d want it to be you. But I’d never ask that of you. I know what you’ve been through. What we have—this—means more to me than vows and rings and certificates ever could.”

Aaron felt something powerful surge through him—gratitude, relief, warmth—and yet something else lingered, stubbornly unresolved. 

He wrapped his arms carefully around you, pulling you close as you settled gently against him. He pressed his lips softly to your forehead, inhaling the comforting scent of your hair.

“Thank you,” he whispered softly, meaning it more deeply than words could express.

You hummed contentedly, drifting gently toward sleep again, wrapped safely in his arms. But as your breathing evened out, Aaron lay wide awake, staring once again at the ceiling, haunted by the visions your words conjured in his mind.

He imagined a life for you—

A real one.

Complete with celebrations and milestones, the kind that were marked by gold bands, carefully spoken promises, laughter, joy, perhaps even children of your own. The thought pierced him deeply—

A life you might never have because of his past, because of his pain, because of him.

He wondered if he was stopping you from the quiet life you deserved. 

The one with a husband who wouldn’t bring danger home constantly. He cringed, thinking of another man’s hands getting to hold him at the end of the night, but this ordinary man could give you so much more than Aaron was comfortable even thinking about. 

Guilt wrapped tightly around his heart, squeezing with a terrible, relentless force. He imagined resentment clouding your eyes someday, silent regrets staining quiet evenings, things left unspoken but deeply felt. The selfishness of it stung sharply.

As you slept softly beside him, trusting him, loving him unconditionally, Aaron silently grappled with the invisible weight pressing heavily against his chest.

He knew you'd meant what you'd said tonight—

He had no doubts about your sincerity. Yet it still haunted him, the fear that one day you’d look at him and realize you deserved more than he could ever offer.

And as he lay awake, your body curled softly, trustingly, in his arms, Aaron realized with an aching certainty:

He'd give anything to make sure you never regretted choosing him—even if it meant confronting every fear he'd ever had.

The weeks turned quietly into months, each day deepening the gentle rhythm between you, Aaron, and Jack. The comfort of routine wrapped around you both, steady and reassuring, but beneath that comfortable surface, Aaron felt himself growing restless—

An anxiety simmering just under the warmth, quiet but ever-present.

It was the milestones that haunted him most.

Like the afternoon Penelope burst into the bullpen, glittering ring catching every light, tears of joy streaming down her face as the team quickly crowded around her.

“I said yes!” she had cried joyfully, throwing her arms around Morgan, who laughed heartily and lifted her off the ground. The bullpen buzzed with congratulations, laughter, and plans for celebrations.

Aaron had watched quietly from the side, heart tightening painfully at your gentle smile and the sincere warmth in your eyes. You squeezed Penelope’s hand, genuinely thrilled for your friend, your voice filled with affection. But as Aaron stood slightly apart, his fingers clenched in quiet frustration, imagining you missing out on that kind of joy—

Of celebrations that revolved around promises he’d silently denied you.

The guilt lingered long after the excitement faded.

Or when the two of you attended a gala for the FBI, and he watched, heart heavy, as you introduced him to a former colleague of yours.

“This is Aaron Hotchner,” you’d said proudly, gently squeezing his arm. “My boyfriend.”

Boyfriend. 

Aaron had almost flinched at the word—

Not because he didn’t cherish it but because it felt so inadequate. 

He noticed the subtle reaction in your colleague’s eyes, the quick glance down at your hand, perhaps checking for a ring. He hated the way you quietly shifted your stance, almost defensively, as though expecting judgment.

Later that evening, in the darkness of the car ride home, Aaron felt you quietly watching him, reading the subtle tension in his jaw.

“Aaron,” you whispered gently, fingertips brushing his thigh, “you know none of that matters to me.”

But he hadn’t entirely believed you, even though he desperately wanted to.

Then there was the playdate at Jack’s friend’s house—

A moment, Aaron hadn’t anticipated hurting him so deeply.

“So, your wife mentioned Jack doesn’t like strawberries?” The other parent had asked casually, unloading snacks from grocery bags.

Aaron’s hesitation had been brief but painfully obvious. “Ah, actually…she’s not my wife,” he’d explained awkwardly. “My girlfriend. She’s—we live together.”

“Oh,” the parent said softly, embarrassment flashing over their face. “Sorry, I just assumed.”

Aaron had waved it away, pretending not to see the confusion, pretending not to notice the way the word ‘girlfriend’ seemed suddenly juvenile or inadequate.

He spent the rest of the afternoon tense, discomfort spreading through his chest, lingering even hours later as he walked into the kitchen and found you preparing dinner. 

Your gentle, easy smile pierced his heart.

“Hey,” you greeted softly. “Did Jack have fun?”

“Yes,” Aaron murmured, stepping behind you, wrapping his arms gently around your waist. 

He buried his face in your neck, inhaling the familiar warmth of your scent, his chest aching quietly.

You’d tilted your head gently back against him, feeling the tension in his embrace. “Everything okay?”

He’d wanted desperately to say yes—

To protect you from his burdens. 

But the words came out strained. “They thought you were my wife.”

Your shoulders stiffened slightly, then relaxed just as quickly. You’d turned in his arms, your expression patient and understanding. “Aaron, we’ve talked about this.”

“I know,” he sighed softly. “I just—I hate the idea of people misunderstanding your role in my life.”

You’d cupped his cheek gently, your thumb brushing soothingly over his skin. “I’m not worried about what they think, Aaron. I know exactly what I mean to you.”

He wanted so deeply to believe you, but even as you smiled reassuringly, he couldn’t shake the fear—

The persistent ache that whispered to him late at night, taunting him with visions of what you might eventually grow to resent.

And in the quiet darkness of his own mind, Aaron found himself caught between two impossible fears: losing you, or selfishly keeping you and robbing you of something you might one day desperately want.

He felt trapped—

Holding his breath, waiting for the inevitable day, you’d finally realize he couldn’t give you enough.

Penelope’s surprise bridal shower had transformed Rossi’s elegant backyard patio into something that looked like an enchanted garden, glowing softly beneath strands of golden fairy lights. Laughter and warm conversation carried gently through the cool evening air, mixing seamlessly with the low hum of soft music.

Aaron leaned back quietly in his chair, his eyes trailing across the table to you. Warm light flickered from small candles, catching softly in your hair and reflecting in your eyes, bright with laughter. You were seated beside Penelope, your hands resting gracefully atop the white linen tablecloth as you listened, fully engrossed in the conversation.

He knew he should have felt completely at ease surrounded by his team—his friends—but the unease he’d been carrying for weeks now seemed even heavier tonight.

“So, Garcia,” Emily called out teasingly, swirling her wine gently in her glass, a playful smile on her lips. “Did you choose the ring, or did you let your man surprise you?”

Penelope grinned brightly, eyes glittering with excitement. She extended her hand dramatically across the table, showcasing the ring proudly. “He surprised me, and he nailed it.”

JJ reached across the table, taking Penelope’s hand gently to admire the sparkling diamond more closely. “It’s gorgeous, Pen. He did amazing.”

Aaron watched quietly, his chest tightening uncomfortably as Emily’s gaze suddenly shifted toward you. “Alright, your turn,” Emily teased gently, nudging your elbow playfully. “What about you—what’s your dream ring?”

He saw your expression soften, eyes brightening as you leaned in closer, not a hint of discomfort or awkwardness visible. Aaron’s heart stalled briefly, his grip tightening subconsciously around the cool glass in his hand.

“Well,” you began softly, entirely casual, oblivious to the fact that your words were slowly twisting something inside of Aaron, “I’ve never really thought about it much, but probably something vintage-inspired. I’d want something delicate. Not too flashy.”

Aaron swallowed hard, feeling suddenly and irrationally nervous, as though everyone at the table might turn toward him at any second, reading plainly the conflict on his face. He forced himself to maintain a neutral expression, carefully raising his glass to his lips to hide his discomfort.

You continued, laughing softly, warmth in your voice, “Maybe something with a sapphire, even. I’ve never really been a diamond girl anyway.”

He caught Morgan’s eyes across the table in that moment—

Dark, knowing, and filled with playful seriousness. Morgan raised an eyebrow subtly, tilting his chin slightly toward Aaron as if to say, Are you taking notes? You better be.

Aaron looked away quickly, the weight of expectation and guilt pressing harder against his chest. He found himself staring into his wine glass, the deep red liquid gently swirling against the sides, feeling profoundly exposed. 

He felt selfish for holding back something that felt so normal, so easy to discuss for you and the others.

You glanced over at him just then, eyes warm, oblivious to the storm brewing quietly in his chest. Your smile was gentle, reassuring—

Always comforting. 

And yet, it only deepened the tightness in his chest, reinforcing his quiet dread.

Morgan cleared his throat quietly, leaning casually closer to Aaron, his voice pitched low enough that only the two of them could hear. “You good, Hotch?”

Aaron forced a careful nod, but Morgan wasn’t easily fooled. His friend’s expression softened knowingly, quietly supportive.

“Look,” Morgan said gently, glancing discreetly toward you, where you continued chatting warmly with JJ, “you know you’ve got something special. Don’t overthink it, man. She seems pretty clear about what matters most.”

Aaron nodded again, eyes still locked on you, heart aching deeply. He knew Morgan was right, yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that perhaps you deserved more than he could offer—more than he’d ever be brave enough to give.

And as laughter and excited conversation continued to fill the air around him, Aaron quietly watched you, hoping desperately that he wouldn’t someday come to regret holding you back from the life you truly deserved.

The ride home was unbearably quiet.

Aaron’s grip on the steering wheel tightened until his knuckles whitened beneath the pale illumination of passing streetlights. The silence in the car hung heavy, like an oppressive storm cloud, stifling any attempts at casual conversation. He felt trapped in his own head, frustration gnawing relentlessly at him.

Beside him, your posture was rigid, arms crossed tightly over your chest as you stared unseeingly out the passenger window. Every second of silence made Aaron’s chest feel tighter, every shallow breath adding fuel to the simmering frustration that refused to be contained.

Finally, you broke first.

“Are you seriously going to do this again?” Your voice was sharp, hurt simmering just beneath the surface. Your eyes flashed toward him in the dim light of the dashboard, wounded yet defiant.

Aaron’s jaw tightened, eyes locked forward, voice controlled and low. “I’m not doing anything.”

“Oh, please,” you snapped bitterly. “You’re tense, Aaron. You’ve been tense all night. Is it because of the damn ring conversation? Again?”

His eyes narrowed, fingers clenching tighter around the wheel. “I didn’t say a word about that.”

“You didn’t have to,” you retorted sharply. “You’ve been stuck in your own head for months now. Every time someone mentions marriage, or engagements, or God forbid a ring, you completely shut down. Do you honestly think I don’t notice?”

He exhaled sharply, frustration flaring dangerously in his chest. “You said yourself you’d want a ring. Vintage. Something delicate. Sapphires, wasn’t it?”

Your laugh was harsh, humorless. “Yeah, I did say that—because they asked. You’re making a huge deal out of nothing.”

“It’s not nothing!” Aaron’s voice rose sharply, surprising even himself. His eyes darkened, flickering with something raw and painful. “You don’t get it. You deserve all of that. You deserve someone who can give you exactly that, and I’m the one keeping it from you.”

“I told you,” you shot back, voice thickening with frustration and hurt, “I don’t care about a ring or a piece of paper or—”

“You say that now!” Aaron snapped, his words harsh and unyielding. “But what about later? What about ten years down the line when you resent me for not giving you the things you deserve, the life you pictured for yourself?”

Your eyes widened slightly in disbelief, anger sparking dangerously. “Are you kidding me right now? Aaron, I could die tomorrow. We could get into a crash right here, right now, and you really think I’d be worried about not being your wife? That some paperwork or a damn ring would make a difference in how I feel about you?”

Aaron’s jaw tightened further, breath ragged with emotion. “It’s not about the paperwork! It’s about making promises that I’ve already broken once. It’s about knowing the second I give you that, I could lose everything again. I don’t want that—I don’t want to lose you.”

“You think marriage changes that?” you challenged fiercely, voice shaking slightly. “I see myself old with you, Aaron. You. And that vision isn’t any stronger or weaker because we signed something or because I wear your ring.”

His voice cracked painfully. “You say that, but you don’t know—”

“No,” you interrupted harshly, hurt blazing in your eyes. “You’re pushing me away because you’re scared. Because you think wanting marriage again means risking it all again. Maybe you’re afraid because deep down, you actually want that with me.”

Aaron’s grip on the wheel was nearly painful, his voice dangerously quiet, trembling with barely-contained fury. “Enough.”

But you didn’t listen. You leaned closer, your voice fierce, challenging. “Is that it, Aaron? Is that what scares you? Because at the end of the day, you do want it—”

“Yes!” Aaron suddenly roared, slamming a hand against the wheel in frustration, the words erupting from somewhere deep and raw within him. The car filled with stunned silence, broken only by his heavy, ragged breathing.

His heart was pounding painfully, eyes filled with conflict, pain, and longing as he finally looked over at you, emotion raw and unguarded. “Yes,” he repeated, softer now, voice broken. “I want it. I want you. I want to call you my wife. I want it all, every damn thing that terrifies me, because I want to know that you’re mine—really mine.”

You stared back at him, eyes wide and glistening with tears, your anger replaced instantly by shock, empathy, and a deep, aching tenderness.

“I know it’s old fashioned--I’m old fashioned. But you don’t think that every day I think about wanting to buy you a ridiculously expensive ring? Or sign my entire life over to you? Because you already have it. Paper or not--my life is yours. I want you to have it. Take it.” Aaron exhaled heavily, voice unsteady with vulnerability. “But God, it scares me. It scares me more than losing you, because the moment we make it real—I could lose everything. Again.”

You reached out, your hand shaking slightly, gently resting on his tense arm. Your touch felt like an anchor amidst his storm, steadying him.

“Aaron,” you whispered softly, voice thick with emotion, “you're not going to lose me. Not because we marry or because we don't. I chose you, and I choose you every single day. Nothing changes that.”

He let out a ragged breath, feeling a quiet release in your words, but the fear still remained, tangled stubbornly within his heart.

And even as he pulled the car slowly into your driveway, the silence between you softening, Aaron knew he’d laid his fears bare, his heart open—

Completely vulnerable. 

The words had been said, and now, nothing could ever quite be the same again.

Not much was said--or done--after that conversation. A few goodnights to Jack, the quiet domesticity of getting ready for bed unfolded, but little words were said between the two of you that night. 

Exhaustion weighed far heavier on Aaron’s shoulders and he felt as if he had revealed so much--partly worried too much to you. He didn’t want to push it…push you. 

Aaron woke suddenly, sharply, his breath catching painfully in his throat as his eyes snapped open to the cold emptiness beside him. The sheets on your side of the bed were wrinkled but cool, evidence of your absence already lingering heavily in the room.

A wave of raw panic surged through him, immediate and overwhelming, twisting his stomach into painful knots. Aaron’s heart began to pound fiercely, hammering in his chest as he quickly sat up, scanning the bedroom for any trace of you. But the silence around him was oppressive, mocking, thick with dread.

He called your name hoarsely. 

No response. 

His mind flooded suddenly with memories—

Painful, vivid recollections of another empty bed, another empty room years before, and the heartbreaking absence Haley had left.

He was too late then, too stubborn, too closed-off. He’d pushed Haley away, and now—he’d pushed you away too.

Aaron felt completely unraveled, breath shallow, panic rising painfully in his chest. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, desperately trying to steady himself, fighting the pressure building behind them.

He’d finally done it. He’d pushed too hard, said too much, and now you were gone.

Gone because he couldn’t bend. Couldn’t compromise. Couldn’t allow himself to trust you fully, even after you’d given him everything. He’d selfishly forced you to carry his fears, his grief, his trauma—

And now he was alone.

He had no idea how long he sat there, paralyzed, heart painfully clenched, completely lost in the dark spiral of his thoughts until—

The quiet sound of the front door opening downstairs pulled him sharply from his despair.

Aaron froze, heart hammering with sudden hope. 

Or maybe fear. 

He couldn’t be sure.

A moment later, your footsteps echoed gently up the stairs, followed by the soft rustle of bags and a familiar, comforting scent of coffee drifting into the room. Aaron rose unsteadily, his pulse erratic, relief blooming tentatively beneath layers of anxiety and pain.

You stepped through the doorway, arms full—one hand gripping a bag from your favorite bagel shop, the other balancing a cardboard tray of coffees. When your eyes met his, you paused, startled by his clearly shaken appearance.

“Hey,” you said gently, surprise softening your expression, your voice filled with cautious warmth. “I wanted to surprise you with makeup bagels and coffee. Figured we both needed it.”

Aaron didn’t respond immediately. He couldn’t. He simply crossed the room in a heartbeat, bridging the painful gap between you, and pulled you fiercely into his arms.

You gasped softly, taken aback by the intensity behind his embrace, but your body quickly relaxed against him, sensing something deeper, more vulnerable in the way his arms clung desperately around you.

“Aaron?” you whispered, uncertainly at first, then tenderly as you felt him tremble slightly against you. “Hey, I’m right here.”

He tightened his hold, burying his face against your shoulder, his voice rough and barely audible. “I thought you left.”

You set the bags carefully aside on the nearby dresser and gently cupped his face in your palms, forcing him to look at you. The emotion in his eyes nearly undid you—

Painful vulnerability, haunted by old ghosts, old fears.

“Aaron, listen to me,” you said softly, firmly. “I’m not going anywhere. I promise you, I’m here. I didn’t leave you.”

He shook his head slightly, eyes closing for a brief moment, unable to fully trust his voice. When he opened them again, his expression was raw and achingly sincere.

“You could have,” he whispered brokenly. “You could have left, and I wouldn’t have blamed you. I was—I’ve been so unfair to you.”

You shook your head gently, your eyes filled with quiet strength and compassion. “Aaron, I need you to understand something—I chose you, knowing exactly who you are. Knowing your past, your fears, your stubbornness—all of it. And I’d choose you a thousand times over.”

He exhaled shakily, eyes glistening with unshed tears, his chest rising and falling rapidly as your words sank deeply into him. Still holding his face tenderly in your hands, you pressed your forehead gently against his.

“I’m begging you,” you murmured softly, voice steady and filled with gentle pleading, “Please start believing me.”

Aaron nodded slowly, trying desperately to internalize every word. His heart was still trembling, still afraid, but your unwavering warmth anchored him back into reality.

“I’ll try,” he whispered, the words thick with emotion. “I’ll keep trying.”

“Good,” you breathed softly, thumb brushing tenderly across his cheek. “Because I love you far too much to let you keep fighting these ghosts alone.”

His lips curved faintly; finally, the relief washed over him in waves. He tilted his head slightly, pressing a lingering, tender kiss to your forehead. He silently vowed to himself, again and again, that he would learn to trust—to accept the gift of your promise without fear.

And for the first time in a long while, he allowed himself to fully believe that the quiet future you’d promised him was real. That maybe, this time, the ghosts could finally rest.

Weeks turned quietly into months, the heaviness that had once shadowed every quiet moment slowly lifting, replaced instead by a gentle warmth—

A sense of ease Aaron hadn't felt in years. The ghosts still lingered, but they were softer now, quieter, fading slowly into the background noise of a life filled instead with laughter, steady reassurance, and you.

The team’s latest case had brought you all to Las Vegas. After the successful resolution, Hotch had surprised everyone by suggesting you all take an extra day before returning to Quantico. It was unusual—perhaps even out of character—but the team had been thrilled, quickly dispersing into the bright lights and bustling energy of the city.

After briefly checking in with Reid—who eagerly took off to visit his mother—the rest of the team scattered into various plans. It left Aaron alone with you, wandering the city, a soft and easy silence settling between you as you navigated colorful streets bathed in neon and laughter.

As the afternoon sun warmed your skin, you glanced up at Aaron, catching the thoughtful expression lingering on his face. “You’re quiet,” you murmured gently, sliding your hand into his, fingers interlocking effortlessly. “Everything okay?”

Aaron smiled softly, squeezing your hand reassuringly. “Yeah, everything’s good. Just... thinking.”

You raised a playful eyebrow, gently nudging his side. “You’re always thinking.”

Aaron’s gaze flickered down to your intertwined fingers, thumb brushing gently over yours. His voice softened thoughtfully. “I suppose I am. But today, I’m thinking about something specific.”

Your eyes met his curiously, noticing the quiet intensity and subtle apprehension in his gaze. “And what’s that?”

He paused, taking a steadying breath, his voice quiet and measured. “I’ve been wondering if you’d be open to something.”

Your heart fluttered slightly, curiosity and anticipation sparking warmly through your chest. You nodded gently, giving him a reassuring squeeze. “I’m listening.”

Aaron slowed his steps, gently pulling you aside, away from the bustling crowd, into the quiet shade of a small alcove near an ornate fountain. He reached carefully into his jacket pocket, pulling out a small velvet box, his movements steady but cautious.

Your breath hitched softly in your throat as you watched him slowly open the box, revealing a delicate, vintage-inspired sapphire ring—

Exactly the kind you’d described that night at Penelope’s bridal shower. Your heart swelled warmly, emotion rising suddenly and powerfully within you.

Aaron’s eyes held yours steadily, soft yet vulnerable. “I know I’ve made things complicated. That I’ve let my fears dictate how I approached all of this.” He swallowed quietly, his thumb running gently over the small box. “But despite all that fear, all that worry—I’m old-fashioned. I want to marry you. Not because you expect it, but because I do. I want to do right by you. I want to promise myself to you openly.”

He hesitated slightly, voice quieter, gentler. “So, I was thinking… maybe we should just elope? Here. Today. Just us. No fuss, no expectations—just you and me.”

Emotion tightened your throat, eyes shimmering with unshed tears of joy as you gazed back at him, your voice warm and steady. “Aaron, of course. Of course I’ll marry you—today, tomorrow, whenever you want. I don’t need the ceremony or fuss. All I’ve ever wanted was you.”

He exhaled softly, tension visibly leaving his shoulders, relief flooding his expression as he gently slipped the delicate sapphire ring onto your finger. “Are you sure?”

You laughed gently, pulling him into a warm, reassuring embrace, your voice filled with love, confidence, and sincerity. “Aaron, I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life. You are it for me—always have been, always will be. Nothing else matters.”

Aaron’s arms wrapped tightly around you, holding you close, and you felt the steady thud of his heartbeat against your chest. 

In that moment, beneath the shimmering Vegas sunlight, surrounded by the gentle sounds of laughter and splashing fountains, Aaron felt a deep, profound sense of peace.

All the lingering fear, the hesitation, the self-sabotage—

They vanished instantly as your reassuring words echoed gently in his ears, resonating deep within his heart.

He pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, smiling warmly against your skin as he whispered, “Then, let’s go get married?”

And just like that—

Quietly, easily, and perfectly.

You both stepped forward together, leaving behind fears and ghosts alike, moving instead toward the joyful certainty of forever.

Tag List: @zaddyhotch @estragos @todorokishoe24 @looking1016  @khxna @rousethemouse @averyhotchner @reidfile @bernelflo @lover-of-books-and-tea @frickin-bats @sleepysongbirdsings @justyourusualash @person-005 @iyskgd @hiireadstuff @kcch-ns @alexxavicry @Sweethotchlogy @softtdaisy @superlegend216

[dawngyu]

WHAT REMAINS THE SAME

pairing: choi beomgyu x single-parent reader

On the hardest, most terrifying day of your life, when your body is tearing open and everything feels like it’s coming undone, his name is the only one your heart remembers to call for.

warnings: childhood friends, longing, romance, angst, second chance, pregnancy, set somewhere in 90s, mistakes, parenting, flashbacks, timeskips, guilt, alcohol-induced!manipulation, descriptions of giving birth, subtle signs of postpartum!d, plot heavy, pov switching, drunk in-love beomgyu (lol), abandonment, used different idols as ocs. if any of the warnings above might be triggering for you, please step back. let me know if I missed anything. this is a work of fiction.

smut!warnings: multiple-smut scenes, missionary, nipple-play, fingering, oral!fem receiving, virginity-loss.

wc: 31k

notes: hiii! took long but she's here. i've dreamt about this once, and i couldn't stop writing. while I’ve done some research to better understand what it’s like to be a mother, there may still be inaccuracies, i did my best to approach the subject with care and respect. xxx

How does it feel to grow up with someone, know their laughter, their fears, the way their voice sounds in the dark and then never see them again?

A part of you is missing and you’re the only one who knows.

Would things be easier if there was closure?

Closure when your parents shattered whatever was left of a home, walking away like love was something that could be unlearned. Closure when you realized your dreams of college were slipping, no matter how tightly you held on. Closure when your anger turned inward—when your foot slammed into a doorframe and the only person you could blame was the one looking back in the mirror.

Would it hurt less if you had said goodbye to him? Or would it have made losing him even worse?

"Mom, I'm gonna be late!"

You hurriedly dab lipstick onto your lips, your other hand frantically smoothing down your hair, hoping it doesn’t look like a complete disaster.

"Mommy?"

"Just a second, sweetheart," you mumble, shoving the lipstick back onto the cluttered vanity before standing up to steal one last glance in the mirror. It’s not perfect. But then again, when have you ever been?

You step out of the room, each movement slower than it should be, the kind of tired that sleep can’t fix clinging to your bones. The stairs creak beneath your feet, groaning like they know how heavy it all is.

At the bottom, she’s already waiting. Your daughter, backpack snug and shoes on the wrong feet again, bouncing like the world is brand new. Her smile hits you like sunlight through a window you forgot was there... so full of life it steals the breath from your lungs.

You force a smile back. You’re getting good at that.

It’s almost cruel, how radiant she looks. Hair brushed, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with a kind of hope you haven’t felt in years. And then there’s you, barely held together, eyes raw from the night you didn’t sleep, wearing yesterday’s grief under today’s clothes.

People say kids reflect their parents. But she glows, and you… you’re flickering. And still, you kneel to tie her shoelaces. Still, you kiss her forehead and tell her she’s going to have the best day. Because even when you’re unraveling, you stitch yourself back together for her.

"You ready?"

"Aye, aye, captain!" she giggles.

You should be laughing with her, but your steps slow as your eyes catch the steady drip of the kitchen faucet. The soft plink, plink, plink echoes, a reminder of another thing left unfixed, another problem waiting for your attention.

You exhale, rubbing your temple. “Guess I’ll have to call someone to fix that… again.”

When you turn back, she’s already watching you—wide-eyed, her face painted with innocent curiosity. She doesn’t ask what’s wrong, doesn’t understand the weight of things like broken faucets, overdue bills, and work that keeps you up at night.

And you don’t want her to. Not while she can still giggle over silly things and believe the world is simple.

You double-check the locks before leaving. It’s muscle memory by now. Stove off, windows closed, doors latched tight. You scan the room one last time. You carry her to the car, buckle her in, and start the engine. The morning air is cold, the silence even colder but she fills it like she always does. Why are there more clouds today? Why are wheels round? Why is it called a car?

And you answer every question, every single one, because as long as she’s asking, you get to speak. You get to be known. You get to be real to someone. She knows your voice. She trusts it. And in her tiny, curious world, you are enough.

You remember the beginning. Those nights when she was barely one and you were… barely human. When her cries echoed through the walls and your body was too heavy with fatigue to even cry back. When no position, no lullaby, no amount of rocking made her stop and you were left wondering what you were doing wrong.

There were nights you stood in the hallway, holding her like a lifeline, tears sliding silently down your face while hers screamed out loud, both of you breaking in different languages.

But you’re here now, driving her to school, answering questions about clouds and wheels and words. You think… maybe you made it through the worst of it. You're still here, hands on the wheel, heart somewhere in the rearview mirror.

"Nari!" The booming voice cut through the air the moment you stepped out of the car, your daughter still nestled in your arms. You barely had time to turn before a familiar figure came sprinting toward you, like a man starved for something he’d only been missing a week. It made you chuckle, he always acted like it had been years since he last saw her.

"Uncle Binnie!"

Nari wriggled free, launching herself into his waiting arms. He caught her effortlessly, lifting her high before spinning her around, her laughter ringing out. Heads turned. Strangers watched. And you saw it too, the way he held her so easily, the way she clung to him, like father and daughter rather than what they really were.

You walked closer, and Soobin stretched out an arm, wordlessly inviting you in. You let him hold you, because you owed him your life.

"So," he said, his voice lighter now, as if this—this reunion, this familiarity—was as much his comfort as it was yours. His arm stayed draped around your shoulders, Nari tucked against his side. "How have my two favorite girls been?"

Nari giggled at the word favourite, her tiny hands clinging to him. "Mommy's been busy all days, uncle!"

The two of you laughed at the words your daughter. "Really? She's not playing with you?"

"Well, she plays with me still." She pouts and Soobin pinches her nose lightly. "But she's always busy."

You rest a hand on your daughter's head, gently smoothing her hair as her words settle deep inside you. After everything, you raised a child this kind, this thoughtful. A proof that you did something right. It burns in your chest.

She is the best thing that has ever happened to you.

The three of you walked toward the restaurant where Soobin had booked a reservation, his voice light as he chatted with Nari about her new teacher and the friends she’d made. You let them talk, let their voices blur into background noise as you glanced inside through the frosted windows.

Families.

Because it was Christmas.

A lump swells in your throat the moment you step inside. Parents leaning close to their children, wiping crumbs from tiny mouths, passing plates with gentle hands. Grandparents pulling little ones into their arms like gravity itself is made of love. Siblings bickering over who got more dessert, only to split the last bite anyway.

Every table holds something whole. Something complete. You hold your daughter's hand a little tighter.

You see it everywhere now, in the drop-off lines where both parents wave from the car window. In the grocery store, where dads lift kids onto their shoulders and moms scold them lovingly for grabbing too many snacks. In the tiny moments that most people take for granted, you see the shape of something you couldn’t give her.

Fate had a cruel way of making sure you never forget.

Nari was a big eater, one of the few traits she hadn’t inherited from you. She sat beside Soobin, happily digging into her food, her small hands clutching her utensils with eagerness. Meanwhile, you barely touched your plate, absently pushing the food around, taking a few bites here and there but never really eating.

Soobin noticed. "What's wrong?"

"Huh?"

His gaze softened, "Are you okay?" For some reason, his words made you smile. After all these years, he was still the most observant person you knew. Well… almost.

Because there had been someone else.

Someone who had noticed things about you without you ever having to say a word. Someone who had memorized the way your hands trembled when you were nervous. Someone that could read you in a glance, catch the shift in your breath before the words ever left your lips, but you haven’t seen him in years. Haven’t said his name out loud in even longer. And you weren’t sure if you ever would.

You weren't sure if you could.

"I am," you say, forcing the words out before glancing at Nari, watching as she happily munched on her pasta. "I guess I just don’t really like the holidays that much."

Soobin blinked, studying you for a moment before offering, "We can go watch a movie after dinner? Nari’s been wanting to see that one."

You nod, giving him another small, grateful smile. You reach for your water, ready to wash down the tightness in your throat, when he speaks again. "I also… heard."

You turn to him, brows furrowing. "Heard what?"

Soobin hesitates, his fingers gripping the edge of his fork. "He’s back in town."

Your heart stalls.

"Who?"

You shouldn’t have asked.

"Choi Beomgyu."

"Choi Beomgyu!" you squealed as the boy snatched the paper from your hands. "Yah! Give it back!"

"Don't cry over this," he said firmly, already folding the paper before you could grab it. Effortlessly, he slung your backpack over one arm while reaching for his own, slipping the paper inside.

A paper you were sure you’d never see again.

"What would my parents think, idiot?"

"I’d just tell them you got passing marks. No way they’d believe a high score anyway—ouch, ouch! I’m sorry! Fuck!" Beomgyu yelped as you tugged at his ear, swatting weakly at your hands in protest. His ears turned red, whether from the pull or the fact that you touched him, you weren’t sure.

"You think I haven’t already tried that?" you huffed.

"Well, no," he admitted. "But your parents love me more than you—ow! I mean, I mean, they see me as their own kid!" He laughed at your pout, eyes crinkling with amusement.

"You wanna be siblings then?"

"Hell no."

You turned away at his answer, crossing your arms as you walked. The buttons of your high school uniform pressed uncomfortably into your skin, but you ignored it. Beomgyu, your best friend, immediately followed. Like he always did.

The Beomgyu magnet to Y/N.

That’s what everyone called it.

Students stared as the two of you walked, their gazes lingering a little too long. A few even called out to Beomgyu, tossing him belated "Happy 19th birthday!" greetings, nevermind that his birthday had been last week.

Maybe that was just the price of being him. The kind of popular where people scrambled for any excuse to talk to you, even if it meant getting the date wrong. He’s smart, been in the school band since forever, and unfortunately, he’s not exactly hard to look at.

Not that you’d ever say that out loud.

"You mad?" he asked beside you. You shook your head, not even looking at him. From the corner of your eye, you caught the smirk tugging at his lips. "Hungry?"

You swatted his hand away when he poked at your sides, barely listening to his words. Beomgyu didn’t get the hint or maybe he did and just didn’t care. Either way, you kept walking, your chest tight, your hands curled into fists at your sides.

That damn test paper, crumpled inside his bag like it wasn’t another reminder of your failure. Like it wasn’t proof that no matter how hard you tried, it still wasn’t enough. You stayed up late. You gave up sleep, let the words blur and the numbers dance until they made sense. And for what? A score so low it made your stomach churn. The people that said they barely studied flashed scores that were twice as high as yours. Effortless. Like success was something they were born with, something they carried in their blood while you were left clawing for scraps.

It’s pathetic, isn’t it? That the only thing you have is passion and even that can’t save you.

"Hey."

You hadn’t even noticed your best friend catching up, too lost in your own head to hear his footsteps, but now he was in front of you, walking backward to see your face, deliberately blocking your path. "Don't think about it," he said,"I told you not to."

"I wasn’t thinking about anything.",The lie barely made it past your lips. You swallowed hard, forcing your voice to stay steady, but it was useless. Especially when he was looking at with the soft eyes of his.

There are moments you catch yourself wanting to pull away from him. Not because he did anything wrong—the opposite, really. He’s everything you’re not. He barely studies but still gets by with decent grades, he’s effortlessly good at almost everything, like life just hands him a script and he nails it every time. And you hate that it gets to you. You wanted to pull away from him.

How do you resent someone who’s never done anything but shine?

"Y/N," His eyes searched yours. "You look like you're about to cry."

You blinked at his words, but they don’t surprise you anymore. Beomgyu has always been seeing you. You clear your throat, a flimsy attempt to steady yourself, but he’s still looking at you. Still seeing too much. And then it happens—the slightest sniff, barely there, but he catches it.

"Can we go now?" Your voice trembles, and the second it does, his eyes widen just a little, something unreadable flashing across them. When he sees the gloss in yours, he reaches for you, fingers wrapping safely around your wrist.

"Come on," he murmurs, tugging you forward. You let him, swallowing back the lump in your throat, willing yourself not to fall apart here.

Not in front of everyone.

Being the daughter of a family of eleven, no one expected much from you. You were just another name in a crowded house, another body squeezed into too little space. School was a luxury, not a necessity. No one thought you’d make it past middle school.

Except your mother.

She saw the way your fingers traced the edges of worn-out textbooks, the way your eyes lingered on words you barely understood but desperately wanted to. And she let you chase that dream, even when it meant stretching what little you had even thinner.

"Hard work never betrays you," they say. But they never tell you how much it can hurt, because what do you do when you give everything; your nights, your energy, your hope, only to fall short? How are you supposed to believe in effort when all it leaves you with is failure?

"Stop sniffing, Y/N!" Choi Soobin snaps, his half-eaten lunch sitting in front of him on the makeshift mat spread across the school rooftop. "Seriously, it's driving me crazy."

You press your handkerchief to your nose again, trying to stay quiet. It’s lunchtime, but your food stays untouched. Just the thought of eating turns your stomach.

"Maybe stop talking with your mouth full," Beomgyu cuts in, not even bothering to look up. Then he glances at Soobin and adds, flatly, "And don’t yell at her."

"I'm just so pissed about that teacher giving her such a low score. Did you see her essay? It was her best one yet, she did so good!" the taller boy grumbles, pouting as he reaches over to pinch your cheek gently.

Your eyes—still a little red—meet his. “I know, right? I did my best.” you say, voice cracking just before the tears start all over again.

Beomgyu clicked his tongue, giving Soobin’s leg a light kick. “You made her cry again,” he muttered, shaking his head as he reached for your unopened lunchbox and popped it open like it was routine. He was already unscrewing your water bottle when Soobin, without a word, placed a tempura on top of your rice, his quiet way of saying sorry.

You wiped at your eyes, the ache in your chest softening just a little at the sight. When Beomgyu handed you your utensils, you took them without hesitation.

The universe didn’t give you everything you wanted but it tried to make up for it by giving you two people.

Everyone had gone back to eating. You reached for your food, slowly scooping the rice balls your mother had packed. Then, you glanced to your right. Your tear-streaked eyes—now lighter—and your mouth still full of rice met Choi Beomgyu’s gaze.

His eyes now filled with relief.

You forget little things all the time; where you left your pen, what day it is, one thing your mom asked you to grab from the market, but somehow, no matter how much time passes, you'll never forget the day you met your best friend.

You met Choi Beomgyu in kindergarten, when you were barely six years old. It wasn’t one of those storybook friendships that happened overnight. You just knew that the other kids were always too loud, too messy, too much and Beomgyu, was the only one who wasn’t. He was quiet. He didn’t try too hard. And then one day, your teacher asked the boys to choose a girl for the class dance. Without a word, Beomgyu walked straight to you. When you asked him why, he shrugged and said, “You don’t annoy me as much.”

It wasn’t exactly poetic but, it felt like the start of something that would last.

The only reason the friendship ever started was because neither of you found the other annoying. That was it. A comfort in each other’s presence. And somehow, that small reason stretched into something that lasted over a decade.

You grew up like that, orbiting each other through school days, lazy summer nights and wordless understandings. Eventually, people stopped calling you just friends. You were best friends. Branded, known. His name was a permanent fixture in your mouth; yours was stitched into every part of his life. His house felt like a second home. His mother always smiled a little softer when you came over, brushing your hair back like you were hers. Beomgyu’s older brother loved teasing him but was always strangely gentle with you.

It was rare to see one of you without the other.

Middle school was when you really noticed it—how Beomgyu started to change. He got louder. Braver. Started laughing with people you'd never seen him talk to before. His circle widened almost overnight. More guy friends, more inside jokes you didn’t quite understand, more people calling his name in the hallway. He picked up a guitar one day and never really put it down after that. It made you scared that he'll change with you too.

But he didn’t. Not once.

He still waited for you after class. Still leaned in to place his head on your shoulders when he was bored, still flicked your forehead lightly just to see you scowl. Still remembered the exact way you liked your ramen, and still offered the last bite even though he pretended not to care. And when someone tried to mess with you once—a cruel joke whispered too loud—Beomgyu didn’t even hesitate. He was there before you could even speak, standing in front of you like a wall you didn’t ask for.

Protective in a way that made your chest ache.

By the time middle school ended, the whispers had started. Are they dating? They’re always together. They have to be something.

You heard it all—in the hallways, behind half-closed locker doors, in the sharp glances thrown your way from girls when you and Beomgyu laughed like the world only existed for the two of you. It made something twist in your chest you got scared, unsure. You didn’t know what you were supposed to feel, or what he felt, or if either of you were even allowed to change the shape of what you’d always been.

So, just for a day, you pulled away.

You ignored him, let your eyes pass over him like he wasn’t there, didn’t wait at the gate like you always did, didn’t answer his questions. It wasn’t meant to hurt him. It was supposed to be space.

And that day, was the first time you ever saw Choi Beomgyu cry.

You never dared again.

In a house full of noise, with siblings, all louder and needier than you, it was easy to feel invisible. Your voice always got lost, your victories overlooked, and your sadness mistaken for silence.

Beomgyu saw you.

Where your family’s attention scattered, he gave you his wholly. He noticed when you were quiet, asked when no one else did. Remembered things no one bothered to learn. The way you preferred your socks mismatched. The way your hands trembled when you were overwhelmed. The way you lit up, just a little, when someone said your name.

With that kind of attention, it made you feel like you and him, alone, were enough.

High school brought a lot of changes. New uniforms, new hallways, new people. And Choi Soobin. The quietest boy you’d ever met. Kind in a way that didn’t demand attention. Always alone, always lingering just outside the crowd, like he hadn’t figured out how to step inside yet. It wasn’t you who invited him. It was Beomgyu.

“He looks lonely,” he’d said one afternoon, watching Soobin trail behind the rest of the class. “Let’s have lunch with him.”

And slowly, Soobin bloomed. Around the two of you, he laughed louder, smiled wider, filled space with stories and inside jokes and that rich, echoing laugh with his dimples that made everything feel a little warmer.

It was beautiful, watching him come alive, because you knew that feeling. You knew what it was to bloom like that.

You, too, bloomed because of Choi Beomgyu.

"You don’t like it?" Beomgyu asks, noticing the frown tugging at your face. His brows pull together in concern. "Why’d you go for that weird flavour?"

The two of you are walking side by side, the street quiet except for the sound of your footsteps. You’d said goodbye to Soobin five minutes ago, he lived on the other side of town, and his path had already veered off.

"It looked interesting," you mumble, pouting as you glance at Beomgyu taking a bite of his strawberry ice cream, one you’ve never seen him pick before. "It tastes awful, Gyu."

He laughs at the frustration in your voice, reaching out with his right hand for the lavender ice cream you picked on a whim. You hand it over without protest, eyes hopeful.

"You give in way too easily, with sales talk." When he offers his strawberry cone in exchange, you grin, already tasting victory. "That one's way too sweet anyway."

"Then why’d you get it?"

Beomgyu shrugs, eyes on the sidewalk. "Because it’s your favourite," he says simply. "And just in case you hated yours."

His words warmed your cheeks even as you keep your eyes forward. You keep walking, heart thudding a little too loudly in your chest, footsteps in sync with his like they’ve always been. You stay close to the edge of the sidewalk, careful not to drift too near. Beomgyu walks beside you, his hand swinging lazily at his side, fingers occasionally brushing against the fabric of his uniform pants. So casual. So unaware of how close he is.

And all you can think about is that space between you.

What would he do if you reached out and held his hand?

"No, Mom!"

Your attention shifts to a wailing child as you near the familiar playground you both pass every time you walk home. The kid is mid-meltdown, clearly not ready to leave, while his mother looks like she’s holding on by a thread. You scoff, shaking your head. "I don’t think I’ll ever be a mom. I can’t stand kids." A laugh bubbles out from beside you. You roll your eyes, already knowing who it’s from.

"Stop laughing," you mutter. He does but the grin stays, soft and a little amused. You catch him looking at you.

"What?"

"Nothing," he says, still smiling. "Just pictured a tiny version of you throwing a tantrum like that."

"As if."

“Do you want to swing for a bit?” he sways the conversation, nodding toward the playground.

You blink. “Huh?”

“The swings,” he says again, a bit more softly this time. “I can push you.” You glance over, surprised, but his expression is sincere, almost serious in that way Beomgyu gets when something small matters more than it should. And you remember…how you both used to love this.

“Okay,” you murmur, “Sure.”

The playground is mostly empty now. The crying child from earlier is gone, carried away by a tired mother. A few scattered voices float in the breeze, but it’s peaceful, quiet enough to hear the rustling of trees, the soft creak of the swing chains. From here, you can see the lower half of the town, rooftops glowing under the setting sun, like something out of a memory.

You finish the last bite of your ice cream, sit down on the swing, and feel his hands gently press against your back. "You ready?"

For a while, he says nothing after that. Just pushes you with that soft kind of attention he’s always had—like you’re something delicate he’s afraid to damage. Every time you glance back at him, he’s already looking at you, smiling.

You think it's because your smile is too wide to hide.

The breeze dances through your hair, and the sun dips lower, casting everything in gold, and when you look back at him again, his hair tousled by the wind, his eyes soft, his face glowing in that dying light; your breath catches.

He’s beautiful. He's always been beautiful. In the way he’s always looked at you.

“Y/N.” The sun has dipped. It’s been about thirty minutes since you first sat down. Beomgyu now sits on the swing next to yours, feet dragging lightly against the gravel, head bowed like he’s studying the way his fingers twist together.

You glance at him. “Hm?”

“I… I have to tell you something.” His eyes stay fixed on his hands.

You try to lighten the mood, like you always do when he gets like this, “You need anything?” you tease, nudging his foot with yours. “Is that why you pushed me off the swings earlier?” He lets out a short, breathless laugh, but his eyes never meet yours.

“I— I’m going out of the country.”

“Oh, wow,” you say, perking up. “That sounds amazing! It’s your first time, right? Who would’ve thought you’d be getting on a plane before me? Where are you going? How long’s the vacation? Are you gonna—"

You stop mid-sentence. He’s finally looking at you, and there’s something in his expression that makes your heart sink. “What’s wrong?” you ask, quieter now.

“I’m not going on vacation,” he says. “I’m moving. For college. My parents got this opportunity… it was all kind of sudden. I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

You stare at him.

Leaving. He’s leaving.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Your voice is small. It barely carries over the creak of the swings, but it’s enough, enough to make Beomgyu go still.

You don’t know why that’s the first thing you said. Maybe because it’s easier than saying please don’t go. Your hands are freezing, even though it’s not that cold out. It’s the way your whole body feels hollow now, like something vital’s been yanked out of you. You remember the stories—the ones your classmates whisper like warnings.

People who leave this town don’t come back.

The thought of him leaving terrified you.

Beomgyu shifts in the swing beside you, the chains rattling. “Y/N, I… I didn’t know how. Everything happened so fast and I—” When he finally looks at you, you wish he hadn’t. There’s guilt written all over his face. It makes you feel worse.

“You still should’ve told me.” You grab your bag, his hands flinch as you pull it from them, and you’re already on your feet. You take it without meeting his eyes. “I’m going home.”

He says your name, again and again, but you’re already walking. Fast. Like if you stop, it’ll all hit you at once and you’ll break apart right there in front of him.

You don’t look back.

Because you know if you do, you’ll beg him to stay.

You slipped through the front door of your home without a sound. It was too easy, when no one really looked at you long enough to see the redness in your eyes.

Your family wasn’t rich but they managed to rent a house with just enough space to pretend everyone had their own corner. Yours was the storage room. Barely wide enough for a mattress, with walls that breathed dust and silence. But it was yours. Four claustrophobic walls and a door you could close on everything else. You dropped your bag and sat on the floor. The mattress creaked behind you, but you didn’t move. You just sat there, blinking hard against the tears that threatened again.

This was the one place where it was safe to fall apart other than in front of him.

It’s been hours since you got home. Hours since you last your best friend. Since he told you he was leaving.

At first, you were angry. Furious, even. You buried your face in your pillow and cried like it would undo the words he’d said. It felt like betrayal. You kept thinking: Why didn’t he tell you sooner? He’d told you everything before. Every stupid little secret. Every bad decision. Every dream. And this—this—he kept quiet.

But anger doesn’t last. Not when it’s him.

Why did you react like that? Why couldn’t you have just smiled and said, I’m happy for you? What kind of best friend gets upset when someone they love is finally getting out?

Because of all people—he deserves to leave this town.

He’s always dreamed bigger than these cracked sidewalks and dead-end streets. Always reached for something more while you stayed tethered to what’s familiar. He’s leaving you. You wipe your eyes again, though it’s useless. The tears keep coming, your body hasn’t figured out how to stop grieving yet. You’ll apologize tomorrow. The moment the sun rises. You’ll tell him you were wrong. That you’re proud of him. That you’ll miss him more than he’ll ever know.

Because he deserves that.

You’ll apologize tomorrow... tomorrow?

The thought tastes wrong in your mouth. What if tomorrow is too late?

You sit up suddenly, heart pounding. The clock reads 9:04 PM. You listened outside, the house is still. Silent. You know the rhythm of your family’s sleep—light snorers, tired bones, people who won’t notice you’re gone as long as you're quiet. You grab your jacket, moving carefully across the creaking floorboards. Your door opens with a whisper. One cautious step, then another, and you're at the front door, fingers trembling slightly as they find the lock.

The outside air is cool against your skin as you crack the door open. But just as you take a step out, you freeze.

Across the street, lit faintly by the orange glow of the nearest streetlamp, someone sits on the pavement. Legs stretched out, hands buried deep in the pockets of a hoodie you know too well.

Choi Beomgyu.

Your breath catches in your throat.

“Hi, pretty.”

“You—” A curse almost slips out, but you bite it back, glancing toward the hallway behind you. You lower your voice. “What the hell are you doing here? What if I didn’t come out, idiot?”

The furrow in his brow from earlier is gone now, replaced by that familiar boyish grin, the one that always makes it harder to stay mad.

“But you did come out,” he says simply. He rises from the pavement with that lazy ease he always carries, brushing his hands on his jeans before holding them out—open, waiting—but he doesn’t move toward you. Just stands there. Looking at you like he knew you’d come. Like he hoped you would. You hear it in the quiet expectant look on his face. Come here.

And you do.

Your feet move before your mind catches up, closing the distance between you and him. Without a word, you wrap your arms around his waist, his arms are already around you before your face finds the safety of his chest. He pulls you in tighter, like he's afraid that if he doesn't hold you close enough, you’ll disappear too.

Beomgyu leans down, buries his face in your hair, and breathes in—one deep, shaking inhale that sounds like worry, like guilt, like relief all tangled into one. Because he was.

“I knew you’d come out,” he whispers. His voice is soft, cracking at the edges, and it breaks something in you. Your eyes sting immediately. “I’m sorry,” he adds.

You pull back reluctantly, almost having to pry yourself from his arms because he doesn’t loosen his grip right away. When you finally look up at him, your voice is barely above a whisper. “No… I’m the one who’s sorry.”

He’s staring at you now, like you’re something fragile in his hands. His gaze scans your face slowly, like he’s trying to memorize every flicker of emotion before it fades. His left arm stays wrapped around you, grounding you, while his right hand comes up, gently cupping your face. His palm is warm. Familiar. It fits too perfectly against your skin. You’ve always been close to him. But this—this feels like a different kind of closeness, and you can’t look away.

Not when he’s looking at you like this.

Not when the soft, slow stroke of his thumb across your cheek sends shivers through your chest, makes your breath hitch and your heart stutter.

Is it because he's leaving?

“Have you been crying?” he whispers, voice is barely there, like he’s afraid to ask, afraid to know the answer. His hand stays warm on your face, thumb trailing just beneath your eye. He’s not wiping tears—there are none left—but it’s like he can feel where they were, tracing. “Have you?” he asks again, softer this time.

You try to look away, but his hand gently guides you back, eyes locked onto yours. Your voice comes out in a breath, cracked and small. “It was my fault.”

“No,” he interrupts, voice thick, eyes glassy. “I don’t want to leave you.” He leans in, resting his forehead against yours, and you close your eyes, the burn behind them almost unbearable now. He pulls back just enough to kiss your forehead. Another lands gently on the bridge of your nose. You’re still, barely breathing, as his lips hover close to yours. “I’ve been in love with you for years,”

Your eyes flew open. “What?”

“Did you really not see it?” His voice cracked. “That I’m completely, stupidly in love with you?”

You shook your head, stunned, your cheeks burning despite the ache swelling in your chest.

“God,” he breathed, pulling you into him, “it’s taking everything in me not to kiss you right now.”

His arms tightened around you, desperate. “Since you didn't hear me out earlier, I'll say it now. I swear I’ll come back. As soon as I can. I’ll come for you. I'll make it up to you. You better be ready—I want your bags packed the second I show up. I made Soobin promise to walk you home every day, because I know how easily your mind wanders and it drives me insane.”

You clutched his shirt, the tears finally breaking free. “I’ll wait for you,” you whispered, voice wrecked as you cried. “I promise.”

He pressed his lips to your hair. “Good.”

“And Gyu?” you murmured, voice muffled against his chest. He hummed in response, arms still wrapped tightly around you, your face pressed against the fabric of his shirt, breathing him. “I’ve been in love with you too,”

You didn’t have to see his face—you’ve known him for thirteen years. You felt the way his whole body stilled for a second, then melted, like the words filled something he hadn’t dared to hope for. You knew he was grinning, that crooked, boyish grin that always made your heart trip. He pulled you impossibly closer, like he wanted to fuse you into him.

And under the soft, flickering lamplight, it’s the kind of scene that belongs in a movie. Two teenagers, holding on like the world might tear them apart the second they let go. Two hearts beating too loud, too fast.

Hopelessly, breathlessly in love.

When Beomgyu pulled away from the hug, his eyes flicked to the door of your house. You were meant to go inside but his expression asked you to stay. You slipped your fingers into his.

“Can I come with you?”

He didn’t even hesitate. He never could, not with you. Maybe it was the quiet defiance of it, or maybe it was the way things had shifted—how it suddenly felt like you were his, and he was yours. The truth that the two of you belonged to each other now. He reaches out, his hands waiting for yours.

It only took a second when you did.

That night, you didn’t walk into the comfort of him home, or the usual warmth of his family’s greetings. You followed him up to his room, quietly.

He made sure you were comfortable, tucking you in gently before leaning down to press a soft kiss to your forehead. “I’ll just turn off the lights,” he murmured, his voice low.

You shifted onto the left side of the bed, heart thudding as you waited. Every creak of the mattress as he moved made your breath catch. The bed dipped with his weight, and you held your breath, listening to the quiet rustle of sheets and the sound of your own pulse pounding in your ears. "Beomgyu?" you whispered.

His response was immediate. “You need something?”

You hesitated, teeth tugging at your bottom lip. “Can you… hold me?”

Two strong arms snaked around your waist as soon as you said those words, and Beomgyu's lips were against your nape. He left trails of kisses on your neck up to the back of your ears, his body pressed on yours. "I thought you'd never ask."

You giggle, breathless, and he laughs too, warm against your skin. He presses a few more soft kisses to the back of your head, then his voice drops to a whisper against your ear. “Can I touch you?”

Your breath hitches, but you nod. His hand slips beneath your shirt, fingers brushing lightly across your stomach. “This okay?” he asks, voice gentle.

You nod again, barely able to get the word out. “Yeah.”

His hand travels higher, fingertips gliding up until they meet the bare curve of your chest. He pauses, just long enough to make your heart race. His lips are at your neck now, breath hot. “This okay too?”

When he feels you nod, his hand moves with more purpose, fingertips gliding over the curve of your breast. He cups you fully, palm warm, thumb brushing the softness, squeezing just enough to make you arch subtly into his touch. He teases, exploring everywhere except where you need him most, drawing out the ache with every careful touch. When his fingers finally graze your nipple, a quiet moan slips from your lips before you can stop it. He pauses, his breath brushing against your neck. “You can tell me to stop anytime, okay?”

Then he pulls his hand away from under your shirt, and the sudden absence makes you whine, your body instinctively chasing after his warmth. Before you can speak, he cups your face gently, tilting your head until your eyes meet. It’s dark—but he's close, so close—you can make out the shape of his face, the softness in his gaze.

He leans in, brushing a featherlight kiss over your lips. Then another. You giggle softly, breath mingling, and when your lips part in a smile, he takes it as invitation. This time the kiss is deep—hungry. His mouth moves against yours with desperation, like he’s been craving your taste for far too long. His hand finds your waist, tugging you closer, bodies aligning in all the right ways as the heat between you builds.

“I need you, Gyu,” you whisper, voice barely there, lost in the way his lips trail along your neck, warm and wet. “Please.”

He pauses just enough to meet your gaze, then his hand slips between your thighs, cupping you through the fabric. The pressure makes your hips jerk, breath hitching.

“Here?” he murmurs, rubbing slow, teasing circles. “You need me here?”

It’s too much, and not enough. Heat pools low in your belly, a need that feels raw and overwhelming. You nod, biting your lip, your voice trembling. “Yes. There. Please.”

He groans, low and deep, and that’s when clothes start disappearing—slowly, messily. Every layer peeled off is interrupted by his mouth; on your lips, your jaw, your collarbones. His hands, greedy and gentle all at once, explore you like he’s memorizing every inch. The room is filled with nothing but breath, the soft rustle of fabric, the occasional hitch of a moan. It takes time—because he makes it take time. Like he wants to savour the reveal, like he’s waited too long to see you like this and now he refuses to rush. He holds and touches you, like your mother made you just for him.

When he finally sinks lower, eyes locked on yours as his lips trace a burning path down your body, you don’t stop him.

“Beomgyu…” You moaned as you clenched your fist on his dark locks. His tongue was doing to your buds as his fingers part your wet folds. You don't know what it is, but it makes your legs quivered as his tongue lapped at your entrance.

Beomgyu grunts as he hears your soft moans, sucking on your clit to hear more. Your taste in his mouth got him drunk as he shook his head from side to side, making your moans go higher as you moved your hips to grind your wetness on his tongue. "Hmm?"

He pulled back, replacing his tongue with his thumb, rubbing her wet clit as he kissed and sucked your inner thighs. Your eyes rolled back as your chest rose up and down, glistening with sweat.

You're fucking beautiful. Beomgyu thought as he looked up at you with hooded eyes. Your lachrymose eyes met his. The sight of your blushing cheeks, eyes asking for more with your lips between your teeth made Beomgyu slightly rut his hips on the bed.

"You'll come back for me, right?" He pumped a finger inside your pussy, curling it to hit your spot as he put his mouth back to work again, flattening his tongue over your swollen pearl before flicking it with the tip. You cried out in pleasure, throwing your head back.

“I’m so sorry, baby. I just couldn't help myself.” He begged as he doubled the finger inside your soaking cunt, making you cry out in pleasure as your hands grabbed the pillow under your head. "I will. I can't live without you."

“I can't resist having all of you.” He kissed your clit, making you whimper at the brief contact. He took off his shirt and pants before pulling you by your arm, sitting you on his lap as he took off your blouse and bra. He kissed around your nipple before taking it into his mouth, moaning at the taste of you.

It’s crazy how you went from crying to rubbing against each other, but both have been craving for this. And now, the situation of him leaving only made his hunger for you increase. Beomgyu thought of everything he could do to show you how sincere he was and how much he loves you. He wanted you to know that you were the only woman he’ll ever touch like this. That he'll come back, that this decision wasn't something he ever wanted. And the growing tent in his boxers is also aching to prove that.

He moved your position to grind on his bulge, letting out quiet moans as he desperately kissed you. He stopped your hips as he moved to your other nipple, lightly biting it while staring at your glossy eyes, making your breath hitch. He hummed as he sucked the pebbled flesh into his mouth, nibbling on it. Once satisfied, he laid your back down, admiring your body as you panted. Your eyes are glistening, and so is your cunt. He groaned at the sight, pushing his hair back and taking his erected member out of its confinement. He pumped it a few times before you sat up and took it into your hand.

“Let me make you feel good.” Beomgyu stopped your hand, giving a kiss on your forehead. “Fuck.” He murmured as he moved to your lips, sucking on them, making you whimper as you laid back down again.

“Beomgyu, please…” You cried when Beomgyu started to rub his shaft on your slit. Every time his head hits her bud, you let out a whimper, eyebrows furrowed and eyes wide as you look up at him.

Beomgyu took his time, grunting before pushing the tip inside. You gasped, grabbing the sheets under, feeling the pain as his length invade you. Your walls fluttered around his cock, making him let out low growls. You felt tears in your eyes as you watched half of his length disappear inside you. Beomgyu took your hand, intertwining your fingers. He kissed your tears.

“Just a little more, love.” Beomgyu shushed when you hissed, feeling a hint of pain as he filled you. His other hand began rubbing circles on your clit to ease the burn from the stretch.

Beomgyu kissed your hand when he was entirely in, giving you time to adjust. You look gorgeous underneath him. Legs wide open,mouth slightly parted, and body glistening under the dim lights of his room. You're all his, and he would never let himself fuck up. He would never let himself do something stupid. He'll come back to you as soon as he can, the thought of you waiting burns him.

Beomgyu started moving slowly when you nod your head, until your whimpers turned into moans. His name echoed in whispers, as you clawed on the skin of his back, leaving red marks. He was cradling your head, and his lips pressed on your ear. He was whispering the sweetest things to you.

“You’re the only one I’d fuck like this, baby. You’re the only one I’d touch like this.” Beomgyu growled, kissing your ear lobes.

“Yes, yes, Beomgyu, please…” You begged as his hips started to thrust harder into you.

“Fuck. You’re the only one I’d make love to, Y/N.” He groaned, feeling your walls clench around him. He could tell that you were both close. Your walls spasmed around him, and his thrust started to stutter.

“I love you and only you. So fucking much.” He stared deeply into your eyes, feeling your orgasm take over your body. His mouth reaches for your sweet lips, your toes curling as your legs wrap around his waist. Beomgyu thrustied into you a few more times before pulling out to spill his thick load on your thighs. He wouldn’t trade you for the world.

After, Beomgyu became the shyiest guy in the world. He silently blushed, cleaned you up before getting under the covers with you.

“I love you,” He started, as he ran his fingers down your back before resting on the lower part of it, pulling you to his chest.

“I love you, Beomgyu.”

“Do you have any plans?” your mother asks softly, her voice barely cutting through the clatter of her hands preparing a lunchbox. You’re in front of the mirror, running your fingers through your hair.

“Plans for what?” you finally say, eyes fixed on your own reflection—not really seeing it.

“It’s your��� twentieth birthday.” Your hand pauses mid-motion.

You clear your throat and force a shrug, “Oh. Right.”

She watches as you fumble with the buttons on your blouse, your fingers too stiff, too fast. She sees the shadows beneath your eyes and sighs. “You should take it easy, sweetheart.”

“I am,” you lie, “I just have work. And… I don’t know.” You reach for the lunchbox she’s packed. Transparent. Eggs again. You swallow hard, the sight alone making your stomach twist.

“I’ll get going,” you murmur, already turning away. You don’t meet her eyes. You can’t. Not when you know she’s still watching you—worried, helpless. And not when you’ve gotten so good at pretending it doesn’t matter.

After high school, it wasn’t a shock, you knew college was never in the cards for you. No dramatic moment of realization. Just reality. So here you are, a year later, on your way to work… and you didn’t even remember today was your birthday.

He would’ve remembered. He never missed it.

You shake the thought off like it’s nothing, like it doesn’t stick to the inside of your ribs. You offer stiff smiles to your coworkers as you clock in, grabbing the stack of flyers assigned to you for the day. Real estate. That’s what they call it. What you do is stand outside in the sun, in the cold, in the wind—shoving these papers into passing hands, hoping someone actually cares enough to look.

Most don’t.

But then again… who would take someone like you seriously? Who would even want someone like you?

“Here. It’s on promo today,” you say, holding out the flyer with rehearsed cheer. “You can get ten percent off the down payment if you sign today, and there's a—”

“I’ll do it,” the man cuts in, eyes lingering where they shouldn’t. On you, not the paper.

You blink, caught off guard. “Oh, great,” you say, managing a small smile. Finally. Something good. Maybe you can actually afford to eat something real tonight. Maybe even bring some back for your mom.

“If you sleep with me. One night.” You freeze. Your fingers tighten around the edge of the flyer. You don’t look at him right away—you’re afraid if you do, you’ll either throw up or scream.

“I’ll pay extra,” he adds, as if this is just another business transaction. As if your dignity has a price tag. Your jaw clenches. Slowly, you snatch the flyer back from his hand, crumpling it in your grip.

“Go to hell,” you mutter. You don’t even look back as you turn around, heart pounding—not from fear, not entirely. From exhaustion. From disgust. From the unbearable weight of this being your life. You exhale shakily, trying to bury the sting in your throat.

You thought today couldn’t get worse. But that’s the thing, isn’t it?

Every day’s been worse since.

After that encounter, you had to pull yourself together, force a smile like nothing happened, like the words didn’t stick to your skin and crawl under it. You kept handing out flyers with trembling hands and a voice that cracked more than once. But no one noticed. No one ever does.

You whispered it like a prayer. Please—just one sale. Just one. If there’s anything left out there for you—anyone listening—let today be enough. It’s your birthday, for god’s sake. Let that mean something.

Not a single sale.

Now you’re on the subway, back hunched against the hard plastic seat, eyes locked on the floor like if you move, you’ll shatter. The carriage rocks, people come and go, and still, you sit there, numb.

Your eyes sting, but the tears won’t fall. They never do. Not anymore. Because nothing hurts more than the ache that’s lived inside you for the past year. It's a wound that learned how to stop bleeding and just started swallowing you whole instead.

You pulled out your wallet and started counting what little was left. Bills folded too many times, coins barely enough to matter. You stared at the total for a second, then let out a quiet sigh. Fuck it. A drink won’t fix anything but it’ll help you tonight. You took a different bus route tonight.

The pub is dim, you step inside quietly, hoping not to draw attention. You don’t belong here, but you don’t belong anywhere these days. You could be anyone: a woman with a broken heart, a woman who just lost her job, a woman trying not to fall apart in public. All of them could be true. None of them are far off. You’re still in your work clothes. The blouse is wrinkled, two buttons undone. Your hair’s half-up, half-forgotten, and the look on your face probably says enough to keep people away. You don’t care. You head straight to the bar and order something strong, sitting alone at a stool like it’s the only place left in the world that doesn’t expect anything from you.

"I will. I can’t live without you."

Your breath stutters. The glass trembles slightly in your hand. You almost choke on the drink as the tears sting again—too cruel. You press your lips together and wipe your face quickly, like that’ll stop the pain. You need to leave. Now. Before you break down in front of strangers.

You slide off the stool, heart pounding, eyes glassy ut then the stool beside yours shifts.

“Hi, pretty.”

You freeze. You turn your head slowly, hope rising in your chest before you can stop it—hope that maybe, somehow—

It’s not him.

“Jaehyun,” you say, forcing your features to settle. He noticed the flicker of disappointment in your eyes, the way it sparked and died all in the same breath. You remember him. A batchmate. Schoolmate. Someone who never really talked to you back then.

“What are you doing here all alone?” he asks, already gesturing to the bartender for two drinks.

You shake your head quickly. “No, I’m good.”

He grins, “Come on, just one. I’ve missed you.”

You almost laugh. Bitterness curling behind your teeth like smoke. Missed you? He didn’t even know you. You were never close. You never even talked outside of borrowed notes and hallway nods. And now, here he is, like proximity to your sadness gives him permission to touch it.

Does he miss you too?

You look down at your drink, the ice already melting. “That’s funny,” you mutter, just loud enough.

“What is?”

“You missed me?” you echo, eyebrows raised, voice flat. “We barely spoke in school. Is that a new pick-up line or something?” Your eyes meet his, tired and unamused. You expect him to get defensive, maybe roll his eyes and leave. Part of you even hopes he does. But instead, he laughs.

“Well, sorry,” he says, shrugging, “but you should know, I had this terrible, massive crush on you back then.”

You blink in surprise. He goes on. “Except… Choi Beomgyu basically told me to back off in second year. Guy was obsessed with you.”

Your stomach twists. Choi Beomgyu. You look away, suddenly too aware of your own breathing. The room feels louder, smaller.

Choi Beomgyu that you haven't heard back anything since the day he left.

“He told you that?” you manage to say, voice thinner now, almost brittle.

Jaehyun hums like it’s nothing, like he didn’t just drop a grenade into your chest. “Yeah. Said you weren’t really available. Emotionally or otherwise.” He chuckles. “Dude looked ready to murder me, so I backed off.”

You stare into your glass, watching the light catch on the melted ice. The burn in your throat isn’t just from the alcohol anymore, it’s from everything you’ve buried just to stay standing.

Beomgyu wrote you, at first. The first month after he left, letters came; messy handwriting, little jokes scribbled in the margins, lines that made you cry in secret because he still sounded like yours. His I love yous. And you clung to that. But then… nothing.

You kept writing anyway. Hundreds of letters. You told him everything—about your new job, about how hard things had gotten, about the nights you couldn’t sleep, about how it felt like something inside you was cracking open just from missing him. You even wrote when you were sick, when you thought, maybe this will scare him enough to write back. Still nothing.

You gave him the benefit of the doubt. Told yourself maybe he lost your address. Maybe life got too loud. Maybe something happened. Maybe. But denial only holds you together for so long. One month passed. Then one year. And the silence became an answer you never asked for. You remember checking the mailbox every day like clockwork. Standing there in your pajamas with bare feet on cold tile, praying for something—anything—with his name on it. There was even a day you went to the post office, hands trembling, convinced the letters must’ve gotten stuck somewhere, misplaced, waiting.

But there was nothing.

And now you're outside the pub, crying. You're a mess, knees drawn to your chest on the dim pavement, makeup smudged, throat raw from holding back too long. Drunk, heartbroken. And Jaehyun, this man you barely know, is looking at you like you're shattering.

“Fuck him,” he mutters, his fists clenching at his sides like that might help. “Forget about him, Y/N.” He crouches beside you, his hand awkwardly pressing to your shoulder, trying to comfort you. You barely feel it. Everything inside you is too loud.

Choi Beomgyu.

His name beats in your chest.

“I hate seeing you like this,” Jaehyun says, his voice tightening. “I backed off because of that asshole. And now look. He left. He hurt you. He’s probably living some perfect fucking life while you’re here… like this.”

Choi Beomgyu.

You miss him. You need him.

You can’t say anything. You just keep crying—ugly, silent sobs that make your shoulders shake. There’s nothing left to hold together. Nothing left to explain. No one to explain it to. Your other half isn't here.

Jaehyun’s voice softens, “Stop crying,” he whispers, too close. “You don't deserve this. He forgot you, Y/N. He lied, he's an asshole."

"Come with me. I’ll make you forget him.”

Choi Beomgyu. He'll never come back to you.

Jaehyun reaches out his hand. And just like that, you’re back to that night, back to the night your best friend confessed. You lifted your eyes, only to see his face instead. The man in front of you waves his hand again.

It took long for you to give your hands.

It only takes one decision.

One misstep. One reckless breath you don’t take back in time. People don’t believe that—not really. They think life builds slow, that it gives you warnings, but sometimes, it just tips. One turn down the wrong street. One answer you shouldn’t have given. One goodbye you didn’t mean and suddenly, the shape of your life is different. You think you’re being careful. You think you’re being brave. You think you’re doing the right thing, but the future isn’t some distant, untouchable thing. It's sitting in your hands, waiting for you to move. To decide. Pressed into your palms, like wet clay. You could mold it into anything. Or crush it without meaning to.

You don’t always know which one you’ve done until it’s here.

"You'll take care of yourself, right?" Beomgyu's voice cracks, his lips tremble like they’re holding back everything he doesn’t want to say. His hands cup your face so gently it hurts.

You nod. It’s all you can manage. Your throat is tight, your eyes sting, "I will. I promise."

Behind him, his family waits, luggage in hand, eyes heavy with knowing. The gate is just a few feet away, and it draws a line. A line you can’t follow. A future you’re not invited to.

Beomgyu leans in, kissing you like he's trying to leave pieces of himself behind. A kiss to your forehead. Your nose. Your cheeks. Your lips. "I love you," he says. And somehow, despite the chaos of the airport, the overhead announcements, the rushing footsteps—you hear it. You hear it.

He grips his passport tighter, knuckles white, like it’s the only thing keeping him from falling apart. He looks at you one last time—eyes burning, jaw clenched—and then he lets go. His hands leave your skin, and something inside you goes with them.

He turns to Soobin, standing behind you, silent and teary-eyed. His voice is low, almost pleading. "Take care of her."

Then he walks away.

You bite your lip hard, tasting salt and copper, as the tears spill freely now. Soobin’s hand rests on your shoulder, but it does nothing to soothe the storm inside you.

Because he's walking away. His figure grows smaller and smaller, swallowed by distance and the sharp fluorescent lights of the terminal.

Then—he stops. He turns around.

And you see it, fresh tears carving down his cheeks. He looks at you. He looks like he wants to run back to you. You shouldn’t be surprised. Not with Beomgyu. Not with the way he loves; loud, reckless, and all at once. He throws his head back, chest heaving, and yells so loud the entire terminal stills:

"I’LL COME BACK FOR YOU!"

You wake with a jolt, gasping like you’ve just surfaced from drowning. Sweat clings to your skin, your forehead slick, and his voice—those last shouted words—still echo like sirens in your ears. You press your palms into your face, trying to ground yourself, but your stomach twists violently. Before you can even think, you’re out of bed, legs shaky, breath uneven. You half-stumble down the hall, grateful that the bathroom’s empty. You barely make it to the sink before the nausea hits.

You vomit. Again. Again. Each heave sends a fresh wave of pain crashing through your skull, like your body’s punishing you for remembering. All you can hear is the frantic thud of your heartbeat, pounding so loud it drowns out everything else.

It’s been over a month since you slept with Jaehyun. A month since you last saw his face. You tried with him—god, you tried, but you can't.

Every moment with him feels rehearsed.

You wipe your face with trembling hands, heart thudding against your ribs like it wants out. The bathroom light flickers faintly above you, and when you finally dare to look up at your reflection, you barely recognize the girl staring back. You’re usually regular. Always have been. But this time… nothing.

The realization hits you like ice down your spine. Your throat tightens as you swallow hard.

You need to buy a pregnancy test.

"I'm pregnant." The words fall from your lips, your eyes fixed on anything but him. The floor. The wall. "I don’t know what to do."

The silence that follows is deafening. You don’t have to look to know he’s staring at the test in your hand—at the two pink lines that changed everything. Then, quietly but without hesitation: “Let’s keep it.”

“I know you don’t love me,” he adds, voice soft even as it cracks at the edges. “I know you’re still…” He doesn’t finish the sentence. The silence stretches, his throat bobbing as he swallows down. “But we can keep it. Together. For the baby.”

And finally, you look at him. Really look. His eyes aren’t pleading. They’re not trying to convince. They’re just… open. Raw. Honest.

“We’ll build something,” he says, stepping a little closer, as if that might make it real. “A home. A family. Just give it time. Move in with me. We’ll make it work.”

Days passed. Somehow, you said yes. You told him you'd try — and he held on to that like it was a promise.

Jaehyun talked more now. About his family in the U.S., how they already knew, how they were surprisingly… supportive. He started picking up little things for the baby, socks, bottles, a stuffed bear with a stitched-on smile. He showed you receipts, color palettes for the nursery. He told you that before the baby comes, he’d have a small apartment ready. For both of you. For your new life together.

You believed him.

Your mother's reaction, on the other hand, was quieter than you expected. No yelling. No disappointment. Just a soft, dull acceptance. Maybe it was because she never expected much from you in the first place. Or maybe she saw how pale you looked, how your hands trembled when you thought no one was watching, and figured silence was the kindest thing she could give. Your father... just ignored it.

You're sitting on a bench in the park, the afternoon sun casting long shadows over the grass. You pop a strawberry into your mouth, sweet and cool against the heat. Six months. You're six months pregnant now. Just a little over three left.

Jaehyun sits beside you, a paper bag in hand, his eyes bright with effort. "Here," he says, pulling out a small container of salad. “I made it. Looked up what’s good for the baby. Thought you might like it.”

You smile, soft and small, and take the container from him. You open it — and pause. The smile fades. “Oh.”

He stiffens beside you. “Why?”

You glance up at him, careful with your voice. “I’m allergic to peanuts.” You’ve told him before. Twice. Maybe three times.

His face falls. He takes the container back immediately, as if it’s burned him. “Shit. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you murmur. You see it in his face, that flicker of guilt, of failure. He’s trying so hard to be someone good for you, for the baby. But the truth is, you barely know each other. You’re still learning each other’s favorite colours, let alone what makes each other hurt.

He reaches for your hand.

You let him hold it.

That day had been going well. Too well. The sun was warm but not suffocating, the breeze gentle against your skin. Jaehyun was laughing, not just smiling, but actually laughing, the kind that made you glance at him sideways because it still felt strange to hear joy from him, to feel it near you.

And you let yourself imagine it. A future. A home.

A baby wrapped in soft cotton blankets.

“Jake?” It was sharp, high-pitched, almost disbelieving. You turn instinctively. A woman stands a few feet away, dressed in crisp neutrals, her expression caught between shock and something you can’t quite name. She looks to be in her forties, and she's staring straight at you. “Are you joking?”

The sun is gone now, replaced by the fading lavender of twilight. A breeze lifts the hem of your shirt slightly, brushing cool against your skin.

“Mom,” Jaehyun says quickly, already letting go of your hand like he has been caught. He stands, tense, defensive. The word Mom hits you like a shove. You try to stand too, slow and awkward, one hand supporting your back, the other braced against the bench. You can feel the weight of her stare, heavy on your belly.

"Hi, I'm Y/N. Jaehyun's told me about you." You smiled or tried to, under her pining stare. Jaehyun just stands there, caught between you and her, mouth slightly open.

Why does he looks so shock?

And in that awful silence, you feel a rush of embarassment crawl up your neck, because you’re standing here, and she’s looking at you like a mistake he should’ve never made.

“Well,” she says, her tone clipped, “He’s never told me about… you.” Her eyes rake over you. From your shoes to the curve of your belly. You bite the inside of your cheek so hard it stings.

He lied.

“Mom, not here. Please. Let’s talk—”

“Is this why you’ve been asking for more money?” Her voice rises, looks around at the food, the soft blanket, the picnic he prepared so proudly. Then her eyes land on your clothes—the ones Jaehyun bought you—and her lip curls. “You thought we knew? That we’d let this happen? That I’d let my son throw his life away for a girl like you?”

“Mom! Stop!” Jaehyun shouts.

Your chest tightens. Your throat burns. You cover your stomach without thinking, hands trembling as they settle over the place your baby lives like you can protect them from her words. The tears sting, but you blink them back.

You look at the father of your child. He should be saying something, anything. He should be standing in front of you, shielding you from the way his mother's eyes tore into you.

He steps toward her. He places his hands gently on her shoulders, leans in, and whispers something you can’t hear. And just like that, she exhales. Composed again. Her mouth presses into a smug, satisfied line as she straightens her purse strap and turns away. “I’ll wait in the car, son.”

Your chest is burning now, your heart lodged somewhere in your throat. You stare at the ground. You can’t meet his eyes.

“I’ll talk to my mom first, ugh, you can go home by yourself, right? I’ll see you soon after. Be safe." He doesn’t even wait for your answer. He jogs off, his figure growing smaller with every step. And all you can do is watch his back.

It’s not unfamiliar to you now, that view.

You stand there a moment longer than you should, frozen in place, lips pressed tight as tears finally spilled down your cheeks. You wipe them away with the back of your hand, rough and fast, like you’re angry at yourself for letting them fall in the first place. Then, gently, you rest your hand on your stomach, “I’m sorry about that,” you whispered.

You walked home alone.

You weren’t surprised when Jaehyun didn’t show up the next morning. Hope had already begun dying in you the moment he left you in the middle of that park without looking back.

It wasn’t him who came. It was a man in a tailored suit with dead eyes and a briefcase that looked more expensive than anything you owned. The family lawyer. He didn’t ask how you were. Didn’t even sit down. We’ll need a paternity test. He’s willing to pay child support. Don’t get any ideas about taking advantage of him.

You stood there, your mother nodding beside you. Your father crossing his arms with dissapointment in his face. Your fingers numb, barely hearing anything over the sound of your own heartbeat screaming in your ears.

Maybe this was some twisted drama, and you were the girl everyone pities at the end, the one who gets left behind while the world keeps spinning. Not the lead. Not even a real character. Just… a consequence.

The future you had barely started cracked before it even had the chance to grow roots.

“Hold on, okay? She’s almost here,” your mother says, voice shaking as she grips your hand.

But it’s slipping, everything is slipping. The pain is unbearable, a tearing, twisting storm from your waist down, and it doesn’t stop. It doesn’t even give you a moment to breathe. Your body feels like it's being ripped apart from the inside out, like it's punishing you for something you don’t remember doing wrong. You can smell the blood. It clings to the air, to your skin, to the sheets already damp beneath you. The weight of what's about to happen, of bringing life into the world while feeling like you’re dying.

“It hurts,” you gasp, voice cracking, tears slipping past clenched eyes. “Mom, it fucking hurts. Help me, please. Get her out of me.”

Your mother squeezes your hand again, then suddenly lets go. “She’s outside. I think she’s here. Just—just wait for me. Hold on.”

The silence that fills the room is unbearable. You stare up at the ceiling, as if by looking high enough, far enough, you can escape this. The pain. The fear.

They say in books, in birth books, in all those neat little guides—you’re supposed to think of something calming during labor. Focus your mind. Ground yourself in something that brings you peace.

You try. Your baby.

You’re going to meet your baby.

That thought should’ve been enough. It should’ve filled your chest with warmth, should’ve steadied the pain tearing through your mind and body. But the next contraction crashes in like a wave with no mercy, stealing the air from your lungs, and all that escapes is a broken scream. “F-Fuck— Somebody, please—”

Think. You have to think of something.

Anything.

Your head thuds back against the pillow. Eyes squeezed shut. Nails digging into the sheets. You're drowning. You're breaking. You're alone—but through the haze, something small slips through.

“Beomgyu…” you whimpered, voice trembling, pleading. “Choi Beomgyu…”

Where are you? Are you okay? Do you know? You imagine his face; the one you’ve tried so hard to forget. The one you buried behind months of silence and sleepless nights. His voice, the sound of home. His laugh that you know like the back of your hand. You still love him. You always have. It never stopped.

On the hardest, most terrifying day of your life, when your body is tearing open and everything feels like it’s coming undone, his name is the only one your heart remembers how to say.

“It’s uncommon, but still normal,” the town doctor says gently, “Some women don’t lactate. Hormones play a big role. But… please, don’t blame yourself.”

You nod without really hearing her, eyes fixed on the floor, your nails digging into the soft, raw skin of your nailbeds. You shift slightly, rocking your sleeping baby in your arms, trying to ignore the weight in your chest that won’t lift.

“Remind me—what’s the baby’s name again?” You blink. Your lips part, but the words don’t come.

“Uh…” you murmur. “I haven’t… thought of one yet.”

The doctor exhales, not unkindly, but tired. “Alright. But it’s been three weeks. She really should have a name by now. Please try to decide soon so we can get her registered.”

You nod again. But the truth is, you’ve thought about it. A thousand names, whispered into the quiet in the middle of the night. But none of them felt right. None of them felt like hers. Or maybe… none of them felt like yours to give.

And so you just sit there, holding this tiny, perfect girl, feeling the weight of everything you should be and everything you’re not.

You gather your things in silence, careful not to wake the baby cradled in your arms. As you step out of the small clinic room, your eyes instinctively scan the hallway, pausing on the sight of couples dotting the waiting area, soft coos and shared smiles hovering between them. Each one holding their newborn close. Each one together.

You start walking, slow and unsteady, the dull throb of healing stitches pulling at your every step. Your body still remembers the pain, even if the world already expects you to move on from it. You wince, adjusting your hold on her, and try not to think about how you haven’t even given your daughter a name.

You should’ve given her at least that.

You glance down. She’s fast asleep, her tiny features softened in slumber, the faintest blush dusting the bridge of her nose. A little replica of you. It almost makes you want to cry. “Look at you,” you whisper, “sleeping like you didn’t have me up all night.”

The wind hits softly as you step outside, cool and crisp. And that’s when you see them; a small cluster of flowers, blooming stubbornly from the cracked soil lining the pavement. Soft petals reaching toward the gray sky.

Rain lilies. Your eyes linger.

Lily… Nari. Nari that means lily.

You look down again, heart twisting. “Nari?” you murmur, brushing a finger against her soft cheek. “Nari.”

You finally have a name now.

“Nari…” you whisper, voice cracked and shaking as you rock her back and forth, again and again. “Please… what’s wrong?”

She won’t stop crying. She’s been crying for hours. Her tiny fists clench in the air, her face red and scrunched as the wails echo through the small, suffocating space. You’ve fed her. Changed her. Held her. Walked in circles until your legs gave out beneath you. Nothing works.

You feel your eyes burn, the tears pooling too fast to blink away. “Mama fed you, changed your diaper… I don’t know what else to do.”

You bounce her gently, almost frantically now, trying to stay calm, trying not to let your own tears fall onto her cheeks. Your arms ache. Your head pounds. You’re too tired to think. Too tired to feel anything but the raw failure in your chest. Your gaze flickers across the room , the mess of bottles, clothes, diapers. The couch you now sleep on, because your room is too small for the crib. Her rocker sits unused in the corner, surrounded by unfolded laundry. Everything feels too much.

You hear the door creak open behind you. “I have class tomorrow,” your sister says, peeking out with a tired frown. “Can you make her sleep?”

“I’m trying,” you choke out, barely able to speak through the sob in your throat. She sighs.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper quickly. “…give me a few more minutes.”

She doesn’t say anything else, just closes the door. You swallow the scream lodged in your chest and hold Nari tighter. Waking your mother isn’t an option. She’s been sick. She’s done enough. And this… this was supposed to be yours. Your responsibility. Your choice.

"Just pictured a tiny version of you throwing a tantrum like that."

You remembered Beomgyu's words, and you laughed. “Yeah, idiot,” you murmured through your tears, voice shaking but light for the first time in hours. “It’s a mini me throwing a tantrum.”

Nari blinked up at you, her cries halting mid-breath, her wide, wet eyes now focused on your face like she’d just seen something new.

“Nari?” you whispered, tilting your head toward her. “Are you curious about what Mama just said? You want a story, is that it?”

A hiccup. A blink. Silence. And just like that… she stopped crying. You breathed out, stunned. The smallest, most fragile peace settling in the quiet of the room.

“Okay,” you said, cradling her close, your voice soft as cotton, barely louder than a breath. “I’ll tell you about Mama’s best friend.”

Your voice filled the space. Low, warm, laced with something tender and bruised all at once. You told her about him. About how the world used to feel safer with him around. You giggled at the memories, surprised at how easily they came flooding back. The way he used to clicked his tounge but always carry your bag anyway. The way he’d say your name when he was trying not to laugh. The way he looked at you like you were something soft in a world that never was.

You didn’t say his name out loud. You weren’t ready.

But for twenty whole minutes, the past lived again in that tiny room, and by the end of it, Nari was asleep in your arms.

It worked like a miracle.

From that night on, whenever Nari cried, you spoke of him, and she listened. Is it because of how soft your voice is? You found yourself remembering him more often, not just in the obvious ways, but in the smallest corners of your day. The way he used to hum while doing homework when the silence got too loud. The way he tapped his fingers when he was nervous.

It was survival.

Because somehow, in your mind, he was here. In the warmth of a blanket tucked around Nari. In the gentle sway of your arms as you rocked her. In the soft words you murmured when she couldn’t sleep. And sometimes, when the night got too heavy and you couldn’t stop crying, it almost felt like he was holding both of you.

As if he’s... here.

His face, and memories that would carry you through the hardest nights.

“Nari, here, baby. Come on, girl.”

You crouch down, clapping your hands softly, eyes wide with wonder, a grin tugging at your lips even as your heart races. She’s moving—wobbling just a little, her tiny feet unsteady but determined.

She takes one hesitant step. Then another. And then a few more, slow and careful, her chubby arms outstretched for balance as she toddles from your mother’s arms toward you.

“That’s it,” you breathe, laughing through the lump in your throat. “Come on, love. You’re doing so well.”

When she finally makes it into your waiting arms, you scoop her up, spinning her gently with a joyful squeal. Her giggles fill the space like music, bright and unstoppable.

“You did it, sweetheart,” you whisper, pressing kisses to her cheeks. “You walked. You really walked.” From across, your mother watches, eyes soft with pride.

"Y/N." The voice is deep, familiar, and it stops you cold. You turn around slowly, your breath catching in your throat. He looks older but his eyes are still soft. Still searching. He glances at the little girl in your mother’s arms, then back at you. And it’s like something clicks.

"You’ve been here all along?" he asks, disbelief painting every inch of his face.

You force a small smile, bending down to kiss Nari’s forehead. “Wait for Mama, okay?” you whisper. Your mother gently takes her inside, casting you a look before the door closes behind them.

You stand, tugging awkwardly at the oversized T-shirt clinging to your frame, your shorts wrinkled, your hair tied up in a messy attempt to feel somewhat put together. You know you don’t look anything like the version of yourself he used to know.

"Hi, Soobin," you say quietly, and he just stares. “Yeah. I’ve been… here.”

His jaw tightens. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He runs a hand through his hair, like he’s trying to make sense of something that refuses to be clean. “Every time I came by, they told me you weren’t around. That you’d moved. And now—” he exhales hard, eyes flickering back toward the house. He doesn’t finish the sentence. You know what he wants to ask. You can feel the question burning in his chest.

You look down at your hands. “I was ashamed,” you admit. “I didn’t go to college. I didn’t do everything the way I said I would. Life happened. Fast.”

You swallow. “I have a daughter now, Soobin. And… you don’t have to keep looking for me. I’m not who I used to be.”

You try to fix your hair, but his eyes drop to your shoulder—and you know he’s seen it. The faint stain from Nari’s spit-up you missed. You cover it too late, embarrassed. You offer another shaky smile, but it barely holds.

Then he moves. He steps forward, without hesitation this time, and pulls you into him. You don’t even have time to brace for it. His arms wrap around you like they remember. Like they never forgot.

“I want to meet her,” he says into your hair.

It was beautiful, the way Nari took to Soobin, like she’d known him all along. Like something in her little heart just recognized him. The moment you placed her in his arms, she blinked up at him, curious and calm. And Soobin, he melted. Immediately. A soft grin tugged at his lips, and the cooing started, gentle and awkward and perfect.

“She’s so tiny,” he whispered, holding her like she was the most fragile thing in the world. Like he was afraid to breathe too hard. But within minutes, he was bouncing her softly, nose brushing against her cheeks, whispering silly things just to make her giggle. He didn’t want to let go. You could see it in the way his arms curled tighter, like maybe holding her could undo all the time lost between you.

When he saw the place you’d been staying in, he didn’t judge. He didn’t say a word about the peeling paint or the single fan in the corner. He just looked at you, eyes determined. “Come with me,” he said. “I have a spare apartment. It’s clean. It’s yours if you want it.”

And before you could even shake your head, he added, “I’ll help with Nari. I’ll help you get back on your feet.”

You said no at first. Of course you did. You couldn’t be that girl; the one who takes advantage of someone’s kindness. Soobin didn’t push. He just came back the next day. And the day after that. And again. Somehow, after long talks with your mother, after long nights staring at the ceiling wondering if you were doing the right thing—you said yes.

Trusting became hard for you. But you found with Soobin, maybe because, he trusted him too.

Moving in felt less terrifying than you thought it would. Soobin didn’t make it feel like charity. He made it feel like home. You found a job a month later. And Soobin… Soobin became the softest constant in Nari’s world. The man she ran to with tiny feet and open arms. The one who could make her laugh when you were too tired to try.

He didn’t replace anything. He just… showed up.

"I also… heard."

You turn to him, brows furrowing. "Heard what?"

Soobin hesitates, his fingers gripping the edge of his fork. "He’s back in town."

Your heart stalls. There’s only one person neither of you have dared to mention in years.

"Who?" You shouldn’t have asked. You shouldn’t want to know.

"Choi Beomgyu."

The moment his name hit the air, you dropped your gaze. Like it burned. You couldn’t meet Soobin’s eyes. You knew what was there; the same quiet questions he used to ask in softer moments, the ones you always left unanswered.

He had tried to make sense of how someone could disappear so completely. How someone like Beomgyu could vanish without so much as a goodbye. You remember those early months—Soobin asking carefully, kindly, trying not to press too hard. What happened between you two? Did something go wrong?

You never said a word. Not really. You built walls around your silence and stayed inside them. Pretending was easier than admitting you’d been left behind without a reason. A year without word turned into six. And in all that time, Beomgyu never did. Never came back. No letters. No apologies. Not even a rumor to hold onto.

It’s almost laughable, if it didn’t sting so much.

When you told Soobin about Jaehyun—the shame, the mess, the lawyer at your doorstep—he understood. No futher questions. No judgment. Just that steady kind of empathy only Soobin ever managed to offer. But when it came to Beomgyu? He never understood. He couldn’t. Or maybe he just wouldn’t. "Beomgyu's so in love with you that I can’t believe it."

Maybe it was because you were both too young. Or maybe he met someone oversea, a girl who laughed like you but didn’t cry like you, someone who studied at the same college, shared the same dreams. Maybe she didn’t come with too much baggage, or sleepless nights.

Maybe by now, he has a new life. A wife. A child.

And if someone had told your nineteen-year-old self that this would be the ending, you would’ve laughed. Laughed like it was the cruelest punchline to a joke you didn’t know you were part of. You didn’t know what love really was back then. Not until it stayed behind when he didn’t.

Not until six years passed and he still lived in your head.

“Groceries?” you ask as you open Soobin’s car, your voice low. He moves slowly, cradling the sleeping Nari in his arms like she’s made of glass, then settling her gently into the passenger seat, tucking the blanket around her like he’s done it a hundred times before.

“I can go pick them up, if you want,” you offer, watching the way he lingers with her.

“You sure?” he asks, eyes flicking to yours as he reaches over, gently fixing the collar of your coat, you hadn’t even noticed it had slipped. “It’s cold today. You okay to drive?”

“I’m sure,” you nod, tugging your sleeves over your knuckles. “Besides, Nari said she wanted to sleep over at your place tonight. Something about your sister’s pancakes and playing with Han.”

He smiles,“She’s been talking about that all week.”

You nod again, more to yourself than to him. “And I can’t leave my car parked out here overnight. So… it makes sense.”

“Alright.” He exhales softly, “Call me if anything happens, okay?”

You huff a quiet laugh. “Still trying to figure that out… this phone.”

He laughs, “I’ll go, then. I’ve got her.”

You step back as he closes the door. “Bye,” you murmur, watching the car pull away. And when the taillights disappear into the evening, you let out a long, tired breath. The cold bites at your fingers as you turn to your own car.

The drive was short.

You rub your hands together as soon as you step out into the cold, breath fogging in front of you. The night has settled deep. The parking lot is nearly empty. A few cars. A flickering streetlamp. Just like Soobin said, it’s just groceries. A quick stop. Preparations for tomorrow’s feast. His sister always makes a big deal out of celebrations, dragging him into the chaos. You’ve learned to let them. It gives Nari something bright to look forward to.

Inside, the box is heavier than you expected. You thank the employee handing it over and hug it to your chest, shifting your weight so you don’t drop it. You can carry it. You’ve carried heavier things.

You start walking, slow and careful, the edges of the cardboard digging into your arms. You were just about to ask someone for help with the door when—

It opens. From the outside.

The bell rings overhead; a soft chime, but for some reason it sounds like music tonight. It catches you off guard, how comforting it feels. Maybe it’s the simple fact that someone held the door for you. Maybe it’s the smallness of kindness that makes your chest loosen. You don’t even care if he only opened it because he was heading inside himself. He stepped aside, held the door open, and waited.

And lately, that’s more than enough. You smile for the first time in what feels like forever.

“Thank you—” The word barely made it past your lips before it died because standing in front of you, just as stunned, just as still—

Choi Beomgyu?

You blinked. Once. Twice.

It was like the world forgot how to move. Or maybe just you. The cold didn’t bite anymore. The weight of the box in your arms vanished. Even your own breathing, gone, like your lungs decided they couldn’t function with him so close.

He looked older. Not completely different, but grown. His hair was longer now, brushed just past his shoulders, half tied back in a way that made him look effortlessly composed. He looks at you. Behind him, someone cleared their throat—an older man, another customer —the sound snapping the thread of stillness that had wrapped around the two of you like a noose.

You flinched first.

You took a step back, sudden and clumsy, the box in your arms tilting dangerously as your feet fumbled over themselves. He didn’t move — not a word, not a sound, just his eyes following the box, then trailing downward. To your hands. And when his gaze stopped on your ring finger—bare, unadorned, still slightly red from cold—something flickered across his face.

As soon as the old man walks past, you run.

You don’t think anymore, your body moves before your brain can catch up. The cold slaps your face as you push through the door, feet pounding against the pavement. Behind you, you hear it; that soft slam of the door closing too fast, like someone let go in a rush.

“Y/N—” His voice. God, his voice. It hits you like a bullet. Real. Near. Here. You gasp, eyes locking on your car. Just a few steps. Just get there. Just get in, you can’t let him catch up.

You can’t see his face again. Can’t hear what he might say. Because after all this time... You still don’t know who left who.

You still don’t know if he betrayed you or if it was you who betrayed him.

“Y/N, please—”

Three more steps to your car.

Just three.

“Y/N.” You reach for your keys, but something so painful happens to your right foot. “O—ouch.” The box slips, crashes to the pavement.

“Fuck,” you curse, loud and sharp, the sound echoing through the empty parking lot. You see Beomgyu flinch. You lean against the side of the car, pain blooming like heat across your ankle, shame rushing in right after. All you want to do is disappear. Fold into the metal. Crawl into the seat and drive away like none of this ever happened.

It's one of your leg fucking cramps.

One of the cruelest things no one tells you about giving birth… is how your body doesn’t come back the same. You keep your head down, chest heaving, trying not to cry and behind you, you hear him step closer.

“What’s wrong?” Beomgyu asks. You’re trying to reach for your leg, but the muscle spasms again—tight and brutal, like it’s being wrung out from the inside—and your breath catches, a broken sob lodged in your throat. “Y/N, what’s wrong?” He’s closer now, panicked.

You don’t answer. You can’t, the pain twists deeper, radiating up your thigh, stealing the air from your lungs. You collapse back against the car, gasping, then you whimpered; tears burn hot, streaking down your cheeks before you even realize you’re crying.

“It hurts—” you sob, choked and ugly. “It hurts, it hurts, I—”

Beomgyu’s down in front of you before the words finish. He’s on his knees, hands trembling as he reaches for your ankle, for your shoes, for anything he can fix.

“Okay, okay, I got you, I got you,” he mutters like a prayer, but his hands hover, unsure. Like he’s scared to touch you. Like he doesn’t know where it hurts more. You keep crying; loud, unfiltered sobs that rip through you like the pain itself. Beomgyu’s hands are at your ankle now, carefully slipping off your shoe.

“Don’t move,” he says, and you shake your head, clutching at the car door, your body trembling. “Don’t—don’t move, baby—”

“Don’t— ah—” You managed to say, but the pain flares again, and your voice collapses with it.

Beomgyu’s left hand moves up to your thigh, firm but gentle, pressing your leg down to straighten it. His right finds your foot, still covered in your sock, and starts to stretch it carefully—and you felt your body relax as the pain blurs.

“Breathe,” he says. You squeeze your eyes shut. “Breathe, Y/N.”

You do. And slowly, the pain starts to ease. Your breathing staggers, catches, steadies even if your tears are still falling. And for the first time since after accidentally meeting him at the store, you look back at him. Your eyes meet his, and you can see how glassy they are. His eyes—locked on you like you're something fragile and holy and breaking all at once.

Do you know what it’s like to be angry at someone?

Like really, deeply angry; the kind that simmers low for years, slow and bitter. The kind you carry in your chest like armor. You build it up, rehearse it alone in the shower, in the car, while folding laundry like you’re folding the bones of your rage. You prepare your words like weapons. Every line sharp, factual, unforgiving. You’re not going to yell. No. You’re going to ruin them. Intelligently. With every truth they chose to ignore.

And he looks at you like this. With the softest look that he can give, like he never meant to hurt you. Like he miss you.

You don’t feel powerful. You feel exposed. How do you stay mad at someone who still looks at you like you’re everything they lost?

You let him hold your ankle. You don’t even fight it. His other hand moves up your leg again, massaging. You can feel the warmth of him even through the fabric. Fresh tears slip down your cheeks before you can stop them.

Beomgyu freezes at the sight of it. “Does it still hurt?”

Yes. How can you miss him for years, and seeing him now makes you miss him more?

“Where?” he asks again, softer this time. “Tell me where it hurts.”

Everywhere, you think. You.

You pull away. No words, just the slow removal of his hands from your skin. You crouch to gather the fallen box, desperate for anything to do with your hands but before you can even reach it—he’s already there. Already picking it up. Already moving toward your car like it’s still his place to help. He opens the back door, gently places the groceries inside then turns to look at you.

"I should go," It was your voice this time, cracking the silence between you for the first time all night. Beomgyu flinches, almost imperceptibly, as if your voice surprised him. "My family's waiting."

You don’t wait to see if he reaches for you. You open the car door, slide inside, and shut it before the moment can stretch any further. The engine rumbles to life beneath your hands, a poor distraction from the weight in your chest. As you pull away, you glance in the rearview mirror; see him get smaller and smaller, watching you.

The car felt like a cage. You could barely breathe, not with the way your chest was caving in, not with the way your fingers wouldn’t stop trembling. You kept seeing him; standing there, just standing there, like he didn’t know whether to run after you or let you go. That image clung to you like a bruise. What were you supposed to say? Hey. I guess you’re back. Did it hurt as much for you as it did for me?

When you finally pulled up, your face was dry, but only because you'd cried yourself empty. You didn’t say anything to Soobin—couldn’t. Nari was already asleep, curled up beside his nephew like nothing in the world had gone wrong. His sister welcomed you with a soft smile and showed you to the guest room, no questions asked. You were grateful for that. You didn’t have the strength to lie. Soobin looked at you like he wanted to ask, but you refused to meet his eyes. You knew if you did, something inside you might shatter beyond repair. He must’ve sensed it because he didn’t say a word either.

Sleep didn’t come easy that night, not when the only thing behind your eyelids was the face you’d missed more than the life you once had.

It's cruel how memory chooses the softest parts of someone to haunt.

A soft knock at the door startled you awake.

The room was too bright, it's morning. You flinched, disoriented. Had you even slept? It felt like you’d just blinked. “Yeah… I’m up,” you mumbled, voice rough with a night that gave you no rest. Whoever it was didn’t respond; the sound of footsteps fading down the hall.

You needed to check on Nari. That much you could focus on. You pulled your hair into a loose ponytail with tired fingers, the strands falling uneven around your face. Your pajamas were wrinkled, your face was swollen from all the crying, but you made yourself somewhat presentable.

The living room greeted you with soft light spilling through the curtains, shadows curling against the floor. “Where’s Na—” You froze.

Sitting casually on the couch, a fresh bouquet of roses rested on the table in front, he turned at the sound of your voice.

Choi Beomgyu.

Right. You kept forgetting he was Soobin’s friend too. Of course.

He stood slowly, looking at you. His hand reached for the flowers. “Good morning,” he said softly.

It pulled you out of your stupor, your instincts kicking in like a switch. You turned on your heel, not giving him the satisfaction of a second glance. You needed to find the criminal.

"Good morning, my Y/N!" Soobin greeted with that stupid smile of his, the one that usually made things feel a little lighter. But not today. Not when you walked straight up to him and grabbed him by the collar, your fists trembling with something dangerously close to panic. His grin vanished.

"What the hell are you trying to do?" you snapped, your voice low, "Where is my daughter?" He winced, not from your grip, but from your stare.

“He kept calling me about you—ouch—okay,” he muttered, raising a hand as if to calm you down. “He was desperate. He somehow managed to reach people I haven’t even spoken to in years. Just calling and calling, he was trying to find me. All because of you." Your grip faltered for a second.

“I think…” he hesitated, then met your eyes. “I think it’s best if you hear him out. He got here fifteen minutes after Nari went out with my sister and Han. They’ll be back in the afternoon.”

You slowly let go of his collar, hand falling back to your side like it suddenly weighed too much. Your chest was tight, heart heavier than it had been in weeks. Did he talk? Did he tell him? About you? About how deeply, thoroughly, and irreversibly you’ve screwed everything up?

Your eyes searched his face, ask but then, almost gently, as if he could read your thoughts, Soobin spoke. “I didn’t tell him anything, It wasn’t my place.” he said quietly. “It’s best if you hear him out..”

Beomgyu’s walking away.

Each step feels like it’s slicing him open from the inside, like the ground’s dragging knives across his chest. The doors ahead glint under the airport lights; the ones that’ll swallow him whole and spit him out somewhere far from here. Far from you. He tells himself not to look back. If he does, he’ll break. If he sees your face, he’ll run back and beg to stay. Worse—if you so much as whispered his name, told him not to go—he would drop everything. The flight. The future. All of it.

So he keeps going. Until something in him caves. He always caves when it comes to you. He stops. Turns.

And there you are; clinging to Soobin, crying like the world’s ending. Maybe it is. He wants to run to you, hold you until you stop shaking. But instead, he just stands there, chest heavy with every breath. He makes a promise right then, like a prayer carved into bone: He'll give you the life you deserve. He'll give you everything.

He tries to smile, but his lips are trembling too much. He can’t fall apart here, not when you’re already crying. You’re always the crybaby, not him. He has to be the strong one.

And when he finally finds the words—words that feel like ripping out his own heart and handing it to you—he shouts them so loud they shake through the air between you.

What do you even say to someone you're leaving behind?

“I’LL COME BACK FOR YOU!”

Even if the world changes. Even if you forget.

He will.

It’s hard, being in a new country. Harder than he ever admitted out loud. His family’s here, but it doesn’t feel like it. They’re always working, always somewhere else. And when he comes home to an empty apartment and four white walls, it hits him all over again.

You’re miles and oceans away.

He walks through streets that don’t sound like home. Every sign is a puzzle, every conversation feels like it’s moving too fast, slipping through his fingers. He nods and smiles, pretends he understands. But most of the time, he doesn’t. Most of the time, he’s just tired.

The only thing that feels real is when your letter arrives.

On those days, everything stops. His heart settles. His hands too excited as he tears the envelope open, like it’s something that gives him ar reason to live for. Your handwriting, your words; they’re a piece of home he can hold. It becomes his favorite part of the week. His only part of the week, really. Writing to you, reading your letters, rereading them until the ink practically imprints itself into his skin.

It was going well. For a while, anyway. Two months of surviving. Of pretending he was getting the hang of it.

Until it all went up in smoke.

He came home one evening and the sky was choked in black. Smoke pouring like a stormcloud, thick and angry, swallowing everything whole. Their apartment—the only place that ever felt remotely stable—was on fire. Gone. His parents’ last coin flip, their last gamble at a better life, reduced to ash. The furniture. The photographs. The little trinkets that made it feel like home.

Your letters. God, your letters.

He’d kept every single one. Folded neatly, worn soft from rereading. He used to clutch them on the bad days, the lonely nights. And now they were gone, burned before he could even say goodbye to them.

Suddenly, they were homeless in a country that still didn’t feel like theirs. The language still felt foreign, the people distant. They stayed where they could; shelters, temporary housing, places that didn’t ask too many questions. He didn’t write for a week. Then another. A month slipped by before he realized just how long it had been. But how could he write, when he couldn’t even buy himself a meal? When a sheet of paper, an envelope, a stamp—things he used to take for granted—now felt like luxuries too far out of reach?

He thought of you every single day. He trusted you’d still be there, still waiting, still believing in him. He had to, because he didn’t have anything else left.

They moved. Again. And again. From shelter to shelter, wherever there was space, wherever someone would take them in. No place ever felt permanent with borrowed beds. While his father scraped together bits and pieces for a future that still felt out of reach—secondhand furniture, donated appliances, hope held together with tape, Beomgyu worked for their family too. Late shifts, early mornings, anything that paid. He kept his head down, hands tired, eyes always scanning for something he couldn’t name.

It took six months. Six months of skipped meals and pocketed coins, of walking past stationery aisles with a lump in his throat, before he could finally afford to write to you again. And when he did, he poured everything into that first letter. Every apology he never got to say. Every cracked piece of his heart. Every I’m sorry it took so long, wrapped in trembling handwriting and the ghost of smoke that never really left his clothes.

He waited for your reply. Days passed. Then weeks. Nothing. So he wrote again. Maybe the first got lost. Maybe you didn’t see it, but then the second went unanswered. And the third

Still, he didn’t stop.

Every week, without fail, he wrote. Even when his fingers ached. Even when the silence on the other end felt like a punishment he deserved. He wrote like it was the only way to stay alive. Like if he just kept going, somehow, you'd hear him. Apologies bled through ink. Cries tucked between the lines. Please. Please say something. Please don’t leave me behind.

It had been over a year.

One year and seven months since he last saw your face, he missed your birthday. He missed everything. Coming back was a miracle in itself. His boss had finally said yes to time off, just a few days, barely enough, but he didn’t care. He had scraped together every cent. Skipped meals. He stopped buying things that tasted like comfort just to save a little more. He told himself he’d apologize the moment he saw you. Fall to his knees if he had to. He didn’t care what it took—he just wanted to explain, to make you understand, but then, on the bus to your neighborhood, holding the small bag of gifts he could afford, it hit him like a punch to the chest.

He’d been writing your address wrong.

All those letters—pages of love and pain, of apologies and hope—had never reached you because he wrote them from memory after everything got burned. He didn’t even realize he was crying until a stranger asked if he was alright.

And then he saw you. From across the street, standing beside Jake Sim. You're pregnant? Jake is laughing at something, one hand resting on your belly. You look beautiful.

Right there, across the street, the boy who swore he’d come back for you was breaking.

The ones left behind mourn with open hands, reaching for echoes, clinging to the warmth of a room that’s already gone cold. They cry in the spaces where laughter used to live, and the grief comes loud, sharp, like a scream in an empty house. But the ones who leave? They bleed quietly. They turn their backs knowing they’re carving wounds into people they love, knowing their absence will echo longer than their presence ever did. And they leave not because they want to—but because the world asks them to; because duty, or fate, or something crueler demands it.

Between the two, who suffers more? The ones who wait for a door that won’t open, or the ones who shut it with shaking hands and walk away?

Beomgyu had kept himself hidden for years—not out of pride, but shame. A quiet, gnawing embarrassment that maybe he had broken too much to ever come back whole. He never wanted to burden you, never wanted his face to remind you of the past. He knew you had your own life now. A family. A world that kept turning even after he stepped out of it.

He couldn’t explain what shifted in him this year. Maybe it was the ache of too many birthdays passed, or the way the past never seemed to loosen its grip. But he found himself wanting. Just a glimpse. Just to know you were okay. He went to your house—stood in front of the door he once called home—and was met with a stranger’s cold dismissal. Your father, grayer now, eyes harder. There was no trace of your mother; divorce, he guessed.

Then he felt oddly drawn to buy himself water and saw you at a grocery store. A mundane miracle.

And now here he is, sitting across from you, heart in his throat, watching your brows knit in confusion as he says the words he’s kept caged for years. The girl he once wanted to give everything to. The girl he still does. He worked through the ache, graduated, got a job, built something steady from the mess he once was. It’s not enough to retire on, but it’s enough to build a life. He tried dating, tried pretending but every time someone got too close, he found himself pulling away, haunted by a laugh that wasn’t yours. He looks at you, you’re here. And your adorable, bewildered expression guts him more than anything else ever could, because it confirms the one thing he’s tried hardest to bury: he’s still so fucking in love with you.

Beomgyu clenches his fist, thumb digging into his palm as he forces himself to meet your eyes. He stopped talking minutes ago—about the fire, the years, except the time he went back and saw you with Jake—and still, you haven’t said a word. Not to him. Not yet. “I know it’s—”

“What do you want me to do?” you ask, your voice flat, unfamiliar. And it terrifies him more than if you had shouted. “I’m sorry. About the fire, and everything, but what do you want me to do with that, Beomgyu?”

The way you say his name, it burns. Beomgyu stares. You still look the same, achingly so, but something in your voice tells him the years have changed you into someone else. Someone harder. He nods slowly, eyes flickering down, again to your hands. Bare. Still bare. The absence of a ring doesn’t make sense. You should be married by now. Any man would’ve been a fool not to. So why is your finger still empty? Soobin never told him anything. Wouldn’t.

“I don’t really want anything,” he says quietly, even though his heart is screaming otherwise. He wants everything. He wants you. “I just… hoped we could talk again.”

Beomgyu sees your face soften with his words, and you're about to speak when the door of Soobin's apartment beeps open.

“Mommy!”

A small voice cuts, bright and sweet, and he turns just in time to see a little girl bounding toward you—hair in low pigtails, uneven but endearing, the kind he used to tie for you in middle school with small fingers and too much care. The lollipop in her hand is sticky, half-melted, clinging to her palm as she throws herself into your arms. And you catch her like you were made for it. Beomgyu’s heart stutters.

“Did you miss me, Mommy?” she beams, eyes wide and waiting. And then he sees it—the softest, most real thing he’s seen on your lips since he sat down.

It tears him apart.

“I did, hun,” you murmur, brushing hair gently from her cheek. “Did you eat yet?”

“Yes! Sorry I didn’t wake you up to eat. Uncle Binnie said to let you sleep.” Beomgyu can’t breathe. His chest feels too tight, too full.

He can’t look away. He knows he should; knows it’s not his place to linger in the picture-perfect moment unfolding in front of him but he’s frozen. The little girl settles in your lap, arms still curled around your neck, and then, her curious eyes flick to him.

“Hi,” she says brightly, the lollipop now forgotten, her smile wide and fearless. Beomgyu blinks, then somehow finds the strength to match her energy.

“Hi,” he says softly. “I’m Beomgyu.” He sees it immediately—the shift in your gaze.

“She’s my daughter,” you say. “Her name is Nari.”

His breath catches.

Of course she is.

She looks like you. Same curious eyes. Same soft, heart-shaped face. A perfect mirror of the girl he fell in love with all those years ago. It stings—how beautiful she is. How familiar. She looks like you. He lets out a small, stunned laugh that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Yeah,” he says, nodding. “Yeah, figured she is.”

“Bye, Beomgyu,” Nari chirps from the living room, her tiny hands waving enthusiastically at the man standing by the door. Beomgyu grins, lifting his hand in a playful wave back. Then his eyes find yours.

You shift where you’re standing, arms crossed tight over your chest. Soobin’s already stepped outside, giving the two of you space as he walks ahead from Beomgyu toward the lot. You hadn’t expected Nari to warm up to him so quickly. Nari, usually shy around anyone new, had taken to Beomgyu almost instantly. She’d asked him question after question, tugged on his sleeve, even laughed in that unfiltered way she rarely does; maybe because he kept talking to her like he’d known her forever. Gentle. Patient. Funny in that effortless way.

“I’ll head out,” he says softly, clearing his throat. “See you tomorrow?” He looks like he's about to take you in his arms.

“Yeah,” you murmur, voice barely holding steady. “Drive safe.” You don’t look at him. You can’t. Not when your chest already feels too tight. For a moment, nothing happens.

Then he shifts, and when his hand lifts, you flinch—so subtly he might not even notice; all he does is rest his palm gently on your head. The touch is soft. Careful. With that small, simple gesture, he’s holding the whole mess of your heart right there in his hand.

You look up, just in time to see him step back. He gives you a quiet smile, a small nod, then he turns and walks out the door. You stand there, staring at the space he left behind, at the door that feels like it’s separating more than just a room. And suddenly, it hits you—this aching, desperate urge to run after him. To pull him back. To say all the things you swallowed down.

You felt it the moment he started talking, explaining—something inside you beginning to quietly break. His story unfolded slowly, like a wound being reopened in real time. It was too vivid, too cinematic, the kind of tragedy that scripts are written around. The kind that ruins the heroine, just before the credits roll but this wasn’t fiction, and Beomgyu doesn’t lie.

That’s what made it unbearable.

You sat there, silent, trying not to fall apart, trying to keep your expression flat even as the weight of his words dragged you under. Because somewhere between his grief and yours, a realization slipped through the cracks.

You were the one who gave up first.

Now, you couldn’t pull him into this; this version of your life where everything is held together with fraying thread because of you decisions. Where your daughter’s laugh is the only light in a world that feels dim more often than not. Where you don't even know who you are without the exhaustion.

You love Nari. Of course you do. You love her with a kind of fierce, bone-deep love that no one else will ever understand. But loving her doesn’t mean you don’t ache. You can’t let him back in. You can’t let him try to fit into this life, not when you know it would never be enough.He belongs to a different world, a world of bright lights and movement and choices. He could leave tomorrow.

You told yourself you were protecting him. That someone like Beomgyu—so full of life and possibility—shouldn’t be dragged into the mess of your world. A single mother, anchored to a small town and a quiet kind of loneliness. He deserved someone lighter. Someone with no baggage. You love Nari. God, you love her more than anything. Being her mother is the one thing you’ve never regretted. But that love also demands a kind of sacrifice.

If you let Beomgyu in—really in—you’d hope. You’d start to believe he might stay. And that hope is dangerous.

Worse still, a darker thought lingers: what if Nari starts to see him as more than just your friend? What if she lets herself believe he could be something permanent, someone who doesn't leave? Beomgyu comes from a world that moves faster than this place ever will. A city boy, full of dreams and fire. This town would shrink around him.

There’s an urge—violent, desperate—to throw the door open and run after him, but you don’t move. Your hands… they’re not the same hands that once held him with all the certainty in the world. The naive teenager you once were would’ve said yes without thinking, would’ve smiled and nodded like words was enough to fix anything. Whatever fragile, fleeting thing bloomed between you, it was your hands that crushed it first. Wanting him now would be selfish. Cruel.

You're not heartless enough to ruin him twice. You will be damned if you ever stood in front of his path.

It's still bright out.

The sun hasn't set yet, but when Soobin glances to his right, it feels like someone told the man beside him that it never would rise again. All that light seems to have drained from him, a ghost of the boy Soobin first saw; eyes full of hope, clutching a bouquet of roses like he believed in happy endings.

"Choi Beomgyu," Soobin sighs as the elevator doors slide shut. "What did she say?"

There’s no answer. Just a low, half-hearted grumble from Beomgyu, somewhere between a whine and a sigh, like even admitting it out loud would hurt too much. Soobin turns, already knowing what he’ll see. Beomgyu’s head bowed, eyes glued to the floor, hands stuffed deep in his pockets like he’s trying to hold himself together.

Some things really don’t change. Soobin shakes his head, the corners of his mouth tightening. It's the same Beomgyu from high school—the one who used to trail behind you, heart always half a step ahead of his courage. The one who scribbled love in silence and let it rot there. Back then, Soobin had to push him every damn day just to get him to tell his heart out. Watching him want you but never move was its own kind of torture. And now, years later, here they are again. Did he seriously need to play the matchmaker again?

"Are you…" Soobin clears his throat, the question catching awkwardly on his tongue. "…giving up?"

"No. God, no." Beomgyu finally lifts his head, eyes flashing like Soobin just accused him of something unforgivable. "It's just—she caught me off guard that—"

"That she changed?" Soobin cuts in, sharp. "What, were you expecting her to do aegyo? Say some of that cute shit she used to pull in high school? Oh, I’m sorry, ‘Oh, Choi Beomgyu, I love you too—Ouch!” Soobin curses under his breath, reaching for his shin where Beomgyu’s foot just connected, hard. It wasn't playful. It was frustration. Beomgyu doesn’t say a word, but Soobin doesn’t need him to. He can feel it radiating off him—the heat, his rage.

Good. He’s still so stupidly, violently affected by you. There’s still something left to fight for.

"Are you still in love with her?" — "Yes."

The answer slips out of Beomgyu’s mouth so fast, so effortlessly, it startles the breath out of Soobin for a second. He smirks, "How can you tell?"

Beomgyu exhales, eyes distant. "Because it took everything in me not to kiss her."

"Heol. You pervert," Soobin snorts, shaking his head, but his tone softens, "About your question earlier. About… Nari’s father." He sees it instantly—the way Beomgyu’s smile falters, the way his jaw clenches like he’s bracing for something. Soobin swallows hard, the lump in his throat thick with everything he isn’t saying. There’s so much he wants to spit out. He feels like he’s being ripped in half. One part of him wants to grab Beomgyu by the collar, shake him, scream at him to grow the hell up and the other part just wants to pull him into a hug and not let go—because Beomgyu looks like he’s seconds away from breaking.

"It’s not my story to tell," Soobin finally says, "but for what it’s worth, he’s not in the picture. If that wasn’t obvious already." He pauses, glancing at the still silent Beomgyu, "She changed. I won’t lie about that. She’s sharper now, doesn’t smile unless Nari’s in the room. Harder to reach, but she’s still… our Y/N."

The elevator dings.

A week has passed, and you see Choi Beomgyu every single day.

He hasn’t brought up your last conversation. He doesn’t push, doesn’t crowd the space you’ve drawn around yourself. He just… shows up. Whenever Soobin takes Nari out, even when you’re not there, you’ll find Beomgyu waiting by the car for your daughter, always looking back to give you a small smile.

There was a time when you told Soobin you were thinking about going home. He only shrugged and said, “You’ve already planned your holiday breaks. Leaving now would break Nari’s heart.” So you stayed. And every day, Beomgyu keeps coming back.

He brings flowers—always the same kind as the first time. He never hands them to you directly; places them somewhere nearby, close enough to notice, far enough to ignore if you wanted to. He doesn’t say a word about them. Your fingers always find the stems. You gather them quietly, arrange them in the same vase.

“Do you want some of this too?” you ask, motioning toward the chicken. Nari nods immediately, her mouth open, ready for the next bite. It’s lunchtime. The dining table is full—Nari beside you, Soobin across, his sister and nephew chatting quietly at the end. And then there’s Beomgyu, sitting diagonally from you, close enough to hear every small thing you say. You spoon the food onto Nari’s plate, smoothing it out beside the rice. Beomgyu doesn’t say much, but you can feel his eyes flicker toward you every now and then.

Beomgyu glances at you, then at Nari’s plate—already full, her little fork digging in eagerly. The rest of the table begins to eat, soft clinks of utensils and the hum of conversation filling the space. Then he looks down at your plate.

It’s still empty.

Without a word, Beomgyu reaches across the table and starts serving food onto it. You turn, startled by the movement. “I’ll do it—” you begin, reaching for the serving spoon.

“Eat,” he says gently, scooping the biggest piece of fish fillet onto your plate. “You don’t like it when your food turns cold.”

You go still. The words hit you in a way you weren’t expecting; pulling you back to high school lunches, sitting on worn benches, complaining about lukewarm meals. Back to the way Beomgyu used to sprint across campus just to find a microwave, breathless but grinning as he handed your food back, warm again.

You blink, watch as he quietly adds a little more to your plate. He reaches for your utensils, places them gently in your hand and you take them.

Just like you always used to.

“You sure you don’t need help?” Soobin asks, placing the last plate into the sink.

Your hands are already in the soapy water, working through the pile of forks and spoons. “Yeah,” you reply easily, “this is nothing.”

Soobin gives your head a gentle pat, and you hear his footsteps fade as he leaves the kitchen.

You keep going, the familiar rhythm of washing grounding you—soap, rinse, repeat. It’s peaceful in the way small, ordinary things can be. Then, without looking, you feel someone beside you. A hand reaches for the dishes you’ve already washed, careful and quiet, followed by the soft drag of a towel across porcelain.

“Hey,” you start, half-turning, “I said I’m fine, I’ll do that—” Your words trail off when you glance over and see him. Beomgyu. He’s focused on the dishes, drying each one.

He's helping you.

Beomgyu glances at you, his thoughts loud. You hadn’t pushed him away. You let him stay beside you, in this small, shared space; rinsing, drying, moving in sync. Something so simple, yet to him, it feels intimate. He’d dreamed of this. Not grand reunions. Not tearful apologies or big moments. Just… this quiet kitchen, and you beside him.

“You’re a guest,” you murmur, eyes on the sink. “You shouldn’t be here, doing this.”

He hears it—the softness in your voice, the way it falters just slightly at the end. You talked to him. Directly. A loopsided smile pulls at his lips, unable to hide it, because you talked to him. He doesn’t look at you right away, just focuses on the dish in his hands like it means more than it does.

“I want to,” he says simply, glances your way. "I want to help you." He watches how quickly your hands move through the motions but all he can think about is how much he wants to stop you. How badly he wants to take your hands out of the water, dry them gently, press them to his chest so you’ll feel how fast he’s still beating for you.

He keeps drying the plates you pass to him.

Beomgyu has been watching you and Nari all week. It hadn’t even taken a full day for him to see it: how good of a mother you are. How instinctively, beautifully you move around your daughter, knowing her moods, her hunger before she even says a word. But it’s the other things he can’t stop noticing.

The way you serve everyone first before thinking of your own plate. The way you rush through bites, always half-standing to get something for someone else. The way your eyes stay on others, never on yourself. He remembers lunch—everyone halfway through their meal, and your plate still empty. You were too busy making sure Nari had enough, that Soobin’s nephew got seconds, that nothing spilled. And something about it made his chest twist in a way he wasn’t ready for.

Who’s been taking care of you?

You, years ago, pouting over your favorite ice cream being sold out. You, holding out your foot for him to tie your shoelace, smiling like you knew he’d do it without asking. You, crying over the smallest things, because back then, you were allowed to. Now you're here, taking care of a child like you’ve done it a thousand times before. He sees you—this version of you, all grown up—and it knocks the breath from his lungs.

Beomgyu reaches out before he can stop himself, the sight of a single strand of hair falling across your face pulling him in. His fingers move gently as he tucks it behind your ear. He looks at you, afraid he must have done something wrong, something personal, but in this moment, with you looking up at him, lashes soft and eyes wide, he’s too dazed.

“Thank you, Beomgyu.”

He knows you haven’t said a word since the first day he showed up, but if anything, somehow, impossibly; he’s fallen even deeper.

You were chopping vegetables at the table, Soobin’s sister beside you, lending a hand—at least until the two of you realized a few ingredients were missing, so she went out for a run. Soobin and Beomgyu had volunteered to keep an eye on the kids, leaving the kitchen unusually quiet.

“Y/N?” You looked up to see Beomgyu standing at the doorway, something wrapped in red cradled in his hands. His smile was small, unsure. You returned it without thinking.

“I wanted to give you something,” he said. You set the knife down and nodded. Ever since he’d spoken to you again that day, little conversations had started to creep back in. It felt easy. Light.

“What’s this?” — “Merry Christmas.”

“You do know it’s only 12 p.m. today, right?”

“I know,” Beomgyu says, scratching the back of his head. “But… do you remember that little tradition we had? Back then?”

You pause, looking at him. “Our families always went out of town on Christmas Day,” he continues, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “So we used to pretend Christmas was the day before. At noon. Just the two of us.”

You do remember. How could you not? Your hands move to unwrap the gift slowly, careful not to tear the paper. Inside, your eyes land on a pack of relief patches. Your breath catches. A note, scribbled in familiar messy handwriting.

Can we be friends, again?

"Uh, I didn’t really know what to get you," Beomgyu says, rubbing the back of his neck, voice a little rushed. "I mean… there’s a lot of things I wanted to give you, but," he lets out a nervous laugh, "I heard you talking about these patches. And I know you get those cramps whenever it’s too cold, so I just," He cuts himself off when he sees you smiling, arms open wide.

"If you don’t hug me right now, I’m taking it back and—"

You don’t even get to finish the teasing before he’s already moving, fast enough to startle you. His hands find the back of your head, cradling you gently as he exhales like he’s been holding his breath this whole time. His other arm wraps around your back, pulling you closer. You instinctively hugged him around the waist—just like you used to. You hold him, and tears prick at the corners of your eyes, but you don’t let them fall.

Beomgyu feels your arms tighten, and he presses himself closer. Being in your arms feels like forgiveness. It’s warm.

In the middle of the kitchen, two souls stood still. Remembering, what it felt like to be whole.

You wash your hands, eyes drifting to the nearly rebuilt faucet.

It’s been a month since Christmas. Three weeks since you came back home with Nari. And Beomgyu—just as everyone expected—has been everywhere. He visits for Nari, plays with her like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Sometimes he comes with Soobin, sometimes alone. He stays. He helps. He shows up with flowers one day, groceries the next because he noticed you were running low. And the faucet, the one you swore would never stop leaking, is finally fixed.

You became... somewhat friends.

“Nari?” you called, a small laugh slipping out when she came running in with her backpack already on—hair tie and comb in her hands. You took them from her, settling onto the living room couch as she plopped down on the floor between your knees. Gently, you began brushing her hair, pulling it up the way she liked for practice days. It was her big day. And you—fresh off nearly ten hours at work—had barely caught your breath. Beomgyu had insisted on taking her this time. Said you needed to rest. Said he’d be proud to cheer her on.

Your hands moved on autopilot through her hair, “Do you remember…” you swallowed, fingers pausing for a second, “Do you remember the person I used to talk about a lot?”

You never said his name aloud but something in you needed to know.

“Hm?” Nari hums, eyes fluttering shut a little, comforted by the way you gently brush through her hair. “Oh. Yes, Mommy.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” she says, “Mama’s best friend, right? And I think it’s Beomgyu.”

Your hands still. “What? Why?”

“I saw his dimples, Mama,” she replies, her voice sure. “It's ike the ones you always told me about and he’s big like a bear, like you said. And…” she turns her head slightly, looking up at you with soft certainty, “Beomgyu says you’re his favorite person in the world.”

You blink. Words caught somewhere between your chest and your throat. You never realized how much she was listening. How much she noticed. You were still trying to find something to say when the doorbell rang.

It was the fastest you’d ever seen your daughter run.

You caught the look on her face; pure joy, her smile so wide you thought her cheeks might burst. It was a look she gives to someone she trusts. She knew exactly who was at the door. You followed, slower now, your steps unconsciously softening when you heard him laughing. Then you saw them; Beomgyu practically crouched on the floor, Nari already clinging to him. He looked up, his eyes met yours, and he smiled.

It made you want to dream again.

Beomgyu buckles Nari into the back seat, double-checks the latch, then closes the door with a soft click. When he turns around, you're still watching; leaning against the front door, arms crossed, casual in a plain shirt and shorts, face bare in the morning light.

So fucking beautiful.

He lifts a hand in a small wave. You smile, and wave back. It’s such a small thing, but enough to make his heart race. He gets back in the car, forcing himself to look away. He doesn’t start the engine until he sees you step inside and gently close the door behind you. He’s driving, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror once, then again. “You okay back there?”

“Yeah!” Nari chirps. “Thank you for letting Mama rest. I wanted her to rest too, ‘cause she’s been working a lot. I wanna take care of Mama today.”

Beomgyu’s chest tightens. She’s so small, her voice so light, and she probably doesn't know her words nearly undoes him. That kind of love, intentional, coming from someone who hasn’t even lived a fraction of life yet, it knocks the breath from his lungs.

How did she learn to love like that?

He glances at her in the rearview mirror, and she’s just there. Swinging her legs, looking out the window like she didn’t just crack his heart wide open. He swallows hard. He’s proud. God, he’s so proud. Of her, and of you; especially you. Because this kind of softness doesn’t come from nowhere. You built that in her and now it’s spilling out of her in the backseat of his car, and he doesn’t know what to do with the way it’s making him feel. It hasn’t even been that long. A few weeks. A handful of moments.

But he already wants forever.

He wants school plays and scraped knees. Wants to be the one who teaches her how to ride a bike, how to parallel park, how to survive the kind of heartbreaks he won’t be able to protect her from, chase off the boys who don’t deserve her. He wants to watch her grow into the world. And he wants you there for every second of it. Your laugh in the kitchen, your hand on his arm, your face before he sleeps. He wants you both. And it scares him, how much.

He’s never wanted anything this badly. His eyes sting. He blinks it away. Another glance in the mirror. Another heartbeat held tight in his chest.

“That’s cool, kid,”

The sun was high, painting the day in golden warmth that makes everything feel a little softer.

Up ahead, Nari bounced with excitement, her small hands clasped tightly in Soobin’s and Beomgyu’s. She was all smiles, practically skipping between them, laughter in her face. You watched her, heart full. Watched them. Soobin was talking to her, probably asking which games she was going to beat him at today. Beomgyu, though, kept glancing back, eyes always searching for you. Making sure you were, still close.

Soobin had wanted to take Nari out to the mall today—spoil her a little, burn some energy. And of course, that meant one inevitable stop: the arcade. Beomgyu had tagged along without hesitation. The way Beomgyu’s eyes lit up when you said yes to Nari, was evident.

“You have to press this one,” you say through a quiet laugh, shaking your head as you point to the button. “You used to be good at this, Beomgyu.”

“Hey,” he says, mock offense in his voice. “It’s been a while, okay?”

He steps closer, closer than he needs to. His shoulder brushes against yours, and the warmth of him slips under your skin before you can stop it. He doesn’t move away. Instead, his fingers wrap around yours, guiding the controller, and his other hand settles at your waist.

Steadying himself. Or maybe just finding a reason to touch you. You don’t pull away.

He presses the button like you showed him. The claw sinks down and lifts the small teddy bear. When the prize drops, he turns to you, pride written all over his face. “Told you I could do it,” he says, flashing that grin, dimple and all.

You try to play it cool, rolling your eyes, even as your heart stumbles a little. “Fine. It’s acceptable.” You take the toy from him, trying not to let your fingers brush again.

“I’ll give this to Nari," You start walking, feel Beomgyu fall into step beside you. You halt at the sight.

It’s instinctual, the way your body freezes, breath caught halfway through your chest. The space is loud, chaotic in the way weekends always are, but suddenly it all sounds muffled. Distant. Like the world just dipped underwater. It’s easy to spot Soobin; he stands tall even in a crowd, his frame always familiar but your eyes don’t land on him for long. They find the man standing across from him. The man in front of Soobin. In front of Nari.

The father of your child.

Jaehyun.

Soobin’s standing protective, squared just slightly forward, one arm half out like he’s ready to shield. He’s trying to keep things calm, you can tell. You’ve known him long enough to read the tension in his shoulders. You see him lightly push Jaehyun back. A warning. And then you see her. Nari stands beside Soobin, pressed in his legs, small and stiff, eyes wide but lips pressed in a firm, silent no. She shakes her head—once, twice, over and over. You know that look. You know that body language. The way her fingers twist in the hem of her shirt, the way she leans subtly toward Soobin, away from the man she doesn’t know.

Nari doesn’t like strangers.

You’re frozen. You don’t even realize you’ve stopped breathing until your chest starts to ache. You don’t know what part of it hit you first; seeing him again, or the way he’s looking at your child like he has some kind of right.

Jaehyun.

The man who left knowing you were carrying his child. You feel your stomach twist, something sour crawling up your throat. Is it fear? Or is it the anger, the shame? He left you. And it wasn’t just about leaving, it was how easily he did it. How quickly he made it clear that not even a child could make him stay. That you weren’t enough. That he meant none of what he promised. You were humiliated. Why does he know Nari? Why now? Did he know? Did he follow you? Did he have someone watching? Has he been here all along, memorizing the shape of your daughter’s face without ever earning the right? Your hands are shaking. Being a father? What does that even mean?Because he’s the one who gave her half her blood? Is that all it takes? A name on a birth certificate, a twisted smile, a return after years of silence?

“Y/N. Hey.” Beomgyu’s voice is careful but you don’t look at him. Your eyes are locked on Nari. On the way her small frame stiffens, how her lips tremble like she’s holding in a sob too big for her chest. You don’t even know what to say; what do you say to a child meeting the man who walked out before she could even open her eyes? Beomgyu’s hand comes to your shoulder, but it drops the second he hears Nari.

“No—!” It's tiny, a plea, crying out through her tears. And everything goes still.

“Dude, back the fuck off.” Soobin immediately says, aware that Beomgyu who is now nearing them. “You're scaring her.”

Jaehyun steps forward anyway, insisting, and Nari stumbles back. She doesn’t say anything this time, just clutches Soobin’s hand tighter, tears slipping down her cheeks as she tries to disappear into the space behind him.

Beomgyu doesn’t even blink. The second Soobin lifts Nari, turning her away from the scene, hiding her trembling frame against his shoulder; Beomgyu snaps. He grabs Jaehyun by the collar and slams him against the nearest wall, hard enough to rattle the arcade glass. The lights flash mockingly behind them, all blinking reds and greens and blues like it’s some sick joke.

Jaehyun stares him down, cocky despite the blood already blooming at the edge of his lip.

“What?” Jaehyun stares him down, “You gonna scare me off too? Like you did with Y/N before?” Beomgyu’s jaw clenches. He’s shaking with how hard he’s holding back. Jaehyun laughs—laughs, like it’s all a game. “You’re not her father,” he spits.

That does it.

Beomgyu’s fist flies, collides straight into Jaehyun’s face. The impact is loud, brutal. Jaehyun stumbles sideways, nearly collapsing, but Beomgyu’s there again, dragging him back up by the collar like he refuses to let this end with one hit. “Don't even say her name. You left her. You left them.”

Jaehyun punches him back, hard, and Beomgyu hits the edge of a skee-ball ramp, stumbling. “You think you can come back and pretend you care?” Beomgyu growls, eyes wild, blood rushing hot in his ears. “You think one fucking look at her erases years?”

“You don’t know what I went through,” Jaehyun snaps, lunging forward. “You don’t know what it was like—”

“Don’t you talk to me about pain!” Beomgyu yells, slamming into him again. This time they both fall—Jaehyun’s back hitting the carpeted floor with a thud as Beomgyu’s fists come down, one—two—three times.

Soobin rushes forward, grabbing Beomgyu’s arm. “Stop!”

But Beomgyu shakes him off, panting hard. His knuckles are red, maybe bleeding, maybe not. Doesn’t matter. Everything is fire. Jaehyun coughs, blood at the corner of his mouth now, face turned away. “You don’t get to waltz back into her life,” Beomgyu says, voice rough. “You don’t get to show up and make her cry and act like you’re owed something. You were gone. Stay gone-” He raises his fist again. Blinded—by fury, by the ache of every story you ever told him in a whisper. He wants to destroy him for you. He wants to make Jaehyun feel what you felt.

“Choi Beomgyu!” He freezes. Your voice, cracked, frantic, and trembling—catches him in the ribs harder than any hit could. “Let’s go,” you beg, voice softer now, breaking. “Please?”

He turns. He sees you; your arms wrapped tight around yourself, like you’re barely holding it together. Tear-streaked cheeks, eyes wide and desperate. Soobin still has Nari tucked into his chest, shielding her from it all, from him. And Nari’s shaking, tiny hands fisted in Soobin’s shirt, too afraid to even look. Beomgyu’s heart drops.

He meets your eyes and it’s over. The rage leaks out of him in slow, gutting waves. Guilt rushes in to take its place, heavy and drowning. He looks down at his fists, knuckles split, blood seeping between his fingers. Jaehyun groans on the floor, but Beomgyu doesn’t care anymore.

He only sees you.

“…Let’s go.”

Beomgyu doesn’t really know what happened after. Everything moved in a blur. Security guards rushing over. Soobin’s voice, gathering Nari in his arms and carrying her out quickly. The sting of cold air as they pulled him aside. Your hand slipping into his, trembling.

And now this. A small, sterile room in the back of the arcade. Fluorescent lights buzzing above like they’re judging him. His knuckles throb with every pulse of his heart. That little box of first aid in your hands.

Beomgyu watches you. You’re so close he can feel the soft brush of your breath on his skin. Your hand cradles his jaw with the gentlest pressure, a cotton pad in your other, dabbing at the cut on his cheek with delicate focus.

He’s sitting, back against the cold wall, while you stand over him—eyes still glassy from the tears you swore you were done shedding. He doesn’t believe you. Not with how you keep blinking too fast, how your lips press together like you’re holding more in. "Does that hurt?" you ask softly, barely above a whisper.

“No, baby.”

You nod, thumb brushes his cheek as you tilt his face just slightly toward the light, inspecting the damage with far more care than he deserves. He can’t look away from you. Not with the way your brows are drawn in concern, not with the way your skin keeps brushing his, unintentionally intimate. Not with how close your mouth is. Not when he’s this full of anger, of adrenaline, of fear and guilt and the overwhelming ache of you being this soft with him after everything.

He should say something. Apologize again. Ask if you’re okay. But all the words are caught in his throat, dried out from the fire still simmering in his chest. You dab more alcohol gently and he winces, less from pain and more from the way your eyes flick to his for a split second. And linger.

He swallows.

You’re standing between his legs, hands on his face, touching him like he’s fragile. And it’s killing him—how much he wants to grab you and say something stupid like don’t leave me, don’t hate me, don’t talk to him—

“Why did you have to do that?” you whisper, voice cracking, your hands trembling where they grip the fabric of his shirt.

Beomgyu's heart swell, he reaches for you, palm steady on your waist, pulling you in like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he waits even a second longer. You straddle his lap without resistance, your thighs pressing against his hips, breath shallow as you shift closer. Your face is barely inches from his when he leans in, and the moment your lips touch, it’s messy. Breathless. Too much and not enough all at once.

The kiss deepens quickly—months of longing, fear, and pent-up desire pouring into it. You tilt your head, hands sliding up to cradle his jaw, and he groans softly against your mouth, his grip tightening on your hips. His fingers dip beneath the hem of your shirt, skimming the skin of your lower back, tracing slow circles. Your hips move without thought, just enough to feel the way his breath stutters against your lips. His hand slides down to your thigh, squeezing firmly before gliding up, under the fabric of your shorts, rough fingertips against soft skin.

“You were bleeding,” you murmur between kisses, breath hitching as his mouth trails along your jaw, down your throat. “I was terrified.”

His lips pause against your skin, and he exhales shakily. “I didn’t care,” he says, voice low. “I'll do anything for you.” Your fingers tangle in his hair as his hands explore. Needing. His mouth finds yours again, deeper now, hungrier. You rock your hips against him, just once, testing, and the sound he lets out makes your spine arch.

“Fuck,” he breathes against your lips. “Don’t do that unless you mean it.”

Beomgyu gets on his knees before you, hands gripping your thighs, “I hate that he ever got to touch you,” he mutters, lips brushing against your inner thigh, hands pressing on where you need him the most. “That he got to taste you.”

"Beomgyu," Your breath catches, your fingers tangled in his hair as he kisses higher. "Please,"

His mouth is ravenous. As soon as he lets down your underwears, his tongue moved in slow, devastating small licks that make your knees weak and your head fall back. You’re gasping, so sensitive, his grip on your thighs keeping you wide open as he buries himself in you like he’s starving.

Every lick, every kiss feels like a promise. Like he’s trying to erase every memory that isn’t him.

You cry out his name, hips stuttering under his hold, and he only groans in response, like the sound of your pleasure is the only thing he wants to hear. His hands are everywhere—thighs, hips, stomach—like he needs to hold every piece of you down while he builds you up to the edge. He rubs your clit, tounge sucking your entrance and making sure he gets, taste everything.

You’re trembling when it hits you, but he doesn’t stop and it’s too much, too good, your body curling more towards his mouth, hands gripping his hair. He looks up at you like you’re holy. Wrecked. Worshipped.

“You feel that?” he says, breathless. “No one else gets to have this. Just me.”

Soobin sighs from the driver’s seat, fingers drumming lightly on the steering wheel. The car is still parked outside the arcade, engine off, the signs of early night settling around them. They’ve been waiting nearly twenty minutes now. He glances toward the entrance again. You and Beomgyu are still inside. No sign of either of you. Must be a serious conversation, he figures. After everything that just happened, how could it not be?

Beside him, Nari is unusually quiet. She sits in the passenger seat, small hands folded in her lap, eyes fixed on the window as if she’s trying to stare through time. It’s not like her. Not at all.

Soobin clears his throat gently. “Nari?” he says, keeping his voice soft. “Are you okay? Do you want anything? We can grab a snack or,” She shakes her head right away, not even turning to look at him.

He watches her for a moment, the tight press of her lips, the little furrow between her brows, her shoulders stiff with something she’s trying not to feel. A minute passes.

Then, finally, her voice; small and uncertain, breaks the silence. “Uncle... is Beomgyu going to be...”

Soobin glances over. “Hm?”

Nari bites her lip, eyes finally meeting his. “Is he upset?” The words are soft. Too soft for a kid who just cried her heart out.

Soobin’s heart twists in his chest. “No, sweetheart. He’s just... worried. About you. About your mom.” She nods once, but her pout only deepens.

“Then can you tell Beomgyu to stay with us? He really makes mommy happy.”

That day had been a moment of weakness.

Seeing Nari like that and hearing Beomgyu, breaking in your defense. You hadn’t been the same since. “Why are you ignoring him, seriously?” Soobin sighs through the phone, “Did something happen?”

You press the phone tighter to your ear, lips parting, but nothing comes out. Ever since that day, crammed in the backroom of the arcade, Beomgyu bruised and breathless—you’d barely spoken. Not to him. Not even to yourself. You couldn’t look him in the eye when you walked out. You’ve been silent ever since. “I’m just thinking,” you murmur, voice low.

“It’s been a week,” Soobin snaps, concerned. “For once, can you at least tell me what’s going on?”

You barely managed a rushed goodbye before the doorbell pulled you out of your daze. Nari was at school. You weren’t expecting anyone. Your legs felt heavy as you made your way to the door, heart climbing into your throat like it already knew.

Beomgyu. He looked like he hadn’t slept. Hair tousled, dark circles under his eyes, jaw tight like he’d rehearsed a thousand things to say and forgotten every single one the second he saw you. He quickly goes inside as soon as you step back and closes the door behind.

“What’s wrong with you?” he breathed, “What did I do?”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. He laughed but it was hollow. “Did I cross a line? Say something I shouldn’t have? Did I hold you too long? Look at you too much?”

“Beomgyu—”

“No,” he said quickly, his voice shaking. “No. Don’t do that. Don’t say my name like that. I’ve been trying, I’ve been trying so hard not to push. Not to ask for more than you’re ready to give. I’ve been—fuck—I’ve been so patient with you, Y/N. Waiting. Holding back. Being whatever you needed me to be. And now you’re just… gone?” He choked, looking down. “You just left me there.” Tears welled up in your eyes. You swallowed hard.

He looked at you again, and it almost broke you. “Did that mean nothing to you?” he whispered. “Did I mean nothing to you?” You stepped back, instinctively, like your own guilt was too heavy to hold this close. He saw it.

Your eyes sting. You see him, the exhaustion in his face, the bags under his eyes. You look at him and God, it’s the worst thing, because he looks like he’s already bracing for the worst.

“I fucking miss you,” he says quietly, desperately. “I miss Nari. And if you really don’t want me in your life, say it to my face. If I don’t have a chance, if there’s no space for me in your world… I’ll back off.” He swallows, eyes glassy. “If you don’t want me anymore—”

“It’s not that.” Your voice comes out cracked, a whisper barely stitched together. His eyes snap to yours, and it nearly undoes you. “I’m in doubt, okay?” you whisper. “Because I’ve been there. I’ve heard promises. I’ve believed in forever before and ended up alone with a baby in my arms.” He flinches. “I can’t do it again. Not for me and especially not for Nari. She’s not like other kids. She feels everything. If she loves you and you leave…” You take a shaky breath. “It will destroy her. I know what that kind of pain looks like. I lived through it and I won’t risk her having to.”

“And on top of that,” you breathe out bitterly, “let’s be real. There are a thousand girls who’d love to be yours. Girls with no baggage. Girls who are whole. Girls who don’t carry years of hurt and a child that isn’t yours. Girls who haven’t already given everything they had away.” You shake your head, jaw tightening. “I’m a single mom, Beomgyu. I have nothing left to offer. I’ve been holding myself together with spit and string for years. And one day… one day you’ll see that, I’m not shiny or easy or new. That I’m just work. And when that happens, I won’t be surprised.” You’re shaking now, because the words are pouring out like you’ve been choking on them for years.

Your voice trembles as you say it, eyes flickering to the floor. “I just want to protect her from that moment. What if one day you wake up and realize we’re too much?”

Beomgyu stares at you, chest heaving, and for a moment, all you can hear is the silence between you. His hands are trembling. You see it even as he clenches them into fists at his sides. Then his voice breaks, barely holding back the quake in his chest. “Do you even know how hard it’s been for me?”

“Do you know what it’s like to wake up every damn day thinking about you and wondering if I ever even cross your mind?” His eyes are glassy now, jaw clenched like he’s trying not to fall apart. “Do you know what it does to a person?”

You know, you know that feeling.

He laughs, bitter and quiet. “I came back because I couldn’t stay away and yeah, maybe I was terrified because every time I see you, I wonder if just being here is ruining something you’ve already tried to heal from.” He looks at you, “But I couldn’t stay away. I couldn’t pretend that moving on was possible. Not when my heart—” his voice cracks, “—not when my heart’s been beating for you all this time.”

He runs a hand through his hair, eyes red, pacing slightly as if staying still is too much. “I’m fucking in love with you, Y/N. I have been. And that feeling,” he pauses, chest rising and falling, “that feeling, it hasn’t faded. It won’t. Not in a week, not in a year, not in a lifetime or my next. I can’t look at anyone else and even try to imagine what it could be. It’s you. Always been you.”

He swallows thickly, “And Nari? She’s a gift. She’s part of you. She’s this bright, beautiful piece of you and I love her.” He chokes on the words. “If I walk away now, it’s only me. Just me. I’ll take that. But if you walk away… if you shut that door between us for good, it won’t just be you. I’ll lose both of you. You and Nari.”

Beomgyu breathes, then he sees it. Your tears. They fall quietly, like you didn’t even realize you were crying, and something in him fractures. His expression caves, soft and broken, and before he can stop himself, he steps closer, tentative, like he’s afraid you’ll flinch. His hands are gentle when they reach for you, thumbs brushing the wetness from your cheeks like he’s memorizing the shape of your grief. His touch is trembling, unsure.

“You’re crying,” he whispers, “God, you’re crying…” His voice breaks on the last word. You can feel his hands shaking as he holds your face. “You think I’d ever leave you?” he breathes, eyes locked to yours, full of disbelief and pain and love. “You think I’d walk away from this? From you? After all we've been through? I’ve known you since we were kids. I loved you then, and I love you now.”

You hiccup, the sound small and sharp, like something inside you just split. A soft, strangled whimper slips out at the warmth of his hands; so gentle, so undeserved and your face crumples as fresh tears fall. “It’s all my fault,” you whisper, and makes his breath hitch. “If I had trusted you…” Your voice shakes, breaks, and you force the words out. “If I had waited. Maybe then…” Your chest caves inward, like you’re caving around the memory. “Maybe then she wouldn’t look up at me with those huge, tear-soaked eyes and ask if he ever loved her. If she wasn’t enough.” The words fall like stones. “If that’s why he left.” Beomgyu’s face twists but he doesn’t interrupt. He just listens. He takes it.

“And I, I have to look at her, and I have to lie. I have to lie, Beomgyu.” You’re gasping now, fists clenched. “I have to smile while swallowing every goddamn piece of my grief, and tell her, ‘You are enough. You are so loved,’ while the space beside her is a fucking ghost.” You squeeze your eyes shut. “And she believes me. That’s the worst part. She believes me.”

Your voice goes hoarse, barely audible. “Maybe if I’d made better choices,” you whisper, voice barely there, “I wouldn’t be doing this alone. I wouldn’t be the only one standing on the sidelines during family days, clapping for one when the world cheers in twos.”

You press your lips together to keep from sobbing. “I wouldn’t be the only arms she runs into.”

“I’m here,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours. “I’m here. Just… just tell me what you need—”

“I love you.” It’s barely a whisper, but it stops the world. Your fingers tighten in his shirt, twisting desperately, “I love you,” you say again, voice cracking. “I never stopped.”

His breath catches in his throat.

“Even when I was pregnant and terrified and waking up alone. Even when the world felt too big and I was too small and everything hurt, I still loved you.” You’re trembling now, eyes locked to his like the truth has finally clawed its way out of you. “When I gave birth, when I held her for the first time and felt everything and nothing all at once—I wished you were there. I needed you there.” Your voice breaks entirely, your forehead pressed harder against his like you’re trying to crawl into him, into that space where it doesn’t hurt so much.

“There were nights I didn’t think I’d make it. Days where I’d stare at the ceiling and wonder if she’d grow up resenting me. Days where I’d hold her and whisper your name… it was you. Always you.” Beomgyu’s eyes are wide, glassy, like he’s forgotten how to breathe. His lips part, but nothing comes out. Nothing can.

Because you just shattered him.

“We survived because of you,” you whisper. “Because I remembered what it felt like to be loved by you, because even when you weren’t there, you were still the reason I kept going.”

His hands slide to your jaw, his chest is rising and falling fast now, like your words punched through every wall he built.

He’s completely undone.

You barely get to speak again before he’s on you. He can't stop himself anymore. It’s how you looked, whispered the words that you loved him after all this time. His hands grip your waist, pulling you flush against him, his body heat searing through your clothes. His lips crash into yours—hungry, desperate, like he’s been starved for you. His mouth moves against yours, claiming, taking.

His fingers thread through your hair, tilting your head back as his tongue slides against yours. His hands roam down, gripping, pulling, making sure you feel every bit of him. He grabs your wrists, lifting them, wrapping your arms around his neck as his lips move to your jaw, then to your neck, his breath ragged as he nips your sensitive skin. "I missed you," he murmurs. Another kiss—hotter, deeper, his body pressing your back against the wall. "I got fucking scared you'd never let me in."

His movements were hurried, frantic, as if he were afraid you’d disappear if he let go. In one swift motion, he lifted you, his steps unsteady as he carried you to the bedroom. Your bedroom. The air felt heavy as he laid you down on the mattress.

"You loved me." His voice softens, almost breaking. He presses his crotch to yours, eyes seeking yours. "You loved me after all this time?"

“Yes,” you said weakly, your hands clutching at his shirt, your voice trembling as much as your resolve.

"You're stuck with me now." His hands moved to your shoulders, then slid down to your waist, pulling you to him. He grinds desperately to you. You never knew that lips could talk without uttering a word as he captures your lips again and again. "I can't stay away anymore. I can't live without you."

You surrendered to his touch, your body softening beneath him. Your hands gripped his shoulders for balance as he pressed you deeper into the mattress, which groaned under your shifting weight. You reached for Beomgyu’s lips, catching him off guard as you kissed him with everything you had, tongues colliding in a heated frenzy. His hand slid between your thighs, cupping your middle and sending a shiver through you. But even in the haze of his taste, a heavy guilt settled in your chest. "Gyu,"

"I need you, baby." His breaths were ragged, syncing with your every moan as his tongue tangled with yours. Your fingers tugged at the hem of his shirt, pulling him closer, urging him on. His body pressed against yours, grinding to yours, while his hands roamed over your skin, igniting every nerve he touched. His lips trailed downward, leaving soft kisses that melted into your flesh, a path leading straight to your core.

He stripped you of every barrier, leaving you bare under his gaze. His eyes shimmered with adoration and awe as they traced your body. You hadn’t realized how powerless you were against him until your legs parted, welcoming him. He's on top of you, looked at you like you were sacred, like you were his entire world. Beomgyu's eyes never left yours as his fingers found your hand, he intertwines your fingers.

“It's going to be okay… I'll be here now.” he whispered between kisses, his voice breaking in a way that made your heart ache. Tears pricked your eyes because you wanted to believe him. You needed to believe him. His hands explored further, his fingers shakily reaching for your clit, pinching softly then roughly rubbing, coaxing sounds from your lips that you didn’t know you were capable of.

"I'll fix everything for us, for you." He looks at you—wanting to see every expression you make. His face hovers and with his fingers he spreads you apart. He swallows, salivating. He sticks his tongue out, lightly licking your clit. You taste so—he buries his face in, tongue inside, hands on your hips. "Shit, you've always tasted this good," He groans, lapping up, sucking the arousal out of you. He moves up, nose bumping on your clit then he suckles more. His cock throbs with every taste of you, the way you melt against his mouth driving him insane. He feels you slick against his chin, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t leave a single inch of you untouched by his warm, greedy mouth. It was as if your body had been crafted for his lips alone, flesh and heat meant to be devoured at his leisure.

When you tug hard on his hair, he groans against you, finally pulling back. His lips glisten as he moves up your body. He crashes his mouth onto yours, the kiss deep and hungry, and you taste yourself on his tongue—messy, desperate, a mix of him and you, blurring the lines between who’s devouring who.

“I love you,” he murmured as he positioned himself, slowly sliding into you. A low, guttural sound escaped him as he felt you, tight and warm, pulling him deeper. He's sure he'll come right there and then. His face buried itself in the curve of your neck, and his words spilled out—

"You feel so so good, don't ask me to stop, please." His touch was gentle even as his thrusts inside you grew more desperate. He cradled your head, kissed away your tears, and pressed his lips to your cheek. “I’m in love with you, Y/N,"

“I love you,” you replied, capturing his lips in a desperate kiss as you both unravelled together, bodies trembling in unison. Your thighs clenched tightly around his waist.

"Beomgyu, I— I'm sorry—" You whispered his name and it made tears well up in his eyes. His hand gently pushed the damp strands of hair from your face, and he pressed tender kisses along your cheeks, your temple, and your jaw.

“Shh, I know baby,” he whispered, pulling you against his chest, holding you like he was afraid you’d slip away. His lips brushed the crown of your head.

All the horrors inside you; every thoughts of abandonment, every sleepless night, every silent scream, begin to dissolve beneath his touch. With every kiss he lays against your skin, something softens. He’s chasing the ghosts from your bones, like he’s replacing every bruise life left behind with something holy. He kisses your cheeks, wet with tears. He kisses you like a man who has memorized the ruins. Who has studied the wreckage of you and decided that this is still his favorite place to be. That you, broken or whole, scarred or shining, were always meant to be his.

You’re starting to breathe.

"I'm not missing anything anymore," Beomgyu murmurs, lips tugging into a soft pout. You laugh quietly against his bare chest, your cheek rising and falling with each of his breaths. His arms tighten around you, fingertips tracing slow, lazy circles along your spine. The two of you lie tangled in the warmth of the sheets, skin to skin. He leans down and presses a kiss to your forehead. "Nari. Her first words. Her first steps. All those nights you probably sat up alone…” His voice trails off, and when he speaks again, it’s rougher. “I wasn’t there. And I hate that. I hate that you had to do it all without me.” He looks at you and for a second the world seems to still. "I'm not missing any more of it."

How can someone like him be real?

“Okay.” You smile, and so does he—quiet and shy, the corners of his mouth lifting just enough to show the faintest hint of dimples. You reach out without thinking, your fingers brushing the soft curve of his cheek, then trailing across the tiny freckles scattered like whispers on his skin. “And how are you supposed to do that, hmm?” you murmur, voice barely above a breath. “Live with me? Or—”

“Marry me,” he says, and your hand stills, but he catches it gently, holding it between his own. He brings it to his lips and presses a kiss to your palm, “Will you marry me?”

You can’t breathe. Your heart stumbles in your chest as you search his face for any trace of a smile, any flicker that he might be joking—that he doesn’t really mean it. Beomgyu takes your silence for doubt, so he keeps going. “Of course, I’d have to ask Nari first, and probably beg. I need her approval before anything,” he says with a nervous laugh, eyes flicking to yours.

“You get to choose where we live,” he adds quickly. “Do you want a house near the coast? Somewhere quiet? We could move. We could adopt a dog. Or do you want a flower shop?” He’s painting visions in the air now, “We could also—”

Beomgyu keeps talking. His words are soft, a little rushed. He talks about futures like they’re right there in the middle of his hands, painted in soft colors and quiet mornings. You, him, and Nari. A little house somewhere warm. A dog with floppy ears. A flower shop if you want it. A life that feels full.

You hear him, but your heart is louder.

They say you’re lucky if you find the man of your dreams. But that never felt like something made for you. Not for the boy rambling in front of you, not for your best friend. You look at him; at his eyes, honest and open, at his lips, red and kiss-bitten from how often they’ve met yours. At the way he watches you like you’re the only thing that’s ever mattered.

And suddenly, it makes sense. It all dawns to you, why you've always find it hard to imagine, to hope, and to wish.

It's all because Beomgyu, is the maker of your dreams.

"Where's my ring?"

You sit at the coffee shop, the cup of coffee in front of you untouched, growing cold. Your fingers keep circling your new ring, turning it absentmindedly, like maybe if you spin it enough, it’ll stop the nerves.

Then the door chimes. Jaehyun walks in, scanning the room, searching, until they land on you; they soften. “Hi,” he says as he slides into the seat across from you. There’s a small pink paper bag in his hands, creased slightly from how tightly he’s holding it. “Thank you for meeting me, Y/N.”

“It’s nothing,” you reply quietly. “I guess it was inevitable… that we’d have to sit down like this.” He nods, gaze drifting to your hand; your ring. A flicker of something passes over his face, but he doesn’t say anything about it.

“I want to be there for Nari,” he says finally. “Time with her. Some kind of custody arrangement. I know it’s late. I know how much time I’ve missed. But I… I regret everything.” His voice trembles, “I’ve spoken to my mom. I’ve thought about this a lot. I don’t expect forgiveness, but let me support her—financially, emotionally. Whatever you’ll allow me to do.”

"Yes." You interrupt gently, before his words spiral too far. "Thank you, Jaehyun. But…" You pause, trying to steady the shake in your voice. “This is going to take time.”

You glance down at on your right, on the windows to the parked car where you know your best friend is waiting, then back at him. “I’ll explain it to her. Slowly. When it feels right. And when she’s ready, we’ll set a day where you can be with her—freely, as her father. Just… not yet. We can’t rush something like this. Not when it’s her heart on the line.”

His shoulders sink just a little as he nods. “I lost my chance,” he says softly, looking at the window, at the same parked car you've been looking at,“With you. With Nari.” It isn’t a question.

He offers a faint smile, and for a second, it looks like he might say more but the words catch somewhere in his throat and never make it out. Instead, he slides the pink bag across the table. “I baked you cookies,” he says. "It doesn't have peanuts on it."

“Nari, be careful!” you call out as your daughter bolts through the front door, laughter echoing off the bare walls of your new home.

Beside you, Beomgyu chuckles, juggling two boxes in his arms. “Careful, sweetheart,” he calls after her, his voice filled with nothing but adoration as he follows you inside.

Your eyes sweep over the space—unfamiliar, but full of promise. It had taken months of gentle convincing, of late-night talks and quiet reassurances from Beomgyu. And now… here you are. Standing in a place that doesn’t feel like home just yet, but might—because he’s here. Because she’s here.

You set your box down on the counter and breathe in slowly, letting the moment settle around you.

A warm hand slides over your back, fingers curling gently at your waist. “You okay, baby?” Beomgyu murmurs, leaning in to press a soft kiss to the side of your face. “Soobin said he stopped to get food.”

You nod, turning slightly to face him. “I want to paint our house,” you say quietly.

Our house.

Beomgyu smiles, eyes crinkling like he’s just heard something sacred. “Then let’s paint it,” he whispers, eyes still on you like you’re the most important thing in the room.

He takes your hand gently, absentmindedly lifting it to his lips. His thumb brushes over your fingers, then lingers on your ring. He kisses it, soft and slow, like it’s second nature now, like loving you in small, wordless ways has become part of who he is.

“We can also have…” he starts, voice trailing off as he imagines out loud, eyes flicking to the blank walls around you. “A wall for Nari’s drawings. Right here, maybe in the hallway. And a shelf for your books. One of those that curves, remember? You showed me a picture of it.” He smiles, that soft boyish grin he only gives when he’s picturing a life with you. “And maybe a corner just for us. A record player. Or a couch we can fall asleep on, when we're tired of chasing Nari around.” He laughs a little, rubbing your knuckles with his thumb. “We can fill this place up with us.”

“Daddy!” The word rings out like a bell, and you both freeze. Beomgyu goes completely still beside you, breath caught in his throat. You turn just in time to see Nari bounding down the hallway, a soft, excited smile lighting up her face.

“Do I get my own room now?” she asks, as if she didn’t just change the world with one word. You and Beomgyu look at each other, stunned; eyes wide, not in disbelief, but in something far softer.

It’s the first time. The very first time she’s called him that.

Beomgyu blinks quickly, like he’s trying to make sure he’s not dreaming, like if he moves too fast it might vanish. Then, he drops to his knees and opens his arms. Nari runs into them without hesitation.

He wraps her up tightly, heart thundering, eyes glassy with everything he’s feeling all at once; shock, love, awe. He buries his face into her tiny shoulder and laughs through it, voice thick.

“Of course you get your own room, sweetheart,” he says, pulling back just enough to look at her. “You can have anything. Daddy will give it to you. Anything you want.”

Shit happens. Life happens.

It breaks you in places you didn’t know could crack. It tests you, takes from you, forces you to let go of things before you're ready. Time passes. Plans fall apart, but no matter how far you go, no matter how the story twists, no matter what you've been through, you always end up where you belong to. Always end up with them.

The ties between may fray. Fate may take unexpected turns. You might walk through fire, lose your way, forget who you were before the world touched you, come back with more scars than dreams. But nothing, nothing, not even all the wreckage life leaves behind… can stop two souls that are meant for each other.

The things that the world can’t touch.

It remains the same.

taglist: @heesmiles @lovingbeomgyudayone @virtaideen @hyukascampfire @fancypeacepersona @bamgeutori @lilbrorufr @beomieeeeeeeeeeees @xylatox @yunverie @imlonelydontsendhelp @moagyuu @immelissaaa @readinmidnight @pagelets @wonderstrucktae @boba-beom @nightblythe @hyuckxtagram @hoefororeo @beomgyusluver @feet4liferss @soobinbunnie5 @soohashits @lostgirlysstuff @demidelulu @love-be0m @razsberrie @strawberryshoujosundae @y2kgyu @usuallyunlikelyfox @xi0riae @giegiemon @okkotsuevie @beomkyum @i-am-not-dal @cherr4es @brrytears @yystarz @moonlightgrleric @lumpynoofles @raspberrii @baekberrie

[romancherry]

caged in silk (4) — false alarm

pairings ➝ dark!joel miller x dark!javier peña x dark!marcus acacius x female!reader

summary ➝ after a false dissapearance gave them quite the scare, joel loses control in his task to teach you a lesson.

warnings ➝ explicit smut, dark!fic, dubious consent, unprotected p in v, rough vaginal sex, missionary, squirting, creampie, multiple orgasms, breeding kink, breast & nipple play, hickeys and marking kink, posessive and dominant joel, submissive reader, sub space, daddy kink, heavy makeout session, crying kink, praise kink, pet names, pussy pronouns, aftercare, manipulation, dirty talk, swearing and other explicit language, 18+, MINORS: DO NOT INTERACT.

word count ➝ 4.111

author's note ➝ hello again! it took me more time to motivate my lazy ass to write this chapter than actually finishing it. i hope you like it and if you do please leave a comment or motivational reblog 🌸 if i missed any warnings let me know.

do NOT repost, reupload, translate or plagiarize my work.

it was almost midnight when the men realized it has been quiet for far too long. they were so deep in their thoughts and work that they hadn’t realized just how fast time has passed. 

joel was fixing the dripping, rotten faucet in the kitchen. marcus was cleaning some rifles, tending to them as if they were the most precious pieces of porcelain. he was so very focused as he tried hard not to lose count on the ammunition. javier sat on his laptop, chain smoking and looking up surveillance cameras in the DEA office in medellin. the only pause between drags of smoke was when he lifted the glass of whiskey and brought it to his lips while listening very carefully on what the american ambassadors discussed – debating important classified cases, blissfully unaware of the hidden microphones javier placed right under their noses before resigning from this god forsaken job almost 3 years ago. 

joel glanced at his watch and scoffed when he realized just for how long he’s been working on fixing the faucet. he muttered a low good night to the boys, his voice grumpy and heavy with sleep, before making his way to his bedroom, already dreaming about how good he will sleep tonight with you in his bed.

he expected to find you under the covers, maybe reading, maybe already curled into your pillow like you usually were by this time of night. but when he pushed the door open and found the bed untouched, the lights off, and your scent faint in the air — not warm and recent, but old, like you hadn’t been there in hours — something in his chest coiled tight.

“sweetheart?” he called. 

nothing. 

he checked the bathroom next, knocking once, pushing open the door. empty. no sound of water. no used towel. 

he paused, brow furrowing.

“marcus?” he called out, already stepping back into the hallway. “you seen her?”

marcus freezes his actions entirely and puts the rifle on the couch next to him, his expression already serious. “i thought she was in your room.”

“no,” joel said, jaw beginning to grind. “she’s not.”

footsteps echoed on hardwood as javier came from the kitchen, still holding a half-empty glass of whiskey. “what do you mean she’s not?”

joel turned to face him, voice edged now. “i mean she’s gone.”

the silence that followed was sharp — thick with tension, panic, anger. 

javier placed the glass into the sink without looking. “check everywhere. right now.”

they split like shadows in motion — no yelling, no chaos, just the kind of cold, calculating urgency born from fear.

marcus hit the basement first, flashlight already in hand. he searched every corner like he was clearing enemy territory — eyes sharp, movements efficient. no sign of you.

joel moved through the rest of the first floor. he checked the pantry, the garage, the laundry room. doors were still locked. windows undisturbed. “nothing,” he muttered into his radio to the others.

javier moved fastest, pacing the perimeter outside barefoot, his phone already out, checking security cams and motion sensors. “no alarms triggered,” he hissed. “no movement out here in the last hour.”

joel stopped in the hallway, hand gripping the molding beside the doorframe like he needed to steady himself.

you wouldn’t try again, he told himself. not after last time. 

he closed his eyes, trying to focus on regulating his breathing and stop the panic from building his heartbeat rhythm until the point of explosion. he tried to think. to bring reason to light – to convince himself that you wouldn’t be so stupid and naive to run away during the night.

why would you want to run? what did they do to you this time? was the picnic too much? have you learned nothing from your last mistake?

his instinct dared to snap his own self out of the building panic and overwhelming thoughts. a wandering, fleeting thought which almost left his brain as quickly as it entered.

the last door in the hallway which led to a guest bedroom none of them ever used. 

the door was not even shut. it was slightly cracked. joel pushed it open with slow fingers, the old brass hinges creaking. and there you were.

fucking. sleeping.

your chest rose and fell in a peaceful rhythm, soft little exhales brushing the pillow. the blanket was wrapped around your body, one arm tucked underneath it and the other loose at your side. a book you never finished reading lay on the nightstand. the lamp was off. you’d gone to bed hours ago — quiet and unbothered.

joel didn’t say a word.

he stepped back into the hall and leaned against the wall for a beat, rubbing the heel of his hand over his face. relief poured over him like a wave, heavy and thick. he called it in over the radio.

“guest room.”

a few seconds later, marcus appeared, and behind him, javier — barefoot, heart pounding, eyes wild. they stopped in the doorway and stared.

“she’s fine?” marcus asked, voice hushed.

“fast asleep,” joel said. “like she didn’t just take five years off my life.”

javier ran a hand down his face. “fuck.”

you stirred, a little frown tugging between your brows as if you sensed their presence even in sleep. you turned onto your back, hair fanning across the pillow, lips slightly parted, still unaware.

joel walked in quietly and knelt by the bed. his hand reached out and brushed your cheek gently, thumb ghosting across your temple.

“jesus,” he whispered. “you don’t even know what you did to us.”

your eyes fluttered open, groggy and dazed. “…joel?” you murmured, blinking slowly at the sight of all three men surrounding the bed.

javier’s brows lifted, and he huffed a short breath. “you scared us shitless.” 

“i — what? why?” you asked, throat rough.

“why did you have to fall asleep here, sweetheart? you know we never enter this room,” javier asks.

“tired. jus’ wanted quiet…” 

javier knelt beside joel, his hand resting over your ankle beneath the blanket. “you could’ve said something, cariño. we tore the damn house apart.”

“yeah. thought you took off again,” joel added.

you blinked, then winced, voice still sleepy. “s’rry. didn’t mean to freak you out.”

marcus crouched on the other side of the bed, his gaze hard and unforgiving despite the quest to find you turning out successful. “we’ll lock every fucking door in this place from now on. don’t pull a stunt like that again, sweetheart.”

joel leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your forehead, his voice low and tight. “he’s right, baby. you gave us one hell of a panic attack.”

you mutter one last tiny apology in joel’s ear before he lifts you off the bed and gently carries you to his bedroom, the place where you’ve been sleeping every night since they kidnapped you. each time was more comforting than the last; joel didn’t present himself as a threat and always kept a respectable distance between you two, although he always ached to touch and hold you tight against his chest. 

after he places you on the mattress, you notice marcus giving him a suggestive glance. 

joel leaves your side and makes his way to his brother’s side. out of your eavesdropping range.

“teach her a lesson. know you got a soft spot for her, but she needs to learn," marcus whispers in joel’s ear, his instructions clear. joel hesitates. doesn’t say anything for a couple of moments. he isn’t a fan of his older brother’s demands. he doesn’t want to break you in. not like this. 

marcus senses joel’s second thoughts and scoffs at his brother’s weak spot for you. “if you don’t, i will.”

that made joel’s eyes darken. not with thrill or hunger, but with the overwhelming need to protect you from marcus’ roughness. he failed to do so after your escape attempt and had no choice but to let marcus punish you. this time, he’ll carry the burden himself, in the only way he knows how. 

joel nods his head once and gives marcus a look of reassurance and cooperation. once marcus is convinced that joel will keep his promise true, he steps out of the doorway and shuts the door behind him. 

joel turns slowly towards the bed, watching the curiosity in your eyes mix with a potion of anxiety. you can tell. his tense stance. the way he won’t look you in the eye – not quite. his mind races. his hands tremble slightly, and you’re not sure why. is it because of anticipation or the tethering loss of control?

“take off your clothes.”

the order makes you flinch, your instincts telling you to back away slightly. your mind is fully alert now. the exhaustion and gentle yearning for the comfort of a warm and soft bed have been gathered together and thrown out the window. 

“i won’t ask again.”

shivers crawl up your spine at his intimidating tone. if he was trying to inflict fear upon you, to make you forget about all the times he was gentle and careful with you as if you were a porcelain doll — he has done it. with minimal effort. 

you carefully lift yourself off the bed and stand in front of him. there were only a few feet between you. he could take two large steps and you’d be done for. clothes ripped off, a hand wrapped around your throat while he did as he pleased. 

you try to banish these thoughts out of your head and presume it’s best if you try to hurry up slightly. you don’t want things to come to that. you still believe that if you cooperate, he’ll be gentle. a part of you tells you that he doesn’t want to do this. 

but that part of you is so wrong, my dear. because while joel doesn’t want to scare you away and force you into submission like marcus wants, he is still, at the end of the day – a man. 

a man who has built a life out of butchering people for money since his daughters died. a god among men who ripped the soul out of living and well breathing creatures and never felt sorry for it.

until the day you came into his life. when he saw you for the first time and figured you are not a thing to be broken and burned alive. but to be molded and carefully guided into a lifestyle he and his brothers crafted specifically to force you to accept them as your new reality.

in conclusion; he wants you. oh, how much he wants to give into his carnage and tear you apart with his cock. only when he remembers the way your moans filled his ears like a melody when your orgasm flooded his mouth the last time…

god, it’s maddening. infuriating. 

but he must not act on primal instincts and think with his cock. no matter how painful it feels. no matter how the majority of the blood in his brain now flows in his cock right now. and he can barely resist anymore. 

he watches your lip tremble and eyes grow heavy with tears as you quietly do as instructed. 

you start with your socks, quickly discarding them on the floor so you don’t keep him waiting. so you don’t let him think you’re dragging this out to think of an escape.

your loose sweatpants come off next. when you reveal your bare thighs to him, he swears he feels like a medieval man who saw ankles for the first time. 

skin so soft. flesh so plump and glowy. his mind drifts off to when his head rested in between them to devour your pussy. how good it was when he felt the pressure of your muscles against the sides of his skull. an orgasm so intense he was worried you’d crack his head like a watermelon. but he loved it so much he made a promise to himself he’ll experience the same pain again when he made you ride his face and smother him with your thighs.

your t-shirt was next to drop on the floor. it belonged to none other than joel. he felt a sense of pride and ownership each time he saw you wearing his clothes around the house. knowing your scent mixed with his drove him crazy because he yearned to inhale directly from the source. 

tonight, he would achieve this and more. 

the sight of your bare breasts made his heart skip a beat.

he has never seen such work of art in his life. your full chest looking as if it’s been crafted by the gods themselves. like aphrodite chose you as her avatar.

he doesn’t wait for you to take your panties off. in two long strides, he breaks the barrier between you two. his hands immediately jump at your breasts, cupping them in earnest. 

he weighs and plays with them in his calloused palms. he is not being a gentleman at all – rough fingertips graze over your buds until they swell. the moment they rise to angry little peaks, his mouth latches onto one while the other is being tended to vigorously.

you quickly grow overwhelmed by his lustful attack. his warm, wet tongue lapping hungrily at your nipple, sucking and drinking as if the elixir of life itself courses through it. 

the other poor, tortured nipple – red and aching from the relentless pinching and twirling between his thumb and index. you squirm in his hold, hands grabbing a tight hold of his salt and pepper hair. 

you moan, but you don’t think it’s because of displeasure. yes, there is pain. but there is also beauty.

beauty in the way he makes you feel so wanted. so worshipped. he kisses and bites and marks every inch of your chest. he groans in both relief and pleasure when his mouth runs a path upwards on your body and finally stops at the nape of your neck. 

not only does he pull a bit of flesh in between his teeth to paint your skin in bruises – he also inhales deeply at the same time as he sucks. 

your natural scent – finally flowing through his nostrils. so sweet and musky at the same time, with notes of a warm sleep and the masculine scent of his t-shirt.

when he is satisfied with his work over your neck, his lips trace a path towards your jaw. not once do they depart from you.

you’re both breathless when he pulls you in for a kiss. he didn’t even look at you before he claimed your mouth. he needed to do this before he could stop himself.

his hands are everywhere on the lower half of your body now. he keeps you flushed against his chest, your nipples grazing uncomfortably against his blouse. he grinds and ruts himself against your thighs like a stray dog. makes sure you have nowhere to go too – his hands presenting themselves as a tight and sure anchor over your buttcheeks; smothering, kneading and occasionally slapping the tender flesh until it jiggles like jelly in his palm.

you give up on trying to put space between you. no matter how much force you channel into your hands and wrists, you can’t move this brute wall off of you. 

instead, you accept him. pull him closer, even. the act makes him moan into your mouth, deep and rough. 

the kiss bruises you. makes you shake in his grip and you’re sure that if he wasn’t holding you now, you’d fall. 

he is not here to make love to your mouth. at least not yet.

he kisses you as if he’ll never get another chance to. he needs to explore your hole and claim it with his teeth and tongue before he can soothe the ache he caused.

it’s possessive. controlling. desperate and needy. you don’t bother fighting for control and dominance. you just let him take what he wants in order to indulge himself in the pleasures he has been denying and ignoring for too long.

he shocks you when he takes you into his arms. gathering a handful of your asscheeks before using his sheer power to lift you in his lap.

he drops you both onto the mattress. your back pressed between a soft cloud and a massive brick.

not even once does he break the kiss. he swallows every moan and gasp that comes out of your mouth and greedily licks every corner with his tongue, teeth occasionally lathering attention to your bottom lip to drag and nip it.

his hands move from your ass to fumble with his own sweatpants. he is so thankful to just drag them down his thighs along with his boxers; his cock finally having enough room to breathe.

you try to break the kiss to get a look, but to no avail. he keeps your head in place with his free hand resting on your neck. his fingertips firmly pressing into the sides, a silent command to stay still. his mouth still makes out with yours hungrily as if he’s trying to keep you busy and not allow any anxiety creeping in your pretty little head. 

the hand he used in order to free his cock from his boxers moved directly to your clothed pussy. his index ran one trail up your slit to feel the cool wetness sink into the material before gathering it in between his fingers and pulling it to the side.

he didn’t waste any more time. as soon as he cleared the way, he grabbed himself by the base of his cock and gathered your juices on his own leaking head before sliding home in one smooth thrust.

you both broke the kiss at the same time to fill the room with your own moans. once he bottomed out and felt the dangerously addicting way your walls squeezed him, he didn’t know how to stop. he just lost every last drop of control he thought he had and unleashed all the pent up desire he felt for you.

“oh god, babygirl,” joel chanted as he threw his head back, eyes shut in bliss. “fuck, i can’t stop. i’m so sorry.” 

he moved his hand from your throat to the back of your head, gently lifting it a few inches to bring you closer to him. his other hand made its way under your knee. making sure to keep your legs as open as possible for him to fuck you as hard and deep as he liked.

“joel, n-no! oh my god – fuck!” 

the burning sensation left your tight channel as quickly as it came. it was soon replaced by complete and utter pleasure as your already soaking wet pussy gushed and clenched around him as he pistoned in and out of you. 

your walls presented no restraint. your pussy greedily welcomed him as if she has waited her entire life for this moment. to fulfill her duty as nothing more than a cocksleeve – a hole to serve him warmth and pleasure. 

your broken moans ambitioned him to sink deeper inside you. he plunged in deep, hard and fast, not giving you any time to adjust as he took whatever he wanted from your willing body. god, he hoped it wouldn’t come to this. he hoped his restraint and control would not shatter so quickly. but when he saw your beautiful naked body and felt you soaking wet through your panties, he knew you were made for him. he knew this pussy had a mind of her own. 

“atta girl. pussy knows what she wants, huh? t’be fucked and destroyed by a nice, big cock. fill her up with cum and never let her go.”

he tears his gaze from your swollen pussy to your face and really looks at you. 

blabbering, crying, moaning and utterly ruined. 

pink sore eyes filled with glossy tears. flushed cheeks. mouth slightly open in a round shape with a string of saliva dripping in the corner. your own finger resting on top of your tongue. a physical guardian to stop more moans and pleas from making their way out.

“fuck, look at my girl,” joel praises. he presses a soft plump kiss in between your eyebrows – an unusual contrast to the way he ruts roughly between your thighs, assaulting your poor pussy as she gushes her release all over his cock and the sheets beneath. he lost count of how many times he made you cum until now. he’s more than convinced you never actually kept count, your mind too blank and pliant to bother yourself with too much thought.

“what’s wrong, baby? cock so good it fucked ya stupid?”

you shake your head in approval, your eyes wide and glossy like precious pearls and diamonds. there’s no coherent thought behind those eyes – he scared them all away. no insecurities or anxiety in the way to stop you from feeling him at full intensity. 

and he’s so proud. so so proud he made all the voices in your head shut down for once. his heart swells with how much trust you put in him to break you apart and put you back together.

“that’s a good girl. mhm, the best girl in the whole damn world. my good girl gon’ let me cum deep inside her? hm? swell her belly full a’ babies?”

you nod in earnest, a big bright smile creeping up your face like it’s the best deal in the world. like it’s your whole life purpose.

“y-yes, d-daddy. p-please fill m-me up. wan’ your babies!”

your innocent little plea does it for him. his rhythm wavers as he buries himself to the hilt and cums deep inside you, filling your belly up with a big load. 

he stays attached and connected to you both physically and spiritually. he swears he can feel your hearts beating in sync as he holds you close to his chest and soothes your nerves by placing a few wet gentle pecks on your cheeks and forehead. 

“shhh, baby. my sweet baby. gotcha now. did so, so well for daddy. my perfect lil’ girl.”

he forces himself to remove his softening cock from between your legs. once he does, he makes sure not to leave you alone and sweaty for too long. he takes off his damp blouse and uses it as a makeshift rag to clean you up. he soothes every cry and unintelligible word that comes out of your sweet mouth.

“here, honey. drink. you did perfect. so proud of ya," he praises as he helps you drink a much needed glass of cold water. 

after he’s done cleaning both of you up, he joins you under the blankets. his fingers trace the side of your arm as he looks at your relaxed form. so obedient, full and content. 

“bet ya enjoyed your lesson, huh?” joel murmurs, aware of how close you are to drifting off to sleep. “don’ ever scare us like that again, sweetheart.”

“mmmm,” you nod while keeping your eyes closed, although you’re not so sleek in hiding your small grin of mischief, “no promise."

he chuckles, shaking his head in amusement at your little attitude. “you’re trouble, sweetheart. what are we gon’ do with you?”

oh, he knows exactly what they will do with you. 

and in the bedroom next door and the living room respectively, javier and marcus have figured out a few plans in their mind themselves. 

because you may not realise it yet, but joel had just paved the way for his brothers. made their life easier. broke you in and gave you a taste of what your future will be with, under and on top of them. 

without needing to even speak to each other, they all know you’ve just become addicted. soon enough, one man will not be enough to satisfy the burning hunger inside you; you’ll need all three to satiate your needs and take care of you.

and honey, they will. in each of their own, unique ways – they will make you forget why you even fought them off in the first place.

[yuzuvrse]

yeah so i may be insane // cw nsft

thinking about grant curly with a saviour complex, who thinks he can save your fucked up ass. he's so kind and gentle — he's the perfect boyfriend, so tender in everything he does. but something inside of you is a little bit broken and curly just isn't scratching that itch for you, yknow?

surely you can't actually be loved. there's no way he sees all your disgusting flaws and loves you despite them. so you pull away, avoiding him more and more, and you end up going for his best friend jimmy zare.

jimmy, who's worse than you. jimmy, who you can pretend to save. jimmy, who's irreparably shattered and would very much like to break you too. you always liked a fixer upper, just not when you're the one being fixed.

and that's how curly catches you with jimmy's dick down your throat. the worst part? he gets hard.

thinking about curly who's seen jimmy get too close with unwilling girls too many times. he's never said anything before but when it comes to you? that's a different story. he's fully convinced jimmy forced you into this, you could tell him to his face that you slept with jimmy on purpose and he'll still say that jimmy is manipulating/coercing you into saying all this things.

you don't have to worry, baby, curly knows what that evil jimmy's been doing to you. it's okay, curly's here now. he'll replace all memory of jimmy with his touch instead.

thinking about how at this point curly is the one who's gaslighting/manipulating you into sleeping with him bc you could not give less of a fuck abt him. like yeah he's nice. he was a great boyfriend. he may have actually come devastatingly close to melting your heart and making you love him.

but you've nipped that in the bud and now your feelings for him have switched off, just like that. a bit like a leaky faucet, still dripping out tiny droplets of affection occasionally, like when he spreads your legs and asks, "where did jimmy touch you, baby? here? it's okay, daddy's got you now."

or maybe that's just lust. at this point you can't tell the difference.

[hellothereobiwankenobi]

yellow ribbon on the door | chapter four

⟢ summary: Joel keeps finding excuses to see you.

⟢ pairing: joel miller x afab!reader (femme but not descriptive as to actual features)

⟢ tags: no outbreak au, flower shop au, idiots in love, small age gap, joel is 35 and reader is 29 about to be 30, reader is a war widow, operation desert storm mentioned, reader is a single mother to ellie, eventual smut, no beta reader we die like men

⟢ wc: 5.5k

⟢ authors notes: Hello, friends! It's been almost two weeks since my last update. I'm so sorry for that. I am a university student, so very regularly real life gets too busy for me to write. Very inconsiderate of the my professors to give me so much homework and distract me from my real passion if you ask me. I hope you all enjoy this chapter.

Also this is the longest chapter I have written yet... so enjoy!

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This afternoon marks the third time Joel has arrived unannounced at your flower store in the past three weeks. He explained that the last time he was here, he noticed one of your display tables had a wobble. That's all he said before setting his tools down, kneeling next to the faulty table leg, and getting to work. He worked in relative silence, allowing you to continue your daily duties undisturbed. Once he had evened out the legs and ensured they were secure, he gave you a curt goodbye and left without saying anything else. Two days later, he came again. This time, it was your front door. He stated the hinges were squeaky and needed to be oiled. The following week, he returned again. The faucet of the utility sink in your back storage room, where you wash used planter pots and fill your watering can, would drip even when turned off fully. It started to seem every time he came, he noticed something else that needed to be fixed.

Joel's surprise visits had become a semiweekly tradition. Despite the rocky past shared between you, having him there starts to feel normal. The two of you fall into a comfortable rhythm like this. He would work on the myriad of repairs as you helped customers, fulfilled orders, or completed regular housekeeping around the shop, sneaking glances at each other whenever the other was distracted. 

With each visit, you see glimpses of the man Tommy described to you all those months ago—a quiet, stoic facade but protective and dependable.

One morning, he arrives before the store is open. You're on the front sidewalk, eyes closed, face scrunched, and both hands clutching a large bag of potting soil. At least nine matching bags are stacked outside the shop next to you.

You give up, drop the bag you're trying to drag inside, and wipe the sweat starting to accumulate at your temples. You don't know how to get them inside, but your current efforts are not working.

Joel jumps out of his truck and jogs over to where you are standing.

"Oh, good morning, Joel." Your breath comes out in huffs, the exertion apparent from your shaky voice. You gesture down at the bags of soil giving you so much trouble. "The delivery guy usually brings them in for me, but they were just sitting there when I got here."

Without saying anything, Joel tosses one bag over his left shoulder and tucks another under his right arm. He carries each bag of potting soil to the back storage as you stand in shock, wondering how strong could he really be?

· · · ──────── ⋆˚ ✿ ❀ ✿ ˚⋆ ─────── · · ·

It's mid-August, and Joel is adding extra supports to the ceiling to hold the crystal chandelier that illuminates the front showroom. His brows pull together as he takes the final support screw from between his teeth and inserts it into the ceiling with an electric drill. 

You're arranging baby pink alstroemeria and white carnations in a red-tinted vase at the front counter. A soft, unconscious smile pulls at your lips as you preen the bouquet before you. This is the kind of moment Joel likes the most. The kind that makes all his labors around the shop worth the effort. It's only the two of you. The store is quiet, apart from the same poppy tune you've been humming all morning. He can ignore all the world's demands outside and enjoy the peace that being with you like this brings.

"What's your favorite?" Joel's voice pulls you from your reverie. 

Your head jerks up, eyes wide in surprise. "I'm sorry, what?"

"What's your favorite flower?" He repeats.

It was a simple question, but you're taken aback. You aren't used to Joel asking you about yourself. Truthfully, you aren't used to him asking you anything.

You try to collect your thoughts. "Well, I like sunflowers. Primrose begonia. Mecardonia. Black-eyed Susan. Creeping Zinnia" 

A sudden wave of self-awareness washes over you. You feel a bit silly, rattling off half a dozen names. You let out a nervous laugh while your cheeks begin to warm. Adding in a rush, "Anything yellow. It's my favorite color."

If Joel notices your onset discomfort, he doesn't let it show. He returns his attention to screwing in the last support. 

· · · ──────── ⋆˚ ✿ ❀ ✿ ˚⋆ ─────── · · ·

Joel completes his efforts regarding the chandelier and makes a final trip from the shop to his work truck to return his tools. You want to catch him before he can make his usual silent goodbye. Tugging at the apron strings tied behind your back, you pull your head through the neck-straps, hanging it on a hook by the register. "Think I'll close up for an hour and grab something for lunch."

Joel turns around sharply at the sound of your voice, his dark eyes immediately finding you. He's just staring at you, so you continue, "Would you like to come with me?" 

The gears in his head start to work overtime. You want to get lunch. 

With him. 

Over the past several weeks, the two of you have spent countless hours together. You've seen each other more regularly than ever before. The idea of getting lunch together shouldn't fluster him like this… but it does.

You are still waiting for a reply.

Shit. Shit, say something, he mentally scolds himself.

"Yes." Is all he can force out.

You didn't realize it, but you had been holding your breath, waiting for his answer. The last time you presented him with a similar offer, he had blatantly shut it down. You crack a slight smile that develops into the kind that makes the corners of your eyes crinkle. "Okay, let me lock up real quick."

Joel brings the last of his tools to his truck and waits outside for you. You carry a camel-colored leather tote under one arm and meet him outside. Flipping a small sign that reads 'Be Back Soon' you lock the front door before dropping the keys into your purse.

"We can walk from here. One of the perks of being downtown." You lead the way to a coffee shop just around the block. It's the type of trendy business that has been popping up throughout the downtown district for the last several years. Joel would never go somewhere like this on his own. The crowds that frequent these places were a little too clean cut for his liking and don't typically mix with working-class folk like him.

The two of you enter and join the line to order. The café's interior is decorated in warm earth tones and natural wood.

"They have the best bagel sandwiches here." You look up at Joel with bright eyes and a broad smile, making his stomach flip. Giddy excitement is painted across your face. How could he think of food when you're looking at him like that?

Stepping up to the counter, you ask, "Can I get a medium iced caramel latte with extra drizzle and a toasted turkey bagel sandwich cut in half, please?"

The college-age barista behind the counter scribbles down your order on a palm-sized notepad before turning his attention to Joel. "And you, sir?"

Joel is still looking down at you, but his gaze is fixated on your bare upper arm. The short puff sleeves of your orange and white gingham linen dress left most of your arms on display. He imagines reaching out, just a few inches, and brushing his knuckles down the exposed skin—feeling how soft you are.

"Sir?" the barista repeats, louder this time.

This finally pulls Joel's attention back to the café. But his mind has been too preoccupied; he hasn't given any thought to what he wants to order. 

"Black coffee." He hurries out.

The barista looks a bit confused but writes it down on the notepad.

"You don't want anything to eat?" Your gaze is directed to Joel, concern swimming in your eyes.

He shakes his head. "I'll be fine."

"Hmm," you're not convinced, but you choose not to push the issue. Opening your purse, you dig through the mess, looking for your wallet. The medium-sized bag seems bottomless, filled with old receipts, a pack of baby wipes, ChapStick, a travel-size bottle of sunscreen, a used tissue or two, and an astronaut LEGO figure you're sure Ellie dropped in there.

When you finally find it, Joel is already pulling a crumpled twenty-dollar bill from his own. He reaches around you and slides it across the counter to the barista. 

"Why did you do that?" you ask, shooting him a disapproving look. "I invited you. You need to finally let me thank you for all your help."

Maybe it was his southern upbringing but Joel could never imagine letting a lady pay for their date. 

Not that this is a date, he thinks to himself.

"I'll get it next time." You huff before marching off to find a table.

The two of you settle on a two-person table next to the front windows of the café, but the gravity of the situation quickly makes itself known. Sitting across from each other like this feels more intimate than it should.

Silence falls between you, both waiting for the other to break it first. You keep a small, practiced smile on your face, but hidden under the table, your fidgeting fingers betray you. Joel nervously bounces his knee, his posture too straight, and his usual stony expression occupies his face.

"So," you can’t take the silence anymore and ask, "Is Sarah ready for the first day of school next week?" hoping to ease the growing tension.

The butterflies raising havoc in Joel's stomach cease at the mention of Sara. Like all proud fathers, his favorite subject is his daughter. His expression softens, and his shoulders relax. "Yeah, first day of high school. Makes me feel old."

"I understand what you mean." You let out a small laugh. "Ellie's starting first grade. She's so excited to leave kindergarten and start 'big girl school.'"

Joel nods, and a small smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. The memory of Sarah in the same scenario comes to mind: "I reckon I was more scared than Sarah was for her first day. I walk her up to the classroom. As soon as she sees they have a rabbit for a class pet, she runs for it. Didn't look back once."

The atmosphere lightens as you discuss how nervous Ellie's transition to elementary school is making you. Deep down, Ellie is a sweet girl. She loves animals, likes to play with the younger kids she meets during trips to the park, and is fascinated by all things outer space. But you're also aware that she is a handful at the best of times.

The barista arrives at the table, holding your food and drinks on a black serving tray. He lays your respective drinks down and places a white ceramic plate in front of you before wishing you both a good meal. 

Looking over at Joel's lonely mug of black coffee, you place half of the bagel sandwich on a paper napkin and slide it across the table. As he opens his mouth to object, you shoot him one of those mom looks that reads, 'Don't even try to argue.' His mouth snaps shut, knowing this isn't a fight he will win.

You pick up the other half of the sandwich from the plate with both hands and take a bite. It's just as good as you remember. Washing it down with a sip of your latte, you wrap your lips around the straw. Joel becomes distracted by the seemingly innocent action as he watches your mouth carefully. Absent-mindedly, your tongue runs over your plush lips after removing the straw from between them. His mind drifts again, imagining what else he'd like to see your lips wrapped around.

Before you can catch him staring, Joel clears his throat and pushes those thoughts away. "Why a flower store?"

"There's no better gift than a bouquet of your favorite flowers." You set down your sandwich and wipe your hands on a napkin. "When I was a kid, my dad would come home from work and surprise my mom with flowers' just because'. I'll never forget the look on her face every time he did. Thought maybe I could be a part of that for someone else."

You take another drink before continuing, "And I've been digging in the garden for as long as I can remember. I never went to college, so plants are the only thing I really know."

Joel can understand that. He had been working his trade since he was fourteen. His father would dictate that he accompany him to different work sites during school breaks. His dad had insisted it would 'help him become a man,' but Joel knew the real reason was the family could use the money. After high school graduation, college seemed like a distant fantasy for him. He was a decent student, but the family's financial situation hadn't improved over the years. Joel knew his younger brother would have to take his place with their father if he had left. Tommy was only twelve at the time.

Eventually, Tommy finished his education and joined the Army. Joel stayed home and worked as an independent carpenter until he finished his enlistment. That's when the two brothers agreed to start Miller Brothers Contracting.

"Just before I lost my husband, I realized I didn't have a life outside of being a mom and an Army wife. So, when the life insurance money came, I put half away for Ellie's college fund. The rest I used to help open the shop."

Joel sipped his coffee as you spoke. He is sure that life must have been lonely. He knows firsthand what it's like to raise a daughter alone.

"You're not from here. Why stay in Austin?" Joel can't stop himself now. He's gotten a small look at who you really are and wants to see it all.

You squirm in your seat momentarily while thinking of an answer, and Joel wonders if he has overstepped.

"My hometown," you look down at your drink and stir the glass with the straw, apprehensive to continue, "isn't the type of place with a lot of opportunities. All the guys I grew up with joined the military, and all the girls got married right after graduation and started having babies. It's just not the kind of life I want for Ellie. I want her to have every opportunity I never had."

Joel can only nod his head. Your dejected look pulls hard on his heart, making it ache.

Without thinking, he blurts out, "Tommy's comin' over for dinner this weekend. You and Ellie should come on by."

"Really?" Your eyes jump from your coffee to the man sitting across from you. The beaming smile you give him melts away the aching in his chest. "That would be great!"

"Five o'clock, Saturday," Joel says before checking the time on his phone. "I gotta go. But, yeah, Saturday." He stands from his seat.

He exits the café, phone still in hand, and dials Tommy's number. 

"Tommy," he speaks into the receiver, "I need you to come over Saturday."

· · · ──────── ⋆˚ ✿ ❀ ✿ ˚⋆ ─────── · · ·

Standing on Joel's front porch, holding a bottle of expensive French wine that you can't pronounce the name of, you take a deep breath before knocking on the front door. Just before 5:00 PM, you and Ellie pull into his driveway.

This is just like the other times you've been here. It's nothing new, you remind yourself, trying to untangle the knots forming in your stomach.

The door swings open, and Sarah greets you both with a smile. "Hi, Mrs. Williams." She steps aside, allowing you two to step inside.

The sound of glass shattering echoes through the home, followed by a loud 'Damnit, Tommy' coming from the kitchen. 

"Dad and Uncle Tommy are in the kitchen." Sarah winces at the sound of broken glass. "They might need your help."

You let out a small laugh and shake your head. The Miller brothers never cease to entertain. Ellie and Sarah follow behind as you enter the kitchen.

Turning the corner, you see the two brothers bickering in front of the stove. There is a glass jar of spaghetti sauce splattered across the floor.

"I told you not to put that there." Joel points a wooden spoon at his brother's chest.

"Maybe if you looked where you were goin' for once, you wouldn't've knocked the damn thing over." Tommy shoots back. You imagine this is what they have been like since they were kids.

You clear your throat, and both men see the three of you watching them fight.

Tommy beams, stepping over the mess painting the kitchen floor, and bends to wrap his arms around Ellie. He picks her up into his arms and plants a quick kiss on her cheek. "How's my favorite baby girl?"

Ellie wraps her little arms around his neck but turns her nose up at the question, "I'm not a baby, Uncle Tommy. I go to big girl school now."

"You do?" he plays along as though he doesn't know. "Well, shit, kiddo. Pretty soon, your mama's gonna be teachin' you to drive."

"Tommy," You give a soft smack to his upper arm "language, please."

"Sorry, Sugar." He turns his head to you, a cheeky grin taking over his face. He gives Ellie one more kiss before returning her to the ground. He wraps his arms around you next, squeezing you tight. As he pulls away, he slips the bottle of wine from your hand.

Tommy lets out a low whistle as he reads the label "The good stuff. You tryin' to get me drunk?"

"Like you ever need help with that." You roll your eyes. "It was a gift from a client for doing their wedding arrangements on short notice."

Tommy nods to Joel over his shoulder, "I'll put this somewhere he can't knock it over." He exits the kitchen and disappears into the living room.

Joel looks ready to start round two with his brother but stops in his tracks when you turn your attention to him. You give him a small wave, accompanied by a gentle smile, and he forgets whatever heated remark he was going to make.

"Hey, Ellie." Sarah crouches down to her eye level. "Wanna play with bubbles in the backyard again?"

Ellie nods so fast that you think she'll make herself dizzy. The two girls exit through the glass sliding door and disappear into the late August sun, leaving you and Joel alone.

You look down at the mess on the floor. Taking a large step over it, you reach for a roll of paper towels on the counter. Crouching down, you collect the larger pieces of glass before discarding them in the trash can. Joel lowers himself to the floor beside you, and you hand him a wad of paper towels.

"So, I'm guessing we are having spaghetti." You tease.

"Was supposed'a be." He mumbles.

The two of you work to mop up the remaining spilled sauce. When the paper towels absorb the last few drops, you look up to see Joel is closer than you realize. His face is only inches away from your own. Heat burns at your cheeks and your breath hitches in your throat. Shooting up to a standing position, you throw away the soiled paper towels.

"Let's see what we can put together." you rush out, turning to wash your hands at the sink.

Joel stands back in amazement as you expertly scurry around the kitchen, making a single jar of pasta sauce stretch enough for five people. To the jar of premade sauce, you add two cans of crushed tomatoes and a tin of tomato paste he didn't know he had in his pantry. As the sauce thickens in a medium sized soup pot on the stove, you sprinkle in several dried seasons, stirring as needed. A pot of salted water comes to a boil as you place the pasta inside. After raiding his fridge for scraps, you pull together a salad from half a head of lettuce and miscellaneous garden vegetables.

When you find out the men hadn't thought of what to serve for dessert, you dig through the pantry to find a half-full bag of chocolate chips and just enough flour and sugar to make a single batch of cookies. You roll dough balls between your palms and place them on an oiled baking sheet. 

The comfortable silence that has taken over the kitchen as you worked breaks when Sarah and Ellie come running into the house from the backyard. Tommy had found himself outside playing with the girls, and now they are trying to outrun him. Tommy throws open the sliding door, baring his teeth and growling while he looks around the room, putting on his best monster impression. He catches sight of Ellie and bolts toward her. She bursts into laughter and runs to hide between you and the kitchen counter, trying to obscure herself behind your legs.

Tommy takes slow, heavy steps, getting closer and closer. His gaze moves from the laughing girl to the individual balls of cookie dough on the counter before you.

"Tommy, don't even think about it." You warn, "You'll ruin your appetite."

Tommy's eyes shift back to Ellie, who is still hiding behind your legs. He gives her a quick nod, a mischievous smile stretching across his face. He lunges forward, grabbing three cookie dough balls off the baking sheet and shouts "Girls, run!"

The three troublemakers race for the backyard, laughing the whole way.

A soft 'Damn it, Tommy' leaves your lips, but there is no malice behind the words.

Joel chuckles to himself at the exchange. A month ago, the same scene playing out in front of him would have left him seething. A bitter taste would have coated his tongue for the rest of the night. But as he has come to understand his feelings and gotten to know you better, the relationship between you and Tommy warms his heart. Add the fact that seeing you in his kitchen like this felt so domestic, so right. Like it is always supposed to be like this.

When dinner is ready, Joel calls out for Tommy and the girls to come inside. The five of you cram yourselves around a small, circular dining table. Throughout the meal, everyone bumps knees and is nearly rubbing shoulders, but no one minds.

Joel scolds Tommy for showing Sarah and Ellie a trick where he can pull a piece of spaghetti noodle from his nose that he learned while in boot camp. Sarah tells you how she has already planned every outfit for her first week of high school. Ellie shows the whole table how Uncle Tommy taught her to make farting sounds with her armpit. Then it's your turn to scold Tommy.

You sit back from the content chaos and take a sip from your glass of wine. You can't remember the last time you ate a meal like this as a big family. For years, it had been just you and Ellie. Before that, it was usually just you alone. But being here, watching the mayhem unfold, makes you feel whole.

· · · ──────── ⋆˚ ✿ ❀ ✿ ˚⋆ ─────── · · ·

After dinner, you sit with the two brothers on the deck overlooking the backyard. You notice Joel must have bought a third Adirondack chair since you were here last, which is nice as you no longer have to sit on the arm of Tommy's. You're explaining to Tommy all the work Joel has been doing around the shop; all the while, he throws his brother knowing grins.

Joel tries his best to block him out and listen to you speak. Usually, he would shrink away if someone were to gush about him like this, but it was coming from you. Your praises are making his heart race and filling him with a sense of pride he has never felt before.

You hear tiny feet stomping up the stairs, connecting the deck to the grassy yard and across to where you sit. 

"Mommy, Sarah said she can take me to the park. She said it has two slides, a little one and a big one, and a swing set." Ellie's eyes are wide with excitement. "Can I go?"

"Well," you draw out skeptically, thinking it over. You trust Sarah to be responsible, but letting Ellie out of your near proximity has always been anxiety-provoking.

"C'mon, now." Tommy pipes up, "Let the poor girl go swing." He takes a drink from the brown beer bottle in his hand. He had started drinking during dinner and now was on bottle number five.

You shift your face to him, about to say something about Uncle Tommy being a bad influence, but then your eyes turn to Joel. Sarah is his daughter. If he thinks she is mature enough to do it, you would say yes.

"Why don't you ask Sarah's daddy if it's okay." You give your daughter a reassuring smile and point to Joel.

Ellie turns her attention to Joel, "The asshole."

You think your heart has stopped beating. Your very coherent thought leaves your mind as the horror of what Ellie said settles around you. 

Tommy nearly chokes on his drink. He erupts into a screaming fit of laughter, squeezing his eyes shut as tears threaten to stream down his cheeks. 

"Ellie!" Your voice is shaky and panicked. You turn to Joel, face burning hot and crimson from mortification. You try to put on an apologetic smile, but your face feels like it's going numb. "I-I'm so sorry. I have, I have no idea where she heard."

"Mommy, you said that," Ellie replies nonchalantly as though she doesn't understand how you forgot.

"My love," your pitch is a bit too high to be natural. An artificial sweetness becomes present. "Remember when we talked about not repeating what Mommy says at home?" 

Ellie still doesn't see the problem with what she said. She shrugs her shoulders and gives a slight shake of her head.

"Okay, Ellie. Go to the park with Sarah." The unnatural sweetness is still in your voice.

Ellie runs off to rejoin Sarah without a second thought.

You shoot to your feet, refusing to look at either of the men next to you. "I'm going to grab another glass of wine." You rush into the house, clutching your empty wine glass, and slam the sliding door behind you.

Tommy wipes the tears from his eyes as he tries to catch his breath. His sides are sore and he feels like his face is going to split in half. He slaps a hand on his brother's shoulder. "Well, at least you ain't gotta wonder what she thinks about you anymore."

You fumble with the bottle of wine as you uncork it, pouring the burgundy liquid into the crystal glass. You throw back the entire glass before pouring another. 

Your heart rate has almost returned to normal when Joel enters the kitchen. 

A second wave of guilt washes over you again. You can't bring yourself to look at him. "Joel, I am so sorry."

"It's okay." he offers as he steps closer to you.

"No, really." Your voice grows small. "I'm so sorry. I never should have said that in front of Ellie, and I especially never should have said that about you.

"It's okay." He repeats.

You place the wine glass on the counter and stare down at your hands, fingers fidgeting. "When I said that, we barely knew each other." The more you speak, the more nervous you become. The fear of ruining your already fragile new relationship with Joel terrifies you. "You've been so amazing with all the help around the shop. I feel so awful. I just—"

Joel grabs you, wrapping his large hands around your upper arms. "It's okay."

You finally look at him, eyes wide. 

"I've been a real asshole to you since we met." Joel pauses. "And… I'm sorry."

The sensation of relief you feel from his words is overwhelmed by something different. 

Joel is touching you. 

He's never touched you before. The big hands and strong fingers you've caught yourself daydreaming about more than once are currently wrapped around your upper arms. Warm skin on warm skin. His palms are calloused from two decades of hard labor, but there is a softness to them as well that you didn't expect. 

Joel seems to realize this at the same time you do. He lets go of your arms and shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans. The warmth from where his skin touched yours is gone within an instant.

· · · ──────── ⋆˚ ✿ ❀ ✿ ˚⋆ ─────── · · ·

The sun was setting when Sarah and Ellie returned from the park. Joel, Tommy and you all sat in the living room. The brothers sit on opposite sides of the brown leather couch while you occupy a black recliner. The television was tuned to a Texas Rangers game, but none of you were watching it.

You and Joel sit in a comfortable silence as Tommy fights to keep his eyes open. Though he refuses to admit it, he definitely had one too many tonight. 

Sarah and Ellie enter through the front door. Without saying a word, Ellie climbs into your lap, rests her little cheek against your chest, and closes her eyes.

"Did you two have fun at the park?" You ask, wrapping both arms around your daughter.

Ellie nods her head against your chest, eyes still closed.

Sarah sits on the couch between Joel and Tommy. She leans her head on her father's shoulder and wraps her arms around his.

"Think it's time for the little ones to get some sleep." You tease, rubbing Ellie's back as her breaths become slow and even.

"Joel, can I sleep here tonight?" Tommy slurs. 

"Yeah, go ahead." Joel agrees. The idea of Tommy behind the wheel in this state would terrify anyone. And the last thing Joel wants to do is pick up his younger brother from the Travis County Jail for another DUI.

Tommy pushes off the couch and stands on shaky legs. Once he finds his balance, he shoots you a toothy grin. "Nighty night, Sugar."

"Goodnight, Tommy." You let out a breathy laugh. Tommy was always Tommy, regardless of his sobriety level.

Tommy grabs the staircase's railing and climbs each step as carefully as he can in this state. Joel watches him, making sure there aren't any unfortunate accidents about to happen. 

Sarah also stands from the couch, stretching before wishing Joel and you a goodnight.

"We should probably get going, too." You shift Ellie in your arms, making carrying her to the car easier. You rise to your feet and look to Joel. "Thanks again for having us over."

He's on his feet in an instant. "Course, anytime." 

Joel races to the front door, holding it open for you. You walk toward the driveway where you had parked your car. Securing your hold on Ellie with one arm, you fish your keys out of your pocket with the other, clicking the unlock button on the key fob. Joel moves around you, opening the back passenger door so you can place Ellie into her car seat. Joel stays there, hand on the door as you secure the belt over your sleeping daughter. Once Ellie is strapped in, you step out of the way so Joel can gently shut the door.

"Y'all two can stay." Joel offers. He knew the three glasses of wine you drank weren't enough to get you drunk, but he still worried about you driving back to the city when it was so dark outside "I can kick Tommy outta the guest room and onta the couch."

"Or you girls can sleep in my bed, and I'll take the couch." Joel was ever the southern gentleman, offering his own room so you and Ellie would be comfortable.

"Sounds like you're just trying to get me in your bed, Joel." you tease, flashing him a flirtatious smile. 

Maybe you were more drunk than Joel initially thought.

Joel's heart starts to race, and he swallows thickly despite how dry his mouth has suddenly become, "I-I wasn't implyin'—"

"I'm just messing with you." You laugh. Your smile is so big it forces your eyes half closed.

Joel's mind is moving a million miles a minute, and he isn't sure how to respond.

Before he can formulate a sentence in reply, you are walking around the front of your car and climbing into the driver's seat. You start the engine, give Joel a polite wave goodbye, and pull out onto his street, driving into the night.

⠂⠁⠈⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂

⟢ authors notes: I think I must be ovulating because writing Tommy's scene where he's playing with Ellie has me feeling some type of way. But can you tell how much I love Tommy?

Also, I'm trying to keep this story as realistic as possible. I've put a lot of research into grief, military life in the 1990's and early 2000's, and the general attitude of the continue during that time it for later chapters. The one thing I did take artistic liberty with is that someone is watching a Rangers game in Austin. I know that technically Astros territory, but fuck the Astros.

⟢ tag list: @koshkaj-blog @orcasoul @damneddamsy @legoemma @isabella-rose-trastamara @hoddystark @suzysface @speaktothehandpeasants @anoverwhelmingdin @orodaeh

[mintmatcha]

obsessed with kirishima in that new sero series ngl,,, if you ever want to or decide to write, i'd love to hear abt kirishima and reader hanging out- or just how they are with each other. how they became friends etc etc

anyways,,, how have u been miiiint how's it going ;w;

on her knees, his mom smoothed his hair down one day and told him he had to be friends with the girl across the hall. the city was still half built from after the war, his own cuts healed, yet pink.

"you're such a sweet boy," she mumbled, with a kiss on the forehead. "go be sweet."

and so, he was marched over, box of sweets in hand.

"i'm eijiro-" he uses his given name when you answer the door, instead of the family one labelled outside their door. "my mom made these for you."

You don't reach out to take the box. he's afraid you're about to back up and close the door when you shake your head.

"you d-didn't need to do that," you whisper, ducking away from eye contact. Oh, he thinks. That's why his mom sent him over here.

"it's cool!" He pushes the box forward and you gingerly take it, "My mom loves to do stuff like this."

You bow, just a dip of your head, and Kirishima gets a view into the apartment. It's smaller than his family's, with the living room right by the front door and the walls glossed with pink posters. There's a bookshelf packed with figurines and manga.

"whoa." Kirishima gapes. "your parents much really like anime."

"Oh, uh-" You shut the door a bit, trying to block his view. "I-it's just me. I like anime."

"Your parents let you decorate the apartment? That's so cool."

"no, it's just me." You still can't meet his eye. "My parents live out in the country side and it's too far away from my school."

It's not uncommon for students to get apartments near their high schools, but Kirishima thinks it's a strange choice for something as skittish as you. Living by yourself, in the middle of the city, while they rebuild it all: he doesn't know if he could do it.

"That genius school down the road?" Kirishima points in the (probably incorrect) direction. It's not UA, of course, but it's just as competitive to get in. "You gotta help me with math sometime-- I'm drowning."

For the first time, you smile.

"I am not a genius," you say. "But I can take a look."

-

Thursdays turn into tutoring sessions. You're a year behind him in school, but a year ahead of him in math, which makes you a tough grader. Kirishima thinks that you might actually be a genius sometimes. His mom pays you in warm meals, his dad irons your uniform for you when he has the time.

It fills the gap leaving the dorms left in his social life.

"don't you get lonely?" he asks one night, sitting in the middle of your apartment. the faucet leaks, a constant, drip, drip, drip, that your dad promises to fix the next time he can make the train ride over. "your friends from school never come over."

you've scribbled little Xs across your piece of scrap paper, each one tiny and dark, drawn with a shaking hand.

"yeah," you say, "it's okay. they're just busy, i guess."

[puckingeccedentesiast]

begging for quinn hughes and “How did you end up like this?” 😵‍💫

Quinn considered himself a tool-body. He was smart and good enough with his hands to fix little problems around both yours and his own respective apartments. A flat battery in a smoke detector, sorted. A leaky window sill, plugged up with silicone before anything could sneak in.

However, on a quaint, sunny Saturday afternoon Quinn went in a little too far over his head when it was decided he would tackle a small plumbing issue. A leaky faucet, which had been dripping in his kitchen.

Quinn very quickly recognised that he was in far over his head, or in this case his ankles as water flowed, ankle-deep around him. The faucet now turned waterfall was doing little but gushing into the overflowing sink and flooding Quinn’s kitchen. Sodden towels, buckets and makeshift damns were easily over run.

His situation was just plain comedy, a broken wrench in his hand, pipes floating around the kitchen in the miniature swimming pool and water leaking from places it definitely wasn’t meant to be leaking from.

The kitchen, now turned watery battle zone had pots and pans strewn around to stop the flooding, the YouTube video Quinn had been watching in which a few steps were absolutely missed.

When you swung open the door, seeing Quinn standing there like a dear in headlights you couldn’t help but let out a light scoff and smirk.

“Quinn, how did you end up like this?” You asked with mock seriousness, this situation was secretly highly amusing you.

Trying to play it cool Quinn looked back at you, absentmindedly flicking his wrist with the spanner in it, "Okay, so, I watched this video—twice, mind you—and I thought I had it under control. But apparently, there's, like, a valve... or maybe a nut? I don’t know, but I’m pretty sure I turned the wrong one, and—well—everything sort of... exploded?"

You stood there and couldn’t help burst into a fit of giggles as you very clearly remember Quinn stating, “No! Don’t call a plumber, I can handle this!” Reaching for your phone you capture some pictures for future blackmail you asked, “Need me to call that plumber now?”

Thank you for requesting my lovely Ivy! It made my day and I hope this lives up to your standards!

[sunday-bug]

Can you write about Bucky being insecure about his arm malfunctioning? Maybe you’ve only been dating for a short while and he is still wearing the gloves to cover it but something happens and he ends up having to tell you about it and he feels like you would reject him, but you’re really comforting and it’s like super fluffy 

Oh my gosh I love this idea 🥲

🦾💗🦾💗🦾💗🦾💗🦾💗🦾💗🦾💗🦾💗🦾💗

The subzero February weather outside seemed to be seeping into your ancient apartment, and you pull your cardigan tighter against your body as you look out the window. You’ve been dating Bucky for a couple weeks, and he is over at your place for the first time tonight, dim sum in hand.

He’s setting up the takeout on your tiny dining table, still bundled up in his coat and typical layers.

“That all smells amazing,” you say, walking over to help him. “Can I take your coat?”

“Uh, sure,” he says, shrugging out of it, “Thanks, doll.” You hang it up on a hook by the door, and you both sit down to eat.

“Your apartment is neat,” he muses, biting into a dumpling. “How old is this building?”

“Hmm, like 1920’s, I think? I like it enough,” you answer, going for a steamed bun.

You are both quiet for a moment, enjoying the food, able to hear the wind outside and the sounds of your apartment.

Bucky glances over at your sink with a concerned look, “That faucet always drip?”

“Ah, yeah. I put in a maintenance request last week, but they haven’t gotten to it yet.”

“Let me take a look,” Bucky says, getting up from his chair and walking over to the sink. “You got a wrench?”

“Yeah, one sec,” you say, walking to the hall closet to get your small pink tool box. “This was a gift from my best friend when I moved in,” you explain, looking down with a blush at the hot pink tools.

Bucky chuckles lightly, “Hey, a wrench is a wrench.”

He grabs it from you with his gloved hand and positions himself on his back under the sink, using his phone as a flashlight with the other, ungloved hand. You’d asked him about the glove on your first date, and he’d given a non-answer so you dropped it, not wanting to press the issue. He starts tinkering with the pipe under the sink. You hear a strange clicking noise, like metal gears, before Bucky whispers, “What the hell?”, and sits up quickly, removing his glove.

You blink once. Twice. Is his hand… metal? He flexes the hand’s fingers, and you hear the clicking sound again.

“Uh…” you start to say, bringing him back to the moment.

He stands up suddenly, wide-eyed with worry, “I was-I was going to tell you… eventually. Um, yeah… my, my arm is metal.”

“Metal?” You ask, looking from his eyes to his hand.

“Vibranium, actually,” he clarifies. “I-I didn’t know how you’d react, and I didn’t want you to be scared or weirded out, so…”

“Bucky,” you cut him off, taking a step toward him, “it’s okay. Why would you be scared to tell me?”

He runs his hand through his hair, “I like you, and I just didn’t want you to, like, stop… seeing me.”

You step up to him, offering your hand. He gently offers his metal hand to you, and you take it in both of yours, “I like all of you, Bucky. Please don’t feel like you need to hide anything from me, or be worried about me bolting. I’m not going anywhere.” You squeeze the hand gently, “This is nothing to be ashamed of.”

You watch his shoulders relax as you reassure him, and he envelopes you in a hug.

“Thank you… I really needed to hear that. In that case, I don’t actually need a wrench,” he flexes his hand and gets back under the sink with a smile, fixing the leak in 10 seconds.

“Oh. That thing is handy,” you muse, “no pun intended.”

Bucky sits up and chuckles heartily, before his gaze softens, “Thanks again, for being understanding and just being you.”

“It’s nothing,” you shrug. “Now let’s finish dinner, and maybe you can fix my bent wheel axle next.”

“You got it, doll,” Bucky says with a laugh.

-the end-

Hope this is what you’re looking for 🦾

[rottenpumpkin13]

A plumber, who happens to look like Aerith with a fake mustache, comes to SOLDIER lounge.

*Aerith disguised herself as a plumber to sneak into the Shinra HQ to see Zack. She runs into Sephiroth*

Sephiroth: Finally you're here. We require maintenance immediately.

Aerith, in the deepest voice she can manage: Uh..Yeah! Pipes!

Sephiroth: There's a problem with the water pressure on the SOLDIER floor. The showers run either boiling hot or ice cold with no in-between. And the faucet in my quarters drips at an inconsistent rhythm, which is disruptive.

Aerith:

Sephiroth: Do you know how to fix it or not?

Aerith: Uh…nope! Not at all!

(Fifteen minutes later)

*Sephiroth returns with Lazard, leading him towards where the plumber is supposed to be working*

Sephiroth: They seemed highly unqualified and I don't feel comfortable allowing a suspicious stranger to roam around without your supervision. For all we know, he could pose a threat to our operatives.

Lazard: Sephiroth, please. You overreact. What could a harmless plumber do to a SOLDIER that they cannot overcome?

*They round the corner just in time to find Zack pressed against a wall, aggressively making out with the plumber*

Sephiroth: Tongue, apparently.

Lazard:

[sstormyskyess]

Self-Doubts

author's note: wanted to explore some of the insecurities these fellas would have to get a better feel for how to write them!

cw: hurt/comfort, body image issues, domestic situations, anxiety

word count: 1900+

TF-141 x GN!Reader

Simon “Ghost” Riley [body image]

♡ Ghost is aware that he’s an attractive man. He’s been told as much for most of his life and people tend to put themselves out there for him, so he’s always figured there must be something to him that causes it.

♡ But only he had seen the body under all the layers of black clothing he often covers himself with. His body is more scars than unblemished skin, an eternal reminder that he was beyond saving.

♡ That’s why, when you wormed your way into his lacerated heart, he was hesitant to undress around you. He didn’t want you to see the man underneath the shell of the impenetrable “Ghost,” the man that kept his trauma on a tight leash and hid away from his true self.

Simon shuffles forward further down the bathtub to let you settle in behind him, your thighs resting on his hips. His heart is pounding in his chest, as it often did when he was bare in front of you. Despite the warmth of the bath you’d run for the both of you, a shiver travels up his spine when your hands wrap around his chest.

“You still okay, Si?” You rest your cheek on his back, keeping your hands still over his stomach. All he gives you is a hum, so you prompt again, “I need words, hun.” He responds with a shallow nod and, with a slight shake in his voice, “I’m alright, love.” You nuzzle your cheek against his spine in response, a silent reminder that he’s here, with you.

Things were still for a while, the only sound being the leaky faucet you still needed to get fixed dripping into the bath. You quietly paw at his stomach and move slowly up his chest, tracing over his scars as you did. You halt before you start to kiss the scars on his shoulder blades, the ones that you’ve committed to memory.

He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding when you take hold of one of his hands, pulling it up far enough that you could see it over his shoulder. There was one big scar across his palm that he received in the times before he started wearing gloves to cover his calloused hands. You always came back to it; it was one of the most clear signifiers of his journey through his career, and you loved to appreciate anything and everything that showed you his path before meeting you.

He watches you regard the scar, able to see the face you always make when you admire his body like this. He smiled at the thought and some of the tension in his muscles left. He took your other hand and brought it up to his lips to place a kiss on your knuckles, returning the affection you so graciously gave him.

John “Soap” Mactavish [his future]

♡ Soap has been in his field of work for around eight years and he’s made his way through hell time and time again. He’s a skilled operator and with that comes many dangerous situations, often life or death.

♡ But really, he wants to make it far enough in life to retire and return to civilian society, far away from the turmoil that tainted him day and night, 24/7. The worst part is that he knows it’s unlikely he’ll make it that far.

♡ It got worse when he met you and you solidified in his mind that his true goal was making it to a calm life, free of gunfire, constant deployment, and all of the other struggles that came with a job like his.

“Aye. Love you too, mum.” Johnny hangs up the call and puts his phone on the coffee table with a sigh. His mom was calling to let him know that his sister was going to be having a baby shower in a month or so; his niece’s birth was just around the corner, expectedly two months from now.

Hearing about the lives of his family members makes him feel so selfish sometimes. He knows it’s silly and that he shouldn’t be worrying so much about it, but he just can’t seem to help it. Even when he knows you’re just a room away, making some dinner for the both of you, he can’t help but think about what life could be like were he living the life the rest of his family was. He gets up and looks over to the kitchen before making his way over.

You jump when you feel Johnny’s arms wrap around your waist. He buries his head against your neck and presses some soft kisses there. “Hi, baby. What do you need?” You smile and reach back to run your fingers through his messy overgrown mohawk, earning you a pleased hum. He rests his chin on your shoulder to watch you cooking, a warmth in his heart swelling at the domesticity. “Do you think we’d ever get married, dove?” He asks, rocking you two back and forth gently.

You blink, surprised by the sudden question. “I wouldn’t be opposed. You’re the best guy I could ever hope to be with the rest of my life.” Your smile widens as your mind wanders to the life you and Johnny could live together. Johnny’s soft, dreamy sigh brushes along your neck and it feels like his posture slumps forward just a bit in relief, your words soothing his stormy thoughts. “I’ll keep that in mind, bonnie.”

Standing there in the comfortable silence with you only solidified in his mind that he wanted to be there with you for the rest of his life. All he wanted to do in that moment and every moment after was take care of you, to make you feel safe.

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick [perfectionism]

♡ Gaz knows how important the role he plays is. His work furthered the safety of civilians the world round, and he knows he’s good at it.

♡ But along with knowing the importance of his work was a double-edged sword; he knew that if he ever faltered or failed his mission, people would die as a result. The screams of civilians echoed in his mind every few nights he tried settling in for bed, his mind much too overactive for his own good.

♡ Overworking himself was a consequence of his troubled thoughts. He would be lifting in the gym until his muscles gave out on him, firing in the range for hours into the night, running laps around the base, all to your dismay as you watched him work himself half to death.

Kyle’s lungs heave as he bends over with his hands on his knees. You had followed him when he got out of bed earlier tonight and he apologized profusely for waking you up. He’s been on the treadmill for an hour, going on an hour and a half. You stare at him, concerned out of your mind.  You’d long since stopped your own workout, the weights left on the rack and a bottle of water in hand.

This was the third time in the past week he’d subjected himself to this self-flagellating exercise schedule. You knew why; this past mission was quite the disaster. Too much destruction, too many civilian casualties, and an escaped terrorist was a perfect combination to make Kyle’s mind run wild with disappointment in himself. He was an empathetic individual and it always came back to bite him after missions like this.

You aren’t sure whether or not he noticed you in here with him, so when you got up to approach him you walked with purposeful steps, loud enough to alert him to your presence. His head perked up and he turned to look at you. He cursed under his breath after wiping his forehead with the towel slung over his shoulder and stepped off the treadmill.

“Sweetheart, I said you could go back to bed.” He frowned when he met your eyes, seeing the exhaustion in them but not realizing that you saw the same exhaustion in his. “Someone needed to drag you back once you eventually collapsed.” You mutter, looking away. You didn’t want to be frustrated with him; you knew that he couldn’t help it. But seeing him with his legs nearly buckling under his own weight hurt your heart. “I’m okay, I promise—”

He’s cut off by your sigh and you take him by the hand to drag him over to the nearest bench, sitting him down. “You’re not okay. I’m getting your stuff and we’re going back to bed.” You state matter-of-factly before walking off to do just that. He knew that you were miffed, but it still felt good to know you had his back.

John Price [his relationships]

♡ Price is a busy man; he’s the captain of a private task force, of course he was. His work basically consumed his entire life, with no room for much else.

♡ Friends and romantic partners were pie in the sky for him, and he sometimes wondered if he would be able to maintain a healthy relationship with anyone outside of work. He had tried before and every time, it ended with things falling apart and him leaving someone broken hearted.

♡ His worries were quelled when you made friends with him and eventually entered a romantic relationship, but still, he was concerned with balancing his relationship with you and his relationship with his work. Sometimes, he wondered if he was even strong enough to pull both sides of himself together into one man.

John picks up the dinner plate that you made for him a few hours ago. It had gotten cold by now, the plastic cling wrap around the plate having settled over the food and sticking loosely to it. He sighs and peels it off, turning to the microwave to reheat the plate. He leans back against the counter and stares at the floor, his thoughts crowding every corner of his mind.

You were already in bed, sleeping soundly. At least he hoped. You had asked him a couple times to come to bed, but he insisted he needed to finish the mission reports he was writing. Every time he pulled this little maneuver, he thought back to every other time he condemned you to going to bed cold. The frown on his face deepens, imagining how you looked right now. Maybe you actually weren’t asleep and were still up waiting for him. The thought made him feel so guilty.

He doesn’t have to dwell on it much longer before he sees you sleepily wander into the kitchen, yawning and rubbing your eyes. John pushes himself off the counter and meets you halfway, resting his hands on your hips. “Head back to bed, doll. I’ll be there soon.” He mumbles the words into the top of your head before putting a kiss there. You shake your head and nuzzle deeper into his hold.

“I’m sorry I woke you up.” He runs one of his hands up and down your spine, the other moving to the small of your back. You hold onto his shirt and take a peek up at him. “It’s okay.” You give him a small smile, trying to soothe his worries. He does so much and you know it was all for you, a fact that warms your heart.

“Come sit and eat your food, hon’.” He huffs a little laugh and nods, taking his plate out of the microwave and picking you up. You giggle and kiss his cheek, letting him carry you to the couch. You let him turn on the TV and settle you in his lap. “Were you dreaming, love?” He asks before starting to eat. Neither of you pay much attention to whatever’s on the screen after that, him listening intently to you recounting your dreams.

𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

[rafecamerons-national-anthem]

A TROPICAL MISADVENTURE-DREW STARKEY

𝕤𝕦𝕞𝕞𝕒𝕣𝕪 Drew and Y/N go on a tropical vacation, but nothing seems to go as planned.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Drew Starkey and Y/N had been dreaming about this tropical vacation for months. Between Drew’s busy filming schedule and Y/N’s demanding job, they were long overdue for some sun, sand, and relaxation. They had booked an all-inclusive resort on a tiny island paradise, complete with crystal-clear waters, lush palm trees, and endless cocktails.

“This is going to be perfect,” Y/N had said while packing her suitcase. “Just the two of us, no work, no stress. What could go wrong?”

Drew had grinned, tossing sunscreen and a book into his bag. “Exactly. We deserve this.”

Little did they know, those words would soon be put to the test.

Their first hiccup came as soon as they landed. The island was everything the brochure promised, stunning turquoise waters and soft white sand but the moment they stepped off the plane, a wall of humid heat smacked them in the face.

“Is it supposed to feel like a sauna?” Drew asked, adjusting his baseball cap.

Y/N laughed, wiping sweat from her forehead. “Welcome to paradise, babe.”

Things only got more interesting when their luggage didn’t arrive.

“It’s probably on the next flight,” the airline employee assured them with a polite smile. “Maybe tomorrow?”

With nothing but their carry ons, Drew and Y/N made their way to the resort. Drew’s mood soured further when they discovered the cab ride was more of an off road adventure, with the car bouncing over potholes and Y/N clutching Drew’s arm every time they hit a bump.

The resort looked picture-perfect in the photos, but reality was...different. Their room had a stunning ocean view, but the air conditioner was on the fritz, and there was a persistent drip drip drip coming from the bathroom faucet.

“Romantic, isn’t it?” Drew said dryly, leaning against the wall as Y/N examined the bathroom.

She shot him a look, trying to keep her spirits up. “It’s not the end of the world. Let’s just go to the beach and relax.”

The beach was beautiful, but relaxing proved to be a challenge. Drew’s idea of paradise involved lounging under an umbrella with a book, but Y/N wanted to snorkel. Drew reluctantly agreed, only to discover that snorkeling was not his strong suit.

“Are you okay?” Y/N asked, laughing as Drew floundered in the water.

“Do I look okay?” he sputtered, yanking off his mask. “Saltwater just went up my nose!”

To make matters worse, a seagull swooped down and stole Y/N’s sandwich while they were drying off.

“I think this bird is out to get me,” Y/N grumbled, watching the seagull strut away with her lunch.

The next day, they decided to try paddleboarding. Drew, always up for a challenge, insisted it couldn’t be that hard. Five minutes in, he fell off the board, landing in the water with a dramatic splash.

“Stop laughing and help me!” he called to Y/N, who was doubled over on her board, tears streaming down her face.

After an exhausting morning, they booked a sunset catamaran cruise, hoping for a romantic evening. But as the boat set sail, dark clouds rolled in.

“Uh, is this normal?” Drew asked the captain, eyeing the choppy water.

“Just a little rain,” the captain said, grinning.

The “little rain” turned into a full blown tropical downpour, and they spent the ride huddled under a tarp with a group of equally drenched tourists.

“Most romantic trip ever,” Y/N quipped, shivering against Drew’s side.

By the third day, Drew and Y/N were sitting on the balcony of their room, sipping drinks and watching the rain fall. Their luggage had finally arrived, the air conditioning was fixed, and the dripping faucet had been silenced. But their plans of a perfect vacation had long since unraveled.

“This is not how I pictured this trip going,” Y/N admitted, curling up in her chair.

“Me neither,” Drew said, leaning back and stretching his legs. “But, you know, it’s kind of funny. I mean, we survived a bird attack, a rainstorm, and whatever that paddleboarding disaster was.”

Y/N laughed, her mood lifting. “It’s definitely memorable.”

“And hey,” Drew added, raising his glass, “we’ve still got each other. Even if paradise is a little...chaotic.”

They clinked glasses, smiling at each other.

On their last day, the rain cleared, and the sun returned in full force. Determined to make the most of their trip, Drew and Y/N decided to hike to a hidden waterfall they’d heard about from a local.

The hike was longer and steeper than they expected, and they got lost twice. But when they finally reached the waterfall, it was breathtaking.

Standing beneath the cascading water, Y/N turned to Drew, her face glowing with happiness. “This is it. This is the moment I’ll remember.”

Drew pulled her into a hug, his laughter echoing off the rocks. “Even better than the seagull incident?”

“Much better.”

As they stood there, drenched but exhilarated, they realized that the trip hadn’t gone as planned but maybe that was what made it so special.

[frxxxncx]

need to know - k. soonyoung

»boyfriend!¡kwon soonyoung x fem!¡reader.

»Summary: you just wanted to dance all night long, but the night had other plans for you.

»Tags: smut (MDNI), pet names, establish relationship, chocking, exhibitionistm, dirty talk (I suck at this, I’m not joking), degradation…?, sex in public, bulge kink kind of, fingering, unprotected sex, creampie, it’s a little nasty at the end ngl, kinda mean dom!soonyoung, sub!reader.

»Words: 1.7k

note: This concept of Kwon Soonyoung makes me scream in my pillow every night. Need to know was my most played song in 2021.

note 2: Any typo or incoherence that you might find was completely intentional, it’s for the sake of learning about my mistakes.

Your pink mini-skirt danced gracefully with you, stroking your plump thighs softly, fabric barely covering your ass, chest moving slowly, contrasting with the voluptuous motions of your hips.

You felt aroused, only looking for your boyfriend's gaze from the bar counter, you were the one who proposed to go out to dance, but Soonyoung, even though he liked to dance was not in the mood to do it that day, but you were willing to make his cock raise proud, as if you had telekinesis.

You felt someone behind you, but you were certain that it wasn’t your boyfriend, you were going to get away from him but an evil thought crossed your filthy mind, you decided to use the disrespectful guy whom was gripping grossly tight your waist with his flagrant sticky and sweaty hands, you wanted to provoke your boyfriend, but his reaction was taking long that you expected and you were starting to get utterly disgusted by the stranger.

Still it was thrilling, you knew what was coming after this stunt you just made. The movements of your hips were exaggerated, while your hands were placed over the other guy. Gross.

It was extremely uncomfortable to feel the unfamiliar hands travel your body with that intimacy, but at the same time you shiver at the feel of Soonyoung's strong gaze over you. So he finally saw you.

The foreign hands disappeared, being replace for your boyfriend’s hot and heavy touch, you could hear clearly how Soonyoung shouted with rage “Fuck off”. A chill ran down your back, you knew perfectly what was coming and you were so fucking prepared for the consequences of your actions.

His hands were squeezing your waist so tightly, and you were sure the silhouette of his fingers was going to be engraved in your skin in a purplish color by tomorrow. His warm breath felt delicious over the back of your neck, body’s so close you could feel all of him pressed against you. Soonyoung tongue caressed your ear feeling the cold metal of your piercings.

“Did you like provoking me while grinding against that bastard like a fucking slut in heat?” He whispered, one of his hands getting to the hem of your pinky skirt, thighs clenching together at the familiar feeling striking your cunt, his digits travelled over your soft skin, and under your skirt, fingers stroking the fabric of your lingerie.

The darkness of the place played in your favour, no one seemed like they were able to see a thing, or maybe they were just enjoying the show, perhaps they were doing the same with their partners.

The rough palms of Soonyoung caressed your cunt over the silky fabric of your underwear, making you stutter in his arms, his left hand rested on your neck choking you slightly, enough to make you moan at the pressure, you could feel your slick starting soak the thin fabric of you lingerie, you were dripping like a faucet and you needed a plumber to help you fix the problem, most definitely.

His cold fingers sneaked inside your underwear, digits now dripping wet in your arousal, you shivered thrilled with his fingers now rubbing circles in your swollen and needy clit, your hips wouldn’t stop moving anxious due to the strokes that started to become faster and faster, putting more pressure in the delicate bud of nerves, his middle fingers travelled to your core, making his ways inside of you, your hands gripped his wrist tightly, retaining a guttural moan that was building up in your throat.

His ring finger joined inside, now both digits were playing in your warm embrace, rubbing into all the good spots inside of you, while his palm was fondling your clit, his fingers scissoring you, stretching your velvety walls. Your moans slipped from your mouth uncontrollably, and you were so glad that the music was so loud, otherwise everyone would notice how your boyfriend was finger fucking the life out of you.

“You pussy so cute and so wet for me, I can feel your cunt so deliciously tight around my fingers” he whispered in your ear, curling his fingers and tightening the grip in your neck “Come on, baby, beg me for it and I will give it to you” the kiss below your ear makes you gasp, breathing was starting to become difficult “Beg for me, just like the cockslut you are” a high pitch moan escape from you when his fingers stretched more inside of you, the burning feeling only making you wish for more.

“Please, please, I need you” you whine desperately, head pressed against his chest, arching your back and moving your hips, feeling the hard on in the base of your back.

“It turns you on, huh?” His hoarse voice behind you contrasted with he sensual music that was playing now, hand that was fingering you, now unzipping his pants hurriedly“I’m going to fuck you infront of all these people and you are soaking wet for it”

He lifted your skirt and moved your underwear to the side, you felt the fabric tear in your skin, and sighed at it, his cock was caressing your sticky folds, spreading all your juices on his shaft, sliding easily on your lips.

“God, you’re so ready for me” he purred, and without thinking twice he thrusted inside of you groaning satisfied after bottoming you out, a loud and guttural moan break from you, due to the force and the toughness of the thrust it kind of burned, but it burned so good that the coil that been building in your belly increased enormously.

“Ooh, baby, you’re so perfect, so good for me” Soonyoung’s dancer hips pistoned with an animalistic pace, biting your lips was starting to become a poor attempt to muffle some of your whimpers, even the wet and lewd sound was beginning to echo over the music in your ears.

Your velvety walls were clenching around Soonyoung’s dick, making him groan satisfied, the sound of his voice caressing your ears like honey, almost triggering your desired orgasm.

The pleasure filled your insides and your clit wouldn’t stop pulsating under Soonyoung insisting rubs, left hand gripping firmly your neck taking your breath away, the coil in you belly was so close to bursting, your hips trembling and colliding with his that wouldn’t stop pistoning into you, every thrust tougher than the other.

At some point, both of his hands rested on your belly, pressing not tight but just enough to make you see stars over your head like a pretty halo, his dick jammed inside of you and the pressure of his hands made you feel like your guts were being rearranged, everything was hot and narrow, your lips were bright red and glossy, you thought that tomorrow they would hurt so bad.

Soonyoung kept hammering into you, one hand pressing your stomach and the other taking your breath away once again, while his hips drilled into you fast and messy, your so desired orgasms stroke through you, body jerking forward as you howled in pleasure, while he kept grunting on the damp skin of your nape, and finally he let go of you neck. He plumped himself dry into you, painting your insides white.

And perhaps it was because you were on a public place or maybe it was the fact that your boyfriend just was exceptionally good at fucking you, but if he wasn’t holding you tight, you would be in the floor due to the overstimulation.

“Fuck, I think we need to go home” he said getting out of you slowly, hearing you whine in the process, now he was fixing his pants and holding tight onto you.

The words could get out of your mouth properly, you only remained clinging onto Soonyoung’s arm while his still warm cum travelled in the soft skin between your thighs, your cunt was sore, even then you could feel his dick inside of you, making you shudder, your legs were all wobbly and the sticky load was peeking from the edge of your skirt. Soonyoung felt bad about it and wiped it as much as he could with his hand, and then he fixed your underwear so his cum wouldn’t go anywhere.

You tried to walk while grabbing your boyfriend’s shirt tightly, but your legs just gave up and a mini scream came out when you felt like falling on your face.

“Sonnie, I can’t, my legs” you said, stuttering looking at your boyfriend with shining eyes because of the tears, still moaning quietly trying to stand still.

He looked at you with furrowed eyebrows and a smirk, satisfied of having fucked you so well you couldn’t even walk, but still he felt a little -just a little- bad for you, maybe he was to rough, you liked it though.

Chuckling Soonyoung gave you one last look full of joy and breathed out surrendering.

“Come on, pretty, I’ll carry you” he said before lifting you into bridal style, making you feel as light as a feather. “When we get home, I’ll make us a warm bath and I’ll clean you up very well, it’s okay, honey?” He asked in a childish tone, making you laugh and nod at the same time.

Once you were outside the club, Soonyoung made sure to put you in the passenger seat carefully but still a gasp came out of you, he zipped your belt and closed your door, and then he went to his seat.

During the drive home, you couldn’t help but feel a little bit tense because of the sticky mess in between your legs, but still the light burn in your core felt quite pleasant making your cunt pulsate.

When you finally where in front of your house, you sighted “Next time instead of fucking in the middle of the dance floor, better drag me to the car and fuck my brains out here” the embarrassment was starting to kick in, the liquid confidence losing its effects.

Soonyoung looked at you with a crooked smile "why next time when I can do it right now?"

[mintyys-blog]

Avengers x housekeeper! reader: slippery floors

WARNINGS: none

You had worked at the Avengers compound for months now, quietly doing your job, making sure everything ran smoothly behind the scenes. While the heroes fought their battles and saved the world, you made sure their home stayed in one piece. Mopping the floors, fixing the broken faucets, and occasionally fixing up their rooms after they’d lived in them like they were in the middle of an intense battle—even when they weren’t.

It was a thankless job. At least, that’s how you saw it on most days. After all, the Avengers were busy, and who had time to thank the person who made sure their living spaces were clean? Not that you minded. You enjoyed the peace and quiet. It was rare to find a place where you could be alone, doing something you knew was essential without the noise of battle or team meetings.

But sometimes, just sometimes, it would get under your skin.

You were just about finished. The last swipe of your mop had glided across the floor, the polished tiles gleaming under the fluorescent lights. It was one of those rare moments when everything was perfect. The hallway was spotless—just the way you liked it. The smell of the cleaning supplies lingered in the air, and for the first time in a while, you allowed yourself a small, quiet smile. It felt like an accomplishment, especially after spending hours on your feet, making sure everything was immaculate.

And then, of course, the Avengers had to ruin it.

You heard them before you saw them. The unmistakable sound of heavy boots and loud voices grew nearer, echoing down the hall. Your stomach twisted a little, but you forced yourself to breathe. They were heroes. You reminded yourself of that, as if it would make the irritation simmering in your veins go away. It wouldn’t.

You knew what was coming.

They had just come back from a mission, their boots soaked in mud, and you could already see the tracks forming across the floor, the very floor you had just cleaned. The tracks slowly grew larger as they marched by, oblivious to the mess they were making. You tried not to let it get to you, even though you could feel the frustration bubbling up inside.

They were heroes. It was fine.

But it wasn’t.

The injustice of it all burned in your chest. Why couldn’t they just take a second to wipe their feet? It wasn’t that hard, was it? You sighed to yourself, grabbing the wet floor sign from the janitor’s closet. You’d seen it happen enough times to know that they’d ignore the sign if it was already there, but when they slipped and fell… oh, that would be different. You’d get some small measure of satisfaction from that.

As you walked back into the hallway, you placed the sign down with exaggerated care, eyeing the muddy trail stretching across the polished floor.

You paused, watching them come down the hallway, oblivious to the sign you had just placed. Tony was first. He strutted down the hall with his usual cocky confidence, smiling and laughing with Steve, Natasha, and the others. You watched his boots hit the wet floor, his steps not slowing, not even a second of hesitation.

Then, in an instant, his feet slipped out from under him. It was almost slow motion. His arms flailed in the air for a fraction of a second before gravity won out, and Tony Stark was on his back, sprawled across the slippery floor.

You couldn’t help it. The smug smile tugged at your lips.

“Oops,” you muttered, voice dripping with faux innocence as you casually placed the wet floor sign down in front of Tony, as if you had just forgotten to do it earlier. You stepped back, letting the moment linger. It felt oddly satisfying.

Tony groaned from the floor, glancing at the sign, his expression a mix of frustration and confusion. “Really?” he grumbled, trying to push himself up. “Couldn’t you have put this down earlier?”

You pretended to think for a moment, crossing your arms and tapping your chin. “Hmm… guess I just forgot,” you said with a little shrug, turning your back on him without a second glance.

You could hear the others chuckling as they helped Tony to his feet. Steve looked over at you, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Nice one,” he called after you, his tone amused.

You didn’t respond, but you felt that smug satisfaction creeping through you, warm and content. You had spent hours cleaning, and all it had taken was a few seconds of their carelessness to make it all feel worth it.

They were heroes, sure, but sometimes, even they needed a little reminder that not everything revolved around them. And as you walked away, the faint sound of Tony cursing softly behind you only made you walk a little taller. You might have been the one cleaning up their mess, but at that moment, you felt like you had won.