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unintentionalseductress · 1 day ago

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How To Court A Dragon

Warnings: MDNI, sex, monster fucking, DVP, explicit genitalia descriptions, double pp, size kink, mentions of breeding Summary: You unintentionally became his mate. Of course, you have some questions. A/n: Hey ya'll! I used to be called nanamiscocksleeve! Here it is! Now...I hope this isn't something people will shy away from because it took me a lot of effort to write this, not to mention all the weird questions I asked Google about reptilian mating parts (there's a sentence I never thought I'd write!). Also, the things about the pp...I was imagining this scene from The Shape of Water 🤭🤭🤭. Enjoy my fellow monster lovers!

“Sylus?” You glance over at the large, intimidating dragon occupying about half the space on the large fur rug you’re both lying on. The dragon, idly fiddling with a gilded coin, glances at you with a bored look in his ruby eyes.

“Yes, kitten?” he asks in his usual growl as he flicks the coin away onto a pile of gold.

“We’ve known each other for quite some time.”

Sylus raises an eyebrow. “Yes, I suppose we have.”

“I was wondering…if I could ask some questions.”

“Questions?” Sylus looks at you with mild curiosity. “Hmm, let me consult my schedule... ah yes, I have a free moment between ‘hoarding treasure’ and ‘menacing villagers.’ Make it quick." He flashes you a sarcastic grin and you roll your eyes.

“Can you ever just speak normally? Wait that’s not my question!” You add hastily as Sylus’s eyes flash in amusement, clearly about to reply and further annoy you by not answering what you really had in mind.

A deep, rumbling chuckle emanates from Sylus’s throat. “Go ahead, sweetie.”

You fiddle with the rug, wondering how to phrase your question. You had been living with, if it could be called that, a dragon for a reasonable amount of time now. Between the cave and Tarus City, there wasn’t a glimpse of another human for miles, and now, he was the closest thing to companionship that you had.

Initially, you were worried he wasn’t interested in you beyond consuming you as a meal but as time progressed, the two of you had struck a balanced relationship. Now whenever you and Sylus ventured out into Tarus City, the inhabitants had begun to refer to you as the dragon’s mate. The thought had initially made you blush because ‘mate’ referred to something more carnal and intimate than whatever you two were. However, Sylus had made no effort to correct them, and now you had unwittingly accepted the title, and it had become part of your identity.

There was a cavern within the long and winding cave filled with books from faraway lands and one day when you had nothing else to do, you’d come across a book entitled “The Courtship of Dragons”. It was obviously written from a human point of view but you’d read things that had left you with many questions; most of it seemed to be a work of fantasy like the author had made up some parts just to keep the reader’s attention. You’d turned these thoughts over and over in your head until you decided enough was enough and that you needed to get the answers straight from the dragon’s mouth.

“I read something about…dragon mating. And I’m a little confused by it.” You venture out the topic hesitantly, looking at him for a reaction. Sylus’s face remains impassive as he regards you.

“Dragon mating?” he chuckles as you avert your eyes back onto the rug, plucking at the fur as you do so. “Whatever did you read? Tell me. I’m quite curious to know.”

You clear your throat before continuing. “Well, the author said dragons have an innate sense about recognizing their mates and that they don’t…nest with other dragons. Is that true?”

Sylus rolls over onto his side contemplating. “Yes, that’s true. Dragons do mate for life. Once they find the one, they become their own unit. They make their own lair, and no other dragon is allowed to enter it. We get highly territorial if this is violated.”

“I see.” You twiddle your thumbs together. “And…what if…your real mate is out there somewhere? Wouldn’t my presence be a downside?”

“My real mate?” Sylus asks in a vexing tone. “I’m not sure I follow.”

You look at him in disbelief before hedging on. “You know, your real mate. The dragon you’re supposed to be with.”

“You keep forgetting I’m only half dragon. Chances of my mate being completely dragon aren’t high.”

You click your tongue impatiently. “Fine, the other half-dragon or whatever. Isn’t she still out there? If she turns up in your life one day, then doesn’t that mean…” Your voice trails as you consider the implications.

“Yes?” Sylus prompts you.

“Well we’d have to shake hands and part ways right?” You rest your cheek on your palm, bearing your weight on your elbow as you turn to look at him. “I wouldn’t be allowed here anymore since you have a mate.”

“What makes you think my mate would be a dragon hybrid?”

The question exasperates you. “Aren’t you the one who said your mate wouldn’t be completely dragon?”

“I did. But you seem to be forgetting another possibility.”

“What? Is there a percentage of dragon she has to be for this to work?”

Sylus lets out a booming laugh, the noise echoing richly off the walls of his cave. You look at him confoundedly, unable to fathom what made him laugh like this.

“There’s no need to mock me.” You huff irritably as you watch his abdomen quiver from his mirth. “I’m just trying to familiarize myself with dragon etiquette.”

Sylus quiets down at your tone before he reaches out a clawed hand and flicks your forehead. “Can you really not think of another possibility?”

“No.” You curtly bite out the word. “And I don't appreciate being teased.”

The dragon shakes his head, a wide grin forming on his chiseled face.

“You seem oblivious to the possibility that she could also be human.” The tone with which he says the words render you momentarily speechless. You hadn’t in fact, considered that as a possibility at all. How could a normal human become a mate to a dragon?

Almost as if Sylus had sensed your curiosity, he explains. “I didn’t make the rules, sweetie. Dragon hybrids are known to find human mates more often than not. Perhaps with the hope that their offspring have a chance to become completely human.”

Fascinated with this bit of information, you turn it over in your head. “Aren’t you interested in finding her?”

“Finding her?” Sylus chuckles. “Why would I put in that effort when she’s been with me this whole time?” He raises an eyebrow at you as you process his words, then falter as the meaning finally washes over you.

“Me?!” You sputter as Sylus watches amusedly, his tail swishing across the rug. “Just because the villagers of Tarus City think I’m your mate doesn’t make it true!”

“Indeed, it doesn’t,” Sylus agrees almost maddeningly. “What makes it true is the mark I left on your neck.”

Your breath hitches and the moment seems to stand still, stuck in time like a black-and-white photograph. Instinctively, your fingers reach for the bite mark Sylus had left on the crook of your neck when he’d first met you. “What about it?” you ask defensively.

Enjoying the flustered look on your face, the dragon calmly explains. “The mark would have faded by now if you weren’t fated for me. Mate marks last forever, no matter when they’re given.” He smirks, revealing his sharp teeth.

“Why didn’t you say anything?!” You burst out, overwhelmed by this reveal. “ I’ve been sitting here day after day thinking at some point you’ll find your true mate and I’d have to think about how to fend for myself!”

“I’m sorry, but I’m confused about which of these is more distressing to you. The idea of moving out, or realizing you’re my mate?” Sylus asks the question with a lilt and you resist the urge to punch him, knowing you’d injure yourself against those scales.

“Both,” you say swiftly, then turn away from him. You’re taken aback as his tail suddenly wraps around your waist and pulls you against him. His chest is warm against your back and his breath tickles your neck as you squirm in his grasp.

“Where do you think you’re going my little one?” Sylus purrs in your ears. Determined not to let him get a rise out of you, you sulk, ceasing all movements even as your heart pounds in your chest. His chin brushes against the top of your head like a territorial cat. “What? All bark and no bite?” A soft laugh emanates from him as he continues to hold your body against his and you realize…

“Are you snuggling me?” You resist the urge to look over your shoulder and Sylus presses a kiss to it in response.

“Yes. Snuggling between a dragon and their mate isn’t uncommon. Was that not in your readings?” He teases as he continues nuzzling into your warm skin which was steadily heating up under his attention.

“But when did we become mates?” You rack your brains, trying to think amidst the fluffy fog now filling your brain as Sylus continues to show his affection.

“It’s not something you become. It’s something you are. Do you ask the water why it flows, or why the sun is bright?” Sylus’s tail wraps further around you, the smooth scales feeling comfortably warm against your skin. “You just are. I knew it. The inhabitants of Tarus City knew it.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me.” You quip sarcastically as his nose buries itself into your hair, smelling the sweet scent of the soap you’d used earlier in the day.

“Would you have believed me?” His inhalations were sending tingles across your scalp and you tried not to melt into his embrace which was surprisingly warm and secure.

“I-I suppose not,” you admit begrudgingly before your eyes flutter closed. Sylus continues his tender handling, and with a sigh, you finally give in, rolling to face him and letting him embrace you against his chest. He doesn’t say anything but cups the back of your head, claws gently scratching through your scalp and you drowsily let him caress the silky locks.

Noticing your unwillingness starting to fade, Sylus murmurs, “Does the prospect of being my mate seem less daunting now?”

His tail wraps around the backs of your thighs and you glance up at him, blushing when you see him gazing back at you intently. Those brilliant ruby eyes, akin to those in his treasury, had an intensity you couldn’t place. It was almost like they could pierce into your very soul and see all of you bare. The thought made you feel exposed and you blink, trying to gather your thoughts. The sharp, dagger-like tip of his tail now rested on your hip, and you hesitantly began to finger it, unsure what to say.

“Not less daunting,” you start, observing how his tail flicks gently in response to your touch, the sharp, hooked scales at the very end softening and flattening against your palm. “Not in the least. You are ancient, powerful, eternal. People fear you even as they look at you in awe. A dragon is timeless, and as a human, I’m like a fleeting ember, a mere second in your life. I might have a thirst for revenge on those who wronged me, but I am an ordinary human. I don’t understand why you believe I would be a suitable mate.”

You steal another look at him and see that his pupils are starting to dilate, the dark center of them consuming the red. Sylus lets out a noise of frustration, seemingly ready to give up trying to convince you, but to your surprise, he takes a deep breath of fortifying patience, then grasps your chin with his fingers, ensuring you can see his face.

“I’m going to give you one, final, absolute, piece of proof. And if you still don’t believe it, then I will eat you so that I don’t have to listen to your maddening doubts anymore.” His tone implies he’s being humorous, but you cautiously watch him, fully aware that you have no defenses against those teeth and claws. You nod, his fingers dipping with the movement.

“You and I share half of each other’s soul. A typical human vessel wouldn’t be capable of such a thing. Not unless you are fated.” He lets go of your face and brings your ear to his chest. His heartbeat was a steady thud-thud-thud, and yet…it felt like a call. Like something was there inviting you to come home, even though you didn’t know where it was, and suddenly, you feel your own heartbeat start to resonate with his, automatically following his rhythm, inexplicable, deep, primal. He waits and you realize what he’s been trying to say all along. There was no reasoning behind mates. You just knew.

You swallow, feeling like you’d been doused with a bucket of cold water, then place your hand over his heart, feeling a little thrill as he covers it with his. A shaky breath forces its way out of you as you lean your forehead against him, a sense of enlightenment washing over you.

“Understand now?” Sylus asks almost imploringly and your heart clenches at the tone.

“Yes.” You gather courage and look him in the eyes. “I do.” Then in a much softer tone, you add, “I’m sorry.”

At your apology, Sylus gathers you in his arms, his embrace almost suffocating as he holds you. Your hands wrap around his back, feeling the points in his skin where the wings sprouted from his body. It felt strangely intimate to touch something like this, and you couldn’t help but run your fingers along the ridges, fascinated by the texture. Sylus’s breath catches in his throat and he loosens his grip, easing you back onto the rug.

With confidence, you raise a hand to cup his face, your chest swelling with joy as he turns into your touch, his lips grazing your palm. You’d never seen him so vulnerable and defenseless, the fact that he was baring a secretive part of himself to you humbling. You don’t stop him as he lays over you, nuzzling your neck and letting out a series of low growls that sound strangely affectionate.

You giggle, and he pauses, looking at you with keen interest. “Something amusing you, my love?”

“You’re like a cat,” you tease, then pet the hair between his horns. Even as his expression changes to being miffed, his eyelids become half closed.

“I am most certainly not a cat.” He sounds affronted but makes no move to stop your petting, and more low growls escape his throat. You can’t control your mirth and the giggles now bubble out of you uncontrollably.

“Then how come you’re purring?” You stop petting his hair and cup his face with both hands, a wide smile forming on your face as Sylus opens his eyes, which are hazy and languid.

"That... that isn't purring," The dragon hybrid says with a slight huff. "That was a growl, and you know it."

“Or is that just how dragons purr?” You playfully run your fingers behind his ears, massaging the lobes and then back into his scalp at the base of both horns.

Sylus tries to keep up his facade of stubbornness, but the gentle massages make him shiver with pleasure. "No, that's a growl. Purring sounds like..." He attempts to imitate a cat's purring, but it came out more like a deep rumbling that vibrated throughout his chest.

You snicker, and then an uncontrollable fit of laughter seizes you, the kind that makes your shoulders and chest shake. Here was this mythical creature, feared and worshipped, yet somehow, trying to imitate a cat despite insisting he was not behaving like one. You brush away a tear from your eye, then look at Sylus who’s sulking, his cheeks turning an adorable shade of crimson. Was this the same dragon that you had worried about being a mate to?

"You-you're insufferable, you know that?" He grumbled, even as he nuzzled his face against your neck; he couldn’t seem to help himself. You reassuringly pat his back.

“If this is how dragons treat their mate, then I’m no longer worried.”

“Is that so?” Sylus retreats so that he can gaze down at you. You can see how his expression is softening, betraying the depth of his fondness for you.

“Yeah. I’m starting to come around.”

“Good. I’m glad I was able to change your mind.” Sylus takes your hand and brings it to his mouth, kissing your knuckles and causing your heart to flip-flop inside your chest. Your free hand idly strokes his back, still engrossed with the different textures of his skin where the wings began.

“You seem to have a lot of thoughts about my wings,” Sylus observes as you fondle the leathery base.

“How big are they?” You ask curiously, then gasp as Sylus suddenly pins you under him, then with a rustling noise, his wings fully extend for your viewing pleasure. You look at them, enthralled by the contrasting marbled red and black membranes, little spikes lining the upper ridges.

“About ten feet each,” Sylus says gruffly with a hint of pride. “Pure dragons are much bigger though.”

You reach out a finger, watching for signs of resistance and when he doesn’t show any, gently trace the membranes, observing how the sunlight illuminated through them like a backdrop.

Sylus hums at your exploration, his wings twitching slightly before he lies flush against you, putting them in easier reach of your wandering fingers. He resumes that low growling as you do so, and as you watch him close his eyes, another question forms in your head.

“Sylus…are your wings sensitive when touched?”

He cracks his eyes open, and there’s a quality to them that wasn’t present before. A hint of…nervousness?

“Yes.” He admits after a gap in a slightly breathless tone. “But only when you touch them.”

His words only make you more captivated, and you continue to delicately stroke down the leathery expanses, the surfaces almost silky to your touch. As you do so, Sylus suddenly squeezes his eyes closed and lets out a rough moan, like he is doing his best to not lose his restraint.

Your hands freeze as you feel his claws scrape against your clothes, digging into your soft skin as his wings swiftly drop from their extended positions, cocooning you in a swaddle of red and black.

Unsure what just happened, you gently try stroking his hair again. There had been no mention of dragons behaving like this in the books you’d read, and you were burning to ask him, but not if he wasn’t in the right state of mind.

“Sylus?” You call his name softly and hear him hum in response. “Are you ok?”

He lets out a few uneven breaths before resting his head on your chest just underneath your chin. “Yes…I’m fine. No need to worry.”

“Is it all right if I ask something else?”

“Does it have to do with those ridiculous readings of yours again?”

You’re about to protest but decide against it. He was behaving in a completely unprecedented manner and you weren’t about to kill the adorable mood.

“Why are your wings wrapped around me like this?” Your hands rest on his flanks, feeling his tail swishing as it lightly hits your feet.

It seems to take him a great deal of willpower to bring himself into a state where he can answer. When he finally speaks, his voice is a low, mesmerizing, rumble, and you feel yourself tremble in response.

"When a dragon has a mate, it's not uncommon to wrap our wings around them. It's like a protective shield, a barrier that symbolizes possession. You might say it’s our way of claiming our beloved as ours." Sylus’s mouth ghosts your ear, and his next words cause gooseflesh to erupt on your skin.

“Sometimes, the urge to mate becomes too strong and dragons don’t particularly enjoy being watched. The size of our wings is significant because they must be able to completely wrap around their mate as our primal instincts take over. Hides them from unwanted eyes. After all, there can be no treasure more precious to a dragon than our mate.”

A claw gently pushes away a stray lock of hair from your face and Sylus gazes longly at your face. Swallowing, you press on with your questions, despite feeling a steady rise of tingling heat beginning in your belly and slowly flooding into your chest and sex.

“And when dragons mate…is it similar to other animals going into a rut?”

Sylus chuckles, and his tail slides up your body, slithering between your breasts, the feel of each scale brushing against you sparking little flames of desire under your skin. His forehead rests against yours and his wings seem to tighten around you even more.

“Rut would be the wrong word. A rut would imply something quick and with little intention other than impregnation. Dragons do not rut like most basic animals…we have a long and sensual ritual, lasting for a significant period, and the end goal is to ensure our mate’s satisfaction. Also, dragons do not have a set season like most animals. Rituals can occur anytime provided both mates are willing.”

Your mouth goes dry at the explanation, and you can see the edges of his scarlet irises beginning to darken even more, like bits of smoke mixing with magma. “A-A r-ritual?” Your tongue feels like it’s too big for your mouth and you stumble over the words.

“Yes my little one,” Sylus purrs, and this time when his lips touch your ear, he follows it with a wet lick of his tongue, awakening a heady, primal, storm inside your gut. “The dragon breeding ritual. A crucial part of dragon courtship. During this time, the male will go into a rather intense state of need. Nothing matters beyond being close to and satisfying his mate. And the female must be prepared for a rather… passionate experience."

Your next words fall out of your mouth before you can stop yourself.

“Are a dragon’s organs compatible with a human’s?” You cover your mouth as soon as you ask, face flushing with embarrassment. You hadn’t meant to ask it so crudely, but too little too late.

Sylus gives you an appraising look, his lips curling. “Well…simply put, yes. They’re compatible with human mating organs but they’re certainly not visually similar.” His reply astounds you and you blink, unprepared for his answer, rendered speechless. Questions buzz in your head as you mull over what you’ve been told.

“I’m guessing there’s more?” Sylus’s eyes glitter with mischief.

“Ah…well….” You recall one last thing you had read and it was so outlandish that you weren’t sure how to put it into words. Sylus watches you patiently as you try to get your words together. “The book…the book said…that dragons are…that they have…”

You swallow and bite the bullet. “That dragons have two.”

Silence follows your words and Sylus’s eyes widen, before he composes himself.

“Heh. Were you purposely saving the interesting questions for last sweetie?” A cheeky grin quirks his lips and you turn your face to hide in his wings.

“Now now. Don’t get all embarrassed with it out in the open.” Sylus grasps your chin and turns you to face him. “It looks like at least one thing in that book was right.”

Your eyes become as wide as dinner plates. “Really?”

“Yes. That bit of information is true. Male dragons do in fact have two mating organs.”

The casual way Sylus says these words, like he’s giving a biology lecture contrasts your shell-shocked expression. Your mind could now only attempt to imagine what it looked like and it was going haywire at the discovery.

Observing the stunned look on your face, Sylus gently nudges you. “Perhaps you shouldn’t ask questions that you’re not ready to hear the answers to, kitten.”

Your eyes rove down over his body, taking in the wide view of his chest, leading down to narrower hips and legs that seemed to stretch for days. Then his tail, an appendage adding another 6 feet to his whole length. And somewhere in between all this, tucked away under his leather trousers were not one, but two, dragon penises.

You try to recall your last encounter with a man, a knight, who had been keen on showing his abilities. It was fine, for lack of a better word, and you remembered how the man’s decently sized single organ shrunk once everything was over. Were Sylus’s similarly shrunken and stacked one above the other at this very moment?

At your lack of response, Sylus chuckles, then in an unexpected gesture of tenderness, strokes your hair. “I can tell this isn’t the end of it. Go on. Get it all out.”

Your mind seems to have lost its ability to think. Wetting your lips, you try to think of something reasonable to say but words have lost all meaning. After a few more minutes of silence, during which Sylus has wrapped you up again in his arms and tail, enjoying your closeness, do you finally venture forward with an inquiry.

“Why two?”

Sylus makes an odd noise like he was choking down a laugh. He lets out a puff of air, chortling. “Ah, kitten. If only I knew. There are two theories, both of which don’t have much evidence to support them.” Sylus turns onto his side and you yip as you’re sandwiched between his wings, the upper one covering you like a blanket as Sylus moves into a more comfortable position, moving your body closer to his.

“The first theory is that because dragon pairings are rare, two organs help increase the chances of a successful pregnancy. The other…” he trails off and his smile becomes positively wicked before he continues. “The other suggests that having two serves no other purpose than to heighten the woman’s pleasure.”

An uncontrollable shiver runs down your spine and you feel your entire body become hot. Your voice is hushed as you ask, “And they…both…go into the same…?”

Catching on to what you were implying, Sylus chuckles at your reaction, your embarrassment only fueling his enjoyment. It was so tempting to tease you into a flustered mess.

"Ah, you're catching on, aren't you? Yes, both of them go... in the same place. And together, no less." He leans in, his mouth close to your ear again. "Can't you picture it, my dear? The sensation of both of them, inside you at the same time..."

You squeak at the graphic description and bury your face into his chest. “Ok, I’ve heard enough! Stop!” You try to calm your racing heart but Sylus’s low purr as he’d explained dragon anatomy was still ringing in your ears. There was a burning curiosity to ask him how it worked, how it fit but you were positive you would drop dead from the embarrassment.

You twitch when Sylus puts his calloused hands on your back, soothingly stroking your skin. “It’s all right my jewel. I know it’s a lot of information to process. Take your time. I’m yours after all.”

At his last few words, you lean away and glance at his face. “You’re mine?”

“Yes,” Sylus murmurs, the tenderness in his eyes becoming more evident. “As you are mine. I’m equally your mate as well.” There’s a tinge of possessiveness in his voice that you hadn’t heard before and it was making you feel weak; the thought of belonging to Sylus, of him belonging to you. There was an ancient concept of souls being bound at play and suddenly you find that you’re highly attuned to his mood; the atmosphere has changed, and part of you can feel the intense want that’s filling Sylus’s bloodstream, can sense the depth of his emotional bond as it echoes in his chest. Your body seems to synergize with his, each rush of blood, each dilation of the pupils, and every sigh that’s being shoved back all come into clarity. You reach out to touch his neck and the mating mark on yours seems to hum with life, drawing you closer to Sylus’s physical state.

Sylus looks intoxicated as he drinks in the sight of you, soft and pliant in his arms despite having done nothing but talk to you about courtship. You were still shy, but he can sense there’s now a primal instinct that’s beginning to take over. His restraint was at a limit but he waits for you to make the first move, knowing he’d regret it if his first act of intimacy with you was for his own selfishness. His voice dropped even lower, a rough, possessive growl.

“Be mine, my precious treasure. Be with me. Be Mine to claim, mine to protect, and mine to possess."

His words resonate deep within you and the overwhelming feelings you’d been holding back break like a dam. With trembling fingers, you stroke his cheek, dragging a fingertip across his lips, your breath catching as Sylus nibbles the digit.

Gathering courage, you ask him softly, “Can I see?”

A thrum seems to vibrate through the air and Sylus nods. “You wish to see all of me? I’m yours.”

Sensing you were too timid at the moment, Sylus undoes his trousers, and they rustle as he slips them down his legs. Still in his embrace, covered with his wings, you wait, then trail your hands down his heated abdomen. His heart pounds in his chest as you do so, feeling the unfamiliar terrain of skin and scales before your hand finally reaches its destination. Sylus’s harsh breathing can be heard as he waits for you to touch him but when you do so, you’re slightly puzzled.

Your fingers brush against smooth scales where a normal man’s genitals would be. You venture further, wondering.

“Sylus? They are here right?”

You hear a choked laugh, then he nuzzles the top of your head.

“Yes, my love. Like I said, visually, I’m not like a man.” His voice is gruff as he tries to explain. His hands roam across your body, squeezing the soft flesh and purring at the feeling.

“Then where…?”

“They're hidden beneath my scales, darling.” There’s a breathless quality as he speaks. “Just keep…petting me there.”

Sylus closes his eyes for a moment, his body trembling as you continue to touch him. The sensation of your fingers tracing the scales on his skin was both soothing and arousing, making it difficult to hold back the possessive roar that threatened to escape his throat. Watching your reaction as you explored the area where his scales ended and something more intimate began was threatening to snap his will in two like a twig.

“Oh!” Your eyes widen as you suddenly feel a bump starting to make itself evident.

“There…” Sylus’s voice is gravelly. “Go ahead, my dear... Lift my scales gently. Just a little...”

You feel like little electric currents are running nonstop under your skin as you follow his orders. Your sex pulses between your closed legs, all the courtship explanations still fresh in your mind. You carefully start to lift the scales over the bump, curiosity piqued as they give way to a sort of shallow slit, then before you can go any deeper, you feel something hard and moist rise out of the patch.

Whatever you had been imagining didn’t even come close to the real thing. You watch, transfixed, as Sylus’s twin cocks spring free, standing proudly in your palm. One was higher up on his body, and the other sat lower, and the lower one was slightly longer than the upper. Both of them were hot to the touch, beads of precum weeping from their slits. Colossal compared to a human, their surfaces were smooth but ridged in parts, in a way that resembled scales, yet softer. They were both coated in a sort of viscous, translucent, liquid, exuding from the cocks.

Sylus groans as he feels the heat of your palm against his cocks. In a constricted voice he asks, “Well? What do you think?”

Fascinated, you gently grip the lower one, silently noting the size of it compared to your forearm, and wrap your fingers around it, barely managing to make them meet around the engorged column. A low growl leaves Sylus as you start to pump the smooth, velvety, column, observing how the shorter top one also responds, pulsing in time with its pair. A slick, wet noise fills the air as you stroke him and Sylus’s hips begin to rock against your movements. His mouth is open and he’s panting, sweat gathering on his brow as you experimentally continue to touch him.

The scales that lined his cock were incredibly squishy and malleable, not at all having resemblance to the hard and sharp ridges on the rest of his body. As more of the lubricating fluid began to gather on his lengths, you wonder at the texture of those scales against the palm of your hand, and suddenly, start imagining how they would feel inside your cunt. Rubbing, stroking, providing extra stimulation as they nestled deep inside you. You bite your lip and steal a look at Sylus, heart jolting when you find him gazing right at you, and judging by his expression, he can feel the longing building deep inside your body.

“I can smell it, kitten.” He inhales deeply, your scent filling his senses like an aphrodisiac. “Your arousal. It’s as potent as the daturas on the mountainside.” His cheek brushes against yours and you freeze as he kisses the corner of your lips. It was so unexpected and sweet and you turn towards him.

“Bloom for me,” Sylus whispers before his lips lay over yours, capturing them in a deep and passionate kiss. Your breath catches in your throat and it’s like the kiss had opened a gate, all your raw desires coming loose. Like a ball of unwinding yarn, your arms draw around Sylus’s neck, pressing as possibly close as you can to him, your mouth opening sweetly to offer him your tongue.

The unbridled ardor of your reaction has Sylus groaning like a drowning man, his tongue slipping deeper into your wet cavern, sipping, sampling, and savoring the flavors that were unique to you. The rushing thrill of your surrender was a dizzying upward spiral as his hands roamed over your body, cupping your clothed breasts as his wings quivered from the tingling delight of being wrapped so snugly around your form.

Sylus breaks the kiss and his long, dexterous, tongue licks a line down the side of your neck, sucking over the point where your pulse beat hotly, and into the crook of your shoulder. You gasp as his teeth sink into the flesh, a nip of pain flaring through you before Sylus soothes the sting with his tongue.

“You taste as delicious as you smell my jewel,” he murmurs sensually, and continues his journey across your body, biting and sucking at your collarbone before resting between your breasts, nuzzling his face into the warmth.

His tail has managed to slip between your legs and the jagged ridges have all smoothed into a streamlined piece of muscle, teasingly moving between your thighs, just high enough for the upper side to rub against your underwear, playing into the wetness that was already starting to gather. You moan at the stimulation, barely enough to even scratch the surface of your raging flames, and hook your leg over Sylus’s hip to give you more access. The thick tail presses into your slit, rhythmically dragging the fabric against your engorged clit as his hands busy themselves undoing the laces at the back of your dress.

You shiver despite the rising heat as the dress falls apart at the back and Sylus drags the garment off over your head, his breath catching as he finally gets his first, unobscured look at you. His eyes rove appreciatively over your body, his blood humming in his veins as he watches your skin become ruddy, the light filtering over it through his wing casting a soft, shadowy glow. Your nipples were perked and hard, your skin smooth and creamy, with little curls of hair poking out from underneath the sides of your panties.

You whimper as the very tip of his tail wedges into the apex of your folds, rubbing the soaked fabric directly onto your clit, sending skitters of electricity through your system. The air seems to become balmy as you breathe, harsh pants leaving you as want grows in your core, the overwhelming need to bite down and mark him back as he’d done for you becoming palpable with each passing second.

Sylus raises a clawed finger and brings it to your mouth, which you obligingly suck, followed by a sharp bite that makes his eyes dilate and brings a grin to his lips. He slowly pulls the digit back, letting it slide between your lips and stroking the wetness onto a nipple, enjoying the way your breath becomes ragged and how your core clenches against his sinful ministrations.

“Sylus…” you whimper, feeling tension curling in the pit of your stomach like a bow that’s been drawn too tight. His only response was a hum, his head dipping down leisurely to capture your other nipple, licking circles on it with the tip of his tongue, not unlike the motions his tail was currently drawing onto your puffy clit. His thumb and forefinger tweak your other hardened peak, pulling and pinching methodically as the moans of your pleasure fill the chamber. Now and then you feel the scrape of his monstrous teeth against the delicate skin of your nipple, just intense enough to bring a small lick of fear into you before you feel the reassuring slip of his tongue.

Your sighs fill your head, body yielding to him, melting against the silken leathery embrace of his wings, eyes closing as the sweetening ache inside you builds. You stir as you feel his tail shift, and your panties are dragged down your legs, exposing your swollen sex. The unexpected feeling of his scales is suddenly made present as his tail lays flat between your folds, wetting itself with your slick and gliding smoothly against your aroused pussy. Your mouth opens to let out a high-pitched whine as the smoothened scales add extra stimuli to your bud, your hips moving with him and seeking out more friction. Sylus finally releases your nipple as he feels your desperate humps, and maneuvers you so that you’re straddling him, body balanced on his tail as it continues to pleasure you.

Your voice keens as your hands splay on his hard chest, the slippery appendage rocking against your clit, feeling the differences in the size of the scales while sliding closer to the base as the dagger-shaped tip tickles your chin. Your mouth instinctively moves to take it, sucking on it pacifyingly to ground yourself as your hips undulate over the rest of the sinew. You boldly glance at Sylus and his eyes are sanguineous, uninhibitedly gazing at the sight of you hot and bothered, seeking carnal satisfaction that he knows only his body can provide.

The end of his tail withdraws from your mouth and teasingly draws back down to your breast, curling around a nipple and squeezing while he maintains the steady movement he knows you crave between your legs. With nothing to muffle your noises, your voice grows steadily louder, echoing off the high walls of the cave as Sylus guides you toward the abyss of gratification.

“My body is yours little one,” Sylus says in a harsh whisper that has your senses on edge. You feel the flutter of his wings as they enfold you again, a little space of privacy where only you and he exist.

“Use me for your pleasure.” His hand cups your cheek and his movements become frenzied, his eyes never leaving yours as he watches you writhe over him, trying to find release.

A soft haze seems to settle around you as your body orgasms. You feel the repetitive little spasms of your clit mirrored in your core as they become longer and more intense, flooding your body with sinful delight as you sob out your need. Your eyes are shut tight, the world becoming an incoherent mix of color and light where nothing is solid except for your mate as he pushes you through your heady climax. Even as your heartbeat turns erratic, you can sense the changes in him too as he scents the salty tang of your relief as your body relaxes. You gasp, steadying yourself as Sylus gently withdraws his tail, letting you collapse on his chest as you try to come back down to earth.

You feel his claws soothingly scratch your back and gratefully nuzzle into his chest before taking a steadying breath and peering over your shoulder at his neglected cocks. They were still standing, colossal and proud, with thick pearlescent beads forming on the tip. The slippery viscous fluid was now being exuded copiously, lubricating the entire length.

You crawl over to them, and Sylus lets out a gasp of surprise as your tongue darts out to taste one, running it over the weeping head. You taste salt on his skin and bob your head down a little lower, taking as much as you can, and Sylus fists the rug, his teeth biting his lower lip as he tries to control the raging urge to take you right there.

Barely able to deepthroat him, you come back up, letting the moistened cock slip out of your lips before you gather both between your hands, squeezing the bases together before sucking both tips back into your mouth. Your jaw stretches wide to accommodate them, only taking him about halfway before coming back up for air. The lubricant covering them was tasteless but aided their path into your mouth and towards the back of your throat. Sylus thrusts into the inviting wetness as he tries not to choke you. You suck playfully, wet noises issuing from your mouth as you do so before Sylus suddenly jerks your head back, strings of spit connecting your lips to both heads.

“Not like this…” His voice is ragged. Swiftly, he flips you onto your back, drawing your ankles to rest on his shoulders as your thighs part for him. Your hole is quivering with anticipation as you feel one of the thick erections probe your entrance.

“Breathe sweetie,” Sylus reminds you, his eyes growing steadily more animalistic as he pushes into you. You gasp at the feeling, then your eyes widen as Sylus gently splits you apart, your folds giving way to his massive proportions. You sniff, tears in your eyes at his size. There was pain along with the pleasure as your walls adjusted to him.

Sylus’s wings gather you close to him, cradling you against his body as he strokes your face, whispering encouragement to you as he continues to sheathe himself into the hot moisture of your cunt. You squirm, the stretch foreign and uncomfortable, unsure what to do.

“Relax my little one. It’s ok.” Sylus kisses away your tears. “Remember we were made for each other. We’re meant to fit.” He halts, nearly fully inside, and your sniffs fade as you slowly adjust to him. Sylus thrusts softly, and you whimper, feeling so full impaled helplessly on his generous size. As he continues those deep strokes, your body seems to easen, the tension trickling away and giving rise to a whole new sensation. Your breath catches as you feel the thick mushroom head kiss your cervix with each stroke, the lower cock slapping against your buttocks with each move. The scales you had been touching earlier dragged smoothly along your inner walls with minimal resistance, flattening every time he pushed in, and erotically stimulating them as he withdrew. Every inch of your sex felt like it was being touched all at once and your eyes close dreamily as you lose yourself to the growing flutters of ecstasy.

The next set of delighted moans are music to his ears and Sylus sensually rolls his hips each time, determined to wring out every tiny noise possible from you. Your face scrunches up in pleasure as he takes you, and somewhere in the back of your mind, you keep thinking about how the second one would feel. Your breasts bounce as he fucks you, and soon you’re breathing his name, hands grasping his forearms as your bodies fuse together.

Sylus sees your eyes glazing over with need, your mind switching to a state where all that mattered was the hedonistic rush of your bodies working together in harmony. He pauses, interrupting his rhythm as he angles his second cock at your entrance.

You moan as you feel it but when Sylus pushes, there’s no resistance, your cunt already sloppy from his previous thrusts. The action puts his upper cock in contact with your Gspot, and your cunt feels wonderfully pliant as you feel both of them working in tandem to bring you to another peak. The added thickness combined with the scales' stimulation on both surfaces brought you to a realm of delight you hadn’t thought was possible as he starts to fuck into you with purpose, certain that you are no longer in pain.

His teeth are gritted as Sylus ruts into you marveling at the tightness of your cunt, how every clench and spasm felt on his dicks, knowing he was responsible for each one. Your combined juices start to pool at the base of his cocks, leaving a sticky ring of arousal. The wet squelch of your cunt fills the air and Sylus sees your folds, still slick from the interaction with his tail and he’s determined to make you lose control another time.

You whine in protest when you feel him halt again and Sylus hushes you as he withdraws his upper dick and lets it sit with a moist plop back between your folds. The runny juices slide down and coat your pussy and you can feel the soft ridged scales now nestled at your most sensitive spot and you realize what he intended to do a second before it happened. With a smooth brush, Sylus buries himself back in your cunt and you feel the tingling stimulation of the scaled ridges sliding through your folds and hitting your clit one after the other. You nearly shriek at the feeling, almost on the border of overstimulation as Sylus sets up a brutal pace, his hips slamming into yours.

Your face screws up and your eyes are squeezed closed as all your pleasure spots are stroked at the same time, your gspot and clit pulsing wetly. Sylus growls, his body pistoning in hot need as he chases his orgasm, seeking release. Your entire being feels like it’s slipping away, your cries of delight the only thing that can be heard.

“Cum for me my love,” Sylus says brokenly, breathless and enraptured at the way you look, his legs shaking from the effort of controlling his climax before you had yours. Your body arches off the rug to feel the slick push of his cock and scales at a different angle and your toes curl as you finally let go and orgasm for the second time. It robs you of your thoughts, little brushes from the spikes continuing to push through every tremor you feel as the hot waves of gratification flood your system.

Sylus’s hips stutter as he feels your walls fluttering around him, and lets out a feral roar as his climax hits him, his balls tightening up in urgent release and they spill their load. His abdomen clenches, his breathing rough as he buries his face into the crook of your neck. You hold onto him as you feel each spasm of his cocks both inside and out, one filling your walls with thick jets of his seed, the other dripping his hot, sticky cum onto your clit, mixing with your fluids as it drips messily into your slit, marking you as his in the most primal way possible.

It takes a while for him to recover, nestling against you, and you’re content to feel his weight on your body as you stroke his hair. After a period of silence Sylus hums and rolls you over so that you’re on top of him. The action dislodges his cock from your channel and you quickly clench your hole closed, determined to keep all of him inside you, even though your folds are dripping from his essence and leaking onto him.

“Mine…” he purrs as he noses your neck and you smile at him, brushing his cheeks with your thumb. A deep sense of belonging and satisfaction courses through both of you as you lay together in the afterglow of your courtship.

“Rest for now kitten.” Sylus’s eyes are heavy with sleep as he cradles you on his chest. Your body felt wonderfully achy from your lovemaking.

“I hope the hatchlings look like you,” he murmurs tiredly, and you blink as your ability to process starts coming back to you.

“Hatchlings?”

“That’s what we call our young.” Sylus tenderly cups your cheek and kisses you. “I’ll be certain to fill you a few more times to ensure it happens.”

@tokyorevengersrin @brekkersgf @ladyparamount @otomegamesforlife @shddyboo @supernaturalbaesduh @sweets-kozume @theimmortalbuns @venussakura @prisjean @laddelulu30 @lethargiccryptid @ravenclaw-jojo @redactedbimbo @crypt-0rchid @fattybattysblog @xinnn6 @xiaoderrrr @evansdmitri @ravenclaw-jojo @cordidy @hesperisms @redactedbimbo @erebus-et-eigengrau @prisjean @cheesemachine44

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fairestwriting · 2 days ago

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sorry if you’ve done something like this-

What about Jade, Leona, Jamil and Vil with a S/O that somebody tried to love potion?

…warning for minor book/chapter 4 spoilers in the jamil one? in case anyone is a newcomer here. there was just No way i could write this without mentioning his lore. like. come on

𐙚 Leona Kingscholar

Honestly, it’d take anyone some serious guts to try to do this. Or serious ignorance. Or straight up hubris, or maybe all of the above at the same time— Since your first few friendlier hangouts with Leona, it was pretty much known to most people who knew you that you were completely off-limits. Even if you just stayed friends, no sane person was going to mess with anyone who’s close to him. It’s almost an unspoken, pretty much school wide rule.

It was an especially bad choice for that perpetrator to try to slip you the potion during lunchtime. Maybe they’re a classmate you barely know, maybe they pretend to be a friend, it’d definitely have to be someone who could get away with approaching you to pretend to want some casual conversation. This privilege was soon to end, however, since you had agreed with Leona to meet up with him at the greenhouse after you ate.

The second you step inside, he can smell that something is off. By then you can already feel it starting to take effect, your head feeling foggy and suddenly occupied with thoughts of that person, which just feels confusing for now. You walk up to him, he’s sitting up with a frown on his face, asking you to come closer. Hazy, you step forward, and through your clouded vision you see him leaning in to smell you. It feels weird at the moment, you’re not sure if you’re comfortable with this— Even though that’s your boyfriend, you think, maybe you’d rather be this close with someone else…

He can’t tell it’s a love potion exactly, at least not just by smelling you, but he knows something is off. “Have you been up to anything weird lately, Herbivore?” He asks, his voice full of suspicion. You just shake your head, mention your classes today were all unremarkable, then so was lunch, you just met up with your friend, while you were eating. Somehow you can’t stop yourself from letting the subject linger on them, even though it puzzles you on the inside. He quickly picks up on what must have happened.

Really, anyone who even considers trying this has some nerve. He even says that out loud to them, after dragging you out of the greenhouse into a hunt for this specific person. You won’t even get the chance to remember much about the incident. Next thing you know, you’re in one of the potions lab, with an emptied vial of antidote in your hands. Leona is standing next to you with crossed arms and a death glare, and your “friend” is shaking behind a cauldron, having prepared that in record time. Even if notice of the incident spreads, Leona definitely won’t want you to leave his side anytime soon…

𐙚 Jade Leech

Another case in which attempting anything with you is definitely a feat of courage. Even though there’s a higher chance they wouldn’t know you’re dating Jade in the first place, because of how private he is, he’s clearly fond of you. And that’s without even taking into consideration how often he’s around. Jade doesn’t have the sort of infamy Leona dows, but it’s not any less intimidating of a situation, anyone with eyes can tell he’s watching every person around him very closely…

They’d really have to get lucky to get you to consume even a single drop of anything. They might have even tried multiple times, in multiple different ways. Spiking your food or drink is not an option at all with him, because he’s sitting with you while you eat, and who would want to take that chance? If they got you, it was probably by offering you an “extra drink they got from the vending machine”, which might as well have been attempted before, with Jade successfully distracting you from the drink every time.

”My, how kind of you. I’ve heard that soda is very popular, is that true?” Somehow, he shows up just in time to strike up conversation with the person, placing a hand on the can they tampered with. ”I don’t recall seeing this brand back home. Would you mind if I had a small sip first?” He looks at them, then at you, with a strange menacing smile. Once again, that person is taking the can back and stammering excuses that make less and less sense as time passes…

If they’re brave/stupid enough, and you’re oblivious enough, Jade will just sneakily make himself your bodyguard, ready to catch any new attempts and stop them right before you could get the spiked drink anywhere near your lips. He’ll do it as many times as he has to— And if it goes on for long enough, and one day they decide to not take their little trap back, he will literally just open it and drink the whole thing. He’ll do it while making eye contact with them, even. “Oh, I’m sorry, my hand slipped. It’s really unfortunate when that happens, isn’t it? It’s very easy to forget, since most of the time it doesn’t cause any harm… But the wrong ‘slip’ could really cost you your hand, you know… It’s important to be careful.” He doesn’t look away from them for even one second.

You’re confused as hell, Jade is weird a lot of the time, but just what’s going on right now? He hands them back the can, and just waves his hand at your question, telling you he’ll explain on the way as he walks off to get some antidote. From the nurse, specifically. And it’s not because he can’t make his own, because he could probably do it before the dizziness even hit— It’s to get your little “friend” in trouble with the staff, he’ll even play up the symptoms to make sure they get a nasty suspension… Even if they’re not expelled, you somehow never see them again.

𐙚 Jamil Viper

Not happening. At all. You have no “off limits” fame, no one knows you’re dating (Upon Jamil’s own request) and even if they did, they wouldn’t be that intimidated to try to make a move on you normally. He’s too busy to be lingering around you too much, plus he just wants you to have your own independence in general… everything is seemingly stacked in the favor of that person who wants to slip you the potion, but it’s nowhere near enough to get past Jamil. It just could never be.

…So you’d think it’d be easy for someone to catch you off guard, try to slip something in your food or drink. But there’s just no way that potion isn’t even making it into the vial. Really, with the upbringing Jamil had, could any fellow teenager manage to fly under his radar when trying to tamper with your things? Not a chance. He’s learned to spot real, professional assassins going after Kalim. Catching on to some other student’s creepy behavior is nothing to him.

He knew it before he even heard that person’s name, or saw them talk to you with his own eyes. It just takes a few conversations about this weird classmate of yours who you started suspecting might like you for him to be able to tell they don’t have good intentions. ”...I know I might sound paranoid, but I think you should be careful around them.” Is all he says, when you two talk about it the first time. You know him well enough to be aware of how serious that warning is.

Nothing is said after that, but he’s watching them closely too. You don’t eat lunch together that often, but Jamil always watches your table from afar when he’s not there. At first it’s just out of habit, but now that he’s got an eye on this person, their every move has your full attention. And it’s all just too familiar, the way they seem to also watch your table, or more specifically, watch you while you eat. He can even sense their frustration at how guarded you’ve gotten since his warning.

You’ll never even hear about a possible poisoning attempt because he catches them in the middle of their potion brewing— With a good chance he wasn’t even trying to do that. He just happened to spot them acting weird in the hallways, and decided to investigate. Following them to the laboratory, standing outside of the door to see what’s happening, maybe take a video or two. He then walks inside, no notable expression on his face, and speaks to them. ”I wouldn’t do this if I were you. Even making this potion outside of class could get you in serious trouble.” Nothing else is said, he shows them the video on his phone screen, and walks off. Next thing you hear, they got suspended, an when they come back, they won’t even dare to meet your eyes.

𐙚 Vil Schoenheit

The day you two agreed you’d make your relationship official, you also had a very long talk about the things that it might entail—The worries had been stewing in his mind for a while now, at first regarding his own reputation, but eventually they turned their focus to you. He’s had people interacting strangely with people who were just his dormmates, so one could only wonder how they’d treat someone they suspect is his partner…You’re warned at the very start that it’s a good idea to be cautious of others. But because it’s Vil, and he has all those vocal, sometimes fanatic admirers that are seemingly just everywhere, it can be kind of sadly easy to forget that this type of person could fixate on you too.

It becomes a bit of a dilemma for him, when he hears about this classmate of yours you’ve been talking to occasionally. On one hand, of course he wants you to have friends, he’s not crazy. On the other, he already has a weird feeling from the interactions you describe. Then under all his common sense, he just feels sort of jealous in general. You might notice he suddenly looks alarmed, and he might even remind you it’s important to be careful with others. But even if you take it to heart, would you really outright assume they were planning anything so creepy?

It’s a thankful coincidence that dating Vil also means learning a lot about potions. You often sit around in the Pomefiore dorm laboratory while he’s doing something, and he’s happy to explain the process to you however many times you need. Ironically, the specific subject of attempted love potion slips might come up. It happens to celebrities often, after all, it’s not crazy to think someone would try to get to him— ”They teach you to not eat or drink anything a fan gives you. You accept it if they’re handing it out, but you don’t touch it. And it’s not just for the sake of keeping up with your diet.” He retells you what he was taught. ”You don’t even donate it, since it could be tampered with. Usually, there are tells, but not always…”

Then question becomes, how skilled could another student get, specifically when compared to how observant you can be? It could go either way here. It’s easy to be alarmed by anyone offering you snacks or drinks after Vil tells you these stories, but you’re not a celebrity, so would that really happen to you? What if you’re just forgetful, or they really manage to get you at a moment when you’re vulnerable? Luckily, no matter how sneaky someone is, they can’t hide the effects of the potion forever. On the color of your drink, the smell, the taste… or, in a worst case scenario, in the way it feels when it starts to kick in.

You’ll know something is wrong, and he’s lectured you enough you know to get an antidote from the nurse if needed, and you know to report it to school staff. It’s dealt with quickly enough, but no matter when he finds out, he’s outraged all the same. ”How does a student get away with even trying to brew something like this? Staff shouldn’t allow just anybody to use laboratories unsupervised…” Vil fusses over you, smoothing your clothes just so his hands have something to do. Even if you didn’t swallow any of the potion, he tells you to take the day off to rest and stays nearby. Of course he wouldn’t just let the situation be solved without reacting, but first, he has to be sure you’re safe.

if you like my work you can support me by commissioning me or tipping me on ko-fi ── ᵎᵎ ✦

#twst #twisted wonderland #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #leona kingscholar #jade leech #jamil viper #vil schoenheit #leona kingscholar x reader #jade leech x reader #jamil viper x reader #vil schoenheit x reader #twst headcanons #twst imagines #lis writing

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esote-rika · 3 days ago

Text

to talk is to bare | Spencer Reid

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!Reader Category: hurt/comfort, fluff Summary: three times you've never felt enough for Spencer Reid—and the three times he rectified it immediately Content: insecure reader, written with early s2 Spencer in mind (glasses!Spencer rawr), reader wears makeup, implied bad relationships in the past, Spencer is just a sweetheart Word count: 2.4k A/N: entry for #lovers1kevent (congrats @mggslover muah) - the lyric prompt for this is “And I knew how you took your coffee and your favorite songs by heart, I read all of your (self help) books so you'd think that I was smart” from enough for you by Olivia Rodrigo. This was supposed to just be pure angst but apparently, I can't write this man as anything other than the perfect boyfriend.

“Well, actually, Dostoevsky intended the book to be a critique on certain schools of thoughts and ideologies, namely...”

You stare at your boyfriend, nodding along as he explains the intricacies and historical context of Notes from the Underground to you. His smile is kind and excited when he stops, looking at you expectantly.

“Right.” the smile on your face isn't forced, per se, but neither does it reach your eyes. How many times has it happened this month? It isn’t that you’re keeping count of all the times he’s corrected you—truthfully, you can’t, because you’ve lost count. And that’s the crux of the issue, isn’t it? The fact that you can’t even keep track of his corrections anymore, because he does it all the time.

You remind yourself he's not doing this to deliberately make you feel stupid, your memory immediately calling forth all the times you've seen him correct other people — his teammates, the cashier at your favorite bookstore, a random person in the park. It's never pointed, nor is the act laced with anything but genuine, loving desire to share his knowledge. He's not like the men you've had to deal with in the past, the ones who jump at every opportunity to show off that they know more than you, that they're correct and you're wrong.

But this is Spencer. Sweet, wholly inexperienced, awkward. Half the time, he doesn't know how he comes across, and you've been dating him long enough to understand that.

No, his corrections aren’t the crux of the issue. In fact, it isn’t even him. It’s you, and all the treacherous thoughts running through your mind. This damn book you’d read because you saw a dog eared copy in his satchel one day, pushing through pages upon pages of dense material just to catch up and relate with him, only to still come up short and have yourself be corrected.

The sting is still there, lingering and acrid in the back of your tongue. You cannot pinpoint it yet, this But it's Spencer Reid, so you grit your teeth and remind yourself not to take it personally. The words slip out easily. You could almost believe they aren’t lies. “Thank you for letting me know.”

The beam on his face is a reminder that not everyone is as patient, that he's come to expect looks that range from baffled to downright annoyed. Nobody else allows him free reign to talk like this, long winded rambles that get nipped at the bud with a sharp Reid. He smiles, beams at you, and this time the smile on your lips finally reaches your eyes.

“So what did I get wrong?”

“You weren’t wrong,” he’s pulling you in as he answers, lips finding the underside of your jaw and the bitterness dissipates, sweetens into something that makes your toes curl, “Just a little inaccurate.”

Your body melts into him easily. “You don't have to sugarcoat with me.”

“I'm not, it's literature. You can interpret it however you want, I just thought knowing the rest of the context would help you with your opinion.” he's kissing down your neck, breaths ghosting over your skin as he continues to talk, and you sink into his arms, forgetting why you were even feeling annoyed in the first place.

You’re not sure if you like the color you’ve put to make your cheeks flush. It's always been a point of contention in the past, your exes saying you don't put enough effort in, so this time with Spencer, you try. Even though you're not the best at it, even though you feel a little foolish because it seems a little too bright despite all of your hurried attempts to blend it a little more. But it’s too late to change now. You don’t want to go through the whole deal of reapplying your makeup because that would mean running late, so you ignore it and head to the cafe quickly.

Spencer isn't there yet. You order your drinks, his black and into which you dump an exorbitant amount of sugar. Memorization is his thing, but you've come to learn a thing or two about him in the time you two are dating.

He's a few minutes late, and when he arrives, Spencer’s eyes lock on you. Or, more specifically, your cheeks.

“That bad?” you tease, standing from your seat and leaning over for a kiss.

“You don’t have the coloring for that shade of red.”

Your brow knits as you pull away. Attempting to hide the flood of insecurity that swept through your chest, you let out a chuckle. Soft, shaky, and accompanied with a confused, “What?”

“It makes your cheeks look a little inflamed.”

“Oh.”

Regret fills your chest, settling in your lungs until it’s difficult to breathe. You should have trusted your instincts and scrubbed the makeup off. Shouldn’t have tried something new on the one day the two of you can go out. He’s probably embarrassed by you. How silly, being a full grown woman wearing makeup bordering on clownish.

He must have caught the hurt in your voice, the way your body deflates because he’s quick to remedy. “Hey, what’s that look for?”

It should embarrass you, the speed at which he picks up on your emotions. But he’s a profiler after all, he’s specifically trained for this, but sometimes you wish he doesn’t use it against you. Gentle hands cup your face. Cold hands, perpetually so until you’ve started keeping them between yours. They tilt your head up.

“Talk to me.”

“It’s stupid.”

“Nothing you say is ever stupid.”

You smile, “No, I think we both know that’s a lie.”

He relents. He knows you’re right; there are moments where you don’t make sense. “Not stupid, just…” his eyes roam your face while he searches for the word to use as compromise, as though he’ll find it tucked somewhere in your pretty features, “Lapses in discernment.”

You roll your eyes at his fancy vernacular, the attempt to soothe his mistake. “I think I prefer the layman’s term.”

Spencer laughs sheepishly, then presses his lips to your forehead, “I’m never using that to describe you.” he murmurs against your skin, and then, “I'm sorry.”

Antarctica could melt from the warmth in your chest. “You don't even know what you're apologizing for.”

“I upset you. That's reason enough.”

You sigh, pulling him to join you on the plush booth seat you'd managed to secure for your date. “Well, there's nothing to forgive.”

He accepts the coffee you hand him, corners of his mouth curved in a gentle smile. He sips, and you stew in silence, knowing that you shouldn't be leaving him guessing like this. He'd want to know, you can tell by the way he's studying you, the way he wants to examine and turn over your thoughts and reactions like he does with everything else in his life. But he waits, lets you open up if you so wish.

God, he's perfect.

“I was just having second thoughts about my makeup,” you murmur finally, “And you kind of confirmed it. I told you it's stupid.”

“Not stupid at all. I'm sorry,” you wonder if he takes his coffee sweet to match his personality, this asshole, “It was an insensitive comment. And for what it's worth, you look beautiful regardless.”

“Inflamed cheeks and all?”

He laughs, pulling you to his side, lips firmly planted on your cheek “Inflamed cheeks and all.”

Maybe you shouldn’t have worn the blush after all; you're sure he's making you flush scarlet just by being such a sweetheart.

“Oh Spencer knows her.” the teasing tone in Derek Morgan’s voice normally makes you smile, but something about his tone makes you pause. You stare at the TV, where a new show is running, eyes zeroed in on the blonde actress.

“Spencer knows her?”

“Knew,” your boyfriend supplies, “Very briefly.”

Derek Morgan gives him a knowing smirk that has your stomach churning all the way to the end of the night, when you’re getting ready for bed.

You're in his apartment, in an old pair of his plaid pajamas and a t-shirt that fits you surprisingly well. It always makes you smile, his slight frame, the way you could easily steal his clothes and they wouldn't dwarf you too much. But tonight, Derek's words ring over and over again, bringing forth the image of her—Lila Archer, dazzling, perfectly curvy, an actress on a popular TV series… and apparently, a friend of his. You aren't really sure where this jealousy is coming from. He’s a trustworthy man, and you know he loves you. Still, the image of the beautiful actress persists, even as you climb into bed with him.

He's reading as he usually is, the low lamplight casting shadows over the sharp planes of his face. Without even looking, he shifts the book to his other hand, freeing up an arm to draw you to his body. It's easy, quiet, his heartbeat fluttering beneath your ear as you rest your head on his chest. The exact opposite of your own heartbeat right now.

“What's on your mind?”

“Nothing.” It should be a sin, the way you keep denying your feelings. But it's just so silly, and you're a grown woman. Jealousy and insecurity shouldn't be consuming you like this, and yet…

“Please don't lie to me,” his fingers are in your hair, tangling deep into the strands and seeking for your scalp. They’re soothing and rhythmic upon contact, lulling your body into a sense of relaxation even though your heart still hammers at your chest.

“Why do you say that?”

“You usually remind me to use the overhead lights when I read.” fingers putting pressure on your scalp, traveling to your temple. He has you in the palm of his hands, “You didn't do that tonight. And your heartbeat's going at an abnormally high rate, even though I'm quite certain you didn't do anything strenuous before coming to bed. What's going on?”

Damn him and his attention to detail, and the way he’'s learned your little quirks and oddities. He puts down his book and you turn your face to hide into his chest.

You chew on your bottom lip, reminding youself that this is Spencer, he wouldn't judge. “How’d you know her?” your voice is muffled against his shirt, “Lila.”

“We had a case in Los Angeles.” he pauses, as if considering if he should say more. Right. Confidentiality. You nod, accepting his answer.

“Must have been a high profile one then,” you muse, “Or were you just hanging around Hollywood studios with Derek?” It’s an unfair statement, but you can’t help it.

“No, no, it wasn’t like that.” You look back up at him and oh there’s guilt swimming in pools of honey eyes. “I mean, we kissed once, but I swear, nothing beyond that.”

You exhale. A kiss. He's kissed a TV starlet.

This shouldn’t even be an issue. This is before you were even in the picture after all. It’s not fair to uphold him to some weird standard. You certainly had relationships before him. But none of them had been as stunning as Lila Archer. And if he could have Lila Archer, then what is he doing with you?

“Hey,” his other hand comes to stroke your cheek, the soft pad of his thumb rubbing small, soothing circles, “Talk to me.”

It's a difficult thing, being mature and communicating when you just want to stew, but god he's so good, you can't punish him for this, for anything. “I thought you said I was your first girlfriend?” you say instead, teasing him.

“You are, but you know, I’ve kissed before, and been on dates—”

“With Lila?”

“No, with JJ.”

Oh.

“JJ?”

JJ? His lovely, warm spring day beauty coworker JJ? He went on a date with her? And kissed Lila Archer. It’s almost ridiculous, thinking about the type of women he's had dalliances with—lithe, blonde, perfect, before he settled with you.

“Yeah, I took her to a Redskins game,” he says, his hold on your face still light. There's room to move if you want to, space to pull away should you need it and god he's just so perfect.

“You have a type, huh?” it comes out unbidden, sharp but dulled by a bitter laugh.

“What do you mean?”

“With women,” you reply, trying to temper the snappy tone of your voice. It's not fair to lash out at him like this, you know that, yet you can't help it. It's habit at this point, a form of defense that your exes have all been too happy to participate, “I'm the outlier.”

And apparently, he's an outlier too because his voice grows even softer, eyes searching your face with an anxiety that fills you with guilt. “Is that a problem?”

“No,” you sigh, arm draping over his waist and hugging him tight.

He returns the favor, tangling your legs together until you're a mess of limbs under his sheets. “Then what's wrong?”

“Sometimes I just feel like—like I'm not good enough to be dating you.” there it is, whispered into his chest, striking straight to his heart. “And now, knowing that you could have had all of these — these women who could pass for models—”

“Angel,” the way he says the nickname makes you hide even further into his chest. He closes his arms around you, holding you so tightly it's difficult to breathe, but that's okay. Let him fuse your bodies together, let his breaths be yours too, “That's not true, you know that's not true.”

“Isn't it? You're so — you. Intelligent, well decorated in academia, an an elite FBI unit…”

He laughs, “I’m also an endlessly annoying know it all, I failed my gun license exam more than once, I don't have abs—”

“You don't need abs,” you counter, fingers clutching on his shirt.

“Wouldn't you rather be with a guy with a six pack?”

“I'd rather be with you.”

He gently moves away from you, hands finding your face to make you look at him. “And I'd rather be with you.”

You pout, “You can't use my words against me, ‘s not fair.”

He laughs again, leaning to capture your lips in the gentlest of kisses, “I want you, I chose you, and I adore you,” he's murmuring between each kiss, hands cradling your face, “And if you have these thoughts again, tell me, so I can keep reminding you just how much I love you.”

➺ My masterlist | Event masterlist

➺ thank you so much for reading <3

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x self insert #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid fan fiction #criminal minds x you #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid x fem!reader #lovers1kevent #spencer reid fanfiction #dr spencer reid #criminal minds fic #spencer reid criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid fic #spencer reid hurt/comfort

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kashverse · 1 day ago

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OMG imagine Babykuna tries to mimic her dad's tattoos with a marker when it's dress like your favorite hero day at school, or something like that lol or her just pulling a prank of dadkuna

when life gives you lemons, you make lemonade. when life gives the sukuna household a permanent marker, you make an emergency dermatologist appointment.

it was six in the morning. sukuna, still groggy from sleep, barely cracked open an eye when he felt something small and warm crawl onto the bed beside him.

“papa.”

he grunted.

“papa. wake up.”

he grunted harder. but then, he opened his eyes, and nearly died on the spot.

because staring back at him, grinning like she just made a breakthrough in modern art, was babykuna.

with thick, uneven, horrifically wobbly black lines drawn all over her tiny face, mimicking his own tattoos.

oh. oh, no.

sukuna bolted upright so fast the bed creaked. "the hell did you do to your face?!" babykuna beamed with pride. “i wanted to look like you!”

sukuna’s soul left his body. because this was no washable marker. oh, no. this was the big leagues. the forever ink. he snatched the marker from beside her.

"where did you even—" he stared at it. PERMANENT MARKER was boldly printed on the side. he nearly threw it out the damn window.

"who gave you this?!"

babykuna, sensing danger, pointed at mr. pickles. the maine coon, sitting innocently at the foot of the bed, blinked. sukuna nearly combusted.

but before he could launch into a fatherly lecture about why tattooing your face with an office supply is a very bad idea, you groaned and rolled over, finally waking up. "why the are you yelling this early—"

then, you saw.

there was silence. long, painful silence. then—

you wheezed.

"OH MY GOD—" you threw your head back in laughter. "she looks like a criminal sketch!"

babykuna giggled, delighted. sukuna scowled.

"it's not funny!"

"she looks like a bootleg version of you, this is the funniest thing i've ever seen."

"SHE LOOKS LIKE A TAX FRAUD SUSPECT."

but the real horror came twenty minutes later when you realized that even after three rounds of scrubbing, coconut oil, baby wipes, and the sacrifice of one of sukuna’s expensive skincare products, the marker wasn’t coming off.

so now, an hour later, here you were, in a dermatologist’s office, with babykuna swinging her little legs from the examination chair, sukuna sitting next to her with his face buried in his hands, and the dermatologist trying very hard not to laugh as he examined your child’s very bold life choices.

"so." the doctor cleared his throat. "permanent marker, huh?"

you, exhausted: "yes."

sukuna, defeated: "yes."

babykuna, proudly: "YES!"

the doctor nodded solemnly. "have you tried… rubbing alcohol?"

"DO YOU THINK WE’RE IDIOTS?"

you kicked sukuna’s ankle. the doctor bit his lip, clearly enjoying this.

“well.” he examined babykuna’s bold new look. “good news is, it’ll fade. bad news is… it’ll take a while.”

sukuna groaned. babykuna, still swinging her legs, just grinned.

"do i look cool?"

you held back a snort. sukuna, however, did not. he turned to her, dead serious.

"no. you look like an off-brand action figure."

babykuna gasped. mr. pickles, sitting in his carrier by the chair, just blinked in amusement.

and thus began the longest two weeks of your life.

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muwapsturniolo · 1 day ago

Text

Raw Dawg 𐂯 M. Sturniolo

"We uhh...W-we could go raw?"

⟢ NSFW CONTENT AHEAD, smut, fingering, condoms/raw sex, snowballing (or some version of it?), that's it me thinks. let me know if i missed something please!!!!

part 1 here (you don't have to read part one because it's chris. this is just the matt version!!)

Dividers are made by @bernardsbendystraws (as usual)

Needy.

That's what you and Matt were both feeling.

It had to have been something in the air. The two of you woke up that morning with an anxious feeling in the pit of your stomachs. However, it wasn't anxious in a way that made you feel sick, no, it was something good.

As the two of you went about your day, the touches lingered, and the glances lasted longer than they should have. There were a few times his words seemed to have a double meaning, and there were also a few times when you shot him your famous bedroom eyes.

The day was filled with strong sexual tension - neither of you could handle it anymore.

The door shoots open as both of you tumble into his bedroom, teeth clashing, tongues tangled, and clothes falling - you couldn't get enough of each other.

As soon as you both land on the bed, his fingers find their way to your excessively wet cunt. It's not an exaggeration, you were dripping. You could feel it all day, the slimy liquid seeping out of you, squelching softly between your folds.

"Shit-" he hisses as he pulls away from the feverish kiss, looking down between your bodies. Your inner thighs were drenched with your own mess, his middle and ring finger looking the exact same. His mind was going crazy trying to figure out if he wanted to taste you, or simply fuck you. Both seemed like wonderful options, but with the way you're looking at him, he knew which option to go with.

He shoves his soaked fingers in your mouth, letting you taste your own juices as he haphazardly reaches into the nightstand for a condom. He tears it open with ease, having done it many times before. It was second nature to him, the two of you deciding it was the best contraceptive.

He rolls the condom on quickly, your hands holding the back of your knees as he lines himself up. In one swift motion, he was inside of you, both of you moaning at the first sense of relief. He grasps your thighs, starting to give you the pleasure you both so desperately crave, however, an issue occurs.

You whimper as he slips out of you, his tip prodding at the lower entrance you two don't indulge in. "Shit- I'm sorry sweetheart!" He grabs his dick once more and slides it inside of you, but it happens again,

and again

"Matt," you whine, tears of frustration already building in your eyes. He was frustrated too, all he wanted to do was fuck his girlfriend for hours on end - and he couldn't.

"Fuck sweetheart, I know I know. You're too fuckin' wet, I-I can't stay in!" He rakes his brain trying to think of a way to make this work.

"Get on top."

He catches the glare you give him and he groans, "Dawg, I don't know - Did you just call me dawg?" You stare at him in disbelief, there was no way he just called you, his girlfriend, dawg.

"First you tell me to get on top, and now you're calling me dawg?"

"Ok ok I'm sorry! I don't know what you want me to do! You're too fuckin' wet for me to actually fuck you and you being on top is the best thing I can think of!"

The two of you stare at each other, breathing harshly and frustrated. Both of your minds are buzzing with ways to make this work. The tension has been building all day, and you both were determined to make this work. It was only a few seconds later when Matt got an idea, his body language becoming shy.

"We uhh...W-we could go raw?"

"Matt- I know! We never go raw, we agreed on that, but baby I don't know what else to do. I really need you." His hands rub over the back of your thighs needily. You look over his face with an unsure look. Of course you wanted to have sex with him, you've been waiting all day, but would you risk going raw?

"...Fine, we can go raw. Just make sure you pull-" You're cut off with his lips slamming against yours, your body already melting into the kiss.

"Pull out, I know."

In one swift movement, he takes the soaked condom off, throwing it to the floor with no care. He was eager, he finally gets to experience sex with you raw.

Just like the previous times, he lines himself up, slowly pushing in.

It was shocking how much of a difference condoms made. You could feel everything, his warmth, the vein running up the side of his dick. He could finally feel the real warmth of your velvety walls, the sponge-like texture.

You two felt close - Connected.

He starts off with a few slow thrusts, trials if you will. When he realized that he was finally staying inside, something in him changed.

He pushes your legs to your chest, his grip harsh as he begins slamming into you vigorously. Your eyes roll back, your jaw dropping at the new and incredible feeling. The headboard was slamming into the wall, surely leaving dents and scratches into the plaster.

His moans combine with yours, creating a pitch-perfect harmony. Your bodies are covered in a thin layer of sweat, the heat between you too making the room smell like a mixture of lust and love.

You felt good, so good to the point where you no longer cared.

You manage to push his hands away from your thighs, your legs collapsing on the bed as you pull him closer. Your eyes are half-lidded, glossy as you give him those puppy dog eyes.

"P-Please, need you to c-cum in me!" You urge, pleading for him to give you something you usually would never want - but it was a craving, you were feigning for it.

You needed it.

You miss the way his pupils dilate due to him slamming into you with newfound vigor, your eyes rolling all the way back as your body lurches with each thrust. You could feel the tip of his dick reaching your cervix, nudging the sensitive spot and making you see stars.

"Fuck- god m'so close!" He grunts, his jaw clenched as he tries to get you closer to the edge.

He doesn't have to work that hard, all it took was him moaning in your ear and you were releasing all over him. You let out a small scream as your juices splash between you both, wetting the sheets beneath you as well as both your bodies.

Your nails rake down his back, leaving deep scratch marks on his milky skin as he continues to rut into you. It was becoming too much and he knew it. He whispers sweet words into your ear as he pumps into you relentlessly

"Gonna cum soon. You want me t'fill you up? Give you my babies?"

"Gonna look so pretty preg- oh fuck!"

The idea of you being filled to the brim with his seed, and being pregnant, was enough to send him over, his body shaking as he moans and groans into your ear.

The two of you lay there, fucked out and sweaty as you try to catch your breath. He sits up and pulls out of you, pushing your legs back to watch himself drip out of you.

You were a sight for sore eyes, you looked so pretty like this.

He couldn't help himself.

Despite knowing you're sensitive, he lowers his body and attaches his mouth to your cunt. You jerk and grab at his hair, yanking harshly as you feel his fingers dipping into you. Thankfully it wasn't long, but you still had no chance to catch your breath.

It was something so new and erotic, the way his lips met yours and his tongue pushed the warm salty liquid in your mouth. You moan at the taste, swallowing each drop eagerly.

He pulls back from the sloppy and lustful kiss, staring at you with hungry eyes.

"No condoms for the rest of the night. Hands and knees, now."

#sturniolo triplets #matt sturniolo #sturniolo fanfic #sturniolo smut #smut #matthew sturniolo #matthew sturniolo smut #sturniolo x reader #matt sturniolo x you #matt sturniolo smut #matt sturniolo x reader #matt girl #emo!matt #matthew sturniolo x you #matthew sturniolo imagine #matthew sturniolo x reader #matt sturniolo imagine

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heedeungism · 2 days ago

Text

𝐛𝐮𝐬𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧 | 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐰𝐨.

•°. *࿐ PAIRING ― riki nishimura x fem!reader •°. *࿐ SYNOPSIS ― in which riki is smitten with you and your sharp tongue. •°. *࿐ GENRE ― one-shot, ????-to-lovers, fake dating, angst, fluff, crack, rich kid au, highschool lacrosse au •°. *࿐ WORD COUNT ― 22k •°. *࿐ CONTENT WARNING(S) ― violence(one fight) and threats of it, lots of tension, mc is a horndog what's new, i meant to make this slow like the first part but im a weak woman, weed, mc is her own worst enemy, mc is stupid before she is smart <3, attempted unwanted touching, riki is the jealous type but in a green flag way, don’t ask where the teachers are, riki has bigger hands than mc, kissing(many a time), once i got the angst out of the way it turned into crack js •°. *࿐ EXTRA NOTES ― thank you all for being so kind and giving me such helpful feedback and love! shoutout to my hg @1ntaks for once again holding my hand and basically beta reading this for me, you're the best queen. •°. *࿐ SOUNDTRACK ― busy woman by sabrina carpenter, don’t smile by sabrina carpenter, big girls don’t cry by fergie, better than me by doja cat, diet pepsi by addison rae, what a girl wants by christina aguilera, positions by ariana grande, he could be the one by hannah montana, bmf by sza

part one.

AT THE BEGINNING OF FEBRUARY you realized how easy it was to get over Eunseok at the same moment that it sinks in that you can’t get over Riki.

Maybe it's the fact that he’s still friendly despite the ‘breakup’, or that he still makes sweet comments that feel too genuine to be taken as flirting anymore. He hasn’t changed much of his behavior at all since the end of January, actually.

The news of the short-lived relationship spread around school. Though it was clear that you both were still friends, most of the rumors were dispelled. However, some were still infuriatingly present.

Now, you’re not the type of person who gives a shit about what other people think of you—especially not a bunch of pubescent teenagers with so little going on in their own lives that they find entertainment in yours. But your patience is wearing thin. If you hear another freshman whisper about you not being over your cheating ex, you are going to go insane. (Despite your reputation, you are above throwing hands with 14 year-olds.)

“So you want something like this, right?” Julie taps on her phone screen from across from you, showing the nail inspiration photo you had sent her just last week. When you only nod, she tilts her head with a curious raise of her brows, “We can do something different, hon’.”

Quickly, you shake your head and straighten your posture in the chair across from her, “No, sorry. I just—I’m just thinking about shit. I still want a set like that.” You force a soft laugh, and she nods with a soft ‘okay’.

“So? Anything new?” She asks with a pretty smile as she plugs in her nail drill and turns on the dust collector.

You lay your hands onto the rest between the two of you, humming and then sighing, “I’m still single.”

Julie begins working at removing her work from three weeks ago with the drill, though the pink mask keeping her from inhaling the dust doesn’t hide her face of baffled confusion, “I thought you were dating that lacrosse guy, though.”

The sound of the drill and fan are like white noise to the both of you as you sigh and drop your head forward, “Didn’t work out.”

Julie gasps softly, clearly upset for you, “What’d he do?”

While you love that her first instinct was to ask what he did and not what you did, the latter is more fitting for the situation. “He was too perfect and I got scared?” You admit softly with a guilty shrug.

Julie pauses in her work and deadpans at you, “Ho.”

“I know!” You whine softly as she resumes, using your free hand to grab the chilled can of Dr Pepper she’d grabbed for you before your appointment started, sipping from the pink straw before you continue to whine, “I fucked up.”

“I never got to see a photo last time, either.” Julie recalls as she progresses to removing the hard-gel off your other hand, “You hadn’t picked anyone for your little plan, yet.”

Julie knowing about your genius plan to ruin Eunseok and Nayeon’s day, everyday, with your tall, hot, and sweet ‘boyfriend’ was inevitable. She had dropped the traitorous bitch as a client the moment you and Belle told her about it, equally as disgusted by Nayeon as the both of you. Not to mention, Belle always yapped her pretty head off during her appointments, so as previously stated, it was inevitable.

“You’re gonna hate me,” You say, grabbing your phone with your now dusty and bare fingers to quickly tap to a photo of Riki that Jake had sent you. He’s got his helmet tucked under his arm and seemed to be captured in a heated argument with another boy on the team. The first thing you noticed was his hands, though.

When she pauses to look at your screen, she looks at you again and sighs like a disappointed mother, shaking her head and turning the drill back on. You whine, “Don’t sigh at me, I’m in mourning.”

“I thought you said you weren’t worried about catching feelings.” She reminds you, and you roll your eyes.

“Bitch, look at him.” You sass, picking up your phone to show the still-lit screen before placing it facedown in your lap again, “and he was just so—sweet. And he liked when I was mean to him.”

“As he should.”

“—and his smile made me want to stick my head in an oven Sylvia Plath style.” You say with a soft pout on your lips, “It was so much so suddenly, and I freaked out.”

Julie turns off the drill and grabs the brush to clean off the dust from your hands as she nods slightly to what you’re saying, “And Eunseok was so recent.”

“—And Eunseok was so recent!” You repeat in vehement agreement, groaning up at the ceiling as you slump slightly, “Why do boys ruin everything?”

You spend the next few hours of your nail appointment ranting about everything. Riki, your ex, your ex best friend, your dad (who had texted you a long message after you left him that you promptly responded to with a ‘that doesn’t look like an apology so im not reading that’).

mommy dearest 🩷: can you pick up some groceries for me? just a few things

The text from your mom as you swipe your card on Julie’s reader is paired with a chime you recognize as your bank app. Your new nails tap on your screen as you open the notification, grinning at the sight of a hefty transfer of funds into your account.

The small list your mother sends doesn’t come close to costing the amount she sent you to pay for it, so you decide to stop at Sephora while you’re out too.

You choose the highest percentage to tip and sign her phone screen with your knuckle before bidding her a happy farewell and exiting the salon. The drive to the strip center is barely ten minutes long, your BMW filled with Christina Aguilera and the trip slightly delayed by your admiration of your new nails at every red light.

When you get into the Sephora, which you decided to visit first since your mom’s list included produce, you b-line to the skincare section.

You’re debating between oil cleansers when you’re tapped on the shoulder.

The woman before you looks around your mother’s age, a bit shorter than you but with a beautiful smile on her face. “I’m so sorry to bother you, but are you Y/n?”

You blink, caught off guard, but nod.

Her grin widens. “I’m Riki’s mom!”

Your stomach drops. Every instinct screams at you to panic, but instead, you paint a pretty smile on your face, the kind your mother taught you to perfect at charity galas. “Oh my god, hi!”

Before you can react, she pulls you into a hug, warm and tight, smelling faintly of lavender and vanilla. You reciprocate, though your arms are stiff and hesitant.

“I’ve heard so much about you,” she gushes, pulling back to hold you at arm’s length. Her eyes, as sharp and bright as Riki’s, scan you with something between approval and curiosity. “You’re just as lovely as he said.”

“Thank you,” you manage, your voice light despite the whirlwind in your chest at the sudden and information that Riki talks about you at home. “It’s so nice to meet you.”

“I can’t believe I ran into you like this!” she says, her excitement bubbling over. “You’re like a doll, honey. The photos he’s shown me don’t do you justice.”

Your brain short-circuits at the word photos. Plural.

“Oh?” you manage, keeping your smile intact even as your heart feels like it’s trying to escape the confines of your chest.

“Of course! He’s always talking about you,” she continues, as if she didn’t just drop a bomb on you in the middle of Sephora. “He showed me the cutest one of you two at the bowling alley—said it was his favorite night in a long time.”

Your breath catches, but you quickly cover it with a soft laugh, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “That’s so sweet of him.”

“It is, isn’t it?” She beams like she’s talking about a national treasure instead of her son. “He’s always been so shy when it comes to girls, but with you, it’s different. I can tell you mean a lot to him.”

The words land like a stone in your chest, heavy and impossible to ignore. You can’t tell if she’s trying to hint at something or if she’s just being a proud mom, but either way, you suddenly feel very out of your depth.

“That’s nice to hear,” you say lightly, though your throat feels tight. “He’s a great guy.”

She places a hand on your arm, her touch gentle but firm. “You’re good for him, you know. He’s happier these days, more confident.”

Your mind flashes to Riki’s easy smiles, the way he leans into you during conversations, the soft look in his eyes when he thinks you’re not paying attention. You swallow hard.

“Thank you, Mrs. Nishimura,” you say, your voice steadier than you feel . “That really means a lot.”

Her smile softens, and she gives your arm a little squeeze. “Oh, call me Rin, honey. And if you ever want to come over for dinner, just let me know. I’d love to have you.”

“Dinner sounds lovely,” you say with a polite smile, already running on autopilot. “I’ll have to check with Riki, but I’m sure he’d love that too.”

“Oh, good! I’ll talk to him about it tonight,” Rin says brightly, her excitement only adding to the internal chaos brewing in your chest. “You two are so sweet together—I can’t believe he didn’t tell me you were this gorgeous in person.”

You blink, momentarily stunned, and force out a soft laugh. “That’s really kind of you to say.”

“I mean it.” She gives you an approving once-over before leaning in conspiratorially. “You know, he’s usually so tight-lipped about his personal life. I had to drag it out of him that you two were dating in the first place.”

The air leaves your lungs like you’ve been punched. He hadn’t told her.

“He—uh—didn’t mention that we’re…” you start, the words catching in your throat.

“Together?” she finishes for you with a knowing smile. “Oh, don’t worry. I won’t embarrass him too much about it. I just want him to be happy, and it’s so obvious you make him happy.”

You feel your face flush, your carefully constructed composure threatening to crack. But instead of correcting her, you nod, your smile tighter now. “That’s really sweet of you to say.”

She reaches out and pats your arm warmly. “It was so nice meeting you, sweetheart. I’ll let you get back to your shopping. Tell Riki I said hi, okay?”

“I will,” you promise, your voice light despite the storm in your head.

As soon as she disappears down another aisle, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Reaching for the oil cleansers again, you try to steady yourself, replaying her words over and over.

He didn’t tell her.

A part of you is…warm with the information. The other part wants to puke your guts out.

You stare blankly at the oil cleansers in front of you, your grip tightening around the bottle in your hand. The woman’s words replay in your mind like a broken record, each one sharper than the last.

“He’s happier these days, more confident.”

“It’s so obvious you make him happy.”

“He didn’t tell me you were this gorgeous in person.”

Your chest tightens, a mix of guilt and something softer—but no less overwhelming—clawing its way up your throat. The whole point of fake dating was to not make things messy. Yet here you are, feeling like a lead character in a rom-com whose life is falling apart. Right now would be an amazing time for Matthew McConaughey to come out and sweep you off your feet.

(You realize with borderline humiliating speed that you would much prefer if Riki swept you off your feet. Seriously, there must be something wrong with you.)

The bottle trembles slightly in your hand, and you force yourself to set it back on the shelf with a shaky exhale. You’re not the kind of girl who lets this sort of thing get to her. You’re confident, decisive, in control. Except when it comes to him.

The thought makes you pause, your fingers brushing absently over your nails as the memory of his smile creeps in—the one he reserved just for you, warm and easy and dangerous.

“Shit,” you mutter under your breath, grabbing the Sulwhasoo cleanser you were debating spending so much on and beginning to mindlessly fill the black Sephora tote as you walk through the aisles. Real therapy has nothing on retail therapy considering you know what your problems are and how to fix them. Paying someone to tell you those things seems counterproductive when you can make yourself feel better by treating yourself.

By all accounts, it’s been a good day for you. Getting out of the school parking lot was exceptionally easy despite the traffic you encounter more often than not. You got your nails done and love how they turned out. You’re currently splurging at Sephora. And now you have reason to believe Riki doesn’t secretly hate you for breaking his heart.

riki 🙈: just got out of practice

riki 🙈: are you coming to the game tomorrow?

You look at your phone as you tap your card on the reader and accept the large black and white striped bag from the girl at the counter. Thanking her with a smile before beginning to make your way out to your car again. When you settle into the driver’s seat, the heat turns on as you place the bag into the passenger seat.

Your thumbs hover over the keyboard, nails tapping against your case as your phone automatically hooks up to the bluetooth, ‘After Hours’ by The Weeknd beginning to play. “Oh, shut up.” You sigh as you pause the music and finally muster up the right response.

pretty girl 🪩: depends on how nice you are to me tomorrow

riki 🙈: i’ll bring you a gift rn

pretty girl 🪩: im not home

As soon as the text is marked as Read, your screen is replaced by his caller ID, a photo of him at age ten in a Michael Jackson costume lighting up your screen. You can’t help but chuckle before pressing the green button, reaching to turn the volume up as you ask with a playfully suspicious tone, “Can I help you?”

“Mhm, where are you?” His deep voice and hum makes you bite your fist.

You begin pulling out of the parking lot to make it across the street to the grocery store, “Getting groceries, why?”

“I wanna see you.”

Lord have mercy—

“You sure you don’t just miss Gus?“ You hesitate to mention the revelations made by his very kind mother in Sephora, but decide to hold off.

“Oh, I do miss Gus, but I miss his mom more.”

Oh, you hate the soft laughter that leaves your mouth the moment you hear it, “I won’t be long at the store, it’s just a few things.”

There’s a shuffle on the other side, then he says, “What store?”

“Riki, it’s literally like four things.” You laugh at his shameless eagerness, “I’ll text you when I’m home.”

He chuckles softly before humming again, “Okay, bye pretty.”

“Bye.” A beat passes and ‘What a Girl Wants’ by Christina Aguilera blares through the speakers so loud you jump, “Jesus Christ.”

By the time you pull into the grocery store parking lot, you’ve replayed his voice in your head at least five times. I wanna see you. It wasn’t just what he said, but the way he said it—soft, easy, like he wasn’t asking for anything out of the ordinary. Like it was natural for him to want to be around you, and for you to want the same. You’re...friends.

You curse the thought away as you grab your keys and step into the cold evening air, adjusting the strap of your bag over your shoulder. You don’t need to be thinking about Riki Nishimura and his stupid, perfect face and voice the whole time.

The grocery run is quick—milk, eggs, a few vegetables, and a bag of Gus’s favorite treats because you can’t resist—and you’re back in your car in record time. You text Riki that you're on the way home and find yourself smiling when he loves the message. It drops a second later when you realize what you’re doing and curse again, tossing your phone into the cup holder like it’s on fire and covering your face to self-reflect.

When you pull into the driveway of your home, it isn’t hard to spot Riki’s black Jeep parked at the curb. What is hard is hiding the grin that forms on your lips as you park your car and get out to grab the groceries in your trunk. The lacrosse player is already exiting his own vehicle and jogging over to help you.

“You didn’t have to come,” you say as he reaches for the bag of vegetables in your hands, but there’s no bite to your words.

“You said you’d text me when you were home,” he replies, his voice light and teasing as he takes the other bags with ease. “I figured I’d save you the trouble.”

You shake your head, grabbing your Sephora bag and locking your car. “So damn impatient.”

“Only when it comes to you.” His response is so casual, so effortless, it knocks the air from your lungs. You glance at him, but he’s already halfway up the path, waiting for you at the door like he hadn’t just said something that made your knees weak.

When you catch up, you unlock the door with the code and nudge it open with your foot, paising once you’re inside to shut it behind him. You kick off your shoes and pass Riki to get to the kitchen, placing your Sephora bag on one of the island’s chairs and watching him place the few grocery bags on the counter.

“Gus~” You call out as you begin to unpack the paper bags, and there’s a soft warbled meow in response in the direction of your room. The plump tuxedo cat appears around the corner, rubbing his body against the wall with another soft cry for attention that has Riki cooing and lowering himself to the ground to oblige him.

Once you’ve got groceries put away, you watch the 6’ something lacrosse player pet your cat with gentle scratches under his chin that he leans into with slow blinks, “Are you happy?”

Your softly giggled question has Riki smiling up at you, “So happy.”

With a soft huff of amusement, you grab your Sephora bag and walk in the direction of your room, choosing not to glance behind you to see if he’s following. Just act natural, bitch.

You leave your door open as you enter your room, thanking the lord that the cleaning lady had visited while you were out and your room isn’t as dirty as you left it this morning. Walking into your bathroom to start putting away your new skincare, you ignore the sound of him entering your room.

“You have a lot of perfume.” You hear him comment, glancing over your shoulder to see him admiring the organized collection on your open vanity.

“Yeah, I...have a problem” You say with a soft laugh of slight embarrassment at your habit of buying yourself anything pretty or relatively cutesy. “I have more in my closet.”

Riki whistles lowly, seemingly a bit impressed, “Which one’s your favorite?”

With a hum of thought, you step out of your bathroom to walk to your closet. You don’t mind the open door as you enter, reaching the island in the center working double as storage and where you keep your perfumes. Riki follows just to the doorway, leaning against it as his eyes move from you to the expanse of your walk-in closet. The floor-to-ceiling shelves in the back displaying heels and boots of different luxury brands, the pretty runner rug beneath your feet, it all screams you.

You’re plucking your favorite bottle from the display when his eyes land on the corner of something flat and white hidden behind a woven hamper. The easy smile on your face drops the moment you see him pull it out from its hiding spot, a boyish grin on his face. “You sneaky fuck.”

He laughs at your immediate cursing, holding the white board out of your reach as you hasten towards him to take it from him, “Pros and Cons?”

“Oh my god.” You give up on taking it from him, hands moving to try and cover his eyes, “Riki!”

“It’s about me, pretty girl.” he argues playfully, still laughing while trying to dodge your hands, “C’mon, just a peek!”

“Boys aren’t allowed to peek—Riki!” You fight laughter as his arm hooks around your head, his hand covering your face as he begins to read out the words you wish you had erased when you had the chance.

“‘Nickname kinda dumb’, you think my nicknames dumb?” He asks in an offended tone, laughter seeping into his words.

“That wasn’t me, that was Jongseob—“

“Cut his hair—Why is cutting my hair a con?” He asks incredulously, finally letting you push his hand away from your face to look down at you. Your back is still half-pressed to his chest, and the moment you can look up at him your heart skips like it’s playing hopscotch in your chest.

You catch the glance his eyes take down below your nose and find yourself pulling away quickly, grabbing the whiteboard from him to haphazardly use your sleeve to wipe the marker off, ignoring his laughed ‘hey!’ and sighing in relief when you erase enough for the rest of its contents to look like random pink lines across its surface.

When you spin around with a playfully pointed finger to curse him out, your words catch in your throat at the look in his eyes.

How a look could be both heavy and so soft, you do not know, but it's the best way you can describe Riki’s gaze.

“Wh—“ You stammer with hesitation, face heating up as his soft smile turns into a smirk of amusement, “Stop looking at me like that.”

“How am I looking at you?” He questions in a light tone, almost soft. If you didn’t know better you’d think him genuine in his innocence, but the slight twitch of the corner of his lips and the way his eyes flit to yours gives it away.

“Riki.”

His name leaving your lips draws his gaze away from them, and his smirk turns into one more wry. “I left your gift in my car.”

Your chest clenches painfully as he turns to exit your closet, your lips parting yet no words leaving them as he walks out. You follow after him, abandoning your perfume on the closest surface, “Riki, wait—“

“It’s okay—” he starts, turning just in time to stop you from crashing into him. His hands find your forearms instinctively, steadying you, but the sudden proximity freezes you both in place.

You blink up at him, startled, your breath hitching at the closeness. His fingers are warm through the fabric of your sweater, his touch gentle, like he’s afraid to hold on too tight.

“I—” You start to say something, anything, but your voice falters when you meet his gaze. There’s something there, something unspoken and unbearably soft that makes your chest ache.

Your words catch in your throat when he gently steps back, his hands slipping away as though he’s suddenly aware of the space—or lack thereof—between you. “It’s fine,” he says, a faint smile tugging at his lips, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. His voice is soft, but there’s a distance in it that wasn’t there before, and it only makes the knot in your chest tighten. “I’ll go grab it.”

You take a step forward before you can stop yourself, “Riki, I didn’t mean—”

“Really, don’t worry about it.” His voice is light, too light, as he cuts you off with a small wave of his hand. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

You hesitate, watching as he turns toward the hallway, his movements just a little too deliberate. His usual ease is gone, replaced by something quieter, more careful.

Your heart sinks. Is he upset with you? He doesn’t seem angry, but there’s a tension in the way he carries himself that wasn’t there before.

“I wasn’t trying to make things weird,” you blurt out, desperate to bridge the gap forming between you.

He pauses mid-step, his back still to you. For a moment, it seems like he might say something, but instead, he exhales quietly and turns just enough to glance over his shoulder.

“You didn’t,” he says, his tone softer now, but there’s a flicker of something in his expression—regret? Frustration? “It’s not you. I just… I need a second. That’s all.”

His mother’s words ring in your head again, “It’s so obvious you make him happy.”

Yet, you feel like the opposite is all you can see. You ask him to be your fake boyfriend to make your ex mad, not even considering his feelings. You tell him you can’t date him despite him treating you with more respect and care than Eunseok ever did. You let him kiss you. You kissed back.

Clearly, you have royally fucked up a few times now.

Confronting him about not telling his mother felt like it would only make things worse between the two of you. Maybe, it’d be better for him to hear it from his mother instead of you.

Your stomach twists, guilt gnawing at you even though his words tell you otherwise. You nod, unsure what else to say, and he offers a faint, almost apologetic smile before disappearing down the hall.

“And then what?” Belle questions with a vehemence that startles you slightly. Eunchae, Hiyyih, and Jongseob are all listening intently from their normal spots in your room, your oldest friend of the four standing with her hands on her hips.

When you had informed the group chat you were staying home the next day, you definitely did not expect the four to show up to your house after piling into an Uber. One look at your tear-streaked face was enough for them to ask the questions that brought you to now.

You stammer slightly, “He—He came back with the gift and made up an excuse to leave.”

“You let him leave?” Belle asks incredulously, and you shrink under her gaze, “Bitch.”

“I don’t know, okay!” You say with your face in your hands, frustrated tears burning your eyes again as you groan, “It’s all so complicated.”

Jongseob raises his hand, waiting for Belle to motion for him to speak before he asks, “Do you like him? Also, is this a bad time to say I have a joint in my bag?”

Eunchae punches his arm, and your hands slide off your face, mind too preoccupied by your current dilemma to even insult the only boy in the friend group for his lack of ability to read the room as usual. Hiyyih leans forward to let the youngest reach over her to get to him, “That was a good question until you ruined it.”

”Do you like him, though?” Eunchae asks once Jongseob’s arm is surely to bruise and his hands are up in surrender.

You look up from your hands, “I don’t know—“

“You’re pissing me off.” Belle sighs, palm moving to her forehead, and while you know she means well. “You like him.”

“I can’t.” You argue, voice shaking as you fight tears. Eunchae moves from her bean bag to sit next to you. “All that shit with Eunseok was barely a month ago—“

“Who gives a shit about Eunseok anymore?” Belle snaps, throwing her hands up in frustration, “Just because you dated that asshole for two years doesn’t mean it’ll take that long for you to move on.”

“It still feels like I’m using him.” You finally let the tears fall, and her frustration seems to dissipate. She sighs softly, kneeling in front of your sitting form at the edge of your bed.

Her hands move to cover yours, “Do you still have feelings for Eunseok?” The face you make answers her question and she adds, “Do you still think of Riki as a way to get back at him?”

“Of course not.“

“Then you aren’t using him.” She finishes. “He went into this knowing your plan, and you said he even told you it wasn’t you that was the problem.”

You shake your head, tears falling as you blink them away, “He looked upset—“

“Then that’s his problem.” She argues again, “It’s his job to communicate how he feels if he likes you.”

“He does communicate. I’m the issue!” You cry pitifully, “I don’t want him to think I’m not over Eunseok because—I’m still so angry.”

“He cheated on you with your best friend, you don’t have to forgive him to be able to move on to a healthy relationship.” She states.

“But it feels—“ You can’t find words for why it feels wrong to want to date Riki, because the thought of it makes your heart race, “I don’t know! I’ve known him for barely a month and I just—“

“You like him and feel like it’s not real because it happened too fast?” She reads you like a damn book, but you’re almost thankful for it.

“Yes!” You cry, “And he deserves better than that.”

“So, you like Riki?” She repeats her question, her tone matching yours.

You find yourself answering before you can even think, “Yes!”

Your stomach drops as Belle stands like her work here is done.

It isn’t you realizing you like Riki that has your stomach filling with dread and guilt, it's the fact that you like him more than you have ever liked anyone.

You liked Eunseok, even told him you loved him, but that seed hadn’t grown in your chest no matter how many times it left your mouth in the form of ‘I love you.’

Yet, you imagine yourself with Riki—loving him—and it all sounds so…easy. The mundanity you dreaded having to live with Eunseok sounded like a dream with Riki. Falling in love with him sounded like something you wouldn’t mind experiencing.

Which, all things considered, is fucking terrifying to you.

Hiyyih, who had been silently watching the interaction, pats the shoulder of the boy beside her, “I think she’s gonna need that joint now, Seob.”

The shaggy-haired producer straightens up, nodding and quickly reaching for his bag to pull the baggy from the front pocket.

Belle moves toward your closet, “Manchae, Hiyyih, help her wipe her face while I find her an outfit for the game tonight.”

Your eyes widen, and you shake your head in a panicked way that makes Belle grab your face in her hands, uncaring of the fact she’s squishing your cheeks, “Do you want Riki to be your boyfriend, yes or no?”

“Yes.”

“Then you are going to this game, and you are going to look hot.” She walks you through it like she’s talking to a child, “And when he scores the winning home run, you’re going to run onto that field and jump him, got it?”

Jongseob raises his hand again, though doesn't wait to be called on as he interjects, “Home runs are baseball—“

“That isn't the point, dipshit.” Eunchae sasses before turning her attention back to you, “Can I ask what the gift he got you was?”

You nod as Belle releases your face, sniffling softly as you hold up your hand to showcase the charm bracelet on your wrist. Two charms hang from it, your birthstone and a tiny lacrosse stick. “He said he got it before…everything happened.”

“He bought you a charm bracelet after a week of knowing you?” Jongseob asks in a suspicious tone, and when the three girls besides you shoot him a dirty look, he holds his hands up in surrender, “Sorry—it’s just I think I’ve…connected some dots.”

“You haven’t connected shit.” Eunchae says, before promptly adding, “I just wanted to say that, you can continue.”

Jongseob shoots her an annoyed look, before looking at you and beginning, “Well, I was talking to Soul the other day—y’know the one that goes to music club with me— and he said he and Riki were friends in Freshman year.”

His hesitant pause has you looking at him and saying, “What does that mean to me?”

He continues, “He mentioned him having a huge crush on a girl then—“

“Why would I want to know this, Seob?” You question with exasperation.

“Let me finish!” He insists, and you sigh, motioning for him to land the damn plane, “I did some digging—aka asking his teammates about it—and while most of them didn’t know or wouldn’t tell me, Jake kind of insinuated it was you.”

You blink, “How did he insinuate it was me?”

“Well, I asked him what he thought about your breakup and he got all weepy about it. Said he was rooting for you guys to be endgame.” Typical Jake. “Then, I mentioned you guys not knowing each other for long and it sounded like he almost said that Riki’s been into you for years.”

The four of you blink at the boy��s retelling of events, and Belle is the first to snap out of her surprise, “And why didn’t you tell us this when you found out?”

“You guys never let me talk. Plus, that seemed like the last thing she wanted to hear.” He argues, then motions to you, and none of the girls in the room can really argue back. He doesn’t seem all that bothered about the truth of his own statement, though, as he holds up the bagged joint once more. “Now, are we smoking this or not?”

Parking your car has never left you with such a dreadful feeling in your gut, which Jongseob swore a hit of his shitty joint would ease, yet all it did was jumble your thoughts more.

The temperature sensor reads a biting 30°F, and as you zip up the thick teddy puffer jacket you shiver with pure nerves. “Fuck.”

Flipping down the sun visor, you check your reflection in its mirror. The warm light reflects off the gloss on your lips, which you fuss over with the pad of your finger even though it’s as perfect as it was when you applied it.

Stalling. You’re stalling.

With a deep breath, you snap the visor shut and cut the engine, grabbing your purse and phone before stepping into the biting cold. The frigid air slashes through the layers of your outfit, your jacket doing little to stop the chill. You already regret picking the cuter option over something more practical, but you’d made your bed. Now you had to lie in it.

Ain't that the truth.

The field is already alive with movement and muted chatter. Teams are warming up, their voices cutting through the chilly air as balls thud against lacrosse sticks and cleats crunch on frosted grass. You can’t see Riki yet, but the sight of the players in their jerseys stirs the knot in your chest.

Decelis Demons v. YG Pirates

As you near the bleachers, a familiar voice calling your name stops you in your tracks.

“Over here!”

You turn, spotting Riki’s mom waving at you with a warm smile, flanked by two young girls bundled in matching puffer jackets. His sisters. The younger one is tugging impatiently at her scarf, while the older stands with her arms crossed, looking vaguely unimpressed by the entire ordeal.

“Mrs. Nishimura, hi!” you manage once you’ve climbed the bleachers to join her side, hoping your smile doesn’t betray the whirlwind of emotions brewing beneath the surface.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” she says, her voice as kind as you remember. “Riki didn’t mention anything, but I figured you’d be here for him.”

Your face heats at her words, but you force a nod, gripping the strap of your purse tighter and attempting to ignore the cold nipping at your fingers. “Of course, even if it's colder than a Yeti’s ass out here.”

You almost regret your colorful language before the older girl snorts softly, “Preach.”

Mrs. Nishimura chuckles, “It is freezing,” she agrees. “I told Riki he should’ve picked an indoor sport, but you know how stubborn he is.” She jests, and then proceeds to add, “Oh, and these are my daughters, Maki and Runa

You smile at the two of them, Maki’s a bit more subdued but Runa’s bright as she waves. At the mention of Riki, your eyes scan the field for a glimpse of his number. The players are still warming up, running drills and shouting plays back and forth.

And then you see him.

Riki stands near the goalpost, casually balancing his stick across his shoulders as he chats with a teammate. Even in the midst of the pregame chaos, he moves with the same effortless confidence that always draws attention, his tall frame impossible to miss.

The sight of him stirs something unfamiliar and electric in your chest. It’s not the usual comfort you’ve come to associate with him—it’s sharper, more restless, like an itch you can’t quite get to.

You tear your gaze away from him when you hear your name called once again, finding Gaeul quickly climbing the steps of the bleachers to get to you, her free gloved hand catching your arm happily, “I was hoping you’d be here!”

You smile, part of you relieved that she isn’t acting differently despite everything, and your eyes fall on the poster board in her other hand, “Is that for Jay?”

She follows your gaze and nods, unrolling it to reveal ‘Go Jay!’ with a big 19 under it, which you assume is his jersey number. The dark red sweatshirt under her puffer reads the same number as well. “Cute, right?”

“Very cute.” You reply with a soft laugh, smoothing a crease from the corner of the poster board as you add, “I’m sure he’ll love it.”

“He better,” Gaeul huffs in a mock seriousness, “M’freezing my ass off for him.”

Mrs. Nishimura, who seems to have been listening in from her spot beside you, chimes in with a knowing smile, “He still insists you come to every game?”

You momentary confusion is quickly shaken off as you remind yourself that Gaeul and Jay have been dating since sophomore year, of course Riki’s mom knows her, and the girl in question nods fondly, “He says I’m his good luck charm—“ She gasps, and you blink, “—I forgot to kiss him before I left earlier!”

Your brief panic induced by her gasp subsides as you giggle softly, “Oh, no!”

She playfully smacks your arm and grabs it, “You’re coming with me for that.”

Your laughter doesn’t subside, only grows, as she motions to the Nishimura’s that you’ll ‘be right back’ and begins tugging you along down the bleachers, “Where are we going?”

“To kiss my man.” She answers, but pauses in her step to look at you and clarify, “I’m kissing him, you…can kiss Riki.”

“I will not be doing that, but I respect the effort.”

She groans melodramatically as the both of you continue walking down the bleachers, “Aww, c’mon, you guys were so cute together!”

You thank the lord that it’s too loud for Rin and her daughters to hear the girl from this distance, both for your sake and Riki’s, but laugh softly, “I don’t think kissing him a week after breaking his heart is the right move to get him back.”

Gaeul pauses on the last step to look at you with an unhinged jaw as soon as you realize your mistake, opening your mouth to deny before the accusations leave her pink lips, “You want him back?”

Her words are shrill with excitement and you have the sudden urge to shrink into nothingness as you hover a cold shivering hand over her mouth and avoid the gazes of those around you both, “Bitch, shut up!”

She flattens her lips in an attempt to compose herself but fails to muffle the excited squeal and bounce of her gait as she tugs you down the side steps of the bleachers to get to the field.

The lacrosse field feels bigger up close, the expanse of frosted grass sprawling out under the big lights on either side of it. Gaeul marches ahead with purpose, her poster now tucked under her arm as she scans for Jay. You lag behind slightly, your thoughts still buzzing from the last few minutes.

“Gaeul, slow down,” you mutter, pulling your jacket tighter around yourself as the cold nips at your ears.

She ignores you, her focus locked on a cluster of players by the bench. You spot Jay among them, laughing at something one of his teammates says. Gaeul picks up her pace, her excitement palpable, leaving you to follow at a more hesitant shuffle.

You scan the group of players, not recognizing any of them as Riki. When you do find him, you exhale heavily at the sight of him deep in conversation with Jungkook, the coach clearly getting on his ass for something.

“Hey there,” a voice calls out, smooth and laced with a confidence that plants a murky feeling in your gut. You glance up to see a guy in a YG Pirates jersey standing in front of you, his helmet tucked under his arm and a cocky grin on his face. 32 is bold and dark green on his chest.

“Lost, sweetheart?” he asks, his tone dripping with mock concern.

You take a step back instinctively, your eyes narrowing. “Do I know you?”

He raises a brow, his grin widening as if you’ve said something amusing. “Feisty, huh? Just my type.”

Your stomach twists at his boldness, irritation bubbling under your skin. You glance over his shoulder, hoping to spot Gaeul, but she’s already halfway to Jay, oblivious to your predicament. “Ew,” you blanch curtly, trying to sidestep him, but he shifts to block your path again.

“C’mon, don’t be like that,” he presses, leaning in slightly. “I’m just trying to be friendly. What’s your name?”

Before you can muster a surely bitchy reply—or a curse—a presence appears behind you.

“I don’t think this is your side of the field,” a familiar voice cuts in, light yet edged with authority. You glance up to see Heeseung standing at your side now, his lacrosse stick casually balanced over his shoulder, his expression calm but his gaze sharp. “Can’t you tell by the colors, dude?”

The opposing player stiffens slightly, his grin faltering as he sizes up Heeseung. “Just talkin’, man,” he mutters, his tone defensive now.

Heeseung doesn’t flinch, his smile remaining intact as he tilts his head slightly. “Right. And now you’re done.”

The player hesitates for a moment before shrugging and backing away, muttering something under his breath as he turns and jogs off. Once he’s gone, Heeseung turns to you, his easy smile returning. “You good?”

You refuse to utter ‘that was hot,’ so you settle for a, “Yeah. Thanks for that, though.”

Heeseung shakes his head, “Nah, you had that handled.”

You barely miss a beat with your response, “Yeah, but it was sweet of you.”

He shrugs with his hand up and that same grin, “What can I say?”

You make a face, “Not that.“

He goes to defend himself, but Gaeul appears with smeared lipgloss and a pretty grin to happily say, “Coach is kicking us off the field.”

“Joyful.” You say with a playfully stiff smile that has Heeseung whining. A soft giggle from you has his frown turning into a grin again and he shoots you a salute.

“I’ll tell Riki you wished him good luck, ma’am.”

“Don’t get concussed, say that too.” You call back as Gaeul tugs you back toward the bleachers, poster under her arm creased. She’s beaming, and you giggle at her glowing smile, “I think I know what you and Jay got up to while I was harassed.”

Her smile drops as she gasps with concern, “Harassed? What happened?”

“It’s not that serious.” You quickly assure her, “Heeseung kinda scared him off, he was a guy on the YG team.”

“Ew.” She makes a face as you both arrive at the bleachers, and you nod.

“That’s what I said.”

As you both arrive back to your seats, and you gasp and happily accept a hot chocolate Rin had thoughtfully gotten for you with a sweet side hug. God you hope Riki still wants you and you can keep this saint of a woman in your life.

As if on cue, the referee blows a sharp whistle, and the players jog to their respective side of the field. Riki is dismissed by Jungkook and pulls his helmet from under his arm as the other members of the team crowd around the coach, his head turning just enough to scan the bleachers.

Your heart skips as his gaze locks onto yours for a fleeting moment.

He doesn’t smile, not exactly—but his expression softens, his eyes warming like he’s relieved to see you there. The corner of his mouth twitches just enough to feel like a secret, like something meant only for you.

And then he pulls his helmet over his head and focuses on Jungkook’s words, it almost feels like a shock to your system but the lingering warmth in your chest makes it hard to feel the cold anymore.

You watch the team huddle, Jungkook’s game face amusing enough to you that you snicker softly before your attention falls back to Riki. Heeseung, who if your memory serves you right is 01, catches Riki’s shoulder in a brotherly way.

Your brows furrow as you see Riki’s head tilt slightly at what Heeseung says, glancing in your direction and then the opposing teams, and you assume his eyes search for a jersey that reads 32.

The players move onto the field with another whistle, and you watch with dread as two opposing jerseys approach the center of the field. 10 and 32.

Now, you know very little about lacrosse despite it being your school’s biggest sport and your brother playing it, but you know that Riki is a midfielder. You know this through his excited play-by-plays of practice to you on the phone whenever he was finally out, as well as the basic knowledge of how a lacrosse game starts. Two midfielders wrestling for the ball.

It couldn’t be called wrestling, however. Riki swipes it barely millisecond after the ref blows his whistle, tossing the ball to 05.

You gasp softly as his shoulder slams into 32s chest hard enough to send him stumbling back, but his body moves quickly toward the opposing defense and away from the startled enemy. If you didn’t know any better you’d assume he was only doing so to keep him off Jake’s back. “Geez, what did you feed him?”

You ask Rin softly, eyes trained on her son and your brain attempting to wrap itself around the difference in his body language and…aggression on-field, when he had barely risen above a loud speaking volume in your presence. She chuckles, “Would you believe me if I said his diet largely consisted of taiyaki and ramen growing up?”

“No.” You awe at her words, eyes still on him but flitting to meet hers for a brief second, “That’s just unfair.”

“Tell me about it,” The elder of his sisters huffs, “I ate my vegetables and have glasses an inch thick, but he gets to eat sweets all his life and has perfect vision.”

“That’s your fathers genetics, not mine.” Rin clarifies, offering you an explanation like it’s second nature already, “That man can’t see something coming straight at his face until it’s already hit him.”

“My brother has horrible vision, too.” You snicker softly, your eyes rarely leaving Riki but only doing so to look between the three Nishimuras, “Refused to wear contacts, even for lacrosse.” You motion in the general direction of the field, and the older woman seems intrigued.

“Your brother plays?”

You shake your head with a soft laugh at your brother’s expense, “Not since highschool, and he was benched most games because he couldn’t see the ball,” your words have Rin laughing and Maki snorting, “plus he generally sucked. He really only joined because his friend was on the team.”

Jake scores a goal and the crowd around you goes wild with cheers, mainly higher in pitch. You let out a supportive cheer and immediately act like you didn’t when his helmeted head turns your way. You’re almost positive a shit-eating grin has formed behind his helmet.

The game continues, the scoreboard leaning toward Decelis’ victory as the first two quarters come to a close and half-time ensues.

“No.” You reject Gaeul’s suggestion almost as soon as it leaves her mouth.

“Aww, c’mon!” She whines, tugging your arm closest to her, “His face would be so funny!”

“He’s wearing a helmet, you can’t see his face. And it’s small enough for you to hold up by yourself.” You point at the poster-board in his hands, which she had happily held up for a good portion of the game until her arms got tired.

“But my arms are gonna fall off.” She groans melodramatically, “Please?”

“Buy me another cocoa and I’ll think about it.”

As half-time comes to a close, your right arm is screaming for relief while you hold your side of the poster up and nurse a cup of steaming cocoa in the other hand. Gaeul shamelessly screams in support of her boyfriend, who you see hunch over slightly like he’s holding back laughter of amusement.

Your hand feels like it’s about to fall off, and you curse yourself for refusing the mittens Eunchae had offered in favor of showing off your new nails. ‘They’re too pretty to cover up,’ you had whined, yet now you wouldn’t be surprised if your fingers started breaking off like a vampire’s from Twilight.

The scoreboard reads heavily in the home team’s favor, and you pray to every deity that the game finally ends for your arm’s sake (and your crippling anxiety). Though, watching Riki slice through YG’s defense and score points like they're nothing doesn’t look like it’ll be getting old for you anytime soon.

“You’re drooling.” Gaeul teases as you suck in a sharp breath at the sight of Riki once again shoulder 32 off balance, hard enough for him to fall onto his ass this time. Tensions are high as the time counts down, though part of you’s hoping this never ends.

“I don’t drool.” You retort in a soft grumble, yet you rub the side of your wrist over the corners of your mouth self-consciously. “I’m a fucking lady.”

“Right…” Gaeul agrees with playful doubt in her tone that’s punctuated by giggles as you playfully shove her shoulder.

The final whistle slices through the winter air as Riki launches the ball into the goal, accompanied by an uproar of cheers and groans from the crowd. Decelis has won, 12-7, the scoreboard glowing with the decisive win. The players pour onto the field, some celebrating, others trudging off in defeat. Your eyes dart instinctively toward Riki, helmet under his arm, hair damp with sweat as he exchanges fist bumps and quick words with his teammates. The way his expression softens to a grin when Jake slings an arm around his shoulders makes your stomach twist.

You clutch your empty cocoa cup, suddenly desperate to find a reason to approach him. Before you can muster up a plan, the chaos swallows him—players crowding, parents flooding in from the sidelines, and Gaeul’s excited tug on your sleeve pulling you back to the moment.

“Let’s go find Jay!” she beams, and you immediately look toward Rin, Maki, and Runa.

The woman smiles warmly and pats your shoulder, “We always wait in the parking lot for him. You two can have a moment.”

Gaeul is dragging you down the bleachers the moment you softly thank the woman. Your heart thrums as you scan the chaos for Riki, but he’s nowhere to be found. Gaeul bounces ahead, her attention locked on her boyfriend.

Her hand slips from your arm as you’re both swept into the excitement, and her curls disappear in the crowd.

The field feels like a warzone, buzzing with shouts, laughter, and the rhythmic stomp of cleats against frozen grass. You’re jostled in every direction, bodies pressing and colliding as parents swarm to congratulate their kids, and the players themselves disappear into the fray. Your fingers curl around the half-empty cocoa cup as if it might ground you, your pulse hammering in your ears.

Where is he?

You catch glimpses of Riki’s teammates—Jake’s unmistakable blonde head bobbing as he jokes with Heeseung, Sunghoon hoisted onto someone’s shoulders—but Riki remains elusive, swallowed by the tide of bodies.

“Riki!” His name slips out, barely audible over the noise, and you feel a flush creep up your neck. What are you even doing? Someone brushes past you, hard enough to make you stumble. “Watch it,” you mutter, turning to see a player in a YG jersey, helmet off and grin too familiar.

32.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just gives you a once-over that makes your skin crawl. His shoulder brushes yours again as he angles toward you, his smirk sharper now. “Didn’t think I’d see you again,” he drawls, voice low enough that it’s almost lost in the noise.

You make a face of disdain, like speaking to him both disgusts you and is beneath you, “Is that supposed to be cute?”

“C’mon,” He says, tone dripping with what you assume is his attempt at charm, “Don’t be like that. You’ve been watchin’ me the whole game.”

“I don’t even know you.” You respond with the same look on your face that reads you’d rather be anywhere else than where you are, listening to him.

He steps closer, undeterred by your tone and clear disgust, “That can be remedied,” His voice is low, and you see his hand move from his side to reach for your waist.

Your anger takes over your motor control, and the half-empty, long chilled cocoa in your hand splatters over the front of his jersey, “Don’t fucking touch me.”

The cocoa splashes onto his jersey in a satisfying arc, the dark liquid seeping into the white fabric. His grin falters for a moment, replaced by a stunned look that quickly twists into irritation. “Are you fucking serious?” he snaps, brushing at the stain, but it’s a futile effort.

“Yeah, I’m fucking serious,” You retort, mirroring his tone, “Who the fuck told you that you could fucking touch me?”

The players around you have started to notice the commotion, a few stopping to watch as Number 32 bites back, “You’re not even worth half of what that bitch offered me.”

If what boiled within you was anger, then what it morphs into at the player’s statement must be seething fury, “Excuse me?”

“What’s goin’ on here?” A hand clasps over your shoulder but the voice calms any volatile reaction brewing in your gut, Jungkook stepping between you and the YG player.

Jungkook’s presence immediately shifts the energy around you. His broad frame looms between you and Number 32, the way his body blocks out the other player like a wall of stone, calm yet unyielding. The cocky grin fades from the YG player’s face as he holds up his hands in mock surrender, shooting a glare at Jungkook.

Jungkook doesn’t even glance at the YG player, his focus entirely on you as he steps closer, his gaze softening slightly when he sees the tension in your shoulders and the shift in your jaw. “You okay?” he asks, his voice surprisingly gentle in the midst of the chaos.

You nod, even though the heat of anger still lingers in your chest. “I’m fine,” you say, but your voice shakes just enough that Jungkook catches it.

His eyes flick briefly to the YG player, who’s clearly not in the mood to test Jungkook’s patience any further. “Walk with me,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. You want to protest, to stay and search for Riki, but something about the way Jungkook stands there—tall, unshakable—tells you it’s not worth resisting.

He guides you through the crowd and off the field with his hands on your shoulders. When the two of you arrive at the edge of the field where the bleachers drop off and the parking lot comes into view, he releases you. “Do I need to go talk to that kid’s coach? Or parents?”

“No, I think the shit-colored stain on his jersey says enough.” You retort swiftly, the implications of his words stick with you, though. ‘You’re not even worth half of what that bitch offered me.’

It isn’t as if you woke up yesterday, you know he’s talking about Nayeon. Whether it be some kind of intuition or you’re just that fucking familiar with her thought process from years of what you had thought was friendship, you know it.

“Hey.” Jungkook’s gruff but somewhat gentle call snaps you out of your stewing, and you blink at him, “Don’t do anything I’m gonna hear about, okay?”

Your immature response is interrupted by the loud cheers and chatter morphing into shouts and hollers of a more alarmed tone that has the both of you looking in the direction of the field. Jungkook doesn't seem eager to let you involve yourself in whatever it is that’s going down on the field, you know this because he’s shooing you off toward your car in a dismissive but authoritative tone.

If you cared at all about anything except beating Nayeon’s face in at the moment you would be protesting and following after him as he jogs toward the commotion, but you don’t. Instead, you walk to your car, toss your Prada bag into the passenger seat as it begins to warm up, and plot.

Watching your friend group’s grins fall while learning that you did not, in fact, kiss Riki after the game but left without even speaking to him in a fit of blind rage was not how you wanted to start your weekend. You blame their soured moods for the fact that all four of them were avidly against your plan to beat Nayeon’s face in the next time you see her, but begrudgingly decided to not jump to conclusions.

The only proof you have that Nayeon was the one to sic that cretin on you may be his words, which aren’t worth much, but you refuse to believe anything else.

Monday arrives with not a singular text or call from Riki, and while Belle has already talked you off of the metaphorical ledge about it, you feel the urge to disappear off the face of the Earth every time you imagine seeing him again after leaving the game he asked you to attend without so much as a word.

Part of you figures the silence on his end is payback, or him deciding to finally let his alleged crush on you go. The other part of you really hopes he was just busy.

Jake is…silent in your second period. Not that you’d mind the silence on any other day, but it’s definitely not normal. Well, he’s silent until he catches sight of the charm bracelet on your wrist as it clinks softly on the desk. His grin is back in seconds and he takes his phone out.

“Want a picture?” You offer sarcastically. When Jake eagerly nods and holds his phone up for the picture, you shoot it a mock smile and manicured middle finger as your charm bracelet catches the light above.

With giddy giggles, Jake takes the photo and practically bounces in his seat in joy as he taps his thumbs on his screen hastily. You’re rolling your eyes and looking down at your worksheet when he asks, “Wanna know who I’m texting?”

“If I wanted to know I’d ask.” You respond swiftly, tapping the eraser-end of your pencil on the desk absentmindedly.

“It’s Riki.” He states with a smugness that pisses you off.

Looking up from the paper, you raise your brows, “Okay?”

“He needed proof,” He adds on with his arms crossed as he leans back in his seat, “Wanna know why?”

“I feel like you’re gonna tell me anyway.”

He’s still smirking as he proves you right, “He thinks you hate him.”

You blink, annoyed nonchalance pushed aside by genuine confusion, “Why would he think that?”

Jake shrugs, though his face seems anything but clueless and you hate that he knows more than you do, “Maybe ‘cause you left the game without saying anything to him.”

“Jungkook made me get off the field.”

“You could’ve waited with his family in the parking lot.”

“Well, I didn’t.” You snap, growing frustrated with the conversation despite it being your own damn fault, “Why are you telling me this, Jake?”

“‘Cause he’s my friend and he’s been miserable.”

“Then he should talk to me.” You retort with a sigh, guilt filling your gut despite your defensive words, and he tilts his head with a nod of agreement, “If I hated him he’d know. I don’t exactly keep that shit a secret.”

Jake, who had bore witness to your fight with Jaclyn Delvacchio in junior year, hums, “Well, can you do us all a favor and talk to him, please?”

“We have fifth period, I’m not gonna ignore him for an hour when he sits next to me.” You roll your eyes and focus back down at your worksheet.

By the time the bell rings, you’re halfway between plotting your own demise and debating if you should actually try to talk to Riki. The idea makes your stomach twist. What if Jake was wrong, and Riki doesn’t want to hear from you? What if your silence solidified something in him—pushed him away for good?

But then you remember how he smiled at you that day in the hallway, the soft tug of his lips like he couldn’t stop himself, and how his eyes lit up when you agreed to come to the bowling date. You remember the way his voice faltered ever-so-slightly when he asked you, like he was bracing himself for rejection but couldn’t bear not to try.

The thought makes your stomach hurt and your chest heavy, and you realize something that makes you want to kick yourself: you don’t want to lose that. You don’t want to lose him.

Yet, you so easily brushed him aside in your list of priorities to stew in your anger about someone who shouldn’t even be a thought in your mind at this point.

You screwed up. Again.

At this point, you feel like you’re winning the losing game. Not only do you hate losing, but you hate the feeling in your chest and gut that makes you want to go home and rot until Riki forgets you ever existed. Belle’s voice screams in your head to talk to him, to make the effort to speak to him and throw away your pride.

So, instead of staying in your old Latin teacher’s class for fourth period grading papers, you persuade her to let you spend your fourth period ‘at lunch with your friends’.

Your friends all share the same lunch period; sixth, when you’ve already gone home. So you lied, yes.

But Riki has fourth period lunch.

You slip through the cafeteria doors, the clang of trays and the murmur of conversation fading as you scan the room for him. The place is packed, and your heart beats louder than the chatter around you. It’s ridiculous—Riki isn’t hard to find. But your anxiety builds anyway, sending a slight tremble through your hands.

You spot him by the window, his profile framed by sunlight, his usual quiet demeanor marking him as an island in the chaos of the cafeteria. His friends surround him, but they’re not your focus. Your eyes zero in on him, his long sleeves pulled up to his elbows, his hair messy and covering his forehead like he didn’t feel like styling it this morning, the rings on his hands that glint in the cafeteria light.

But before you can make your way over, the sound of a voice you loathe cuts through the air, sharper than glass.

“A couple hundred bucks and he was practically my dog.” Nayeon muses at the two girls you barely recognize that sit across from her at a table not far from you, “Sucks that he failed, though. Would have spent my money on someone else.”

“So you…had him hit on her?” The girl on the left asks, a bit confused as she exchanges a look with the girl beside her.

Nayeon seems eager to relay the details, “I told him she liked playing hard to get,” She shrugs disinterested, yet you see a sliver of the smirk on her face from your angle, “made him all the more eager to knock her down a peg.”

The two girls seem peeved by what she says, like any sane person would be, but anything either wants to say dies on their tongue as they catch sight of you. “Girl…”

One trails off as you begin your approach, the same lightness in your gut that has your vision clouded with seething fury.

She looks over her shoulder just enough for you to see her smirk drop into wide-eyed fear.

Your hand catches the back of her head, slamming the side of her face into the table with little care for the eyes that immediately find you, “Sorry, I didn’t hear you, bitch. What was that?” There’s ‘ooo’s and ‘oh shit’s from the wuickly forming crowd as you pull her up by her hair, launching the flailing girl onto the ground. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

She scrambles off the ground, immediately getting in your face as she hisses, “You don’t deserve him.”

“Oh, fuck you.” You curse as your hand meets her face, and she shrieks as her head snaps to side.

Nayeon recoils for a moment, eyes wide with shock, but the anger on her face quickly replaces any hesitation. "You think I'm scared of you?" She spits, moving toward you with a snarl. She may not have expected this, but now that it's happening, she seems desperate to prove herself.

Grabbing her by the shoulders, you shove her into one of the metal chairs, the clattering sound of it screeching across the floor as she stumbles backward. The two girls hasten to get out of the way, faces a mix of fear and ‘oh shit’.

Nayeon picks herself up with blind fury guiding her actions, hands flying out as she lunges forward to shove you back. Your hands grasp her hair again, and the crowd surrounding the scene roars.

Her nails claw at your wrist as you yank her forward. She’s small, but her anger makes her stronger than she has any right to be. The fight is a mess of hair pulling and shoving, curses from you and shrieks from her.

You shove her hard into the table again, the force sending a tray of half-eaten food crashing to the floor, and the crowd goes wild, hooting and cheering. The heat in your chest ignites with every movement. The adrenaline rush is undeniable.

Nayeon's attempts to push you back only seem to fuel your anger further. Her breath is ragged, and you can practically taste the bitterness she's been carrying since the moment you stepped into her world. Every movement of hers is desperate, like she's trying to claw her way back to a victory she's long since lost.

"Get the fuck off me!" she yells, her voice barely audible over the chaos. But you don't listen. You slam her against the chair again, hard enough that she falls onto her ass, eyes wide with disbelief. Nayeon's face contorts in pure anger as you approach again, her hands flying up in a futile attempt to strike you. Her nails scratch at your arms, but the pain barely registers.

But then, someone grabs your waist, lifting you off the ground effortlessly. The world tilts as you're pulled off of Nayeon, feet leaving the ground. For the split second that you’re struggling against them, thinking it’s one of her friends or a teacher, you curse at them too.

Then the cologne hits your nose and the voice hits your ears, “Alright, that’s enough, pretty girl.”

Your heart stutters in your chest as Riki’s voice cuts through the frenzy, low and soft in your ear, but with a sharp edge of firmness that you’ve never heard from him before. His grip on you doesn’t waver, and despite the anger still coursing through your veins, you freeze for a second, thrown off by the ease he had pulling you off of that traitorous bitch—who’s being held back by Jake and Jungwon.

“Skank!” Nayeon shrieks, clawing at Jake and Jungwon’s arms that keep her from lunging at you again.

Any calm that Riki’s presence brought you is washed away, but he pulls you back by the waist as you move to have a go at Nayeon again. His arms wrapping around you to keep your arms at your sides as you bite back, “Says you, bitch.”

“Easy, easy,” He eases, your back hitting his chest as your jerky and angry movements force him to pick you up again, “Cool it, baby. You got her good.”

“Get her out of here before the teachers get here,” Heeseung orders in a hushed tone as the other members of the lacrosse team grab at phones and shove the crowd back.

“I’m not—hey!” Your defiant statement is interrupted by the arm around your waist tightening and your feet lifting off the floor once more. “Riki!”

“I know, I know.” Riki’s hold is firm as you struggle weakly against him, his voice deep and low like he’s easing a wild animal, his touch warm. You can’t bring yourself to fight back the way you did with Nayeon as he walks you out of the cafeteria building. His presence, the warmth of his chest against your back, it all has your defense mechanisms easing up and your anger softening to a low simmer.

When he finally sets you back down, the cool chill of the air eased only by the sunlight hitting the two of you, you turn to face him with a charged glare, “I can walk.”

He holds his hands up in good faith, or maybe an attempt to calm you down, “I know, baby.”

“And she deserved that.”

“I know, baby.”

The way he repeats himself so softly, how he’s letting you take out the remnants of your anger on him, it only makes the ache in your chest worsen. You exhale sharply, “Stop that.”

“Okay.” He says, voice soft but no pain or hurt to be detected in his voice, only in his eyes.

Your own sting almost automatically with both frustration and anger at yourself and no one else, “No, not—“ Taking a deep breath, your hands move to your face, “This is all wrong.”

“What is?” You try not to notice how he doesn’t attach ‘pretty girl’ or ‘baby’ to the end of his question. You fail.

“Everything.” You mutter, exhaling another soft, “Fuck.”

“You’re bleeding.” He points out, his hands pulling yours from your face to examine the scratches up your arms.

“Nails are intact, though.” You mumble softly, trying to make yourself feel better. Riki looks at you in slight disapproval, brows furrowing, and you add, “I’m okay.”

He sighs, shaking his head, “There’s a first-aid kit in the locker room, let me clean you up.”

“Ew, I’m not going into the boys locker room.” You reject his offer with an obstinance that would usually amuse him, yet he shows a sliver of frustration in his body language. “And I told you, I’m fine.”

“Okay, you can either walk or I can carry you.”

“As if.”

Your challenge is met with him raising his eyebrows and lunging for you a second later. You flinch and swat at his hands, “Okay, fine!” He pulls back again with a ‘that’s what i thought’ look, “I’ll walk.” you add with a defiant ‘hmph’ as you walk past him.

He doesn’t press the issue, following you towards the athletics building and holding the door open for you to enter first, to your utter fury of course. Stupid boys. Stupid emotions.

When you find the boys locker room, you pause as he pushes the door open, “I’m not going in there.”

He sighs with a nod like he expected as such, “I’ll be right back, stay here.”

You sigh and cross your arms, rolling your eyes and leaning back against the wall across the locker room entrance.

Riki returns with a first aid kit and his hoodie, “Let’s go to the bleachers, no one’s got practice today.” You assume the hoodie is for you, and you’re proved correct when he tosses it into your face and snickers when you curse at him. “C’mon.”

You begrudgingly walk with him out of the athletics building to the school field not a far walk from the entrance.

You hear the bell ring from where you sit on the bleachers minutes later as your chilled fingers are tended to by the lacrosse player, “You’ll be late, you know.”

“We’ll both be. It’s fifth period now.” He states as he delicately cleans the raw skin streaking up your wrist with an alcohol wipe.

“Ow.” You mumble, and he tsks with a growing smile.

“Don’t be a baby.” He teases, and you mock his words in a higher pitched voice back to him.

“Fuck you.”

He snickers softly, gently rotating your hand in his to clean the visible lines tainting the delicate flesh, “Baby.”

His statement isn’t the beckon or fond coo you wish it’d be, but it causes flutters in your gut all the same. You mock him again and he huffs softly in amusement, refraining from continuing the back and forth to focus on your scratched up wrists and forearms.

As he moves to your right hand, his touch lingers on the charm bracelet hanging off your wrist as he dabs at the skin. The metal chain catches the sunlight, twinkling faintly against your wrist as Riki pauses. His thumb brushes over one of the charms absentmindedly before he speaks, voice softer than you expected. “You’re wearing it.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” you reply, trying to sound casual despite the way your pulse stutters. His touch, even as fleeting as it is, sends a warm shiver through you.

“I just…” he trails off, dark eyes flicking up to meet yours briefly, his gaze filled with something tender. “I wasn’t sure if it was your style.”

“Why’s that?” You ask with a slight furrow of your brows, and he snickers softly.

“I’m sure it’s not the luxury you’re accustomed to.”

“Everything I wear isn’t expensive. I’m not a snob.” You huff in slight offense, though he finds it amusing.

“Never said you were a snob, princess.” He clarifies, discarding the alcohol wipe to grab the ointment from the kit, “Nothing wrong with being spoiled.”

“I’m not—“ you go to argue, but the amusement on his face has the words dying on your tongue as you look away from him, “You’re such an ass.”

“Aww, I’m wounded.” He pouts softly, before it turns into that pretty smile again and he laughs softly, “It looks good on you.”

It takes a half-second for you to remember he’s talking about the bracelet, and your instinctive reply comes in the form of a weak, “Fuck off.”

His head falls forward as he laughs at your weakly aggressive statement. His touch is still gentle as he continues, hands unbelievably warm around yours. How unfair.

“Your hands are freezing.” He states softly, tube of ointment placed aside in favor of engulfing your hands in his. You watch him rub at them, your nails clicking against his rings with every movement until they catch his attention, “These are nice.”

“I know.”

He huffs in amusement, biting his bottom lip before he says, “‘Course you do.”

The tension between the two of you shifts, delicate and tenuous, like a thread stretched too tight. Riki’s touch is warm and steady, and you hate how easy it would be to let yourself relax into it. His thumbs keep brushing over your knuckles, slow and deliberate, and your chest tightens with every pass.

You clear your throat, trying to focus anywhere but his hands, but when you look up, his gaze is already on you. It’s not intense, exactly. Not piercing or overwhelming. Just…soft. Patient, even. The kind of look that has your fight or flight instincts kicking in to protect the

“What?” you snap, defensive and unsure, your voice sharper than you mean for it to be. You regret it instantly when his brow furrows slightly, though his hands don’t pull away.

“Nothing,” he replies softly, his voice steady. “Just glad you’re okay.”

The simplicity of it almost knocks the wind out of you. You blink, trying to find a reply that won’t give you away, but the words stick in your throat. All you can manage is a mumbled, “I told you, I’m fine.”

“Yeah,” he says, his tone carrying a gentleness that makes you ache. “But I worry about you anyway.”

You don’t know what to do with that—how to handle the sincerity in his voice or the way his touch lingers like he’s afraid to let go. It feels like too much and not enough all at once.

“You shouldn’t,” you mutter, trying to pull your hands back, but he holds them lightly, just enough to keep you there without forcing you.

“Can’t really help it, pretty girl.” His lips curve into a faint smile, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Especially when you’re getting into fights.”

Your stomach twists, a cocktail of guilt and frustration bubbling to the surface. You want to tell him it wasn’t just a fight. That it was Nayeon, that she deserved it, that you were defending yourself in more ways than one. But that isn’t the truth, is it? Not really.

“I—” You start, then stop, swallowing down the lump rising in your throat. “I don’t—” Your voice wavers, and you hate it. “Riki, I can’t—I’m not good at this.”

“At what?” his hands grasp yours tighter as he leans forward with his gaze so…so attentive.

“This.” You motion vaguely between the two of you, trying to not cry in front of him. You’re failing horribly. “Us. You. Me. God, fuck.”

“Talk to me, pretty girl.” He pleas softly, and your chest feels as warm as your hands are in his.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” You exhale, head dropping back in an attempt to keep your frustrated tears from falling, “And I keep fucking up everything good in my life, and I just—“

His neck cranes slightly to meet your gaze as you avert it to his hands around yours, waiting for you to continue. Listening.

You take a deep breath, “I like you, I really do,” his thumbs slow to a stop against your knuckles, but you don’t look at him, “and you’re so—perfect and I’m not—“

“Don’t say that—“

“I’m not.” You insist, and one of his hands moves to your cheek as you continue, thumb gently wiping away a stray tear, “I’m…messy and mean-“

“I don’t care about that.” He argues gently, but you’re not done.

“-and I can’t even handle my own shit in a mature way so why should I be able to give you anything better—“

You don’t get to finish as his lips press against yours, cutting off your spiraling words with a kiss so sudden and deliberate it steals every thought from your head.

His hand on your cheek tilts your head up toward him, his other remains holding yours. It’s not a hesitant kiss. There’s nothing unsure or tentative about it, not like the first one he gave you. He isn’t suffocating you, or doing anything more than moving his lips against yours like it’s all he’s wanted to do for years but knows to take his time savoring it instead of rushing in with teeth and tongue.

All you know is that you’re leaning into him, your anger, frustration, and self-doubt melting away under the weight of his touch. It’s a good kiss—better than good. It’s consuming, overwhelming, and entirely too much, yet you feel like more wouldn’t be all that bad.

When he pulls back it isn’t far, his forehead resting against yours. You’re breathless, your lips tingling in the aftermath and brain foggier than you’d like to admit. His nose brushes against your as he says, “I don’t care about any of that,” his voice is low and hoarse, “I just want you.”

You exhale shakily, feeling his words hit you lips, “Riki—“

“I’ll wait.” He promises softly, a hint of desperation in his words that has something in your gut fluttering, “However long it takes for you to be ready, I’ll wait.”

Your eyes flutter shut as you shake your head weakly, looking down at your lap. “That’s not fair to you.”

“I don’t care about fair, pretty girl.” He responds with a slight smile, hand moving from your cheek to tilt your chin up and make you look at him. His gaze flits between your eyes and lingers below your nose, a pattern that mirrors your own. “I can wait.”

His words are soft, spoken like an oath as his eyes find your lips again and decide to stay there a while.

“Why?” You ask, barely a whisper.

Riki lifts his gaze to look you in the eyes, a soft smile on his lips as he says, “‘Cause I like you more.”

You roll your eyes, “Is it a competition?”

He hums low, as if apprehensive, “Not much of one.” Your jaw drops slightly as if offended and he laughs softly, “I mean, I have you completely outmatched, pretty girl.”

“Oh, yeah?” You challenge with a slight laugh, “How so?”

He shifts closer as he hums again in thought, “Well, you’ve liked me for how long? A few weeks?” The question is more of a statement, and he seems unbothered by the short time-span with the smile on his face, “Yeah, I’ve got you beat.”

“You didn’t know me until recently, so it doesn’t count.” You argue with defiance, and he raises his brows.

“Are you invalidating my feelings for you right now?” He asks in a mock-offended tone, hand moving to his chest.

You scoff with playful annoyance, looking away from him briefly before your gaze finds him all over again, like a moth to a flame, “How long?”

His smile turns shier, and he chuckles awkwardly, “Nah, it’s not a competition. You’re right.”

“Nuh-uh, you started it,” You laugh, shoving his sturdy chest weakly, “C’mon, I already know. I just wanna hear it.”

Your smug words paired with the shrug you give have his eyes narrowing, “You know?”

You nod, “Jake ratted you out.”

Riki’s eyes widen slightly and he groans, head dropping forward in embarrassment, “I’m gonna kill him.”

Riki lifts his head, still chuckling under his breath as he finally relents, “Alright, fine.” His eyes meet yours again, warm and steady, even as a blush creeps across his cheeks and ears. “Since freshman year. Happy now?”

Despite you being the one to force it out of him, you hold back the urge to giggle and turn away from him. “Very.” You answer with a slightly blissful grin on your face.

“You gonna hold that over my head?” He asks playfully, leaning closer like he wants to kiss you again.

You fight every impulse telling you to close the distance yourself, but let your eyes move between his eyes and smirking lips freely, “I might.”

“Yeah?” He jests softly.

You hum, deciding to be a little mean. “I could also hold over your head that your mom still thinks we’re dating.”

His eyes shut and the hand creeping towards yours again freezes. His head falls forward and you panic for a moment thinking you went too far before you realize his shoulders are shaking and you can hear soft wheezing. “You’re mean.”

His muffled whine makes you snicker gleefully, and you add, “She said I’m good for you.”

You don’t realize the joy behind those words until he raises his head with a teasing but genuine (and flirty) grin on his face as he asks, “You’re happy about that, huh baby?”

You find yourself teasing him back instead of getting hostile at his flirty tone, probably due to the boost he gave your ego, “Mmm, not as happy as you seem to be with me as your girlfriend. According to your mom, anyway.”

Before he can reply, a familiar voice cuts through the moment.

“Nishimura.”

Both of you whip your heads toward the source of the sound. Standing at the bottom of the bleachers with his arms crossed and an exasperated expression is Jungkook. He’s wearing a hoodie and joggers, looking like he just came from the gym with his curls in a bun, but his sharp eyes land squarely on Riki first, then shift to you.

“What the hell are you two doing up there?” Jungkook asks, though there’s no real heat in his tone.

Riki straightens up, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “Just…taking care of something, Coach.”

Jungkook’s brows rise, and he gestures toward the field. “And why aren’t you in class?”

“I—uh—” Riki stammers before Jungkook waves a hand dismissively.

“Save it. I don’t need the whole story. Just get your ass to class before I have you running suicides until next week.” His gaze softens slightly as it flicks to you. “And you? ”

You shrink a little under his stare, mumbling, “I wasn’t feeling well.”

Jungkook lets out a long sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You—” He shakes his head before gesturing toward the parking lot. “Go home, kid. And no more fights, please—or distracting my team.”

“Alright, alright,” you mumble as you stand. You glance at Riki, who’s already grinning like this whole thing is hilarious, and shoot him a glare. “Stop smiling, you ass.”

Riki just snickers, his grin growing wider as he stands. “I’ll walk you to your car, pretty girl.”

Jungkook shakes his head, muttering something about teenagers and their hormones. “She can walk herself, get to class.”

Any complaint Riki wants to make is silenced by the pointed finger Jungkook sends him, and he sighs. Your cheeks burn as he leans down to press a kiss to one of them with a soft, “See you later, pretty girl.”

Riki averts his eyes from Jungkook’s judgmental gaze as his star midfielder jogs down the bleacher steps, offering a respectful bow of his head as he passes.

Jungkook then looks over at you, and you’re already arguing, “I have to get my bag from my locker.”

He deadpans, clearly unimpressed as he says, “Ask one of your friends to get it for you.”

Unable to argue with his reasoning, you let out a soft huff and begin patting your pockets for your phone. A relieved sigh escapes your gloss-smudged lips when your fingers brush against the device through a layer of fabric. Silently, you thank whichever of your spirit guides prompted you to button your back pocket before entering the cafeteria.

You suddenly remember another reason to stay a bit longer, “My keys are in my bag!”

Jungkook sighs, “If I see you in the halls in 10 minutes you’re getting banned from my field.”

You grin, bouncing down the steps with a happy, “Thanks, Coach Jeon.”

He makes a face of disgust, hand gently pushing the side of your head as you walk by, “Get out of here.”

It’s almost laughable how quickly the situation disappears, like it never happened. No one snitches—not one person. Even the crowd of students who saw everything miraculously forget when teachers start asking questions. It’s the lacrosse team who spins the story, their collective loyalty so seamless you almost believe they rehearsed it. Nayeon threw the first punch, they all swear. You didn’t fight back. You defended yourself.

The only video evidence of the fight are clips of Nayeon lunging for you and blurry photos, another thing you’re sure the lacrosse team took care of, so the school really have nothing to go off of. By the time the dust settles, it’s like the cafeteria incident is just another school rumor, one of those things everyone knows happened yet every retelling of events sounds skewed in some way.

Your mother hadn’t been informed by the school of the issue, thankfully, but you had endured a scathing voicemail from your father about the ‘stunt’ you pulled with Eunseok’s ‘bright and good’ girlfriend while eating Chinese takeout with Belle Tuesday night. She sat there munching on an eggroll and snatching small pieces of your sweet-fire chicken while your father’s angry ramble drew on and on for a few long minutes before he ended it with a, ‘call me back.’ The laughing fit you and Belle had over that one has become a bit of an inside joke now.

Thursday evening finds you in the kitchen of your home following your Aunt’s slutty brownie recipe with Riki on FaceTime propped up against the egg carton. “Butter, butter, butter…” You mumble to yourself as you reach for the ingredient, making a face as some of the softened dairy gets on your thumb. Riki, who had been silently observing you through the screen, snickers softly. You send a pointed look to the camera, “Don’t laugh at me.”

“M’not, you're just cute.”

“Fuck you.” You lose the fight against the smile forming on your face as you unfold the waxy wrapping of the butter and tip it into the mixing bowl, “I’m always cute.”

He only hums low with that same smirk on his face as he rests his chin on his arm, watching you switch on the mixer and grab a brownie pan from the cabinet beside the stove. A beat passes and he asks, “You don’t have to, you know?”

You glance away from pressing your knuckles into the cookie dough to flatten it along the bottom of the greased pan, “I know, but I don’t want your friends to have anything over me.”

Your joke is received with a soft laugh, “I wouldn’t let them hold it over you.”

“While I would like to see that, this is much easier.” You dismiss as you move to the sink to wash your hands and grab the pack of oreos. “Plus, Jungkook loves slutty brownies so maybe he’ll take the stick out of his ass if he gets one.”

Riki snorts softly on the other end, his bangs messily covering his forehead and eyes, “It’s game day, I don’t think the stick will come out.”

You hum in defeat, shrugging slightly as you begin to place the layer of oreos into the pan, “A sweet treat for good graces then.”

Once you finish the layer of oreos, pour the brownie batter over it, and stick it in the oven, you sigh loudly. Fanning yourself and pulling your hair off your neck as you move toward your phone to grab it. “Jesus Christ, it’s hot.”

“It’s 30° outside.”

“I’m not outside, I’m inside.” You sass with a ‘duh’ look on your face as you hold the phone angled up at your face as you walk toward the living room. “And how dare you try to contradict me.”

“Sorry, pretty girl. It won’t happen again.” He responds after a light chuckle.

You feign another roll of your eyes as you fail to fight the smile growing on your lips once again. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

The next morning, you arrive at school earlier than you’d like—especially with how fucking cold it is. Still, you look cute and feel it too, with a new lip gloss on your lips and a pair of pearls on your ears to match the ones on your eyes.

Exiting your car, you hasten your trek to the field. The bags rustle at your sides as you chant a soft tune of “I’m so fucking cold” under your breath. Your hands are, once again, not protected by gloves as you so vehemently refuse to cover up Julie’s masterpiece. She was very pleased that her hard work stayed intact during the fight, but recommended you treat your hands with care if you want them to last as long as they usually do.

Jungkook notices your approach, tipped off by the high-pitched shiver that escapes your lips as you finally arrive on the field—a sound that doesn’t go unnoticed by the rest of the team either. They seem to all slowly get distracted by your figure’s approach, eyes drawn to either the bags at your sides or cute way you’re walking in the cold.

“What are you doing?” Jungkook snaps in annoyance, his tone almost dismissive.

“Jesus Christ, this violates the Geneva Conventions in some way, I'm sure.” You huff softly, holding up the bags as you arrive at his side, “I made slutty brownies.”

Jungkook’s frown softens as the team parrots your words hopefully, and he then barks, “Single file, maggots.”

You’re almost too cold to enjoy the spectacle the team provides racing to get first in line, yet keeping a respectful distance ahead of you. You snicker softly as you set the bags down, bending with a shiver to grab them to pass out before the one in front of the line protests.

“You’re cold?” Kai asks with worry from the front of the line, and the one behind him, Taehyun, steps out of line with his arms held out.

“I’ll pass them out, you need to warm up.” He fusses with a slight scolding tone, “There are hot-packs over there.” He cocks his head toward the bleachers as he takes your place in front of the bags.

You’re left standing there in confusion as Taehyun takes over your current job, walking towards the bleachers in search of the stated hotpacks before a warm object is pressed to your cheek and you startle.

Riki snickers softly as you look at him in disgust before realizing it’s him, and your face softens to an eyeroll with a soft ‘fuck off’ muttered under your breath. You move to grab the hotpack from him, but he cheekily holds it out of your reach with a boyish giggle.

The look you give him has him flattening his lips to hold back a grin as he silently hands the heat pack to you with a muttered apology.

“Why aren’t you in line?” You question, and he has that same smirk on his face.

He shrugs, “Wanted to talk to my girl first.” You give him a look and he groans, “Can’t you just let me indulge for a second?”

“Patience is a virtue, Riki.” You muse as you cross your arms to tuck your hands away with a hotpack in each hand. “Plus, you said you’d wait.”

“And I will—I am.” He confirms with a shake of his head and a lighthearted grin, “But you could be a little more forgiving, pretty girl.”

“I don’t believe in forgiveness.” You retort with a shrug and a pretty smile.

“Niki!” Jake calls out from the line a few yards away, he’s a few players behind with a grin on his face as he says, “Don’t worry about getting in line, I’ll get you one!”

“Yeah, keep talkin’ to your girlfriend~.” Sunghoon teases, causing most of the team to snicker or whistle.

Riki’s ears go red, but when you point it out with a giggle, his hand immediately shoots to one of the red appendages and he shakes his head, “It’s the cold.”

“Niki, our shy boy!” Heeseung coos from the line, and the rest are all too eager to join in.

“Wow, Niki, you're so cute!”

“Niki, kiss her!”

“It’s giving Romeo!”

Riki groans softly, hands covering his face from your vision as you laugh, a warmth blooming in your chest that eases the chill in your bones. “I’m gonna kill them.”

He’s about to say something else when Taki takes a bite of the brownie in his hand and grunts something sounding like “oh yeah” with his words garbled by the mouthful he’s chewing.

You watch the scene unfold with amusement, leaning back on your heels as the team collectively loses their minds over a baked good. Taki, still mid-chew, looks like he’s having a near-spiritual experience, while Jungkook shouts something about chewing with his mouth closed.

Riki uses the distraction to lower his hands from his face, a grin breaking through his earlier embarrassment as he watches you watching them. His voice cuts through the chaos, low and teasing: “You seem happy.”

Your gaze moves to him, “Is that an issue?”

“Not at all.” He responds smoothly, “You look good when you’re happy.”

“I always look good.” You retort out of habit.

He seems to have expected it, nodding along in agreement before he asks, “So, if I asked you to wear my jersey instead of whatever cute shirt you were gonna wear tonight, would you?”

“Look good? Yes.” You answer with a light, teasing tone, “Agree? Mmm, maybe.”

“You’re killing me, baby.”

“Sweet names will get you nowhere.”

“So, you like it when I call you that?” He asks, stepping closer with a cheeky grin.

You remain defiant, arms crossed as you instinctively lean away from him with a laugh, “I never said that.”

“You didn’t deny it either.” He retorts swiftly, his head tilting and his eyes moving over your face with a smugness that pisses you off.

“No, I didn’t.” You agree, and his eyes narrow slightly at the almost flirty smile on your lips as you turn away from him to make your way back to Taehyun.

You fight the giddy feeling in your chest as you feel his gaze on you, deciding against sparing a glance back as you hear the crunch of his steps following after you.

As always, you’re right. Riki’s spare jersey looks adorable on you.

“He’s gonna die.” Gaeul practically squeals at the sight of you. It’s a bit warmer than the morning had been when you arrive at the opposing school’s stadium, the long sleeved fleece-lined undershirt protecting you from the chilled breeze. “Bitch, your ass looks fantastic.”

A grin brightens your face and laugh leaves your glossy lips as she fawns over your look, “Right?” You turn slightly to give her a better view of your behind purely out of excitement, because yeah, your ass looks good in these jeans.

“It’s smiling at me,” She gasps, smacking your butt lightly with a laugh before hooking her arm with yours and beginning to tug you along. “I didn’t know if you’d come tonight with everything that happened last game.”

“Why?” You ask a bit cluelessly, before remembering the event clearer and shaking your head, “Oh, that weird guy? No, I’m fine.”

She hums with a slight frown as the two of you get to the concessions, “I’m so sorry for leaving you in all the chaos, I didn’t realize you weren’t behind me until I got to Jay.”

Sensing the remorse behind her words, you find yourself quickly saying, “Don’t feel bad, I’m okay.”

“Ugh, I need your number! That’s been eating me alive all week!” She huffs softly as the line moves up, “I tried to find you at school but you kept evading me.”

“You couldn’t ask Belle? Don’t you two share a class?” You question with a slight tilt of your head and her jaw slacks.

“Why did I not think of that?” She mutters to herself as you both reach the front of the line and she orders herself a soft pretzel before looking over at you, “My treat, an apology.”

You aren’t one to reject free food when offered, so you look at the concession worker and say, “A Dr Pepper and another soft pretzel, please.”

Gaeul pays and a worker in the back pulls out two warm pretzels as another grabs the familiar maroon bottle from a cooler. She starts speaking again the moment the food and drinks are in your hands.

“Food isn’t allowed on the field, but I already gave Jay a kiss before he went on the bus.”

Her smile is suggestive, and you make a face that has her whining, “C’mon, I’ll hold your food while you go—“ She shimmies her shoulders and purses her lips into a kissy face that has you letting out a shrill ‘ew, stop!’

“That’s deplorable.” Your words contradict the laughter seeping into your speech, “I am not going down there.”

“Boring.” She groans, but her face brightens suddenly and she waves ahead. When you follow her gaze and find Mrs Nishimura approaching, you internally freak out until she smiles at you and you remember how lovely of a woman she is.

A lovely woman who seems to zero in on the jersey you wear the moment she’s within arms reach, “Oh, don’t you look darling!”

She pulls you into a warm hug and you accept it keenly, “Thank you! Are Maki and Runa with you?”

Your question comes as she pulls away, keeping you at arms-length as she shakes her head, “No, they stayed home with their father, neither wanted to make the trip.”

The trip being about an hour long car ride to the other side of town, which is fair. Feels shorter when you’re driving, though. You got through SZA’s new album on the way, too.

The three of you make it to the bleachers, finding a spot to watch the game as the ref whistles and the teams start to huddle. The board reads:

STARSHIP ALIENS v. DECELIS DEMONS

You sporadically tear pieces off of your soft pretzel as your eyes follow Riki the entire game, catching his eye at multiple points and having to act like you don’t see he’s got a shit-eating grin on his face under that face-guard.

The Demon’s win 12-8 long past sunset, a chill nipping your nose and the empty paper your pretzel came in crumbled into a ball in your hand. Rin sends you the same look as the last game before retreating toward the parking lot.

The moment you step foot on the field after releasing Gaeul’s arm, Jake appears in your view with a big grin, “Didja see the weaving I did? I looked cool, right?”

You debate breaking it to the boy that you may have entirely forgotten he was even on the team, too focused on his teammate to even notice him.

“I don’t think she was watching you.” Heeseung appears with his helmet off and his sweat-drenched hair sticking to his forehead. He moves to throw an arm around your shoulder and you quickly dodge with an ‘eugh’.

“You’re sweaty and you stink.” You grumble with a grimace on your face, and Heeseung seems ready to complain before he grins again at something behind you and a second later arms engulf you from behind.

“You’re cute from the back too, pretty girl.” Riki muses into your ear, lifting you up held against his chest with his arms wrapped around you.

“Riki, you sweaty bastard, let me go!” You whine, struggling against him as he lets your feet touch the ground again.

He giggles boyishly as he obeys, and as you turn to give him a piece of your mind you find the curses dying on your tongue at the grin on his face.

His smile is wide and unapologetically smug, the kind that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes your chest feel like your heart is trying to claw its way out. His helmet dangles loosely in his hand now, his hair a damp mess but somehow still looking good.

“You can’t just pick people up like that,” you say, trying to sound annoyed but betraying yourself when your lips twitch upward. “It’s rude.”

He leans forward slightly, closing the gap between you as if he can’t keep himself away. “Oh? You didn’t like it?”

You roll your eyes, stepping back to put some space between you, but Riki matches your movement with an exaggerated pout, clearly enjoying himself. Before you can fire back with something probably aggressive or mean, another voice cuts in.

“Alright, Romeo, stop flirting and help us pack up,” Jungwon calls, dragging the duffel bags of gear toward the bus. He tosses a water bottle at Riki, who catches it without really looking.

“I’ll see you in a minute,” Riki says softly, his grin softening into something warmer that sends an entirely different kind of shiver through you. He leans down and kisses your cheek before jogging off to join his teammates.

Holy fuck.

Your heart is racing in your chest like an old woman whose heart is about to give out, and your long sleeve undershirt is suddenly too damn hot.

You barely manage to pull yourself together before Gaeul pops up next to you, a knowing smirk spread across her face as she loops her arm around yours. “He kissed you~,” she sing-songs, her tone just low enough not to draw attention, but her amusement is blatant.

“Fuck off,” you mumble, pressing a hand to your cheek like it’ll somehow stop the warmth there from spreading like the grin in your face. You hope the shadows cast by the stadium lights are enough to hide your flustered state.

Gaeul doesn’t let up as the two of you wander toward the edge of the field, her giggles like little daggers stabbing at your already tattered dignity. “He picked you up. And got touchy.”

“I’m aware,” You huff, “I experienced it.”

“I mean, I don’t think you get how big a deal this is,” she practically rambles, “Riki’s never been this…confident!”

“Oh?” You question with your brows furrowed slightly.

She nods with an eager hum, “Riki’s shy! At least he was when I first met him.” Everything up to this point hadn’t pointed you in that direction regarding Riki’s personality, too familiar with the smug smiles and nonchalance, “I mean, he’s like a different person now that you’re around.”

“That’s…good, right?” You question hesitantly, “I mean, he wasn’t weird or anything, right?”

Your voice must have failed to convey the jesting tone you intended because Gaeul quickly begins to backtrack as you approach the bus. Jungkook is at the driver's seat of the bus while some of the team boards it with their duffles hanging from their shoulders and others are loading the luggage compartment with gear, free of their shoulder pads and helmets.

Even without the padding, Riki’s back is broad, jersey hanging off muscle. You can barely see Jake past him, who's on the other side of the compartment helping organize it.

You forget about any questions on your tongue when the shorter male cheekily points out your approach from behind and he looks over his shoulder for you with the prettiest smile you’ve ever seen.

Beautiful bastard.

He wastes no time in loading the equipment bag in his hands into the compartment before stepping away from the bus, jogging toward you with that grin. Gaeul begins to pull away with a grin, but leans in to speak quietly enough for him to not hear, “I’ll give you guys a second.”

She shoots a wink at you as she and Riki pass each other, a soft snicker leaving you as she calls out happily for Jay, who’s just stepped off the bus.

Riki slows as he reaches you, his smile turning slightly sheepish now that it’s just the two of you. He lifts a hand to scratch the back of his neck, his other hand gripping the hem of his jersey. “You’re not mad about earlier, right?”

You ignore the fact his movements cause the jersey to ride up, revealing a sliver of his abdomen that makes you feel like a Victorian man seeing an ankle for the first time.

“I haven’t decided yet.” You respond with a nonchalant shrug and a thoughtful tilt of your head.

He chuckles softly, his hand dropping from his nape as he steps closer with the same magnetism as before, like he doesn’t want to be too far, “C’mon, I was happy you’re here.”

“And you just had to pick me up?”

His laugh is warm and full, the sound washing over you and melting away any annoyance you could have pretended to feel. “Yes.” he says with a nod, his eyes crinkling at the corners again as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

This time, you roll your eyes and half-fight the smile naturally growing on your face, “Fine, but that’s your first strike.”

His brows raise in curiosity, his grin turning to a smirk as he asks, “First strike? How many do I get?”

“Three. Duh.” You sass, and he seems to find that just as amusing as your very serious strike system, though you find it kinda hot that he didn’t question the logic behind it. (The answer: if Sheldon Cooper can have a strike system, so can you.)

“And what happens after three?” He asks, leaning closer with intrigue and that stupid smile.

“Let’s hope you never find out.” You retort, having an idea of what to say but not sure if ‘flogging’ is too far. (You know Belle would laugh, though.)

“Nishimura!” Jungkook barks from the open doors of the bus. The last of the team is filing onto the bus, probably eager to get home. “Stop lollygagging and get on the damn bus.”

You snort softly at the word choice, but find that you aren’t safe from the Coach’s annoyance, “You too, go home. Don’t make me tell them about Shadow.”

The gasp that leaves your lips is one of pure betrayal. The audacity. The nerve. “You—”

He raises his brows in a ‘do it, i dare you’ way and your lips fall shut.

Riki is unable to move past the Shadow thing. “Shadow? Like the Hedgehog?”

“No, like my cat.” You snap sarcastically, “Get on that damn bus.”

Your gaze moves to the vehicle in question, and you find the eyes of the Decelis lacrosse team trained on you and Riki. Through an open window, you hear a voice you think is Kai’s saying, “I thought her cat’s name was Gus.”

“Baby, you have to tell me now.” He laughs breathlessly, like he’s not sure whether to let it out or keep it in for your sake.

“It will never leave my mouth, and I swore him—“ Your words shift from defiant to angry as your finger shoots out to point at the tattooed man impatiently waiting at the bus’ door, “—to secrecy!”

Your words are full of betrayal as you vehemently continue with your manicured finger still pointed, “You took the Unbreakable Vow!

“You were eight.” The Coach retorts. “You used a Crayola marker. It was pink.”

You want to argue, but hold yourself back for everyone’s sake as you look back at a heavily amused Riki and say, “Get on the bus.”

“I’m not letting this go.” He warns with pure joy on his face and a laugh in his voice as he begins to slowly walk back.

You simply shake your head and cross your arms defiantly, “I’m not gonna tell you.”

He only tilts his head with ‘really?’ look, too smug for his own good, the bastard.

Jay and Gaeul appear, her lipgloss smudged on his lips and messy on her own. Jungkook notices them with a disgusted frown and chilling glare. Jay mutters a ‘sorry Coach’ after kissing Gaeul goodbye, and she happily begins to approach your side.

Riki takes the brief moment of time to circle back and ask you quickly, “Are you free tomorrow? Or tonight?”

You blink, mindful of Gaeul’s approach but finding his impulsivity endearing, nodding instead of saying something you’ll cringe at later.

His grin stretches wide, lighting up his face like you’ve just made his entire night. “Cool. I’ll text you,” he says casually, though there’s a spark of excitement in his voice that betrays him. Before you can respond, he jogs back toward the bus, shooting you one last look over his shoulder as he climbs the steps.

Gaeul sidles up to you, her arm sliding through yours with practiced ease, the grin on her face telling you she heard the exchange, “Ready to go?”

You’re thankful she doesn’t tease you again, nodding as the both of you begin to walk toward the visitor parking.

With your back turned, you don’t see one of the slightly ajar windows sliding open more, or the boy that pops his head out of it until he calls out, “Hey!”

You stop mid-step, glancing back over your shoulder to find Riki leaning halfway out the window, his hair messy and damp but looking entirely too perfect for someone who just played an entire game.

You raise a brow in silent question.

“You look good in my jersey!” he calls out, his tone playful but tinged with something softer—something that makes your heart skip.

Your cheeks heat instantly, and you can’t fight the smile breaking across your face. Gaeul snorts next to you, gripping your arm like she’s about to combust.

“I know!” you shout back, doing your best to sound casual, though the warmth in your voice betrays you.

His grin widens, impossibly charming, and he shoots you a two-fingered salute before disappearing back into the bus as the vehicle begins to roll away. Gaeul finally releases her pent-up laughter, practically bouncing on her toes.

“You know?” she echoes, mimicking your response and clutching her stomach. “Girl, you’re gonna kill him one day with that play.”

You start walking toward the parking lot again, tugging her along to keep her from lingering. “I wasn’t playing anything,” you say, though the warmth in your cheeks tells a different story. “I do look good in his jersey. That’s just reality.”

“Sure, sure,” she teases, bumping her shoulder into yours. “But you could’ve just said thank you. Or blushed. Like a normal person.”

“Showing that he affects me is embarrassing.” You grumble softly, “I’ll die before I boost a man’s ego like that.”

(Though, you did cry in front of him about how much you like him, so maybe that argument isn’t valid anymore.)

She cackles at that, nearly stumbling over her own feet as you reach your car. “But, seriously, I’ve never seen him like that. He’s so…” Her voice trails off as she unlocks her own car a few spaces down, but the twinkle in her eye says enough.

“So what?” you press, opening your car door but pausing before you get in.

Gaeul grins knowingly, pointing at you with her keys. “So gone for you.”

You spend the next minute acting like the thought of him being ‘gone’ for you, as Gaeul put it, doesn’t make you want to squeal into a pillow and kick your feet, and when the two of you part ways that feeling remains.

The hour drive home feels longer with Riki on your mind, but maybe it’s the fact you aren’t sure if seeing him again tonight is the best idea.

Something you’ve realized about yourself since meeting Riki is that you suck at impulse control. You preach self-control yet the moment he’s around you—or even mentioned—you find yourself wanting to act on every impulse the chemicals in your brain fire.

When you get home, pulling into the garage as your parents were once again out of town, you read a text Riki had sent not ten minutes prior.

A beat passes before he responds and you huff in disbelief.

The response comes in the form of a phone call. His contact photo lights up your screen, and you huff softly in amusement before pressing the answer button and bringing it to your ear as you get out of your car, “Yes?”

“Both?” His voice comes through, playful yet tinged with something warmer. You can hear the muffled chatter of his teammates in the background, he must not be home yet. “You’re really not making this easy for me, you know.”

“You asked,” you counter with a soft laugh, locking your car and slinging your bag over your shoulder. “I just gave you the answer.”

“Yeah? Which door should I be knocking on? Front or back?”

“You’re not seriously coming tonight, stupid,” you say, though the idea isn’t unappealing. You reach the door, cursing softly at how loud the garage is as it closes. Your hand wraps around the door handle.

“Why not?”

“Riki,” you start with a laugh, entering your home and flipping on the light.

“What? You said both,” he teases. You can hear the grin in his voice, and you roll your eyes even though he can’t see. “Besides, Coach is gonna drop us off at the field to grab our cars anyway. It’s not like I’m going out of my way or anything.”

You hesitate, caught between the thrill of seeing him tonight and the logic of how tired he must be after the game. “Are you sure you don't wanna go to bed?”

“Not really,” he says softly, a bit more serious now, warm. “I’d rather see you.”

Your stomach flips, the sincerity in his voice knocking the wind out of you. “You’re annoying, you know that?”

“And you love it,” he shoots back, but there’s a gentleness there that makes you smile despite yourself.

“You better shower before you get here,” You say after a beat, and you swear you hear a whispered ‘yes’ before adding, “Don’t need your stench stinking up my house.”

“Yes ma’am.” He chuckles on the other end, a sound that comes through your phone beautifully. “Just don’t fall asleep before I get there.”

“Yeah, yeah, just text me when you’re on the way.” You walk toward the kitchen, dropping your purse on the counter and unzipping it to grab the eyedrops as you say, “Also, do you have a curfew?”

“Why? You tryna keep me for longer, pretty girl?” His teasing words are unfortunately true, but you refuse to admit it.

“Well, it’s already almost 10:00.” You dodge his question as you unscrew the tiny bottle in your hands, “I didn’t know if your mom would want you home sooner rather than later.”

“Nah, she’s fine with it.” He assures you, and then a beat passes and he asks, “What about yours?”

“They’re out of town, so it doesn't really matter.” You shrug, “So to answer your question, the front door is fine.”

You hear shuffling on the other end, a car door opening and closing, “So, you don’t mind if I stay a while?”

You can hear the smile in his words, and with a bite of your nail you say, “I’ll kick you out when I get sick of you.”

He laughs softly on the other end, “I’ll stay till you kick me out, then.”

You exchange a few more words before he hangs up to drive, and you have a window of time to panic(and clean up).

After a five minute debate with yourself about taking off or keeping on your makeup, you decide the former is the better option with how late it is and your track record of falling asleep without doing so.

(You also make a promise to yourself that if you fall asleep in front of Riki, death is the only option.)

So, when you get the text that he's arrived and you open the door with a bare face, you half-expect him to comment on it. You had FaceTimed him late enough for the boy to bear witness to your nighttime routine on multiple occasions, but he’d never shown any reaction to it.

The only reaction you get is the same boyish smile as always, the warmth behind his eyes making your heart lurch in your chest.

“Hey,” he greets softly, hands stuffed into the pocket of his hoodie as he steps inside. He smells like some mélange of citrus and musk, his body wash and cologne you assume, and it makes your head feel funny.

“Hey.” You respond with a light huff of amusement as you step aside for him to enter, closing the door behind him, “I see you showered.”

His damp hair covers his forehead, the same messy style he has everytime he takes off his helmet and sweat saturates each lock, yet a bit frizzy like he towel-dried it before he left.

He chuckles, head shaking lightly in amusement as he lets you lead him toward the kitchen, “I listen.”

His words are playfully defensive, the boyish smile on his face and the way he cranes his neck slightly makes you laugh, “You better.” He hums, dropping himself onto one of the barstools at the kitchen island, eyes flickering over the space as you move to grab yourself a drink. “You want anything?”

“Whatever you have.” He shrugs, so you grab two Dr Pepper cans from the fridge and move back to the island.

Riki watches you pull two straws from the drawer in amusement, his elbows on the counter as you pop open the cans with practiced ease and an unhurried leisure. You catch his eyes with a raise of your brow that has him smirking slightly and saying, “Just watchin’.”

“I’d prefer you didn't stare.”

“Can’t help it.”

You roll your eyes at him, but put the straw in and hold the can out toward him anyway. When he takes it with that almost besotted look in his eyes and his fingers brush yours, you find yourself turning away from him the moment it’s out of your hand, “Are you hungry?”

Riki shakes his head, tapping his fingers against the can before taking a sip. “Nah, we stopped for food after the game.”

You nod, opening the pantry to browse and distract yourself, but it does nothing to drown out the weight of his gaze. This was a horrible idea. When you glance at him, he’s still watching you, straw between his lips, eyes holding something unreadable.

“Stop it.”

Riki obediently averts his gaze, turning in his stool until he’s no longer facing you—though he playfully overachieves, turning his back to you completely. You can’t help but poorly conceal a laugh at his actions, which prompts him to look back over his shoulder for your smile.

You act like you don’t catch the way his gaze follows you, ignoring the way it forms a knot in your gut. “C’mon, let’s sit in the living room.”

He follows without hesitation, the soft thud of his socks against the floor trailing after you. You settle into the couch, tucking your legs beneath you, and he drops down beside you like he belongs there.

He does it so easily—makes himself at home in your space, in your presence. It should annoy you. Maybe it does, but not for the reasons you wish it did.

Riki sets his drink on the coffee table, stretching an arm across the back of the couch. He doesn’t touch you, but he could. If you shifted even slightly, if he reached just a little further.

You pretend not to notice.

You scroll through the options absentmindedly, hyperaware of Riki’s presence beside you—the way his fingers drum idly against the couch cushion, the way his head tilts slightly in your direction when you stop on a show.

“This good?” You ask, your voice quieter than intended.

“Yeah,” he says softly. You get the feeling he doesn’t really care what’s on.

You settle into the silence, the soft hum of the TV filling the space between you. For a moment, it’s almost comfortable, normal. But the stillness makes your mind race, and it’s impossible not to notice how close he is. You shift slightly, your side brushing against his as you settle deeper into the cushions, and the air feels thicker somehow, heavier.

You steal a glance at him, his eyes fixed on the screen, but there’s a subtle tension in his posture that wasn’t there before. His shoulders are a little tighter, his jaw a little more set, like he’s holding something back.

Like a ray of sunshine on a rainy day, Gus appears around the corner with a sweet trill and takes the attention of both of you away from the movie(and each other).

Riki perks up immediately, his gaze shifting from the screen to the small ball of fur trotting toward the couch. “Oh, hey, buddy,” he greets softly, leaning forward slightly as Gus hops onto the cushions with practiced ease.

You watch with amusement as he settles in Riki’s lap, loafing contentedly and blinking slowly at you from his spot. Unable to bear it, you shift slightly closer to the boy beside you to reach your cat more comfortably, muttering a soft and fond, “Traitor.”

The midfielder laughs softly, ringed fingers gently scratching the tomcat on his head near your own, “He loves me.”

“He’s a lovey cat.” You retort, and though your words are true, you’ve never seen him lay in anyone’s lap this fast, much less a boy. He was never too fond of Eunseok, and doesn’t really care much for Jongseob, yet seeks out affection from Riki every time he comes over. “He likes warm laps.”

“Maybe he just has good taste.”

“Or maybe he’s a cat.” You retort, shifting again in your seat to make sure you’re not too close. He comments this time.

“Am I making you nervous?” He asks teasingly, voice low.

“Excuse me?” You ask with a judgemental confusion on your face.

He seems undeterred, only motivated by the tone you give him, “You keep fidgeting, baby.”

“What did I say about calling me that?” You lightly smack his side, and he winces playfully.

“My bad,” he concedes, hands lifting from Gus momentarily in mock-surrender, “it won’t happen again.”

“Don’t lie.”

He chuckles, “It’ll happen again.”

A noise begins to play from the other room, and Gus immediately launches himself from Riki’s lap to run off. You laugh softly at Riki’s slight pout, the boy dramatically reaching after the feline longingly, “That was his automatic feeder.”

“Damn.” He sighs, his hands falling back to his sides on the sofa. The tip of his thumb brushes your knee accidentally, and the tension in the air shifts once more.

Both of you seem to zero in on the simple contact, accidental and barely-there yet electric in a way you’d never experienced such minute touches. The tip of his thumb turns into the pad of it, a gentle tracing of circular patterns on your knee. Then, his knuckles join, as if testing the waters.

When you glance at him he's already looking at you, his eyes dark with something unreadable, something intense that makes your stomach flip and your chest explode with warmth. Like an itch, one you know how to quell but the side of your brain dealing with critical thinking tells you it’s probably a bad idea.

His palm flattening against your knee is enough for you to disregard the advice of your logical brain and act on the only impulse your brain can fire at the moment.

Riki’s other hand moves to your cheek when you’re close enough, long fingers tangling into the hair behind your ear as his thumb brushes your cheekbone. His head tilts to the side, nose brushing yours as he shakes it lightly. He doesn’t use the hand on your cheek to push you away or tease you further, any playfulness gone and replaced by a warmth and desire that makes your chest fill with butterflies.

Your breaths mix, the sound of the TV drowned out by the sheer madness of him. He looks like the last thing he wants to do is pull away, like it’s a struggle to not close the short distance between your lips and his—to not cross any lines. Then, his forehead presses to yours gently and he says, “We don’t have to. I can wait.”

His words are soft, nearly whispered, yet his deep voice makes them heavier on your gut than you’d ever admit. You find yourself speaking in a mirrored tone, “I don’t want you to wait anymore.”

His eyes widen just slightly, and his lips part, just barely, his gaze dropping to your mouth. His thumb continues its delicate path across your cheekbone, his fingers flexing in your hair as if anchoring himself to this moment. You can feel the warmth of his breath mingling with yours, the proximity making your heart race.

“I want you to know,” he begins, his voice a low rumble, “I’m not going anywhere. I meant what I said about waiting…I won’t rush you.”

You take a deep breath through your nose, his words a tender weight against your chest. But it doesn’t change what you’re feeling now or how close he is. How easy it would be to just close the gap and kiss him, to let all the tension and uncertainty dissolve with the space between your lips.

“I know.” You say with a slight smile.

Before you can second-guess yourself, your lips find his in a soft and brief kiss.

Riki’s intentions seem to differ from your own as you move to pull away, the hand on your cheek sliding into your hair as his lips chase yours to pull you back in. There’s no hesitation behind it like before, his lips moving against yours with a building urgency that you can’t help but reciprocate.

You gasp softly against his mouth when the hand on your knee glides up your thigh, fingers pressing into skin and pulling you closer almost desperately. He tilts your head just enough to deepen the kiss, a low sound from his chest setting your blood aflame as you maneuver into his lap.

His hands move as your knees settle on either side of his hips, warm palms splaying over the curve of your waist and fingers digging into flesh to feel you as close as possible. It’s too much, yet somehow not enough.

Your fingers thread into his slightly damp hair, another deep sound escaping his intoxicating lips that has your stomach flipping. His breath is warm against your skin, his lips brushing yours again and again, each kiss deeper than the last. You can feel the way his heart beats beneath your palm, just as fast as yours, and it makes something tighten in your chest.

Riki tilts his head slightly, his nose brushing against your cheek as he exhales softly, his grip on your waist shifting as his hands trail up your spine. He pulls you impossibly closer, a restrained urgency in the way he holds you. He's patient—always—but there's something in the way his fingers press into your skin, in the way his lips part just enough for his breath to mix with yours, that tells you he's feeling this just as intensely as you are.

Pulling away feels like the worst idea in the world, but your lungs ache and something in the back of your mind tells you this is all too soon, too fast. The sound that the disconnect of your lips with Riki’s makes sends a thrill up your spine that the look in his eyes only exacerbates.

His forehead is warm against your own as your breaths mix and his hands slide back down to your waist. His lips ghost yours as you pant softly against him, his head tilting and his nose brushing over your cheek as his lips find the skin there, then your jaw, and your pulse point. You can feel the chastity of his kisses, the type that’s so gentle you’re not sure if you actually felt his lips on you or you just want them there enough to trick your mind into believing it.

“God, pretty girl.” He sighs, burying his nose into your neck to stop himself from kissing you more.

“Riki,” you murmur, unsure of what you want to say, only knowing that you don’t want him to move away just yet.

He hums against your skin, his breath warm, sending a shiver down your spine. “Yeah?”

You hesitate, then exhale softly. “Nothing.”

He chuckles, low and knowing, before pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes are dark, but there’s something tender in the way they study you, like he’s trying to commit this moment to memory.

His thumb brushes absentmindedly over your waist, his touch light, reverent. “You good?”

You nod, though your heart is hammering in your chest. “Are you?”

He tilts his head slightly, as if considering, then grins—small and lopsided. “Yeah.”

His gaze drops to your lips again, lingering for a beat too long before he exhales through his nose, shaking his head. “I should go before I do something stupid.”

The admission has your stomach flipping once more, but you find yourself huffing softly in amusement, “Yeah, you should.”

The moment your hands move to his shoulders and you attempt to dismount his lap, his arms wrap around your waist and his nose returns to its home buried in your neck, “Mmm, in a minute.”

A laugh escapes you, breathy and light, as your fingers absentmindedly trace the line of his shoulder blades. “You just said you should go.”

“I should,” he murmurs, voice muffled against your skin. “Doesn’t mean I want to.”

You hum softly, deciding against teasing him and instead settling into the security of his embrace. You feel him smile against your skin, slowly pulling his face from the junction between your neck and shoulder.

Then, his hands move, one sliding up your spine while the other lifts to cup your jaw, and he kisses your cheek. Soft. Chaste.

“Okay,” he murmurs, still so close. “Now I’ll go.”

You don’t stop him this time when he loosens his hold, when he gently shifts you off his lap. You don’t say anything as he stands, raking a hand through his already-messy hair(courtesy of your hands, of course), or when he stretches and his hoodie rides up. When he looks down at you, you almost shrink under his gaze before he smiles that warm way you love and he leans forward to grab your hand in his.

You let his fingers slide between your own, your eyes on him as he tugs you gently and prompts you to get off the couch to step closer to him with a soft huff of amusement, “I thought you were going?”

His hand in yours slips out in favor of joining the other on either side of your jaw, thumbs gently brushing your cheeks fondly as he mirthfully smirks down at you. You have no choice but to tilt your head back to look at him at this proximity, and he doesn’t seem all that eager to widen it.

“I am.” His muttered confirmation is contradicted by the way his lips find yours again, soft yet eager, no longer hesitant to join them as often as he’d like with your prior statement. When he pulls away and you chase his kiss, he hums with amusement in his grin, nose nudging yours. “How am I supposed to leave if you keep making me want to kiss you, huh?”

“I didn’t even do anything.” You defend yourself with a soft laugh.

“Mm, you don’t have to.” He groans softly, eyes shutting as he presses his forehead to yours and sighs, “You’re mine now, right?”

The bluntness of his question has your heart skipping but you hum as if apprehensive, “Maybe. You didn’t ask.”

His eyes open and he looks at you with playful disbelief and a whole lot of amusement, “You want me to ask you out, pretty girl?”

“I never said that,” You retort reflexively, ignoring the way his eyebrows quirk up in challenge and entertainment, “But I might be yours if you ask nicely.”

“Nicely. Right….” He nods in mock understanding, and when he leans in to kiss you again, you meet him halfway. “Will you…” He starts with his voice soft and deep in all the best ways as he pulls away between kisses to continue, “be…my girl?”

He pulls away just enough to see your face as you recover from the dizzying way his lips find yours, and your words are softer than you intended as you breathlessly reply, “I’ll have to think about it.”

His shoulders shake with soft laughter as he shakes his head and mutters, “shut up,” under his breath before he closes the distance once more.

𝒇𝒊𝒏.

©heedeungism : do not rewrite, copy, repost, or translate any of my works without my permission.

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kashverse · 3 days ago

Note

i have an idea!! could you write something about sukuna taking babykuna to her first daddy daughter dance? 🥹

oh this made my heart soft.....thank you for requesting <3

it wasn’t often that sukuna did things quietly. he was a man of big gestures, loud proclamations, and—if the mood struck—petty celebrations just to rub in a victory. but this was different.

it started when babykuna saw you and sukuna dancing in the kitchen one evening. you weren’t doing anything extravagant, just swaying to the soft hum of music playing from your speaker. sukuna had one arm around your waist, his fingers lazily tracing shapes on your back, and babykuna watched from the hallway, eyes wide with interest.

the next day, it happened. sukuna had just gotten home when babykuna marched up to him, very serious.

“papa.”

he looked down. “yo.”

she huffed. “we must dance.”

sukuna blinked. “…we must?”

“yes.”

a pause. then he smirked. “you tryna challenge me, kid?”

babykuna narrowed her eyes. “no.” she pointed very dramatically. “you must dance with me. like how you do with mama.”

ah.

so that’s how sukuna found himself in the living room, with the lights dimmed, holding his daughter in his arms as ‘cariño’ by the marías played softly in the background. babykuna, dressed in her favorite pajamas, scrunched up her face in deep concentration, her tiny hands clutching onto his much larger ones, trying to mimic how she’d seen you dance with him.

sukuna, at first, played along with mock seriousness, humming the tune as he swayed them gently. but then, somewhere between her little giggles and her determined little frown, his expression shifted— from amusement to softness.

he was dancing with his little girl. his baby. and one day, she wouldn’t be this small anymore.

nearby, mr. pickles the maine coon and baby the orange tabby were sitting still, watching the scene unfold. mr. pickles, ever the wise old man, was probably contemplating the fleeting nature of time. baby, however, was staring blankly ahead, absolutely void of thought.

and you were standing in the doorway, watching them, clutching a kitchen towel like it could physically hold in your emotions. because, damn it, if you didn’t feel like crying.

sukuna caught your eye. his signature smirk softened into something quieter, something fond. and then, with babykuna still in his arms, he tilted his head towards you, offering a silent invitation. your feet moved before you could even think. before you knew it, you were joining them, swaying together in the middle of your home, the warmth of your family pressed close.

and for once, sukuna wasn’t the loudest thing in the room. for once, he let the moment speak for itself.

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mickyschumacher · 3 days ago

Text

[BAKED WITH LOVE!]

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: you've never wanted to risk your friendship with oscar. but the lines become blurred when oscar shows up to your door on valentine's day with a bag of baking ingredients.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: fluff, poor humour, 10 things i hate about you reference, reader is kinda mean at the end but it's valid imo, oscar being absolutely useless in a kitchen format, classic friends to lovers barriers, confessions of two fools at the end as well

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: oscar piastri x fem!reader

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 2.9k

𝐀/𝐍: first fic of my series! me 🤝 oscar's and friends to lovers. hope you enjoy it!♡︎ // as usual, poorly proofread

𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 | 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Valentine’s Day. Fact: One of the most dreaded holidays in the world. Fact: Your most dreaded holiday in the world.

The argument was always the same. The holiday was consumeristic and materialistic at best, honing the potential to be one of capitalism’s best schemes. The holiday was also endearing, allowing couples, throuples, or any other romantic grouping, for that matter, to be celebrated and cherish. Love was love. And all love wins.

In this argument, however, you were right smack bang in the middle.

If you saw another stuffed teddy bear with its beady eyes and heart in hands, yes, you could throw up. But as much as you wanted to bleach your eyes out at the levels of PDA you had seen, a small part of you fawned over it.

Truth be told, the only thing you hated was the fact that you weren’t experiencing any of it. Sure, there were times where you went on the occasional Valentine’s date (not that you recommended it) but nothing ever lasted. And to be honest, your heart wasn’t in it. Your heart, with a mind of its own, had decided it belonged with a certain friend of yours.

You sighed, falling back first into your couch. You held your desk calendar high, eyeing the ‘14’ circled numerous times by you. Here you were, alone on Valentine’s Day, for the fourth year in a row, again.��

“Fucking hell,” you murmured, tossing the harbinger of devastation to the side.

You looked around your apartment, only just holding in another sigh. It looked barren. Even though it was filled with paintings, books, and colourful furniture, nothing about it looked like someone was in love. It was as though it lacked soul.

It was decided. You were having an absolutely miserable morning. Even more so when you could hear your doorbell ring. The static of your intercom buzzed, capturing your attention. “Hello? Is a certain girl obsessed with chocolate home?” A familiar voice sung.

Pushing down the small flutter in your stomach, you dramatically groaned to the empty air in your apartment as you stood up. Walking over to your intercom, you eyed the video feedback of Oscar smiling and patiently waiting for you to let him in. You pressed the button on your intercom. “You better be coming bearing gifts.”

You could see Oscar feign a gasp. “I can’t believe you even asked,” he stated, arm dangling a mystery bag in the air.

You rolled your eyes, small smile playing on your lips. With your finger moving to a nearby button, you let him come up. Stalking back to your couch, you turned on your television, idly channel surfing. You weren’t quite sure why you were still playing for your TV box, but ever so occasionally, it brought you something charming.

Your eyes moved to the open door of your apartment, watching Oscar come in from your peripheral. “What is it you want, you absolute cretin?”

“That is not a kind thing to say on such a lovely day,” Oscar commented sarcastically, walking over to your kitchen to place his bag down.

You rested your cheek on your hand, laying on your side as you moved your eyes between Oscar and the television. “Well... to be fair, I wasn’t expecting your face on what you call such a ‘lovely’ day,” you retorted, thumb still clicking on the remote.

You weren’t exactly lying. Oscar was the last person you wanted to see on Valentine’s Day. He was another sore reminder of what you should be doing on a day like this. There was nothing more dangerous than having the person who makes your heart race in your kitchen. A recipe for disaster, one might say.

It was Oscar’s turn to sigh. He stood in your kitchen, hands on his hips. “Well, aren’t you a ray of sunshine?” Oscar queried. “Sue me for wanting to spend time with my best friend on the loneliest day of the year.”

You sucked in a sharp breath at his words. Best friend. Ugh, you hated it. You hated that term. You didn’t want to be just his best friend. Risking this friendship, however, was not one you were willing to take.

You sighed dramatically once again, closing the television. Standing up from the couch, you joined Oscar to peer in his mystery bag. Carefully, you were able to quickly recognise the blocks of butter, eggs, icing sugar, chocolate, sprinkles, brown sugar...

“Are these baking ingredients?” You asked, looking over to Oscar.

Oscar grinned. “I know you don’t really like Valentine’s, so... I thought we could do some baking. Well, more like if you could teach me. I’ve been craving your chocolate cupcakes anyways.”

You blinked blankly. You weren’t sure how but your body felt warm all of a sudden. Your heart was beating just that bit faster.

Oscar knew you loved baking. It was one of your love languages. When you were happy, when you were sad, when you were overthinking and stressed... baking was always the answer.

“Oscar...” you started, “you know you don’t need an excuse to spend time with me, right?”

“Come on! Like I need an excuse to spend time with you,” Oscar said, gently nudging his arm with yours.

He laughed softly like the notion of your idea was crazy. Like your heart wasn’t beating uncontrollably. Like you weren’t forgetting the ability to breathe, let alone speak. And God, you hated it.

You cleared your throat, taking out the ingredients he brought from the bag. “Well, it seems like you brought at least half of the ingredients so well done,” you complimented with a small grin.

Laying out the items he brought, you began grabbing the rest from your pantry, collecting all the equipment needed on the way.

Oscar smiled, cheeks slightly reddening. “Thanks,” he mumbled, scratching the back of his neck as he watched you set out everything, clearly taking his idea on board. He silently took in the sight of you quietly getting into your element.

You looked so focused. He couldn’t hear what you were saying, probably something about the steps of making your cupcakes. And while he really should’ve been listening, he couldn’t help but fixate on your smile. The corners of your mouth upturned as you raved on about how your recipe was supposed to be a secret for a reason. He could see your smile in your eyes. You were happy. And God, he loved it.

“Oscar? Helloooo... earth to Oscar?” You waved your hand in front of his face, your soft laugh slowly dying out as he came back to reality, meeting your eyes. You swallowed hard. Why was he looking at you like that? Did you have something on your face?

Instinctively you reached out to find something but was met with relieving disappointment. “Uh, so as I was saying, the most important thing is to fill the cupcake liners halfway, okay? Not full. Halfway.”

“Halfway,” Oscar affirmed with a small nod. He clasped his hands and placed them on your benchtop. “Shall we get started?”

Time always seemed to fly by with Oscar. And yet it always felt slow in the best possible way. That was just the nature of spending time with him.

You couldn’t help but laugh to yourself as he took every single one of your instructions with careful attention. And although earnest in his endeavours, Oscar was absolutely useless in a kitchen.

“I said fold the mixture,” you complained, wincing at the lumpy brown goop of a mess, “That is not folding!”

Oscar looked up from the bowl, narrowing his eyes at you. “This is folding,” he retorted, proceeding to mix the cupcake mixture aggressively.

Before you knew it, bits of unbaked chocolate cupcake were flying in the air and over your face. The silence in your kitchen was deafening as the sound of Oscar resting the wooden spatula was resounding.

With your eyes shut, you sighed in defeat. Your fingers reached out to smear the cake batter across your lips and into your mouth. “Well, at least I know it tastes good.”

In the blink of an eye, Oscar grabbed the nearby tea towel, running it under some water. He stepped a bit too close to you for your liking. “I am so so sorry,” he apologised, gently propping your face in his hand as he slowly rubbed away the splotches of cupcake on your skin.

You kept quiet. You silently watched him cautiously clean your face meticulously. You weren’t sure if you could trust yourself to speak. Especially not if Oscar was barely a few centimetres away from you.

There were many things you admired about Oscar. His care for others. Or his detail to attention. Perhaps his smile that always seemed to brighten your day no matter what. Or the way he put others before himself. But one thing you always found yourself coming back to was his freckles. There weren’t many of them. They were sparsely spread out in such a way that you often found yourself playing connect the dots with them. And when you finished, it was all but inevitable to lose yourself in his eyes. To you, they were always these puppy brown eyes. But looking at him the way you were now...

“Your eyes have a little green in them,” you whispered.

Oscar paused, eyes flickering to meet yours. He stared at you what felt like forever. Every second that passed only increased your nerves. “Yeah?” He quietly quipped, voice soft as his eyes fell to your lips for a mere second.

Your breath hitched. God, he was beautiful.

“I–um, is the batter gone?” You asked, forcing yourself to avert your eyes. You let out a quick exhale as Oscar took a step back.

“Oh yeah, sorry,” he mumbled, giving you a tight smile.

Blowing some air into your cheeks, you eyed the cupcake-lined tray. “Should we fill these up and put them in the oven?”

“Halfway,” Oscar reminded, agreeing nonetheless.

━━━━━━━━━━━

You eyed Oscar comfortably lying on your couch, also participating in your channel surfing till how found some old cricket highlights of Australia vs Sri Lanka. You had already given him a cup of juice, some chips, and fruit to busy yourself and prevent yourself from overthinking about what happened earlier. However, you were beginning to find it very difficult.

Even as you sat on the floor horizontal to Oscar and did your laundry like you often did, you couldn’t help but replay the moment in your head.

You must’ve imagined Oscar looking at your lips. But you could’ve sworn... no. It must’ve been your mind playing tricks on you. The inescapable curse of Valentine’s Day. Fuck. Why did you even have to go and say he had green in his eyes? Stupid mouth.

You internally sighed, placing your folded sweater on the pile next to you. Your ears perked at the mention of your name. “Hmm?” You queried, grabbing a pair of jeans to fold.

Oscar looked over to you, leaning on his elbow. “I thought you were going out with Jake today?”

Ah yes. The actual truth of why you were boarded up in your apartment on Valentine’s Day. You had come close to breaking your lonely streak but you ended up backing out after having a mid-life crisis. From your experience, any relationship formed on a day bounded to cupids was bound to be short-lived.

“He cancelled and I agreed,” you shrugged, putting the jeans aside.

Now this peaked Oscar’s interest, having him sit up fully on the couch. “What? Why? What happened?” He asked a little too happily, brows mended to express his confusion.

Your mouth dried. What were you supposed to say? I just think Valentine’s Day brings perpetual doom?

You chewed on your bottom lip before releasing a small sigh. “I just wasn’t interested anymore,” you told him truthfully, resting your back on the front side of your chair comfortably.

“Why? You said he was nice and you had a lot in common?” Oscar reminded, now fully ignoring the cricket highlights.

You hated the small lump in your throat, a reminder of how much you hated when Oscar was invested in your love life. It was like he wanted you to date anyone but him. And it sucked.

“Yeah,” you agreed, “But he’s not...”

“He’s not...?” Oscar repeated.

He’s not you. That’s what you wanted to say.

Instead, you looked at him silently, taking in how intently he was listening to you. It made your heart flutter with a warmness and constrict with a sadness simultaneously. He cared for you. Just not in the way you wanted.

Oscar took your silence as a sign of not wanting to speak about it anymore. He sighed, sitting back into the couch. “Well, whatever. His loss. I’m glad you didn’t go.”

And there it was again. Oscar was always going around saying things that made you think and feel otherwise. He was glad? That on the loneliest day of the year, you were here alone, baking with your best friend which you also happened to be a little in love with?

"Oscar, why are you even here?” You asked, exasperation heavy in your voice as you looked at him tired eyes.

Oscar furrowed his brows, leaning up at your tone. “What do you mean?”

His tone wasn’t angry or humorous. It sounded like genuine confusion and that only irritated you that bit more.

“I mean here. In my apartment on Valentine’s Day?” You stressed. “I mean, has it ever occurred to you that we’ve spent more Valentine’s Days together than actually being with the people we’ve dated?”

Oscar pursed his lips together, mulling over your words. You were right. He couldn’t count the amount of Valentine’s or any other holiday he had spent with you on both hands let alone one. “What are you trying to say? You don’t like it?”

Yes. In fact, you hated it. Every year, it always meant it was another day you spent being just friends with him.

You let your head fall back onto the cushion of the couch. You stared hard at the ceiling, growing uncomfortable with the silence with every passing second. “I hate this,” you admitted after some time.

“Hate what?” Oscar asked with a frown making its way onto his face. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to hear what he was about to hear.

You swallowed hard. “I hate that I like you. A lot. I hate that I have to pretend not to like you every day.”

The silence only grew louder and it was almost deafening. You felt sick. You regretted saying anything at all.

“Same.”

“What?” You jerked your head to Oscar with an incredulous expression and kneaded brows. “What type of shitty response is that?”

Oscar looked at you with a flabbergasted look. “I...I–I feel the same way.”

You blinked blankly at him, making him sigh. He stood up from the couch, taking a seat next to you on the floor.

The hard yet soft look of Oscar’s puppy brown eyes made you want to look away and yet you found yourself staring back. He called your name softly, grabbing your hand gently with his. “I like you. More than you could ever imagine. I always just thought it would be stupid to risk our friendship so I tried pretending not to like you. That didn’t work. I actually think it made me fall in love with you. A little bit... or a lot.”

You weren't quite sure how to respond. You seemed to have lost the ability to speak. All you could think about was how flushed and sweaty you felt... and that Oscar freaking Piastri was in love with you.

“Can I kiss you?” Oscar murmured, leaning in ever so slowly.

You nodded silently, not trusting yourself to speak yet again.

You could feel his lips press against yours and God were they soft. You had thought about it more times than you probably should’ve. But the real thing was so much better.

You moved your lips, returning his kiss as his hands travelled up your jaw to your cheek. Fire. Your skin was on fire. You were melting into his grasp upon the feel of his touch. And yet, goosebumps littered every inch of your skin, making you shudder.

Hesitantly and unwillingly, you pulled apart from each other, letting your foreheads rest on each other. Your cheeks burned as you looked at Oscar, eyes flickering to each freckle before resting on the green in his eyes. “Osc,” you whispered.

“Mmm?” He queried, playing with your hands softly as he watched you process everything.

You planted a brief kiss to the corner of his lips. “I love you too.”

Oscar smiled widely, shoulders falling as though all the weight on them had been relieved. “I’m glad,” he commented.

“Sorry for being an asshole,” you mumbled sheepishly, a wave of embarrassment travelling over your body. You found it hard to believe you were even annoyed a couple minutes ago.

He laughed softly, shaking his head. “It’s okay.”

"I mean... for the record, I definitely wasn’t folding the batter,” Oscar admitted.

“Ha! I knew it!” You exclaimed, hitting him lightly on the arm. “You mix like Basil digging up dirt.”

Oscar’s small smile turned into a dramatic gasp. Preparing himself to attack you, he jokingly warned you, “Take that back.”

Timed perfectly, you heard the timer on your phone ring throughout your apartment. The smell of chocolate muffins wafted in the air. You stood up from the floor and turned to Oscar with a wide grin. “Ready to decorate?”

“As long as you let me decorate one cupcake,” he bargained, looking up at you as he held his hand out.

You smiled, clasping his hand to pull him up. “Deal.”

#mickyschumacher #micky's hand in heart series ❦#formula 1 #f1 #f1 x reader #f1 x you #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #oscar piastri fanfic #op81 #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri

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valiantsuitcaseskellington · 2 days ago

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I got Spitsbergen Island, no idea what the fuck it was so I looked it up. At first it seemed fine, while coal mining isn't tye best,as I'm not exactly the strongest, perhaps I can work with the tourism attractions, or do something online. I'm already trying to be a game creator/programmer sooo idk.

While it's very cold, as long as my house is heated and I have the right clothes I could survive, maybe even live. I would hope there's internet however, so I can even do online stuff/work, and connect with people, including my family. I would probably get a husky as well, not only for company, but to keep me active.

Then I found out about the housing, so most houses are either for recreation, or are rented out to employees, by the employers, so if you live there, you are probably only there for work. And renting makes me think some of the pay is docked, just for you living in the house. Like what?

Also, there is always a chance I'd die from the polar bears. Thankfully, while they are protected, people are REQUIRED to carry a rifle in order to shoot them in self-defense. And why I am not an amazing shot, I at least know the very basics of shooting, loading, and holding a gun. How you don't put your finger on the trigger until the lest second, point the barrel down and away from people, and your feet of course when safety is off, safety on in most situations, etc. However, I would have to learn how to take care of my gun, as I have not been taught that, and while I've shot guns before, it's only been a few times, and it's been some years since I've last shot one. So while they aren't a new sight, I'm in not way, shape, or form accustomed to shooting and holding one.

So I might not make it, but I'll definitely be trying my hardest.

spin the wheel for a random location!!

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thee-horny-thicky · 2 days ago

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TW: Yandere!Gojo, baby trapping

I know it's fanon that Satoru became a fuckboy once Suguru left, which I've written about before. However, I think the reality is that intimacy is rare for Satoru. He's busy, and vulnerability is his biggest fear. It's why he always maintains his childish, energetic persona, because after Suguru tore out his heart and stomped on it, opening up to another person was out of the question.

However, even the strongest isn't immune from developing crushes.

You were a new hire, a foreign sorcerer that recently transferred to Jujutsu Tech. You were born the same year as Suguru, and the similarities didn't end there. You might not look like him, though you were attractive in your own right, but so much about you echoed the man who broke Satoru's heart. Despite your serious demeanor, you knew how to take a joke, and were seriously competitive. You were cunning and sly, with a wit that he admired. You were loyal to those you cared about, but ruthless to your enemies. Best of all, you tolerated him in a way few could.

He found himself falling hard, and was delighted to know you felt the same way... sorta. You see, while he was planning a wedding, you wanted something purely physical. Satoru didn't mind indulging your lust, but he expected it to transform into love at some point. And it did, on his end. But you, you were a different story.

Your trajectory was similar to Satoru's. You too had a high school sweetheart who broke your heart, and you responded to it by shunning relationships. The difference was that you indulged in a decent amount of flings and one night stands. What started as a way to ease heartbreak became a stress reliever and your favorite hobby. Moreover, being a sorcerer, conventional dating was risky. The risks weren't canceled out by someone like Satoru.

In fact, they were amplified.

Put simply, you didn't want to be a clan leader's wife. You enjoyed being a sorcerer, but if you wed the leader of a clan, you'd be reduced to a baby maker. You wanted kids one day, when being a sorcerer had lost its thrill. Maybe they'd fill the void, but for the time being, you were happy childless.

Unfortunately for you, your time without kids is nearing an end.

You see, once Gojo hears that you wouldn't mind being a mommy one day, he decides that's how he'll keep you. If his expensive gifts and lavish dates aren't enough, certainly a baby will be. Because after losing Suguru, he isn't willing to miss out on HEA with a great love again. If he has to use...questionable methods, so be it.

And hey, if a baby doesn't work, he has a cozy little room waiting for you, complete with security measures only he could disarm.

#jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru #fem reader #yandere x reader #yandere #yandere gojo satoru #yandere gojo #gojo satoru x reader #jjk gojo #gojo x reader #jujutsu gojo #implied smut #cw babytrapping

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seospicybin · 3 days ago

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TASTE.

CHAPTER VI: ZESTY.

Lee Know x reader. (s,a)

TASTE MASTERLIST

Synopsis: When Minho is hired as the head chef of Farfalle, a prestigious Italian restaurant, expectations are high for him to elevate its reputation and bring it to new heights. However, no one anticipates the drastic changes he implements in the kitchen—including his strict rule that that there'll be no women and no romance in his kitchen. (20,8k words)

Author's note: Thank you for patiently waiting a whole week for the new chapter. Hope you enjoy this one too. Don't forget to share what you think about it ♡

Zesty. /ˈzes.ti/ (adj) 1. Full of flavor 2. Full of energy and enthusiasm

In English, they say people wear their hearts on their sleeves. But in Italian, there’s another phrase: avere il cuore in mano—to hold your heart in your hand. It’s a raw, vulnerable act, offering up everything you are for others to see. And that’s exactly what Minho is doing now, standing there in the middle of the kitchen, holding his heart out in his hand for everyone to see.

His eyes don’t leave yours, steady and unwavering, even as tears begin to pool in your own. You stand rooted in place, disbelieving, as his confession echoes in your ears, as if the world has slowed to a crawl.

The silence that follows is deafening. Around you, the team struggles to process what they’ve just heard. Chris is still in the doorway, his expression stricken, as though he’s watching a tragedy unfold in slow motion. Sara bites her lip, trying to keep herself composed, though the heartbreak on her face is clear. Felix looks back and forth between you and Minho, stunned, while Hyunwoo’s hands tighten around the edge of his station.

Then Yura moves. Her heels click sharply against the floor as she strides toward Minho, her fury palpable. Grabbing his chef necktie, she yanks it hard, forcing him to meet her glare.

“What did you say would happen if someone was caught dating in the kitchen?” she demands, her voice laced with venom as she tugs Minho’s chef necktie, “You're fired!”

Minho doesn’t flinch. Calmly, he reaches up, prying her hand from his tie. Straightening his chef coat, Minho turns back to face the kitchen. There’s tension in the set of his shoulders, a heaviness in the air, but his voice remains steady as he speaks.

“I acknowledge that I’ve behaved in a way that could lose your trust in me as a chef,” he says, his words carrying the weight of a man laying himself bare. “But I will not apologize for loving her.”

Your breath catches in your throat. The words seem to echo, sharp and unrelenting, as the silence stretches on.

Minho inhales deeply, his gaze moving over the room, taking in every stunned expression before it lands back on you. “I have no right to continue leading this kitchen,” he continues, softer now, as though the fight has drained from him. “And with that, I will leave this kitchen on my own cognizance.”

Reaching up, Minho unties his chef necktie. The motion is slow, deliberate, and final. He pulls it free and holds it in his hand, his grip firm, as if it carries the weight of everything he’s giving up.

His eyes return to you, locking onto yours with an intensity that makes your chest ache. And then he does it—he smiles. A small, triumphant curve of his lips, like he’s proud, like despite everything, this is the moment he’s chosen to show the world what his heart holds.

You’re trembling now, tears streaming freely down your face. You want to speak, to stop him, to do something—anything—but the weight of what he’s done keeps the words stuck in your throat.

Minho steps back, his movements calm and measured, though his gaze never wavers from yours. He’s still holding his heart in his hand, unashamed, unflinching, even as he turns and walks away.

The door swings shut behind him, the sound echoing through the silent kitchen like the final act of a play. Around you, the others remain frozen, their shock reflected in every wide-eyed stare. Chris exhales heavily, his shoulders slumping in defeat. Sara lets out a quiet sob, muffled by her hand, while Felix looks down at his station, unable to meet your eyes.

And you—your heart feels like it’s breaking into pieces.

But as you stand there, shaking, you realize something: Minho walked out of that kitchen with no regrets. He held his heart in his hand for all to see, daring them to judge him, daring them to understand.

Because for Minho, loving you was worth it all. And that thought makes the ache in your chest cut even deeper.

Minho calmly places another stack of papers into the box on his desk, the sound of rustling filling the otherwise silent room. He’s methodical, efficient—just as he’s always been in everything he does. Yet, with every item he packs, there’s an ache that burrows deeper into his chest, one he refuses to acknowledge.

The door slams open. Minho doesn’t need to look up to know who it is. The hurried, uneven steps give Sara away before she even speaks.

Her eyes dart between him and the box. “Are you seriously leaving?” she asks, her voice breathless and disbelieving.

Minho doesn’t pause. “Just like I said.”

Chris follows close behind her, the usual calmness in his demeanor replaced with a frustration that radiates off him in waves. He steps forward, his voice sharp. “Chef, how can you be so irresponsible? What will happen to our kitchen if you leave us with no backup plans?”

Minho places a few books into the box, then calmly closes it. “I wouldn’t have done this if I were the only chef,” he says, his tone even. His eyes flick to Sara. “You have Chef Sara, so you will be fine even if I leave now.”

Sara’s mouth opens to protest, but Minho cuts her off. “It didn't feel right to have two head chefs in the kitchen anyway,” he adds, his gaze steady on hers. “This is a good thing for you, Sara. You can finally have this room all to yourself. Change things the way you want to in the kitchen. Make it yours.”

Sara lets out a long sigh, the fight in her draining as she lowers her gaze. Minho doesn’t miss the slight tremor in her hands, the way her shoulders sag in reluctant acceptance.

Chris, however, isn’t done. He steps closer, his voice pressing. “And what about her?”

Minho picks up the box, holding it securely in his arms. He glances at Chris and smirks faintly, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m curious about that myself.”

With that, he walks out of the office. The silence behind him feels heavier with every step, but Minho doesn’t let himself stop.

The restaurant is eerily quiet as he makes his way through it. He can feel the weight of the stares from his team, but he keeps his head high, his expression calm.

As he approaches the entrance, his gaze falls on Yura standing in the hallway. She doesn’t say a word, but her narrowed eyes and tightly folded arms speak volumes. Minho lets his lips curl into a faint, nonchalant smirk, one that silently says, This is not enough to bring me down.

Pushing open the door, Minho steps outside. He sees Felix and Taesoo are already waiting, their faces a mix of panic and confusion.

Felix rushes toward him the moment Minho emerges. “Chef! How could you leave like this? This is ridiculous!”

“Don't leave, Chef!” Taesoo begs as he steps forward, his voice tight. “I know you said there's to be no romance in this kitchen but that doesn't mean you have to leave. If you leave, what will happen to her?”

Minho exhales deeply, his grip tightening around the box in his arms. “You should be happy,” he says, his voice quiet but firm. “There will no longer be hardship and harsh words in the kitchen.”

Felix’s shoulders stiffen as he hisses in frustration, his desperation clear. “Chef...”

Minho looks at both of them, his gaze softening slightly. “Just because I'm not here that doesn't mean you can quit or give Chef Sara a hard time, understood?”

They don’t respond, their silence heavy with unspoken protests. But Minho doesn’t wait for them to find the words to stop him. He adjusts his hold on the box and starts walking toward the parking lot.

Their voices follow him, calling out, pleading, but Minho doesn’t look back.

And then he sees you.

You’re standing at the base of the steps, your hands clasped in front of you, your eyes red and watery. You look like you’re on the verge of falling apart, but you hold yourself together just enough to face him.

Minho stops in front of you, his heart clenching painfully at the sight. You’re both silent for a long moment, locked in each other’s gaze, until tears spill down your cheeks again.

Gently, he reaches out, his knuckles brushing against your skin as he wipes your tears away. His hand cups your cheek, his touch soft, grounding. Your lip trembles, but you don’t say anything. You don’t have to.

Minho offers you a small, bittersweet smile. “For now, finish dinner service, mmh? I’ll see you after work.”

The weight of the moment presses down on both of you as he steps back, letting his hand fall to his side. With one last glance, Minho turns and walks to his car.

He places the box in the backseat before sliding into the driver’s seat. The engine hums to life, but Minho lingers, his hands resting on the wheel as his eyes remain on you through the windshield.

This was the right decision. He tells himself that over and over, forcing himself to believe it. Finally, with a deep breath, Minho shifts the car into gear and drives away, leaving the restaurant—and you—behind.

The kitchen hums with activity, the clang of pans and the hiss of burners filling the space, yet there’s a strange stillness in the air. An absence.

Minho’s absence.

The entrée line seems to be in unusually high spirits. Quiet chuckles pass between them, their movements more relaxed than usual. One of them even dares to hum softly, as if a weight has been lifted. But at the corner of your vision, Felix stands stiffly at his station, his jaw tight. His usually warm and cheerful demeanor has dissolved into something cold and unyielding, a stark contrast to the others.

For a moment, he just watches them, his sharp gaze cutting through their newfound ease like a knife.

The kitchen door swings open, and Sara steps in, her presence commanding immediate attention. She moves toward the chef’s table, resting her hands on the edge as she surveys the room. Her voice is steady, calm, but firm.

“Just like Chef Lee said,” she begins, her gaze sweeping over everyone, “the guests don’t know what happens in the kitchen. What matters is that we give it our best, as we always do.”

The line goes quiet, their earlier lightheartedness dimming slightly. No one responds, their silence stretching awkwardly.

Sara straightens, her eyes narrowing. “Aren’t you going to answer me?”

A few scattered voices answer her with a reluctant, “Yes, Chef.”

Felix doesn’t say a word. Instead, he lets out a heavy sigh, loud enough to make the others glance his way.

Despite the strange atmosphere hanging over the kitchen, the service continues. Plates are passed, dishes plated, and the rhythm of the kitchen gradually settles into a mechanical flow.

At your station, you focus on your work, trying to ignore the tension. You hear Seungwan’s voice next to your station, his tone casual but cutting. “It’s amazing, isn’t it? How one person’s absence can make such a big difference.”

You don’t respond, but the words dig into you like a thorn.

Grabbing the plate you’ve just finished, you carry it to the chef’s table for Sara to inspect. She leans over it, her critical eye scanning the presentation. She picks up a cloth to wipe a smudge on the rim of the plate before looking up at you.

“Bring me the celeriac purée,” she says curtly.

You nod quickly and hurry back to retrieve it. As you place it before her, Sara dips a spoon into the purée and tastes it.

“Who made this?” she asks, her tone sharp but not accusatory.

“I did,” you answer.

Her expression doesn’t change. “And who taught you to boil the milk with the celeriac?”

You hesitate before gesturing toward Seungwan.

Sara turns her attention to him, her voice steady but pointed. “There’s a better way to boil the milk with the celeriac. Please show her how to do it right.”

Seungwan, eager to please, nods enthusiastically. “Of course, Chef!” He grins, then adds, “Honestly, if this is how you tell someone off, I’d happily get corrected like this every day. You’re so different compared to... someone.”

His voice trails off, but the implication hangs in the air, heavy and sharp.

Felix, who has been silent until now, suddenly cuts in. His voice is low but firm, carrying an edge of frustration. “That’s nonsense.”

The kitchen stills.

Felix turns to Seungwan, his eyes narrowing. “You don’t need someone to coddle you. You need to be berated to learn. That’s how you get better.”

He shifts his gaze to Sara, his tone growing sharper. “Can’t anyone tell the difference between someone who’s willing to push you to improve and someone who just sucks up to you?”

The words hang in the air like a bomb about to explode. Felix scoffs, muttering under his breath, “How could anyone ever get better like this?”

Seungwan bristles, his face reddening. He picks up a frying pan, holding it in his hand as if to challenge Felix. “You want to say that to my face again?”

Before things can escalate, Sara raises her voice, sharp and commanding. “Enough! Both of you.”

Seungwan hesitates, his grip tightening on the pan before he slowly sets it back down.

The tension simmers, thick and suffocating.

You glance around, your eyes drifting back to the chef’s table. It’s almost instinctual, but your chest tightens when you realize, again, that Minho isn’t there. His absence feels like a void, a missing heartbeat in the pulse of the kitchen.

The dinner service continues, but nothing feels the same.

Minho paces back and forth in the quiet lobby, his hands buried deep in his jacket pockets. The space feels too sterile, too still, and it does little to ease the restlessness gnawing at him. He glances toward the entrance every few seconds, waiting for you.

The moment he sees you, he stops mid-step. Relief washes over him, but his anticipation falters when he catches the look on your face. You’re not smiling or relieved like he’d hoped. Instead, your expression is sour, your brows furrowed, your mouth set in a hard line.

He tilts his head, his lips curling into a faint smirk despite your mood. “What’s with that face? I’m the one without a job here.”

You don’t even hesitate. “How can you just leave like that?” you snap, your voice sharp and accusing. “Do you only think about yourself?”

Minho blinks, taken aback. “What?”

You press on, your words tumbling out in rapid succession. “How can you run away like that without even thinking about me? You just up and quit, and I’m supposed to—what? Pretend that’s fine?”

He lets out a scoff, shaking his head in disbelief. “Run away? When did I ever run away from you?”

You ignore his question entirely, your voice growing softer, though no less frustrated. “It’s only been one dinner shift, but the kitchen felt so empty without you. Do you know that?”

He stands there, frozen, as you glance away, your eyes distant.

“I want to be with you,” you admit, your voice quieter now. “I like it when you’re standing at the chef’s table. You... you look the best when you’re there.”

There’s a weight in your words that hangs between you, thick and heavy. Then your gaze meets his again, sadness pooling in your eyes. “But you had to leave the kitchen. You had to lose your job. All because of me.”

Minho’s jaw tightens as you continue.

“Did you really think I’d congratulate you?” you ask, your voice trembling. “Did you think I’d tell you that you did a good job?”

“Yes,” he answers immediately, his tone almost defensive. “I was hoping you’d pat me on the back and tell me I did the right thing.”

Your expression twists in frustration, and your voice rises again. “Why do you always act as you please? Why can’t you just stop and think for a second? You yell, you get angry, and you cause trouble without ever considering the consequences!”

Minho feels his patience snap. “How long did you expect me to stay there?” he retorts, his voice raised. “Sneaking around like that, pretending nothing’s going on?”

“Do you think I like sneaking around?” you fire back, your tone laced with annoyance.

Before he can respond, you spin on your heel and start walking away, heading toward the elevator.

“Hey!” Minho shouts after you, his voice echoing in the empty lobby. “You better stop right there!”

But you don’t. You keep walking, your back to him, leaving him standing there, frustration boiling in his chest. His hands clench into fists at his sides as he watches you disappear into the elevator. He immediately chases after you and manages to slip inside the elevator before it closes.

The elevator ride up is suffocating. Minho leans back against the cold wall of the elevator, the weight of the day pressing down on his chest. He runs a hand through his hair, frustration bubbling under his skin. As the elevator dings and the doors slide open, you immediately step out, not even sparing him a glance.

He follows after you, his voice sharp and echoing in the empty hallway. “Hey! Stop walking away from me!”

You pause, but your shoulders remain tense. Minho closes the distance between you, his tone low and biting. “What did I do wrong this time? Don’t you know I did this for you?”

You spin on your heel, glaring at him. “For me? How can you say that when you left because everyone knows about us? You think it’s that simple?”

Minho scoffs, crossing his arms. “Then why don’t you just quit too?”

Your eyes widen slightly before narrowing again. “Let's say I quit and then what?”

His patience is wearing thin, and he can feel his irritation rising. “Is Farfalle the only kitchen in the world?” he snaps. “Why do you act like it’s the only place you can work?”

You shake your head, exhaling sharply. “You don’t get it. You have the skills, the experience. You’ll find a new job anywhere. But for me, it’s different. I’m not you.”

Minho sighs, running a hand down his face. “So, what, you’ll stay there until you become their kitchen ghost?” He waves his hand dismissively. “You’ve got the manager wrapped around your finger. Meanwhile, I left on my own terms, and you’re still mad at me. You must be happy. Good for you.”

His words hit a nerve. Your expression tightens, and you take a step back, as if you’re ready to walk away again. Minho quickly grabs your elbow, his grip firm but not harsh.

You whirl back to face him, your voice lower now but no less intense. “Even if I left Farfalle and followed you to some new kitchen, do you really think people would accept us? Anywhere we go, they’ll talk. They’ll judge. How uncomfortable would that be for you? And even if you got another job, you know I wouldn’t be able to follow you there.”

Minho’s grip on your arm slackens slightly, but he doesn’t let go.

“The best kitchen for me,” you continue softly, your voice trembling, “isn’t necessarily Farfalle. It’s wherever I can be with you. But wherever you go, I’ll only be a liability. There’s no other place where we can be together. Not like this.”

He lets out a frustrated sigh, rubbing the back of his neck as his gaze drops to the floor. “So what?” he mutters.

You meet his eyes, your voice breaking slightly as you say, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry this had to happen. I’m sorry for everything that happened today.”

Minho studies you in silence, his jaw tight. He knows you’re still upset, still trying to process his absence in the kitchen. But he doesn’t know how to handle you when you’re like this—when your emotions is all over the place and leave him feeling exposed.

He exhales deeply, his voice resigned. “So, what now?”

“I’ll stay,” you say quietly. “In the Farfalle kitchen.”

His chest tightens, but he forces himself to ask, “Even without me?”

You nod, the answer cutting through him like a knife.

You take his hand, your fingers trembling slightly as they curl around his. “Please come back,” you say softly, your voice almost pleading.

For a moment, Minho just stares at you, unable to process the request. After everything he did, after walking away from that kitchen, you’re asking him to go back?

He shakes his head, his voice firm. “No.”

You flinch at the finality in his tone, but before you can say anything else, Minho turns on his heel and walks away, leaving you standing alone in the hallway. His steps echo down the corridor, the weight of his decision settling heavily in the silence.

The crisp morning air brushing against your skin as you ring the doorbell to Minho’s apartment. Your stomach churns, but you steady yourself, knowing what you have to say.

A few moments later, the door swings open, revealing Minho. His hair is messy, and his hoodie hangs loosely on his frame. He lingers in the doorway, his expression unreadable, a hint of frustration flickering in his tired eyes.

He doesn’t say anything at first, so you break the silence. “I’m going to work.”

Minho exhales sharply, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Why don’t you just quit?”

You shake your head firmly, your voice unwavering. “I’m going to work.”

Minho steps forward, out of the doorway, and stops directly in front of you. His tone hardens. “Do you think I quit for no good reason? Do you have any idea what they’re going to do to you now? They’re going to make your life miserable. They’ll give you a harder time than ever before. They’ll harass you, push you to your limit, and you won’t be able to handle it alone so just quit now.”

His words weigh heavily in the air, and for a moment, you almost falter. But then you lift your gaze to meet his and offer him a faint, determined smile. “I’ll see you later,” you say softly, before stepping around him and heading toward the elevator.

“Hey!” Minho’s voice rises, sharp and urgent. “I’m telling you to quit!”

You don’t stop, your steps steady as you push the elevator button. The doors slide open, and you step inside, feeling his gaze boring into your back. As the elevator doors close, his voice echoes faintly, but you don’t look back.

The weight in your chest grows heavier, but you clench your fists and remind yourself—this is your choice. You have to keep going.

The restaurant is eerily quiet when you arrive. The clattering of pans, the rush of footsteps, and the sharp bark of instructions are absent, leaving only the hum of the air conditioning to fill the void. You head straight to the locker room, your steps echoing softly against the tiled floor.

Your eyes instinctively dart toward Minho’s locker. You hesitate, then reach out to open it, only to find it completely empty. The sight of the bare, lifeless space sends a pang through your chest. For a long moment, you simply sit on the bench across from it, staring at the void inside.

Your thoughts begin to drift, the quiet settling heavily around you, when the creak of the door breaks through the silence.

Chris’s head pops in, his wide grin instantly breaking through the heaviness. “You’re early,” he says cheerfully as he steps into the room and makes his way over to you.

He plops down on the bench beside you, his relaxed presence somehow comforting. “I was worried that you and Chef would both leave the restaurant,” he admits.

You manage a soft smile at that. “I have to be here,” you say quietly, your voice steady despite the weight in your chest. “So Chef can come back.”

The room falls silent for a moment, the air between you filled with unspoken understanding. Then, almost hesitantly, you ask, “Chris... is Chef really fired just because he left?”

Chris furrows his brow in thought before answering, “Not necessarily.”

You gasp softly, a flicker of hope igniting in your chest. “So that means Chef isn’t really fired unless you say so?”

Chris nods firmly. “Yes.”

You nod back, turning to face him. “How do you feel about all of this?”

He meets your gaze, his expression thoughtful. “Do you want me to be honest,” he asks, “or should I sugarcoat it?”

“Honest,” you reply immediately.

Chris pouts playfully. “You might be disappointed in me if I’m honest.”

You shake your head, smiling faintly. “I’d hate it more if you weren’t honest.”

Chris sighs, leaning back slightly. “Alright, then. You obviously know that I like you already, so... it’s a little disadvantageous for me if Chef works with you in the kitchen.”

You scoff lightly, folding your arms. “And what about it?”

Chris continues, his voice sincere. “It’s also true that I was afraid you’d leave the restaurant to be with him somewhere else. I wasn’t sure which would be better yesterday... but seeing you here now, I know it’s better to have both of you here. Whether I like it or not.” He smiles warmly, dimples sinking into his cheeks. “That’s the truth.”

You can’t help but feel a flicker of admiration for his maturity and honesty. “You’re a much better person than I thought, Chris.”

He chuckles shyly, his cheeks tinged pink as he scratches the back of his neck.

Grinning, you tease, “Why did I reject you again?”

Chris’s grin grows, his confidence returning. “It’s not too late for you to change your mind.”

You laugh softly, the tension in your chest easing just a little. Sitting there with Chris, you feel a small piece of the emptiness inside you start to fill. His candid honesty and lightheartedness are something you didn’t know you needed, and for that, you’re quietly grateful.

Minho is about to grind his coffee beans when the sharp chime of the doorbell interrupts the quiet morning. He sighs, muttering under his breath, and drags himself to the door. As he swings it open, he’s greeted by the sight of Felix and Taesoo grinning at him like a pair of mischievous kids caught red-handed.

“What are you two doing here?” Minho asks, raising an eyebrow.

Felix clears his throat dramatically before stepping forward. “Taesoo and I... left work. Starting today,” he announces, his tone oddly proud.

Minho stares at them, dumbfounded. “What?”

Taesoo nods eagerly, backing up Felix’s claim. “We decided if you’re not working at Farfalle anymore, we’re not either.”

Felix adds with a determined gleam in his eyes, “If you decide to work somewhere else, you’re not going alone. You’re taking us with you, Chef.”

For a moment, Minho is speechless, and a flicker of emotion flashes through him—maybe it’s gratitude or surprise—but whatever it is, it’s quickly buried under exasperation.

“Are you both out of your minds?” he snaps, his voice cutting through their grins like a knife.

Felix and Taesoo exchange nervous glances as Minho takes a threatening step forward. “Who’s going to cook in the kitchen today? There’s a double order at the restaurant, and lunch is going to be a madhouse without you two.”

Taesoo stutters, his confidence crumbling. “Uh... should we... go back now?”

Before he can finish, Felix slaps a hand against Taesoo’s chest, trying to maintain their resolve. But Minho is faster, swatting the back of their heads in one swift motion.

“Go back to work. Now,” Minho orders, his voice low but filled with authority.

Felix and Taesoo flinch, scrambling to respond. “Y-Yes, Chef!” they stammer in unison, clearly regretting their bold decision.

Minho doesn’t waste a second, stepping out into the hallway to start pushing them toward the exit. “Hurry up. The restaurant is going to burn down without you idiots.”

Felix, panicking, reaches for the elevator button, but Minho barks, “Take the stairs!”

They freeze for a split second before sprinting toward the emergency stairwell, their footsteps echoing in the narrow hallway.

Minho stands there, arms crossed, watching them scramble out of sight. A sigh escapes him as he rubs the back of his neck. He can’t tell if he should be touched by their loyalty or worried about their recklessness.

Shaking his head, he mutters, “those little brats,” and heads back inside.

The kitchen feels unnervingly empty, the usual hum of voices replaced by an uneasy quiet. Only half the stations are occupied, with Felix and Taesoo noticeably absent. You take a deep breath, trying to focus, but the atmosphere is heavy with tension.

The silence breaks as Seungwan’s voice cuts through the stillness like a knife. “You really are something,” he sneers, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

You glance at him briefly but say nothing.

“How can you just stand there like nothing happened when Chef gave up his job for you?” he presses, the jab clearly meant to provoke you.

You keep your focus on your station, ignoring him, but Seungwan doesn’t stop. “This is why women are scarier than men,” he says with a mocking chuckle. “You can’t tell what’s really going on with them just by looking. They’ll smile at you while stabbing you in the back.”

His eyes drift to the empty stations, and he sneers. “And loyalty is a man’s quality. Look at Felix and Taesoo—quitting out of loyalty. But you?” He shakes his head dramatically, as if to say you’re the opposite.

You clench your jaw, trying to stay calm, but the irritation boils over. “Shut it!” you snap, your voice sharp but controlled.

He smirks, unbothered by your tone. “Ooh, how scary,” he mutters mockingly, as if your reaction proves his point.

Before the tension can escalate further, the door to the kitchen swings open, and Sara strides in. Her sharp gaze takes in the scene—the half-empty kitchen and the tense air, then she lets out a heavy sigh.

Her voice snaps everyone to attention as she scans the room. “We’re short-staffed, but we don’t have time to waste. We’ll make do.”

Two service staff step hesitantly into the kitchen behind her, offering their help. Sara immediately takes charge, pointing at them. “You, assist in the kitchen. And you,” she gestures to the other, “stand at the chef’s table and read every order loud and clear. No mistakes.”

The service staff nod quickly, stepping into their new roles.

Sara starts delegating tasks with brisk efficiency. “I’ll take the tomato sauce and triple-flavored pasta orders,” she announces, already rolling up her sleeves. “Hyunwoo, you’re on cream sauce and risotto.”

Hyunwoo nods, moving toward his station.

Sara’s gaze lands on you. “Back to the pasta line. You’ll handle the rest of the pasta orders.”

“Yes, Chef,” you reply without hesitation, stepping toward the pasta station and tying your apron tighter around your waist.

Sara pivots to the sous chef. “Sous chef, you handle all the main dishes.”

“Understood, Chef,” he responds firmly, already prepping his station.

Finally, Sara steps back, her sharp eyes scanning the room as she raises her voice to address everyone. “Listen up! We’re running with half the usual staff but double the orders. No one has time to slack off today. Stay on your toes, work fast, and don’t forget what’s at stake. For the sake of the restaurant, we push through. Clear?”

The team collectively straightens, determination flashing in everyone’s eyes as they shout back in unison, “Yes, Chef!”

The tension in the room shifts, transforming into a focused energy. You grip the edge of your station, steeling yourself for the chaos to come. It’s going to be a grueling day, but as you glance around at the team, you know one thing for sure—no matter what, you’ll endure this. For the restaurant. For Minho. For the chance to see him come back.

The kitchen is quiet now, the chaos of the day finally giving way to the rhythmic sound of mops swiping across the floor. You and the others are scattered across the space, each of you focused on the last task of the night—cleaning up. Sara is busy wiping down the chef's table with meticulous care, her usual sharpness softened after a long day.

The silence is interrupted when one of the service staff walks in, his brows furrowed in confusion. “Does anyone know how to make a ginseng pasta?”

The question catches everyone off guard. Hyunwoo pauses mid-swipe, frowning. “Ginseng pasta? That’s not even on the menu.”

The service staff shrugs. “I know, but some old guy came in and ordered it.”

At the mention of the dish, Sara’s head snaps up. Her eyes widen slightly, and before anyone can react, she bolts out of the kitchen.

Hyunwoo snorts and mutters, “What’s with her? It’s not like we’re about to whip up some off-menu dish now.” He shakes his head and resumes mopping, clearly not interested in whatever just happened.

You stay silent, but your thoughts begin to stir. Ginseng pasta... Something about it feels familiar, like a whisper from the back of your mind.

A few minutes later, Sara returns, her expression unreadable but her steps hurried. “Did the old man leave already?” she asks the service staff.

“Yeah, he left after placing the order,” the staff replies, slightly confused by her urgency.

Sara presses on. “Did he say anything else?”

The service staff nods slowly. “He made a reservation and that he’d be coming back in two days.”

Sara’s reaction is subtle, but you catch it—a flicker of recognition in her eyes, a twitch of her lips like she knows exactly who this man is.

But while Sara’s behavior is curious, your attention is elsewhere. Ginseng pasta. The name keeps tugging at you, teasing the edge of your memory. It’s not just familiar—it’s significant.

Once the cleaning is done, you waste no time. The moment you’re free, you dash to the locker room, your heart pounding with anticipation. You make a beeline for your locker, flipping open the recipe book he gave to you. Your fingers skim through the pages until you find it.

Ginseng Pasta.

There it is, written in Minho’s precise handwriting, the recipe detailed with care. The sight of it sends a jolt through you, as if the missing puzzle piece has just fallen into place.

You stare at the recipe, your mind racing. Who is this old man, and why does he know about this dish? And more importantly, why does this feel like a thread that could lead you back to Minho?

You don’t have the answers yet, but one thing is clear—you have to try this recipe.

As you're enjoying your cup of morning coffee, you sit at your kitchen counter with Minho's recipe book sprawled open in front of you, its pages filled with his neat handwriting and meticulous notes. You've spent hours studying the ginseng pasta recipe, committing every detail to memory, but his words from before linger in your mind: "All the recipes in that notebook are failures."

You chew on the inside of your cheek, staring at the list of ingredients. Was he telling the truth, or was that just Minho being his usual, enigmatic self? The doubt gnaws at you until you can’t resist anymore.

Grabbing your phone, you scroll to his number and hit call. The line rings once. Twice.

“What do you want?” Minho’s annoyed voice greets you as soon as he picks up, skipping any pleasantries.

Straight to the point, you ask, “Are you good at making ginseng pasta? And if I follow the recipe in your notebook, will I really fail?”

There’s a pause, followed by an exasperated sigh. “If you don’t believe me, just try it out and see for yourself,” he snaps.

You can’t help but smirk a little. “You have so much free time now. Can’t you just tell me instead?”

Silence follows, but you hear faint background noise—the hum of traffic. Your brows furrow, and you ask, “Are you driving? Where are you going?”

Minho doesn’t answer your question. Instead, he takes a jab at you. “You’re awfully curious for someone still working at the place where your boyfriend quit his job for you.”

You roll your eyes, choosing to ignore his sharp words. “So... are there any successful recipes in the notebook or not?”

His tone sharpens. “Why should I tell you that?”

“Chef—” you start, but before you can finish, he cuts you off.

“I’m hanging up now,” he says curtly, and the line goes dead before you can argue.

You stare at your phone, frustrated, before looking back at the recipe in the book. The question remains: Is this really a failure?

And if it is, you wonder to yourself, Can I make it a success?

Minho steps into the luxurious suite, unsurprised to find Sara already sitting on the couch, her posture unnervingly calm as always. However, his attention shifts to the older man standing by the window, sipping espresso from a delicate porcelain cup. Chef Rossi—the man Minho once idolized during culinary school—is a name that carries weight in the culinary world. His presence here, however, is a mystery.

Minho shrugs off his coat, folding it in a quick, habitual motion before tossing it onto the armrest of the sofa. He takes a seat across from Rossi and, without preamble, asks, "So, what brings you here? Finally missed your students?"

Rossi snorts, setting his cup down with an audible clink. "Missed you? Hardly. I was asked to be the head judge for the New Chef Culinary Challenge."

Minho smirks. "Judging new chefs? Shouldn’t they have called someone young and fresh, not an old fart like you? This competition is doomed from the start."

Rossi’s expression hardens, his sharp glare cutting through Minho’s teasing. “And yet, it’s not you sitting in that chair as a judge, is it? Because you're not competent, someone else have already taken your spot.”

Minho opens his mouth to retort, but Rossi turns sharply toward Sara, who has been uncharacteristically quiet. “I saw your name on the list of judges,” he says. His voice carries an edge that immediately shifts the atmosphere in the room. “Let me ask you one thing. Do you think you have the right to judge others?”

Sara meets his gaze with wide, innocent eyes. Her voice is soft but steady. “I know the mistake I made was a huge one, Chef Rossi. It’s the biggest mistake a chef could ever make. I’ve spent the last few years living with regret and trying to atone—for you and for Minho.”

Rossi sneers. “And you expect me to believe that? That you’ve changed?”

Sara doesn’t flinch. “I don’t expect you to believe it. But I’ll continue proving it until you do.”

Rossi’s attention flickers back to Minho, his tone cutting as he says, “I heard you two were working together again. I thought that meant you’d patched things up. But I come here only to find out she’s kicked you out of your own kitchen.”

Minho bristles, leaning forward defensively. “That’s not what happened! I dug my own grave this time.”

Rossi shakes his head, his disappointment palpable. “I don’t understand what the two of you are doing, but at least show me you’re capable of cooking better than before.” His voice sharpens. “Two days from now, I expect to try your ginseng pasta. Both of you.”

Minho groans, leaning back into the couch. “You came all the way here just to check on my pasta? Forget it. I’m not making it.”

Rossi raises an eyebrow. “And why not?”

Minho shrugs, his tone laced with defiance. “It’s not like you’re still my teacher. And it’s not like you’d give me a good grade even if I did.”

Rossi hisses in frustration, his disbelief evident in his narrowed eyes.

Before the tension can escalate, Sara stands, smoothing her skirt with careful precision. “It would be an honor to cook for you, Chef Rossi,” she says politely. “But I need to get back to the restaurant.” She glances briefly at Minho before adding, “Excuse me.”

Minho watches her leave, the door clicking shut behind her. Rossi turns back to him, crossing his arms. “And what about you? Anything else to do?”

Minho chuckles darkly. “Not really. I’m out of a job, remember?”

Rossi glares at him but says nothing.

After a beat of silence, Minho leans forward, smirking. “Did you at least bring some good wine with you?”

Rossi scoffs, his annoyance spilling over. “What wine? There's nothing for you.”

Minho shrugs, feigning indifference, but the weight of Rossi’s presence lingers, heavier than ever.

The bottle of red wine sits between them, its deep crimson liquid catching the soft afternoon light. Chef Rossi fills Minho’s glass with the precision of a man who’s done this countless times before, his face betraying no emotion. Beside the wine, a freshly delivered charcuterie board waits on the table, its array of cured meats, cheeses, and olives a casual yet decadent offering.

Rossi snorts, pouring himself a glass. “Now, tell me the truth—Sara didn’t kick you out?”

Minho shakes his head, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “She didn’t kick me out.”

Rossi narrows his eyes, skeptical. “Then what? Is it because your temper? You only pick up my bad habits.”

Minho’s smirk falters, and he takes a long sip of his wine to buy himself time. The truth sits heavy in his chest, a confession he’s not eager to make. But Rossi’s piercing gaze leaves no room for escape.

With a sigh, Minho sets his glass down and straightens in his seat. “It wasn’t my temper.” He hesitates, his fingers drumming against the table. “It’s because... I told everyone in the kitchen—no romance. Fired someone for it, too. Then I went and broke my own rule. I fell in love.”

Rossi clicks his tongue, the sound sharp and disapproving. “Come here!” He gestures for Minho to lean closer.

Minho groans, sinking back in his chair. “Come on. I’m older now. Do you really have to—”

Rossi cuts him off with a sharp wave of his hand. “Closer.”

With a resigned sigh, Minho leans forward, his head tilted slightly. Rossi wastes no time grabbing a handful of his hair, tugging hard.

“How could you be so foolish?” Rossi scolds, his voice low and biting. “You sure are a person of principle. How can you fall in love again after all you went through?”

“Alright, alright!” Minho winces, his hands darting up to shield his head as Rossi lands a firm slap on the back of it.

Rossi isn’t done. “You were burned so badly before that you’ve clearly lost all sense of judgment. Falling in love again? In the kitchen, no less?” Another slap follows, and Minho jerks back with a glare.

“Will you stop hitting me?” Minho protests, rubbing the sore spot. “And for your information, this time it’s different. She’s... she’s a good one.”

Rossi scoffs, leaning back in his chair. “You say that now. Let’s see how long it lasts.”

The tension eases as Rossi picks up his glass again, taking a measured sip. After a moment of silence, he speaks. “Paolo called me when he heard I was coming here.”

Minho perks up, his brows knitting together in curiosity. “Paolo?”

Rossi nods. “He wants you in his restaurant. Said he’d take you in a heartbeat.”

Minho blinks, the words taking a moment to sink in. “Wait... me? Paolo actually wants me?”

Rossi rolls his eyes. “Don’t act so surprised. People know what happened between you and Sara, but they also know you’re one of the best. Paolo included.”

Minho leans back, a slow smile spreading across his face. The idea of working in Paolo’s restaurant—the dream he’d chased for so long—fills him with a surge of excitement. But just as quickly, doubt creeps in.

“Should I go, though?” Minho murmurs, his voice quieter now. “I mean, I really want to work there, but...”

Rossi sets his glass down, his expression turning serious. “This is why I came here. To bring you back. If all you’re doing here is fooling around, wasting your time, then come home. You’ve got nothing to prove to anyone anymore.”

Minho rubs the sore spot on his head, muttering under his breath. “Still hurts, you know. You haven’t changed a bit.”

“And you haven’t grown any wiser,” Rossi retorts, though his tone is lighter now.

Minho chuckles, but his thoughts are far from carefree. The offer is everything he’s ever wanted, everything he’s worked for. Yet, as much as he wants to say yes, there’s something—or someone—keeping him from making the decision.

The plate of ginseng pasta feels heavier in your hands as you stand outside Minho’s door. The soft glow of the hallway lights casts a gentle sheen on the sauce, the deep red of the Barolo wine clinging to the strands of pasta. You shift your weight, anticipation curling in your chest as you ring the doorbell.

A moment later, the door swings open. Minho stands there, his sharp eyes scanning you before flickering down to the plate in your hands. His expression is unreadable.

“Can you taste this for me, Chef?” you ask, offering him a small, hopeful smile.

He exhales through his nose—half sigh, half amusement—before stepping aside and opening the door wider. Without a word, he lets you in.

You set the plate down on his dining table and take the seat next to him, watching as he picks up a fork. He glances at you before digging in, as if gauging your reaction. You nod encouragingly, the corners of your lips lifting in anticipation.

Minho lets out a low sigh and twirls the pasta around his fork, taking a bite. You study his face intently, searching for any sign of approval. Instead, his hand reaches for your head. He gives it a gentle pat, just for a second—before flicking you on the forehead.

“Ow!” You wince, rubbing the sore spot.

“It’s bitter,” he states flatly, setting his fork down. His sharp gaze lands on you, unimpressed. “I told you already—every recipe in that book was a failure, yet you still went ahead and made it the same way.”

You pout, still massaging your forehead. “You said one or two of them might’ve been good. I thought this could be the one.”

Minho scoffs. “Not a single recipe in that book was a success.”

You purse your lips, feigning innocence. “Then… can you tell me how to fix the bitterness, Chef?”

Minho doesn’t answer. Instead, he gestures for you to come closer. You hesitate, wary, but obey—only for him to flick your forehead again.

“Ow!” you yelp, jerking back.

“Figure it out yourself,” he scolds, turning his chair toward you. His gaze sharpens as he leans in slightly. “And while we’re at it—you made me jobless. The least you could do is spend time with me, but all you ever do is work.”

You blink at him. “How long are you planning to stay out of work?”

Minho scoffs. “It’s only been a day. One single day. You can't even stand to see me play for one day?”

Before you can respond, he takes your hands and pulls you onto his lap, making you straddle him. Your breath catches as he cups your jaw, bringing your face close. His lips brush yours—just barely—before he presses in, slow but firm, sending a shiver down your spine. The weight of the day melts away, replaced by the warmth of his kiss.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders, matching his eagerness, letting the kiss linger longer than intended. You don’t want to pull away—you’ve missed him too much—but a thought flickers through your mind, forcing you to break the kiss.

You pull back slightly, looking down at him. “Where did you go today?”

Minho hums, trying to close the distance again. “Met a friend.”

You place a hand against his chest, stopping him. “What friend?” There’s a slight edge of jealousy in your tone.

Minho shrugs. “Just an old friend.”

He leans in again, but this time, he doesn’t let you stop him. His lips crash onto yours, deeper, harder, stealing your breath. His teeth graze your lower lip before his hands start to wander—one slipping beneath your shirt, fingertips skimming the skin of your back, the other gently squeezing your thigh. The sensation sends a rush through you, a heat blooming beneath your skin.

Just as you think you might get lost in him, he finally pulls away, leaving you gasping for air. But he’s not done—his lips trail down your jaw, then your neck, pressing hot, lingering kisses against your skin. A giggle escapes you, breathy and unintentional.

Minho smirks against your skin before moving to your ear. He nips at the shell lightly, making you yelp in surprise. You push at his chest, but he leans back in his chair, smug satisfaction written all over his face.

Tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, he softens just slightly. “How was your day?”

Your smile falters. The weight of the kitchen, the tension in the air, the way everyone whispered behind your back—it all rushes back in.

Minho notices immediately. His brows pull together. “Why aren’t you answering me?”

You exhale, finally admitting, “It felt like walking on glass.” You tell him about Felix and Taesoo leaving, how the remaining staff scrambled to keep the kitchen afloat.

Minho scoffs. “They deserved it.”

You grumble, “And on top of everything, the staff won’t stop gossiping about me.”

Minho’s expression darkens. “And you still want to stay there?”

You shoot him a look. “Why don’t you come back?”

He exhales through his nose, shaking his head. “You need to quit.”

Your eyes widen. “If I leave, will you come back?”

Minho’s gaze is steady as he cups your face. “It’s either both of us, or nothing. I don’t want us to be separated.”

You groan, dropping your forehead against his shoulder. His hand comes up to gently cradle the nape of your neck, his thumb stroking your skin.

Then, he murmurs, “I’ll teach you how to make all my recipes the right way… if you leave the restaurant.”

Your head snaps up. You pout. “What kind of teacher makes their student quit?”

Minho glares. “It’s an order. Leave the restaurant.”

You stare at him, stunned. You thought—maybe—just maybe, he’d understand. That he’d come back. But no. Instead of giving you what you wanted, he’s making you walk away from everything you’ve worked for.

Frustration bubbles up inside you. Without another word, you slide off his lap and take a step back.

Minho watches you, expression unreadable. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

You keep glaring at him in silence, turning toward the door.

“Hey.” His voice sharpens. “Where are you going?”

You don’t answer.

“Why aren’t you listening to me?” he snaps.

But you keep walking. Out the door. Away from him.

To avoid the eyes and the whisperings from everyone in the restaurant, you spend most of your time in the locker room. You sit on the small couch, your phone balanced on your knee as you scroll through Minho’s notebook, your other hand flipping between tabs on your screen.

The bitterness of ginseng. The right technique to mellow it out. Your head is buried deep in research, cross-referencing techniques from chefs who have tackled the same problem, when something catches your eye—an article about Sara.

Your finger hovers over the link, but before you can tap it, the door swings open, followed by the sound of hurried footsteps.

The entrée line.

You stay quiet, instinctively keeping your head low as Hyunwoo’s voice cuts through the air. “Have you heard? About the New Chef Culinary Challenge?”

Seungwan lets out an exaggerated sigh. “Of course! And guess what? Sara’s going to be one of the judges. Can you believe how lucky we are?”

You glance up from your phone, eyes narrowing slightly. New Chef Culinary Challenge? You quickly type the name into the search bar, skimming the details as they continue talking.

A competition for rising chefs. The winning team gets a sponsorship to study at a culinary school in Italy.

The door swings open again. This time, it’s Seojun, the sous-chef. His face looks strained, his usual confidence missing. Hyunwoo notices immediately. “What’s going on sous-chef? You look like you've just heard bad news.”

Seojun exhales heavily, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t know if it’s true, but there’s a rumor going around about Chef Sara.”

That gets everyone’s attention. Even you, though you keep your expression neutral as you listen.

“She cheated.” Seojun leans against the lockers, lowering his voice slightly. “Apparently, back when she was competing in a contest, she tricked her rival so she could win the grand prize in Italy.”

Hyunwoo and Seungwan gasp dramatically. “What? That can't be!”

Seojun presses his lips into a thin line before adding, “And the rival was Lee Minho.”

Silence.

For a second, no one speaks. The weight of his words hangs thick in the air. Even Hyunwoo and Seungwan, always quick with a reaction, seem stunned.

Seungwan groans. “You’re kidding me. That means we have no one to be our managing chef for the challenge.”

From your corner, you barely breathe.

So, this is how it finally comes to light.

The whispers, the rumors, the betrayal Minho never talks about—all of it, spilling out right here in this locker room. You wonder if it stings for him, knowing that the truth is only coming out now, years too late. If it would even matter to him.

But for you, it does.

The café is warm, the scent of roasted coffee beans and fresh pastries lingering in the air, but Minho barely registers it. His gaze sweeps across the room, and it doesn't take long to spot Chris. Even in a place filled with businessmen and professionals, Chris stands out—his sharp suit pristine, his posture straight, his pale skin contrasting starkly against the dim lighting.

Minho clicks his tongue. If it weren’t for work, I wouldn’t be here, looking at his annoying face.

Still, he strides over, pulling out the chair opposite Chris before dropping into it with a lazy slouch. Chris doesn’t waste time on pleasantries.

“What happened with you and Sara in Italy?”

Minho stills for a split second. So, everyone knows now. It was only a matter of time before the past caught up with him.

He leans back, playing it coy. “And here I thought you were just here to persuade your runaway chef to come back.”

Chris doesn’t rise to the bait. His expression remains unreadable as he calmly asks, “Then why don’t you come back, Chef?”

Minho quirks a brow, tilting his head. “What if I do?”

Chris’s lips press into a firm line, unimpressed. “Come back to work, Chef.”

A scoff leaves Minho’s lips. He crosses his arms, legs stretching out under the table. “And if I do, does that mean I can date all I want in the kitchen?”

Chris’s jaw tightens ever so slightly, and Minho smirks. Got him.

But Chris recovers quickly, exhaling through his nose before speaking in a calm, steady tone. “Whether you start a war or a fight in the kitchen, that’s up to you. But come back.” His voice is unwavering now. “Help Sara.”

Minho’s smirk fades and for the first time, he sees it—Chris isn't demanding, isn't ordering. He’s genuinely asking.

“I’m not a chef,” Chris continues, his voice quieter but firm. “I can only do so much in the kitchen and I can’t stand by and watch the quality of food drop every day.”

Minho doesn’t respond. He watches as Chris straightens his shoulders, his expression turning serious.

“You know if you quit like this, you’re breaking our contract.”

Silence stretches between them.

Their eyes lock, neither willing to back down. The air between them is thick with unspoken words, an unyielding battle of wills.

Minho exhales slowly, fingers tapping against the table, debating if this is really the time to not be selfish.

The kitchen is empty, save for the faint hum of the ventilation system and the soft bubbling of milk in your pots. Everyone else has gone home, but you're still here, determined to perfect the celeriac purée Sara requested.

Not that you had much choice—Seungwan conveniently "forgot" his promise to teach you, leaving you to figure it out on your own.

You're stirring two pots at once, carefully keeping the milk from burning, when footsteps echo through the quiet space. You glance up to see Chris entering the kitchen, his sharp eyes scanning the room before landing on you.

“Do you need help?” he asks.

You let out a breath of relief, nodding. “Yeah, can you stir this one for me.”

Chris shrugs off his suit jacket, folding it neatly before placing it on the chef’s table and then he rolls the sleeves of his dark shirt to his elbows, exposing the evident veins on his arms.

The sight makes you raise an eyebrow. “Is it really okay to make the manager work?” you ask.

Chris waves off your concern, taking the spatula from your hand and beginning to stir. “If it means you won’t burn down the kitchen, then yes.”

You roll your eyes but focus on your task. The rhythm of stirring is almost calming, but then—

“The milk’s all gone,” Chris announces, peering into his pot. “Should I turn off the stove now?”

Your head snaps up. “No—wait—” You rush to grab the spatula from him, stirring both pots in a frantic attempt to salvage them. “Get more milk from the fridge, now!”

Chris blinks at the urgency but moves quickly, returning with a carton of cold milk. You nod at his efficiency. “Pour it in, slowly.”

As he does, the pot hisses upon contact, steam curling into the air. Chris watches as he continues stirring, then asks, “Why not just add more milk from the start?”

You shoot him a look while your hand stirring the pot non-stop. “You trying to make soup?”

Chris huffs but follows your instructions. The two of you stir in silence for a while until you sigh, voicing your frustration. “I don’t get it. Seungwan’s celeriac purée tasted sweeter, but mine always comes out bitter. And he won’t tell me why.”

Chris stops stirring to look at you, his expression incredulous. “He won’t share, even though you work together?”

You nod and pout as he mutters, “That’s mean.”

His deadpan comment makes you smile, the tension in your shoulders easing. “Yeah, tell me about it.”

You hand him a wooden spatula. “Mash the celeriac up,” you instruct.

Chris follows without protest, pressing down with ease until the softened celeriac turns into a smooth paste, blending with the milk. You do the same, then take a taste.

Your shoulders slump. Still bitter.

Chris tastes his and frowns. “Mine’s sweet.”

You scoff. “Yeah, sure. Like I trust your taste buds.”

Chris gestures to his pot, offering his spatula. “I swear, it's good. Try it.”

Skeptical, you dip your pinky finger into his purée and bring it to your tongue. Your eyes widen. It really is sweet.

You gasp, looking between both pots, baffled. “How—?”

Chris frowns, echoing your thoughts. “We used the same ingredients and method. How come one’s sweeter than the other?”

Your mind races, retracing every step. And then—it clicks.

“The milk,” you blurt out.

Chris tilts his head. “What about it?”

Excitement surges through you like you've discovered a divinie revelation. “Mine used room-temperature milk. Yours was cold from the fridge.”

Understanding dawns in his expression, but before he can say anything, you jump on your feet, triumphant. “I finally found the secret formula!”

Chris laughs, watching your excitement with amusement. “I’d like to remind you that I played a big role in this discovery.”

Still grinning, you turn to him and, in a rush of happiness, throw your arms around him in a quick hug. Chris stiffens for a second before relaxing.

Pulling back, you look him in the eyes and say, “Thank you.”

And you have so many things you're thankful for—Chris’s presence, his unwavering support and how he genuinely cares for you despite knowing that you only can reciprocate his feelings with a sincere gratitude, so you say it again, “Thank you, Chris.”

For once, Chris doesn’t have a witty comeback. He just nods, a small smile tugging at his lips.

The moment the doorbell rings, Minho knows it’s you.

There’s something about the way you knock or ring, like you’re trying to suppress excitement but failing miserably. With a sigh and a faint smirk, he opens the door. And there you are—standing with another plate of ginseng pasta, eyes bright with anticipation.

“Can you taste it for me, chef?” you ask sweetly, holding the plate out like an offering.

Minho studies you for a second before stepping aside. “Come in.”

You set the plate on the table in the living room, settling onto the sofa. Minho joins you, stretching out comfortably before casting you a sideways glance. “Just so you know, I’m going to be busy starting tomorrow,” he says. “No more time to play with you.”

You blink at him, surprised. “Did you get a new job, Chef? Where?”

Minho leans back, feigning nonchalance. “That’s a secret.” He picks up the fork, twirling it between his fingers before adding, “I might go back to Italy.”

Then, almost as an afterthought, he looks at you and asks, “Do you want to come with me?”

Without missing a beat, you reply, “I can’t.”

Minho’s hand stills. He hadn’t even taken a bite yet, but suddenly, he’s lost his appetite. He glares at you. “Why not?”

You pout and meekly answer, “I have my job... my dad.”

Minho clicks his tongue. “But you have me,” he counters, his tone sharp. “You really don’t want to come?”

You hesitate, then quietly say, “I’d rather learn from you in the kitchen.”

Minho scoffs and persists. “I'm going and you can go ahead and bury your bones in Farfalle.”

You huff in frustration, crossing your arms. Silence stretches between you both, heavy and unyielding. After a moment, you break it with a question.

“…Does that mean we’re breaking up?”

Minho’s grip on the fork tightens. “You said you don’t want to come,” he snaps, exhaling sharply. He shakes his head. “You’re not willing to give up anything for me.”

You bristle at that. “How can you leave in the middle of a relationship?”

Something in Minho cracks. He lets out a humorless laugh. “Do you even have a right to say that?”

You flinch. Minho’s voice drops lower, rough with frustration. “You don’t want to quit with me. You don’t want to come with me. Then what do you want to do with me?”

Your silence only fuels his irritation. He lets out another sigh, running a hand through his hair. Maybe he’s approaching this wrong. He scoots closer, voice softer now.

“Convince me not to go then,” he says, watching you carefully.

Still, nothing.

Minho isn’t good at being gentle. He doesn’t have the patience for quiet battles. With a small sigh, he reaches out, patting your head endearingly. “I’m scared to go anywhere because of you,” he mutters, then nudges your knee playfully. “Come on, say it. Don’t go, chef.”

But you don’t say anything.

Instead, you stand. Minho watches as you move toward the door, something unreadable in your expression. His stomach twists.

“Why are you leaving?” he calls after you, scoffing when you don’t answer. You just keep walking, the door clicking shut behind you.

Minho leans back, exhaling sharply. He just doesn’t get you sometimes. It’s like everything he does is wrong to you.

Frustrated, he stabs his fork into the pasta, twirling it aggressively before shoving a bite into his mouth.

And then—he stops.

The bitterness is gone. The ginseng pasta actually tastes good.

Minho blinks, chewing slowly. He takes another bite, testing it. A huff of laughter escapes him. You did it. You figured it out.

Without realizing it, he’s smiling. Pride flickers in his chest as he takes another forkful. Maybe he still doesn’t understand you. But at least one thing is clear—you’re a damn good chef.

The kitchen hums with energy, the usual pre-dinner service rush thick in the air. Pots clang, knives chop, and the scent of simmering sauces lingers in the air. But tonight, something feels different.

Two hours before service, Chef Sara is at her station, preparing a special pasta dish. You’ve noticed the extra care she’s putting into it—more than usual. The curiosity gnaws at you, especially when you hear whispers from the service staff about the customer who requested it. He asked for Chef Sara, and only Chef Sara.

You slip out of the kitchen, making your way up the stairs to the second-floor balcony, where you can get a good look at the dining room below. Peering over the railing, your breath catches in your throat.

Chef Rossi.

The shock almost makes you gasp. What is he doing here?

Even from a distance, you recognize him immediately—the sharp, assessing eyes, the air of authority he carries like a second skin. He was one of the most respected instructors at your culinary school, a man whose approval was both feared and revered. More than that, he was Minho and Sara’s mentor, taking them under his wing like prized protégés. Seeing him now, it’s impossible not to notice just how much Minho has taken after him.

Your back straightens as Sara herself enters the dining room, carrying a plate of pasta. The service staff stand nearby, watching just as intently as you are. Even Chris is among them, his usual casual demeanor replaced with quiet observation.

Sara sets the plate in front of Chef Rossi. He looks at the dish. Then at her. Silence stretches between them.

And then—his voice explodes through the restaurant. “I ordered two plates of pasta, not one.”

The words lash through the room, sharp and unforgiving.

“Are you incapable of delivering an order placed not one, but two days ago? Is this the best you can do?”

Chef Rossi lifts the plate. For a second, you think—no, he wouldn’t—But he does.

He drops it. The ceramic shatters against the floor, the carefully plated pasta scattering in a mess of sauce and noodles. A sharp breath hisses through the room.

“I will only taste it when you bring me two plates,” Chef Rossi declares.

Sara stands still, her face unreadable. Then, she nods—just slightly—before turning and walking away. The moment she’s out of sight, she breaks into a run and heads towards the chef’s office.

You don’t wait to see what happens next. If you linger any longer, Chef Rossi might spot you, and the last thing you need is a scolding from him. You hurry back to the kitchen, gripping your knife and focusing on your station.

But then—

Sara bursts in, slightly out of breath. “Can you please make Chef Lee’s ginseng pasta?”

The kitchen falls silent. Every pair of eyes turns toward you while you freeze in place.

You blink at her, as if making sure you heard correctly. “You… want me to make Chef Lee’s ginseng pasta?”

Sara nods and your first thought is Minho. It has to be him. He must have told her to prepare it in his place.

You exhale. Well, if this is the only way to deal with Chef Rossi, so be it. Also, you'd feel bad for Sara if you refused. You reach for a pan, your fingers tightening around the handle. Beside you, Sara moves back to her station, already preparing the second dish.

Still— You can’t help but wonder. Why did Minho ask for me to cook it instead of him?

Chef Sara strides ahead, her presence composed as ever, while you follow closely behind, carefully balancing your plate of ginseng pasta in both hands. The nerves settle low in your stomach, a quiet anxiety growing with each step. It’s not just about presenting the dish—it’s about who is sitting at the table.

Chef Rossi.

Even back in culinary school, his name carried weight. He was a man whose approval was both terrifying and rewarding, and now, here you are, about to serve him your dish. You’ve seen how he treats failures. You remember how Minho looked up to him. And now you’re about to face him, carrying a plate of Minho’s recipe—except, it isn’t quite Minho’s anymore.

Sara reaches the table first, setting down her dish with practiced ease. You follow suit, carefully placing your plate beside hers before taking a hurried step back, as if distance might shield you from whatever sharp words Chef Rossi has in store.

It doesn’t work. His eyes flick to you, narrowing slightly. “Do I know you?”

You freeze. Slowly, you lift your head, forcing a polite, practiced smile onto your face. “It’s nice to meet you again, Chef Rossi.”

His gaze sharpens. Then— He hisses.

“You,” he says, unimpressed. “Are you still slacking off like you did back in culinary school?”

Your smile stiffens. Right. You expected this. Before you can answer, Chef Rossi hisses again, his eyes narrowing even further. “And you—are you the one dating Minho?”

You swallow hard. There’s no good way to answer that, so you just nod meekly.

Thankfully, he moves on. Chef Rossi picks up his fork and digs into Sara’s pasta first. The moment the bite touches his tongue, you see his expression shift, just slightly—a small nod of acknowledgment.

“I see you’ve done more tests,” he comments.

Sara lifts her chin. “Back in Italy, I used to blanch the ginseng in water to remove the bitterness,” she eloquently explains the process. “But I found that baking it in the oven with a potato keeps the nutrients while reducing the bitter taste.”

Chef Rossi nods, clearly pleased. “That’s just what I expected from you.” He places the fork down, voice firm. “Your pasta is the best as usual.”

Sara remains composed, accepting the praise with grace. Then, Chef Rossi turns to your plate.

You suck in a breath as he picks up his fork again. Watches as he twirls the pasta. As he takes a bite.

There’s a pause. Then—surprise flashes across his face.

“Whose recipe is this?” he asks.

Your fingers twitch. “It’s Chef Lee’s recipe.”

Chef Rossi’s eyes narrow. “All of it?”

You hesitate—then quickly shake your head. “I changed something.”

Chef Rossi leans forward slightly. “What is it?”

Your voice feels small under his scrutiny, but you force yourself to answer. “When I followed Chef Lee’s recipe, the bitter taste of the ginseng threw off the balance. So I tried blanching the ginseng in milk instead.” You glance at Sara. “It softened the bitterness and turned it into sweetness.”

Sara’s brows shoot up. “You used the good wine and the bitterness was still there?”

You nod. “I thought the Barolo wine would do the trick, but it didn’t fully remove the bitterness.”

Sara’s face drops. A muttered, quiet realization: “So it wasn’t the wine…”

You hesitate and clasp your hands together in front of you. “Chef Lee told me it was a failed recipe, so I changed it a little.”

For the first time, Sara’s expression cracks. She turns to Chef Rossi, her eyes wide. “You always knew, didn’t you?”

Chef Rossi doesn’t look surprised by the question. He meets her gaze evenly. “You didn’t need to ruin Minho’s wine to win,” he states, matter-of-fact. “Because his recipe was never complete to begin with.”

The weight of his words settles over the table. Chef Rossi continues, voice firm. “Even if Minho had used the best wine, his method back then was incomplete.” He pauses. Then, the final blow: “You didn’t ruin Minho. You ruined yourself.”

Sara visibly stiffens. Her fingers curl into her apron, gripping so tightly her knuckles turn white. A long silence follows. Then—softly, almost brokenly—she mutters, “I’m so sorry, Chef.”

She turns and walks away. Chris makes a move to stop her, but she doesn’t look back. She keeps walking—out of the dining hall, out of sight.

You exhale, the tension in your shoulders lingering. This should feel like a victory, but the weight of the truth—the way it broke Sara—leaves a strange bitterness in your chest.

Before you can dwell on it, Chef Rossi’s voice pulls you back. He calls your name. Almost the same way Minho does. Then, he lifts a hand and points a finger straight at you.

“How dare you change your chef’s recipe?”

“I—I’m sorry, Chef,” you mutter, looking down.

Chef Rossi clicks his tongue. “If you want to be great, keep changing recipes.” His eyes glint, voice sharp. “And keep changing them again. And again.”

Your head snaps up and for a second, you almost—almost—laugh. But you manage to hold it back, straightening instead.

“Yes, Chef.”

Chef Rossi huffs. “And stop slacking off.”

You snap a quick, “Yes, Chef.”

As he leans back in his chair, you finally allow yourself a small breath. This feels like a triumph. But remembering what the truth did to Sara— You can’t help but feel bittersweet.

Minho has been waiting for this.

He’s been expecting the sound of the doorbell, anticipating it for a while now. And when it finally rings, a slow smile tugs at his lips.

There you are.

He takes his time walking toward the door, savoring the moment, letting the anticipation settle just a little longer before he finally opens it.

And there you stand, grinning from ear to ear.

“Hi, Chef,” you greet, eyes shining, excitement practically radiating off of you.

Minho’s heart does a little leap—annoyingly so—but he keeps his expression coy, lingering in the doorway. “I’m guessing you met the old man today,” he says, tilting his head.

Your enthusiasm is instant—you nod eagerly. “You denied it, but you were exactly like Chef Rossi.”

Minho scoffs, face contorting in denial. “How am I like him?” He crosses his arms, lips twitching. “I’m way better than Chef Rossi. At least by a bit.”

Your grin grows wider at that, amused. You take a step closer. “Chef Rossi was waiting for you to come. But why did you make me cook your ginseng pasta instead?” you ask, tilting your head at him.

This time, Minho moves aside, letting the door close behind him. He stands in front of you, his gaze steady, before he simply states—

“The ginseng pasta doesn’t belong to Chef Lee Minho anymore. It belongs to you.”

He watches as realization dawns on your face. Before you can speak, he continues, voice even, certain.

“My recipe was a failure. Yours came out a success.” He leans in just slightly, his gaze locking onto yours. “So now, it’s yours.”

For a moment, you just stare at him, as if processing his words. Then— Your smile grows impossibly wide, beaming with pure joy. And Minho’s heart tightens in the best way.

He exhales, playing it off with a smirk. “You’re a little bit better than me at making ginseng pasta.”

You raise a brow. “Just a little?”

Minho grins, shrugging. “Yeah. Just a little.”

You laugh, the sound bursting out of you—bright, unfiltered, happiness etched across your face. It’s contagious, and Minho finds himself laughing along with you, warmth settling deep in his chest.

Then, he asks, “Are you happy?”

You nod eagerly. Then, without warning, you surge forward, throwing your arms around him and kissing him.

Minho barely has time to register the softness of your lips before you pull away again, giggling against him. But he’s not done with you yet.

His hands find your waist, pulling you back in, and this time, he leans in—slowly, deliberately—capturing your lips in a kiss that lingers, deep and unspoken, conveying everything he feels for you.

Pride. Happiness. You.

Stepping into Minho’s apartment, the door barely clicks shut before his hands are on you, pulling you in for a kiss. It starts slow—teasing, exploring—but quickly deepens, growing hot and desperate as his fingers tighten on your waist. You press into him, hands tangling in his hair, and he groans softly against your lips, his body already thrumming with heat.

Without breaking the kiss, Minho’s hands slide down to your thighs, gripping firmly before hoisting you up against him. Instinctively, you wrap your legs around his waist, feeling the strength in his hold as he carries you toward the bedroom. His lips never leave yours, only pausing for a second to murmur, “I’ve got you,” before reclaiming your mouth with a hunger that sends a shiver through you.

The world blurs until your back meets the bed, and Minho looms over you, his dark eyes searching yours as his hands begin their slow, deliberate exploration of your body. His mouth follows, tracing heated kisses down your neck, along your collarbone, leaving you breathless beneath him.

Your warmth envelopes him as he holds you close, planting kisses on every inch of skin he can land his lips on. He drags his mouth lower, going to the warmest part of you and you lowly gasp the second he makes contact with your heating core. Using his thumb, he teases your clit, rubbing it in circular motions, he’s doing it gently but it's enough to make you squirm under him.

As if that isn't enough, he replaces his thumb with his tongue next, slick and hot against your sensitive spot, making you arching your back, asking for more. He gives it to you by taking all of you in his mouth, sucking, licking, drinking in your essence that slowly intoxicating him.

Minho lets go and with his hands on your hips, he's maneuvering you to turn over on the bed, lying on your stomach. You slightly jutting your rear up in the air, allowing him to reach between your legs and touches you there, making you drenched.

One cheek pressed against the pillow while your hands gripping the sheet as you moan, enjoying the way his fingers pumping in and out of you, searching for that spot that makes you—

“Oh!” You loudly moan and it's echoing in the dark room.

As you stay laying on the bed on your stomach, you hear Minho shifting on the bed and soon, you feel the heat his body radiates as he hovers above you. His hand grips the nape of your neck before gliding it down your spine and then shifts to the side, gripping you by the waist as he positioning himself.

His cock, stiff and hot, poking the back of your thigh before he aligns it towards your entrance. As he enters you, you arch your back and jutting your ass higher in the air for him. You're moaning into the pillow as you're taking more and more of him until he's fully buried inside you.

Minho drops his head into the crook of your neck, spilling out a raw groan and he stays like that, giving each other a moment to adjust. He presses his mouth close to your ear and murmurs, “How are you always this good, mmh?”

You look over your shoulder at him and smile, but he captures your lips in a haste kiss that takes all of your breath away. You gasp for air when he lets go but it's not enough, it will never be enough.

You pull him by the neck and bring his head close, this time you kiss him, letting all of your feelings pouring out of you and into the kiss, as if committing this moment to memory.

When Minho finally starts thrusting you from behind, his hands mapping every curve of your body, he brushes your hair aside, exposing the bare skin of your shoulder. His lips find the spot just below your ear, pressing soft, lingering kisses before trailing lower. One of his hands slides upward, wrapping gently around your throat—not to restrain, but to guide. He tilts your head back, angling it just enough so he can claim your lips again, this time deep and consuming.

When he finally pulls away, his dark eyes meet yours, clouded with heat. His thumb brushes over your pulse point as he murmurs, “Harder?” His voice is low, full of restrained intensity.

You swallow, breath uneven, before shaking your head slightly. Instead, you place your hand over his, squeezing gently. Your gaze meets his, steady and sure. “This is good,” you whisper, voice laced with warmth. “This is perfect.”

Minho’s lips curl into a small, knowing smirk before he leans in again, pressing another lingering kiss to your skin as he maintains the slow, steady pace. He takes your hand and lacing it together against the mattress and you're right, this is perfect.

Minho pauses just as you’re on the brink of climax, he slowly pulls away and you sigh at the sudden emptiness. He shifts, his hands firm yet careful as he turns you onto your back. His touch lingers, warm and steady, as he settles between your legs and enters you once again. His eyes focusing on the way his cock slipping in and out of you for a while before locking onto yours

There’s something different in his eyes now—softer, deeper—like he’s seeing all of you, not just your body, but everything that makes you you.

He leans down, pressing a slow, tender kiss to your lips before moving lower, his touch reverent, as if memorizing every inch of your skin. His pace remains unhurried, every movement deliberate, drawing out every sensation until you feel like you’re unraveling beneath him. He murmurs soft words against your skin, praises mixed with quiet sighs, his hands never stopping their slow, loving exploration.

By the time you both reach your highs, your body is trembling, overwhelmed not just by pleasure, but by the sheer intimacy of it all. Minho watches you carefully, his breathing still heavy, and it’s only when he leans in to press another kiss to your lips that he notices the tears trailing down your cheek.

His expression softens, and he brings his knuckles up, gently wiping the tear away. “Hey,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. “Are you okay?” There’s no teasing in his tone—only warmth, only care.

You blink up at him, your heart swelling at the tenderness in his eyes. Before you can answer, he leans in, capturing your lips in a long, lingering kiss, one that holds everything words can’t express.

When he pulls away, the faintest smirk tugs at the corner of his lips as his eyes dart toward the mess he made on your thigh, the pearly white of his seed glistening under the dim of light.

“So,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb over your cheek one last time. “Still perfect?”

You let out a breathy laugh, your chest still rising and falling with the remnants of your release. Meeting his gaze, you smile and nod.

“Perfect,” you whisper, reaching up to tuck a damp strand of hair away from his forehead.

Minho exhales, a satisfied hum escaping him as he shifts to pull you into his arms, holding you close like he never wants to let go.

Minho lies beside you, the warmth of your bare skin pressed against his, his fingers idly combing through your hair as he gazes into your eyes. The world outside feels distant, insignificant—because in this moment, with you lying so close, nothing else matters.

His hand cups your jaw, thumb grazing over your cheek as he murmurs, “I’m glad you’re doing well in the kitchen without me.”

Your eyes widen slightly, filled with something soft and unguarded. “I don’t want to be doing well all by myself,” you say, voice quiet but firm. “I want to do a good job when you’re there with me.”

Minho’s brows pull together slightly. “Why not?”

You take his wrist, cradling his hand against your cheek, your lips curling into a small, knowing smile. “Do you know how many times I thought of you today?”

His smirk appears without hesitation, curiosity flickering in his eyes. “How many?”

“Twelve times,” you answer without missing a beat.

Minho scoffs. “That’s it?” he teases, tilting his head slightly. “I expected more.”

You hold his gaze, and for a moment, the air shifts between you. “Twelve times,” you repeat, voice quieter this time, “that I thought… it should have been me, not you, that left the restaurant.”

His teasing smirk fades, his expression unreadable as he listens.

“I never imagined you would give up your job for me,” you continue, not in disbelief, but with something closer to awe, like the reality of it is finally settling in. Your voice takes on a wistful tone, laced with a quiet regret. “I never realized how special it was—just being together—until now. We wasted so much time worrying about getting caught, about what everyone else thought.”

Your fingers tighten slightly around his wrist, your eyes flickering with something raw and vulnerable as you plead, “If you come back, I’ll be really good to you.” Your voice drops lower, almost desperate. “So please… come back.”

Minho watches you carefully, heart tightening in his chest. He doesn’t react immediately, doesn’t let you see the way your words settle deep inside him. Instead, he exhales softly and tilts his head.

“You done talking?” he asks, his tone light, teasing, masking the weight of his thoughts.

You nod, and he shifts, opening his arm to you. Without hesitation, you move into his embrace, nuzzling into his chest. He presses a lingering kiss to your forehead, then your lips, slow and deep, something that aches in the best way.

“Let’s just sleep,” he mutters, pulling the duvet higher over both of you.

Minho holds you close, his fingers resting at the small of your back, and as your breathing evens out, he stares at the ceiling, lost in thought. You make it sound so simple, as if all he has to do is walk back through the restaurant doors and everything will fall into place.

He wants to give you everything. But as he lies there, feeling your warmth against him, he wonders—can he?

Minho is wiping down the counter when his phone buzzes with a new message. A smirk tugs at his lips, knowing it’s from you. You were just here, eating breakfast together in the kitchen, lingering longer than necessary in his arms.

But his smirk fades as he reads your text. Sara didn’t come home until now, and I’m worried about her.

Minho’s first instinct is to let someone else handle it—Chris, perhaps, or Felix—but the knot tightening in his chest convinces him otherwise. After what happened yesterday, he knows he should check on her himself.

Just as he’s about to call, another message pops up. This time, it’s from Sara.

Come meet me here. She’s attached the address to a small café.

It takes him fifteen minutes to get there, the ride filled with thoughts of what he should say or not say. When he arrives, he spots Sara instantly, tucked away in a corner, her chin resting in her hand as she stares vacantly out the window.

He doesn’t announce his arrival, just slides into the seat across from her. When she notices him, a faint, melancholic smile graces her lips. She cradles her cup of coffee, but makes no move to drink from it.

Silence lingers between them, heavy and suffocating.

“Minho, I don’t think I can ever cook again,” Sara begins, her voice thin and worn. “I’m too ashamed to even face you.”

Minho remains quiet, his eyes fixed on her, giving her the space to unravel her thoughts.

“I'm so disappointed in myself,” she admits, the words tumbling out like a confession. “First, I'm disappointed for not believing in myself. I could have taken first place on my own merit.”

Her grip tightens on the cup, knuckles paling as she presses on. “And then…I'm disappointed for hurting you, betraying you, just to get ahead. If only I had believed in myself from the start…”

The quiver in her voice gives Minho pause, and he takes this opportunity to respond. “Chef Rossi always favored you,” he says softly, choosing his words with care. “He had higher expectations for you than for anyone else. That’s why he was so disappointed.”

He leans back, folding his arms as he continues, “Don’t worry about it too much. I wasn’t all that gracious either.”

Sara offers a fragile smile, one that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I wanted to show you how good I was,” she confesses, the honesty of it striking something deep within him. “I was the one who recommended you to Farfalle, you know. I wanted to work with you again.”

Minho’s expression remains unreadable, absorbing the weight of her words. Another stretch of silence settles between them, only broken by the muted clinks of cups and chatter from other tables.

Finally, Sara looks at him directly, her eyes glassy but determined. “Minho,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.

He meets her gaze, giving her his full attention.

“For the sake of Farfalle’s kitchen…for my sake,” she pleads, her vulnerability laid bare. “Can you come back and be the chef again?”

Minho’s breath catches, and he watches her as she forces a trembling smile. “It’s the last request I’ll make of you.”

Minho’s gaze softens, his fingers tapping lightly against the table. He’s torn between the bitterness of the past and the hope for something different—a chance to rebuild, not just for the kitchen, but for the people in it.

A decision hangs in the balance, the echoes of past betrayals and lingering affections coloring the silence between them.

The kitchen is eerily quiet, and it shouldn’t be—not when lunch service is only ten minutes away. Instead of the usual buzz of last-minute preparations, there’s a heavy sense of unease. Everyone looks more discouraged than nervous. At least yesterday, the kitchen still had its head chef. But today…

Hyunwoo shifts uncomfortably before breaking the silence. “Sous-chef, do you think we can handle the service on our own?”

Seojun exhales slowly. His usual confident demeanor is absent, and his shoulders slump slightly. He doesn’t even need to answer—the doubt is clear in his expression. Three cooks against a full lunch service? It’s impossible.

Unless—

The kitchen door swings open.

Minho strides in, tying his apron around his waist, the weight of his presence settling over the kitchen like a breath of fresh air. Behind him, Felix and Taesoo follow, both dressed and ready for service. Felix catches your eye and flirtatiously winks.

You immediately pinch your forearm, just in case you’re dreaming. It hurts. So that means—

Minho takes his place at the chef’s table and surveys the room. “Chef Sara will not be returning to the kitchen for a while,” he announces. His voice is steady, authoritative. “And as head chef, I owe you all an apology for putting you through all this confusion. It wasn’t my intention, but our personal circumstances got in the way.”

A beat of silence passes before he continues, his tone softer but firm. “I felt awful being away, and I know Chef Sara feels the same. But I also strongly believe she will come back soon.”

Minho’s gaze moves across the room, lingering on you for just a second longer than the others. You can’t help the way your lips tug into a bright smile, and you hope he knows how hard you’re resisting the urge to run up and hug him.

Minho smirks—his signature smirk, the one that sends warmth pooling in your chest. “I’m glad to be back in the kitchen with all of you.”

From the corner of your eye, you spot Chris quietly stepping into the kitchen, observing. But before anyone can react, Seojun raises his hand. “I have something to say.”

Minho nods, giving him permission to speak.

Seojun straightens. “I’ve never seen a kitchen run smoothly when the head chef is romantically involved with a cook,” he says evenly. “So tell me, how can you prove that this will be any different?”

Silence falls over the kitchen like a thick cloud. All eyes flick between you and Minho.

Seojun folds his arms, his voice calm but pointed. “This isn’t personal. But a kitchen operates on a strict hierarchy. If the head chef is involved with someone lower in rank, it will cause problems. The kitchen needs a leader who can make fair decisions without personal bias.”

His gaze sharpens as he looks at Minho directly. “Can you promise that your relationship won’t interfere with how you run this kitchen?”

You swallow, suddenly feeling exposed. You hadn’t considered how difficult this would be—not just for you and Minho, but for the entire team.

Seojun presses on, his voice unwavering. “If you can’t, then I want your word that if you ever lose your impartiality as a chef, you will fire her yourself.”

Your stomach twists.

Minho is quiet for a moment. His expression remains unreadable, but there’s no hesitation in his voice when he finally speaks.

“You have my word,” Minho says, his tone firm. “The minute I lose my impartiality, I will fire her myself.”

The words sting, but you nod in understanding. This is what it means to be in Minho’s kitchen. His integrity as a chef comes first, and if you’re going to stand beside him, you have to accept that too.

The tension lingers for a few seconds before Minho claps his hands. “Alright, let’s get to work. Lunch service is about to start.”

Just like that, the kitchen comes alive again. The energy shifts as Felix and Taesoo return to their stations, and Minho’s familiar yells fill the space, pulling everyone back into their rhythm.

Amidst the chaos, you slip into the walk-in freezer, pulling out your phone. Your fingers hover over the screen before typing out a text.

Welcome back from your wandering, my favorite chef in the world, and then hit send.

Through the circular window of the freezer door, you watch as Minho pulls out his phone. He reads the message, then lifts his head, scanning the room until his eyes find yours through the glass. He suppresses a smile—just barely—before making a throat slicing gesture at you.

You bite back a laugh as he tucks his phone away and continues walking through the kitchen like usual, as if nothing had changed.

But something had. Minho was back.

The knock on the door comes just as Minho expected.

“Come in.”

Felix and Hyunwoo step inside, standing side by side in front of him as he leans against Sara’s vacant desk. Felix is the first to speak.

“You called for us, Chef?”

Minho nods but turns his attention to Hyunwoo first. “Thank you for your hardwork for filling in for everyone on the pasta line.”

Hyunwoo scoffs, crossing his arms. “This is not the first time he ran off.” He throws a pointed look at Felix before muttering under his breath, “Not like he cares what happens to the rest of us anyway.”

Minho narrows his eyes. “Am I overhearing you, or are you talking to me?”

Hyunwoo shifts his weight, not meeting Minho’s gaze. “That’s up to the listener’s interpretation.”

Minho exhales sharply. “Felix left out of loyalty to me. If you have a complaint, say it to me directly.” His tone sharpens. “Go ahead.”

Hyunwoo hesitates, his lips pressing into a thin line. But then, with a flash of defiance, he speaks. “Now that you mentioned it. Aren’t you ashamed of going back on your word, Chef?”

Minho’s expression doesn’t change, he crosses his arms together and asks, “Do you hold a grudge against me, Hyunwoo?”

Hyunwoo tenses. “I’m just saying it because you told me to.”

Minho scoffs, shaking his head. “Yeah. You hold a grudge.” He lets the words linger for a second before shifting his attention to Felix. “Did you apologize to the sous-chef and the other cooks?”

Felix glances at Hyunwoo before quickly straightening. “No, Chef.”

Minho exhales. “Then fix it. Do it sincerely. Be nice to each other.”

“Yes, Chef.” Felix doesn’t hesitate, his usual loyalty evident.

Minho moves on. “Spring’s here. That means we need a new menu—something original and different from our existing pasta dishes.”

Before he can continue, another knock sounds at the door. The moment his eyes meet yours through the opening, he gives a small nod. You step inside and take a spot next to Hyunwoo.

Minho looks back at the group. “Starting tomorrow, we’ll introduce ginseng pasta as the new recommended dish.”

Felix blinks. “But only you and Chef Sara know how to make it.”

Hyunwoo immediately corrects him. “No, she made it yesterday.” He tilts his head toward you.

Felix’s eyes widen in surprise. “Really? You really know how to make it?”

Hyunwoo’s expression darkens again. “Just because you approved her recipe, does that mean she’s getting special treatment? You’re not pushing me out of the pasta line, are you, Chef?”

Minho scoffs, barely holding back his irritation. “You’re staying on pasta, and she’s staying in antipasto.” His gaze flickers to you. “Hand your recipe to the pasta line.”

Your answer comes out weak. “Yes, Chef.”

Minho studies your face for a second before turning to Felix. “Since ginseng pasta isn’t easy to make, you’ll make it. Take the recipe and start preparing.”

Felix, ever obedient, nods. “Yes, Chef.”

Minho straightens. “That’s all. You’re dismissed.”

Felix gestures between himself and Hyunwoo. “Just us?”

Minho glares. “Get out.”

Felix and Hyunwoo leave, Felix throwing a quick glance back as he shuts the door behind them.

Now that it’s just the two of you, Minho lets out a slow breath, relaxing slightly. His voice is softer when he speaks again. “Sorry for taking your recipe.”

You shake your head. “I understand, Chef. A big restaurant like this—you can’t keep everything to yourself.”

Minho watches you for a moment before taking a slow step forward. “Do you think I’m a thief?”

You chuckle. “Yes, Chef.” Then, quickly, “It wasn’t entirely my recipe anyway. It was ninety percent yours. I just added garnish.”

Minho clicks his tongue. “It wasn’t just garnish.” His voice lowers, more thoughtful now. “Garnish is for decoration. It doesn’t add to the taste. Your ideas are more than that.” He pauses. “Your ideas are like salt.”

He can see that you soften around him as you smile at that. He tilts his head as he asks, “Do you know how important salt is in a kitchen?”

You nod. “Yes, Chef.”

He steps closer, his hands resting lightly on your shoulders. His touch is firm, but there’s something reassuring about it. “Then be the salt in our kitchen.”

Your chuckle is soft, a little shy. “Yes, Chef.”

Minho can’t help but laugh, just a little. And in this moment, amidst all the stress and the weight of responsibility, everything feels a little lighter.

You take a deep breath, steadying yourself before stepping out of Minho’s office. If you walk out looking too pleased, it’ll only spark unnecessary suspicions, and the last thing you need is people whispering about you. Composed, you turn toward the kitchen, but before you can take more than a few steps, Felix suddenly appears in front of you, blocking your path.

His expression is serious, tone firm as he demands, “How did you know how to make ginseng pasta?”

For a split second, you think he’s about to accuse you of something terrible, but then you realize how ridiculous that is. You chuckle, shaking your head. “How else could I made such dish? From the recipe book Chef gave me.”

Felix’s eyes widen. “Really? Minho gave you his recipe book?”

You nod innocently.

Felix’s mouth drops open. He stares at you, stunned into silence, and for a moment, you wonder if you broke him. When he finally manages to speak, it’s barely more than a whisper. “No one has ever seen that book.”

Before you can respond, he suddenly steps closer, hand outstretched. “Hand it over.”

You blink. “What?”

“The book,” Felix insists, still holding his hand out. “Hand it over.”

You stare at him, baffled. He’s acting like you’re carrying some sort of holy relic.

Just as you open your mouth to protest, you catch movement behind him. Minho. Your eyes dart toward him, trying to warn Felix, but he’s too focused on demanding the recipe book to notice. Minho closes in behind him, raising his hand— Smack.

Felix yelps in pain as Minho’s palm collides with the back of his head. Before Felix can recover, Minho lands a sharp finger flick on his forehead.

“Ah—! Chef!” Felix grumbles, rubbing his forehead.

Minho steps around him, moving to your side like a silent shield. “Are you a thug now?” he asks dryly. “Why are you extorting a recipe book from her?”

Felix is too busy nursing his wounds to respond immediately.

Minho turns his attention to you. “I told you to give him your ginseng pasta recipe, not my book.” He emphasizes the distinction.

You nod. “Yes, chef.”

Felix finally regains his composure, shooting Minho an incredulous look. “Wait—why would you give her your recipe book and not me?” His voice drops into a mutter. “You can’t do this to me over a girl.”

Minho doesn’t even hesitate. “It’s my book. I can do whatever I want with it.”

Felix pouts, clearly displeased. “I’m honestly disappointed, Chef.”

Minho raises a brow. “And what’s so wrong about me giving my book to who I want?”

Felix doesn’t have an answer for that, but his pout deepens in silent protest.

Instead of softening, Minho levels him with a warning. “If you try to take it from her again, you’re dead meat.”

Felix groans in defeat. “Yes, chef.”

Satisfied, Minho grabs your hand. “Come with me.”

You barely have time to register the warmth of his grip before he starts leading you away. As you walk, he says, “Don’t worry about Felix. He’s just jealous.” A beat later, he corrects himself. “Loyal, but jealous.”

You glance at Minho. “I mean… I get it. He’s been by your side longer than I have. It makes sense that he’d feel disappointed.”

Minho doesn’t respond, but you can tell he hears you.

After a moment, you add, “I can share the recipes with him if that’ll make it better.”

Minho rejects the idea without hesitation. “No.”

You frown. “Why not?”

Minho stops in his tracks, and you halt beside him. His voice lowers as he mutters, “Felix thinks those recipes are all successful. Don’t share them.”

That makes you pause. Something clicks in your mind, and your stomach sinks slightly. “Wait… are you saying you gave me the book because all the recipes in it were failures?” You meet his gaze. “If they were successful, you would’ve given it to Felix instead.”

Minho glares at you. “Stand against the wall.”

You blink. “What—?”

“Against the wall.” His tone leaves no room for argument.

Not entirely sure why, you step back, pressing your shoulders against the wall. Minho eyes your head for a moment, then lifts his hand— Flick. His finger snaps against your temple, and you yelp, wincing at the sharp sting.

Minho grumbles, “First, it was Hyunwoo, then Felix and now, you. Why did everyone decide to talk back and rebel against me today?”

You rub your temple. “I’m not rebelling.”

He scoffs. “Then what is it? I’m trying to be considerate.”

You let out a short laugh. “Considerate?”

Minho crosses his arms and daringly stares into your eyes. “Yes.”

You shake your head, exhaling sharply. “Yeah, sure.” Without waiting for a response, you turn and walk away.

Behind you, you hear Minho call your name, his voice edging into a scolding tone, but you quicken your pace, slipping into the kitchen before he can stop you.

Minho leans against the counter at the coffee station, enjoying a brief moment of peace in his chaotic day. He doesn’t even have to ask for a cup—Taesoo slides one across the table with a smug grin.

“Specially made for you, chef.”

Minho smirks as he pulls the cup closer. “You’ve got more charm than my girlfriend, you know that?” He takes a lazy sip before adding, “She never makes coffee for me. All she does is work all day.”

Taesoo chuckles, pouring himself a cup and setting the pot back down. “Must be hard, being a chef’s girlfriend.”

The words hit Minho hard enough that he stills, cup hovering just before his lips. His gaze flicks to Taesoo. “What did you just say?”

Taesoo doesn’t waver. “I mean… don’t you see it? She’s always walking on thin ice, trying so hard to make sure you don’t look bad because of her.”

Minho clenches his jaw. He doesn’t like how easily Taesoo sees through it—but the truth is, he sees it too. You’ve always been cautious around him, but lately, it’s different. More controlled. More careful. And yet, you never complain. Not once.

Letting out a slow exhale, Minho leans back slightly. “You think she’s anxious?”

Taesoo tilts his head. “Isn’t it obvious?”

Minho snorts. “Then I’ve got news for you—I’m anxious too.”

That catches Taesoo off guard. “You?”

Minho nods. “And you’d better be anxious too.”

Taesoo hesitates, looking thrown off. “Uh—yes, chef?”

The moment lingers, uncomfortably quiet—until Minho’s phone vibrates in his pocket. He takes it out, relieved at the distraction. A new message from Felix.

We're all done. Can you do a taste test, Chef?

Minho finally takes a sip of his coffee before pushing off the counter. “Let’s go.”

As he heads for the kitchen, Taesoo scrambles to clean up the coffee cups before trailing behind him.

You and Felix set the two pans down on the chef’s table. You grab a few forks for Minho and glance at Felix, lowering your voice. “You think he’ll notice?”

Felix waves you off with a smirk. “We’ll see.”

A moment later, Minho walks into the kitchen, Taesoo trailing behind him like a shadow. He stops at his usual spot, eyes flicking between you and Felix. “Are you sure you taught him properly?”

You straighten up and nod. “Yes, chef.”

Felix hands Minho a fork, and without hesitation, Minho digs in. First, he tries the pasta in front of you, chewing thoughtfully. Then he moves to the other pan, tasting Felix’s version. As he chews, his gaze shifts between the two of you. A second later, you and Felix exchange a knowing look.

After a moment, Minho sets the fork down and nods. “Not bad. You learned the recipe well.”

Felix’s face lights up as Minho gives him the approval. “Get ready to cook this,” Minho announces. “I’m going to put it up as today's recommended dish.”

Felix beams. “Yes, chef!”

Minho turns on his heel, about to leave, when Felix suddenly blurts out, “Wait, Chef!”

Minho stops mid-step, his glare sharp. “What?”

Felix, knowing he’s pushing his luck, hurriedly asks, “Which one do you think is hers?”

Minho scoffs, tilting his head. “Come here,” he orders, his fingers making the gesture.

Felix, clueless, leans in—only to get a sharp flick to the forehead. He yelps, rubbing the spot. “Ow!”

“Who do you think you’re testing, huh?” Minho deadpans but his gaze is intense.

Then, with full confidence, he says, “She didn’t make either of these.”

Your mouth falls open in surprise and blurt out, “No way.”

Minho crosses his arms. “You’ve got over seven years of experience. He has half of that. The technique is different.” He gestures at the pans. “The wrist motion alone tells me it wasn’t yours. Someone at your level wouldn’t make pasta like this.”

You smile, impressed. “So you’re saying mine tasted better?”

“That’s correct!” Minho replies without missing a beat.

While still rubbing his forehead, Felix pouts and mumbles, “You didn’t have to say it that fast…”

Minho ignores him. Instead, he looks directly at you. “Hey, the ginseng pasta isn’t yours anymore. It belongs to the kitchen now.”

You nod. “Yes, chef.”

Satisfied, Minho orders, “Clean this up and get ready for dinner service. Got it?” Then he walks out of the kitchen.

Taesoo, curious, picks up a fork and tastes both pastas. He hums in thought before nodding. “Chef’s tongue is accurate. No way to fool him.”

Then, he turns to you and Felix. “That means Chef won’t lose his fair judgment over this.”

Felix turns to you, raising a brow. “Weren’t you worried about that comment sous-chef made earlier, right?”

Now that everyone knows about your relationship with Minho, it feels like you’re under a microscope, always under their scrutiny. You would be lying if it doesn’t make you the slightest bit nervous so you nod at Felix’s question.

Felix grins, puffing out his chest. He folds his arms and deepens his voice in a poor imitation of Minho. “You should be thankful to me that you found out how accurate Chef’s tongue is!”

You chuckle at his awful impression, shaking your head. But deep down, you really hope this proves that Minho’s judgment in the kitchen will always be fair.

Dinner service is in full swing, the kitchen buzzing with the clatter of pans, the sizzle of meats, and Minho’s sharp commands cutting through the noise. He’s been calling out orders non-stop, his voice steady and authoritative as he directs the team. His gaze flicks toward you.

“You make two grilled scallops. Make one extra for a taste test.”

“Yes, chef,” you respond immediately, grabbing what you need and moving with precision. You work fast, using two pans to finish the order on time. The scallops sear beautifully, their golden crust forming just as you’d intended. Once they’re plated, you bring them to the chef’s table, along with the extra one for Minho to taste.

You stand there, waiting, hands clasped behind your back. Minho doesn’t rush—he never does. He takes his time tasting, chewing carefully, analyzing every detail before nodding in approval.

“Okay, pass,” he says simply. Then he adds, “You don’t need to make testers from now on.”

A rush of relief floods through you, and for a brief second, a bright smile tugs at your lips. But you suppress it before anyone can see. “Yes, chef,” you reply, turning on your heel to head back to your station.

“We’re almost done for the night,” Minho announces. “So hurry, let's finish it up.”

“Yes, chef!” the kitchen responds in unison.

But just as the night is winding down, things take a sharp turn.

A dish gets sent back. The service staff informs Minho of the complaint—a customer says the scallops have an odor.

A heavy silence falls over the kitchen. Minho says nothing, but Felix steps in, grabbing a fork and tasting the dish himself. He frowns. “This kind of odor from the pan is common in all Italian restaurants.”

Felix turns to Sous-chef Seojun. “Please try this out, Sous-chef.”

Seojun sniffs the dish first, then takes a bite. He chews slowly before exhaling. “They’re not wrong about the smell.”

Before you can say anything, Hyunwoo interjects. “Seungwan never had complaints like this.” He folds his arms. “He always used the same pan but knew how to control the temperature.”

Minho finally moves. He takes the plate and tries it himself. A second later, his expression darkens.

He marches up to you. “What is this?” His voice is sharp, cutting through the tension like a knife. “Why is this different from the one you gave me to test?”

Your stomach twists in confusion. “I made them the same way, Chef,” you answer honestly with your voice slightly trembling.

You quickly run through what could have gone wrong. Then, it clicks. Your heart sinks.

“I... I used two different pans,” you say, voice small but steady.

Minho’s glare sharpens. “You cooked the one for me in a new frying pan and the one for the customers in an old one?”

You nod, already feeling the mistake weigh on you. “I’m sorry, chef.”

But your apology only fuels his anger. “Is that an excuse?” he demands. “You think that makes it okay?”

“No, I—” You swallow thickly. “I didn’t mean it like that, Chef.”

From the side, Seungwan mutters just loud enough to be heard, “Ooh, I guess she needs her own exclusive frying pan so customers won’t complain.”

Minho hears it, but he doesn’t acknowledge him. His attention is solely on you.

“A true chef,” he says coldly, “should be able to serve a perfect scallop dish even with a hundred-year-old frying pan.”

A lump forms in your throat, but you force yourself to swallow it down. You feel like crying. The entire kitchen is watching as Minho—the chef, but also your boyfriend—publicly tears you down.

You lower your gaze. “I’m sorry, chef.”

But Minho doesn’t let up. “Do it again,” he orders, his tone unwavering.

You clench your fists, push back the emotions threatening to overwhelm you, and nod. “Yes, chef.” Then you turn back to your station, forcing yourself to focus.

As you start over, you remind yourself that Minho is right. His judgment is fair. This is your fault. Not his.

Minho knows you must be at least a little upset about the way he scolded you earlier. He saw the way you clenched your fists, the way you swallowed down whatever you wanted to say. He saw the way your shoulders tensed as the entire kitchen watched.

But he also knows you understand why he did it. So he waits.

The locker room is quiet when he steps in, and as expected, you're there, putting on your jacket. At the sound of his footsteps, you turn swiftly to face him.

Minho watches you for a moment, then exhales. "You should know," he says, voice even, "that your one mistake is equivalent to another cook’s ten mistakes."

You nod, your expression neutral, but Minho knows you're listening carefully.

He folds his arms. "Let's not create a situation where everyone has their eyes on us. Again."

Again, you nod. "I understand. I’m sorry, chef."

The words make something twist uncomfortably in Minho’s chest. He should feel satisfied, should let it go now that you've acknowledged your mistake. But he doesn’t. He can’t.

Instead, he grabs your wrist and pulls you with him.

Minho takes you back to the kitchen. It’s empty now, quiet except for the low hum of the refrigerators. He lets go of your wrist. "Get some scallops."

You quickly retrieve a container of scallops marinated in olive oil and set them on the counter.

Minho looks at you, then gestures to the stove. "Watch closely."

He turns the burner on, lets the flames rise high before grabbing a frying pan. Pouring a small amount of olive oil in, he waits until it shimmers.

"Fire isn’t the only thing that cooks food," he says, then lowers the flame slightly. "There’s also heated oil."

Carefully, he places a scallop into the pan. The instant sizzle fills the room. "Use the heated oil to lightly cook the surface of the scallop."

You're watching him with full focus now, your eyes darting between his hands and the scallop. After a moment, you ask, "Will the temperature of the oil eventually go down?"

Minho smirks slightly, impressed by your attention to detail. "You have to keep the temperature of the oil the same while reducing the flame."

He finishes cooking and takes the scallop from the pan. You hand him a plate before he even asks. He places it down, then, instead of plating it properly, he picks it up and hands it directly to you. "Here. Try it."

You cut a small piece with a fork, bringing it to your lips. The moment you taste it, your eyes widen slightly in delight. "I can only taste the olive oil," you say. "No odor at all."

Minho smirks. "Enough with the compliments. Now, it’s your turn."

You grab a fresh pan, mimicking his actions. He watches from your side, his gaze sharp, taking in every detail.

"Stop battling with the frying pans," he murmurs. "Focus on controlling the fire."

You nod but then pause, turning to look at him. "Are you upset and frustrated because of me, Chef? Are you perhaps... anxious?"

Minho meets your gaze. He can’t lie to you—not when you’re the only other person who knows what it feels like. The weight of expectations. The pressure of perfection. On top of all that, his relationship with you is affecting everything. After a second of hesitation, he finally admits, "Yeah."

You don’t look surprised, but you don’t look offended either. You just hold his gaze, waiting for more.

Minho exhales, dragging a hand through his hair. "I don’t know why I’m being so hard on you," he finally says, his voice quieter now.

But he does know. And he’s sure you do too.

Dinner service is chaos. The heat, the noise, the endless string of orders—it’s all a blur, but you do your best to keep up. More than anything, you keep one thing in mind: no mistakes. Not today.

You move quickly but carefully, ensuring every movement is precise. Next to you, Seungwan shifts nervously, glancing at you as he works.

“How much longer on your scallop?” he asks, his voice tight.

You wipe your hands on a cloth before answering, “Two minutes.”

Seungwan groans. He can't start plating his dish until you’re done. “You’re taking too long,” he mutters.

You ignore him. You don't need the extra pressure. You just need to get this right.

A moment later, you're placing the garnish on your plate when Seungwan sighs again. “Done now?”

Without answering, you lift the plate and carefully walk it over to the chef’s table. Minho stands there, arms crossed. He doesn’t taste it. He simply picks up the plate, examines it with that unreadable gaze of his, and then—

“Do it again!”

Your shoulders sag. You did exactly what he taught you. You made sure everything was right. But maybe it’s your fault for expecting anything different. “…Yes, chef.”

Seungwan lets out an exasperated groan as you take the plate back. “Chef, seriously?” he protests.

Minho barely glances at him. “Then you do it again too.”

Before Seungwan can argue, Minho’s voice rings out across the kitchen. “Everyone, stop the course and wait six minutes until she’s done.”

Felix protests from the other side of the kitchen. “Chef, my pasta’s gonna bloat!”

“Then make it again.” Minho’s tone leaves no room for argument.

Seungwan grabs the rejected plate and takes a bite, his eyes widening in surprise. “Chef, this should be pass. It’s pretty good.” He turns to Sous-chef Seojun. “Try it, Sous-chef.”

Seojun takes a bite, chewing thoughtfully before looking at Minho. “She cooked it properly. All the dishes are being delayed because of this. Aren’t you being too strict, Chef?”

The air in the kitchen shifts. Minho’s eyes flick to Seojun, sharp and dangerous. “Too strict? Do I look like the kind of chef who picks and chooses which dish to be strict on?” Minho challenges. His voice is calm, but there’s an underlying edge.

He then exhales sharply. “Hors d’oeuvre is the first thing the customer tastes. We’re not serving whatever just because we’re in a rush.”

Seojun still looks unconvinced. “Then put her at the end of the line. Not the front.”

Seungwan nods. “Yeah, just have her do desserts. Doesn’t have to be on time.”

The conversation turns into background noise as you force yourself to focus. It doesn’t matter what they say. You just need to finish this dish while Minho’s words echoing in the back of your mind: Let's not create a situation where everyone has their eyes on us. Again.

You push through, ignoring the pressure, ignoring the way your hands shake slightly as you plate the dish.

“Hurry up!” Minho barks from across the kitchen.

When you bring it back to the chef’s table, Minho picks it up—only to let out a small sigh as he sets it back down. “Stop making scallops. Start making desserts.”

You hesitate for a fraction of a second. Then, meekly, you nod. “Yes, chef.”

You move to the dessert station, tucked in the corner of the kitchen. At least here, no one can see how upset you are

Felix, instinctively, takes the rejected dish and tastes it. A moment later, his voice cuts through the tension. “I don’t think the orders are backed up because of her,” Felix says, looking straight at Minho. “I don’t think it’s her fault at all. I think it’s... you.”

Silence.

Minho moves before anyone can react. He grabs Felix by the sleeve of his chef’s coat and pulls him toward the chef’s table. “Then why don’t you stand here and be the head chef then?” he challenges.

Felix looks down, guilt flashing across his face. “…I’m sorry, chef.” He then walks back to his station in defeat.

You keep your head down and focus on desserts, but doubt creeps in. You remember what Felix once said about Minho’s judgment always being fair. But now, you’re not so sure.

The restaurant is empty. Everyone has gone home, but you’re still here, still in your chef’s coat. Instead of heading to the locker room, you drag yourself to the coffee station and slump onto one of the stools.

You stack your hands together and rest your head on them, exhaling a long sigh, as if you could release all the weight of the day in one breath.

Minutes pass. You don’t bother looking at the clock. Then, the stool beside you creaks. You turn your head and find Chris sitting next to you, his warm smile greeting you before his voice does.

“So… how many scallop dishes got rejected today?”

His calm demeanor only makes you curious so you meekly ask, “As the owner, aren’t you upset about all the wasted ingredients?”

“Yeah,” Chris tilts his head slightly and adds, “But it’s not you I don’t like. It’s the chef.”

His words are meant to be comforting, but they don’t make you feel any better. Another sigh escapes your lips as you rub your temples. Chris places a hand on your shoulder, patting it gently. “You worked hard today.”

Before you can respond, a loud, exaggerated ahem sounds from behind. The suddenness of it makes you jolt upright, nearly falling off the stool.

You spin around. Minho. Immediately, you straighten your posture. “Thank you for your hard work today, Chef,” you say, keeping your tone formal.

Minho doesn’t acknowledge it. He simply takes the stool on your other side, leaving you sandwiched between him and Chris.

Chris, without even looking at Minho, asks, “So, when do you think she’ll finally get her scallops approved?”

Minho barely pauses before replying dryly, “Why don't you increase the budget for ingredients? I think she might deplete the entire country’s scallop supply.”

You groan, burying your head in your hands. Silence settles for a brief moment. Then—

“Is that you?”

You freeze. The voice is too familiar. Your head snaps up so fast your neck almost cramps.

“Dad?!” You gasp, scrambling to stand. “What are you doing here? Why didn’t you call me and tell me you were coming?”

Your dad doesn’t hesitate. “I came because you told me you were having a hard time choosing between two guys.”

Oh my god. Your dad says it so loud that you know Minho and Chris definitely heard it. Heat rushes to your face. “D-Dad, that’s not—”

Desperate to change the subject, you turn to Chris in a panic. “This is Chris! He’s the manager.”

Chris, ever polite, nods in acknowledgment. But your dad isn’t interested in introductions. He looks at you, then at Minho and Chris, before calmly saying, “Sit.”

You blink. “Huh?”

Your dad gestures at the stools. “Sit down.”

Chris and Minho immediately obey. You, however, rush to your dad’s side, hoping to end this nightmare before it gets worse. “The restaurant’s closed, Dad. Let’s just go somewhere else, yeah?”

“No,” he replies. “Sit and stay quiet.”

You groan in pure humiliation but obey, sinking back onto your stool.

Your dad studies the two men beside you. Then, with an almost too casual tone, he asks, “These two… are they the ones you’re confused about?”

“Dad!” You shriek then slap a hand over your face. Please stop talking. You continue the sentence inside your head. But, of course, he doesn’t.

He continues, “So which one is the rich, reasonable one? The one with the good personality who tells you everything you cook is nice?”

Silence. Then, without missing a beat, Minho says flatly, “I don’t think that's me, Sir.”

Of course, it isn’t. Your dad’s eyes immediately dart to Chris.

Chris stiffens, suddenly looking much more formal. He straightens his posture, clasps his hands together, and greets your dad politely.

“Nice to meet you, Sir.”

Satisfied, your dad then turns to Minho. “So you must be the other guy.”

Minho, somehow equally as polite, inclines his head slightly. “Yes, that would be me, sir.”

You groan again, this time covering your entire face with your hands. This is already mortifying. You try one more time to escape. “Dad, let’s just go somewhere and have dinner—”

“Sure,” your dad says easily. “Then we can go and eat together.”

You stare at him, horrified. “All of us?”

He scoffs. “No. One at a time.”

And then, without hesitation, he turns to Chris and points at him. Chris sits up straighter, his polite smile unwavering.

To everyone's surprise, your dad says, “You can go home.”

Chris blinks. “Huh?”

Before you can even process what’s happening, your dad points at Minho next and says, “You. Come with me.”

Minho doesn’t even question it. He just follows your dad as if this is a normal thing. You stare at their retreating figures, still frozen in disbelief. Your dad and Minho. Walking side by side.

Chris lets out a low whistle beside you. “Well… that was unexpected.”

You’re too stunned to react. You shift your gaze back to the where they're going, a strange sense of unease settling in your stomach.

Your dad has always been stubborn. He’s firm in his beliefs, never backing down once he’s made up his mind. He’s blunt, unrelenting, and terrifying when he wants to be.

And Minho? Minho is the exact same way.

They’re both headstrong. Both unforgiving. Both demanding perfection. You don’t know what’s worse—the idea of them getting along too well or the thought of them completely clashing.

Either way… You don’t want to be there when it happens.

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