#i feel like that one post that’s like things to tell your high friend. no one’s ever been this high i don’t think it’s ever gonna end

[oneofreid]

a maternal wish (18+)

summary: in which she wants to be a mother and spencer reid is willing to make that wish come true.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader

warnings: (NSFW) slow burn smut i promise it’s worth it, talks about pregnancy and possible infertility, slight spanking, explicit language, unprotected (p in v) sex, oral sex (m!receiving AND f!receiving), hints of breeding kink if you squint

a/n: i didn’t realize how long i made this. atp i just let my mind do the work while i type. is this cannon? no. will i still post it? yea. masterlist

When you were younger, you always knew you wanted to be a mother. The idea of bringing another life into this world and being able to call them ‘yours’ creating a warm and familiar feeling. One that set off your own maternal instinct. Yearning to love and protect a child of your own as you watched them grow into their own individual person. Teaching them everything that you know, telling them stories of your own childhood, creating countless memories that you can look back on, celebrating their highs and comforting them during their lows. But most of all, the one you craved the most, the bond you would have with your own mini me as you saw the love and magic through their eyes.

Not to mention the many compliments you have received whenever you babysat your nieces and nephews, their mothers telling you how much of an amazing mother you would make someday.

Someday.

That word echoed in your mind as you walked past the countless of mothers in New York. A pang of sadness and jealousy always striking you as you envied them. The happiness in their faces while they walked with their child whether it was one or two maybe even three or four. An ache in your chest grew as you wondered what it would be like to nurture a child. One that you could give the life that you never got to learn.

Everybody knew how badly you wanted to be a mother. Spending countless hours beaming about babies and all things surrounding pregnancy, your teammates — and best friends, JJ, Emily, and Penelope always being the ones first hand to experience this side of you.

Constantly having to drag you away from the baby sections in stores, or listen to you gush about how cute a baby was that you passed.

‘Look how cute and chubby their tiny hands are! I would give anything to squeeze them.’

They could never get enough of your constant daydreams as you talked about motherhood. Envisioning what your life would look like taking care of a mini you. Only praying that one day that dream of yours would come true.

It was a slow day at the BAU, all of you doing your own thing as you sprawled out on the couch. Your feet laying on JJ’s lap while Penelope was on the opposite end, dully scrolling through the channels on the TV in your breakroom. All of you sat in silence until a photo of your cousin with her newborn baby girl popped up on your phone. The familiar ache in your chest appeared as you showed all three of the girls.

“Look how tiny she is,” you exclaimed. Adoring how precious the bundle of joy looked in her tiny hat and little fists balled up. All of them joining you in gushing about how adorable the petite newborn was.

“I just want one so bad,” you sighed. Shutting off your phone as you pressed your eyes shut. The weight of your longing to have a child of your own was heavy on your mind.

“You could always get a sperm donor, you know? I know you said you hated the idea and wanted the baby to grow up with both parental figures. But maybe look more into it, your baby would have an amazing group of uncles and aunts to love and protect them,” JJ assured you, giving you a knowing smile that even if you did decide to raise a baby alone. You and the baby would have plenty of support from the BAU, and the few family members who stuck around once you left your hometown & past life behind.

“Not to mention, you would make the best mommy ever to her! Or him…they would have the best mommy ever. And oh my gosh, how could I forget, pregnancy would look absolutely stunning on you. Kissed by the pregnancy Gods with that glow,” Penelope gushed. JJ and Emily agreeing with her on the fact that a growing baby bump would suit you well.

“I don’t know guys…I’m about to turn 36 years old. My time to have a baby of my own is practically gone. I should just forget it and stay being the cool, rich, secret spy aunt.” You sighed, sitting up from your position on the couch to run a stressed hand through your hair.

“That’s not actually true,” all of you turned your attention towards the tall figure who stood in the doorway, “I mean yes, the number of eggs a woman has in her ovaries does decline as she ages. However, it’s not totally impossible to have a child at your age. 20% of woman usually end up having kids after the after of 35. Erramatti Mangayamma, a woman living in India, was 73 when she gave birth to her child through IVF.”

The four of you stared at Spencer Reid, for what felt like longer than a minute before you spoke up, “I’m just tired of waiting for the right person to have a kid with. That’s what’s holding me back,” you blinked away a few tears that threatened to spill out, “I want the perfect family. Two loving parents. One solid household. Something I never got myself,” you continued.

The room grew quiet again. Nobody knowing what exactly to say as everyone gave you a sympathetic look, JJ offering you gentle squeeze on your shoulder. Spencer awkwardly shifting his weight from one foot to another as he began to ponder in his mind.

He wanted a baby too. He just wasn’t sure if he was the perfect fit, your ideal father figure for yours.

Emily jumped up. Her phone going off, “Sorry to interrupt guys but we’ve got a case. Hotch wants us in the briefing room now.”

Everyone standing up to leave. Just before you could follow the others, Spencer lightly grabbed your arm. Stopping you completely in your tracks. His warm eyes already filled with some form of hesitation.

“Hey, after we’re done. Let’s meet at my apartment, our usual time. Okay?,” he whispered. Making sure no one else around you could hear. His tone slightly different and his demeanor more on edge, nervous, than before.

“Of course, is everything alright?,” you questioned.

Spencer gulped, offering you a small smile. “Yea, yea everything is perfect. I just…I miss you.”

“I miss you too, Spence,” you smiled. Leaning forward to place a quick kiss on his temple before heading towards the briefing room. Leaving him alone with his thoughts as he followed slowly behind you.

His stomach suddenly tying itself together in knots as the idea of having a kid together, with you ran through his mind.

Spencer always wanted to have a child of his own. Although life had a different plan for him, he was always still open to the idea of one day settling down and starting a family with someone. As time passed by and he got older, just like you, the dream that he once had seemed to be fading away.

That was until he began exploring his relationship. Although you two kept it strictly sexual, friends with benefits at most, the idea of you two getting married and becoming something more always lingered in the back of his mind.

Yet, for some odd reason, neither of you ever had the courage to finally make that move. Afraid that you’d ruin what you already have seeing as you two both had complicated love life’s. So you just stuck to being co-workers that happened friends who liked to fuck sometimes. Okay, more like any chance you got.

Or as it was actually called, friends with benefits.

Fumbling with the material of your shirt, you found yourself at the foot of Spencer’s door later that night. The place you always found yourself at where you indulged in cheesy rom-coms, read your weekly novels together, learned a new recipe, or talked about different wide world phenomenons and conspiracy theories. A space where you were welcomed to let your wildest sexual fantasies come true as Spencer made love to you in endless ways.

Your heart began to race as you contemplated actually knocking or turning around to leave. A feeling in the pit of your stomach telling you that tonight would be different.

Not having any time to second guess and change your mind, Spencer’s door flew open. His brown eyes staring right at you, your body already growing hot and bothered at the thoughts of the countless positions he will put you in.

“Hey,” Spencer spoke, a grin already making its way onto his face.

Your heart fluttered even though you had just seen him a few hours prior when you had landed back from yesterday’s case, “Hey.”

“Uhm. Hey, Come on in,” he moved out of the way. Leaning against his door, extending an arm out in a gesture that said ‘this way please.’

You offered him a small smile as you walked past him, admiring his apartment. Still in the same condition it was when you had left it a couple days prior. Hearing the click of the door closing itself shut when a pair of strong arms wrapped their way around your waist, turning you around.

Spencer looked down at you, the same look he had given you earlier being written all over his face again.

“What’s wrong?,” you asked. Genuinely concerned that Spencer was having second thoughts about to tonight.

“Can we sit down? Talk for a second?”

Fuck. He doesn’t want to have sex with me anymore.

Did I say something that offended him?

Is he going to tell me that he just wants to be strictly friends now?

A lump grew in your throat as your mind began to race, the many questions and doubts that flooded your mind about what possibly Spencer needed to sit down to tell you. Allowing him to guide you to the brown leather sofa that sat in his living room. Sitting down beside him as you looked everywhere besides at him.

You took a deep breathe, picking at the skin of your nails before finding the courage to speak, “Is everything alright?”

“Yes. Uhm. Everything is already. I just…what I would really like is,” Spencer paused for a moment before blurting it out, “I want to have a baby with you.”

Your eyes widened. Your heart felt like it was going to fall out of your chest. The air suddenly being knocked from your lungs while your mouth got super dry.

“Spencer…,” you began.

“I’m serious. I want a baby with you. And I know, this is out of the blue. Our situation is nowhere ideal for the typical upbringing of a children. Hell, we’re not even in an official relationship yet,” Spencer rambled.

“Where is this even coming from, Spence?,” you asked. Unsure of what prompted him to even think of having a baby with you, you, of all people.

He sighed, “Back in the breakroom before we left for the case, I heard you talking to Garcia, JJ, and Emily about how badly you wanted kids. How you wanted your own to raise and love. Anytime that a baby is around you, you are always eager to hold them and your eyes light up.”

You nodded, listening intently to what he had to say as you followed along, “It got me thinking. We’re both in our late 30s. Our relationship is progressing and heading in the right direction. We both want the same thing. To have our own kid, raise them in a stable home with two loving parents. Something we both never had.”

“But what if this, I mean us, doesn’t work. Having and raising a kid isn’t something to take lightly, Spencer.” You pointed out, not knowing if he was actually serious about having a child with you. Or if he was just jumping at the opportunity.

“It’s not something to take lightly. However, I want this and more importantly, I want you. All of it. All of you. Our future. Raising our child or if willing, children, together and growing old. Drinking our coffee, reading our books, watching those horrible reality tv shows that you weirdly seem to love. I never thought I would see myself like that with anyone…,” he grabbed your hand, his warm eyes still completely locked and focused on you, “but I want this life with you.”

Before he could get in another word in, you pulled him up from the sofa. Closing the gap between you two, you crashed your lips onto his. The kiss so rushed yet passionate on both of your ends. You began to moan, melting into him as his large hands roamed your body.

Your own hands finding their way to tug at his hair, pulling him even close to you until there was no room for air. Tugging and gripping at his brown locks while moans left his lips, still hungrily kissing yours. Guiding you towards his bed as the back of your legs hit the soft mattress, sending you both on top.

The kiss you exchanged completely heated, both of you desperate to touch each other properly. Breaking apart from the kiss, Spencer looked down at you with lust-filled eyes. A softness clouding over them as his fingers grazed the collar of your shirt. His shirt. The metallica one that he had let you borrow the one morning you left his apartment after one of your ‘sleepovers.’

“Can I?” Spencer asked, delicately tugging at the loose fabric that covered you, his eyes searched yours for any uncertainty.

Grabbing his wrist delicately, you reassured him. “Spencer, I trust you.” Putting his mind at ease. Allowing him to pull your clothes off of you before he did the same. Pealing his clothing off until the two of you were completely bare. His eyes only growing more infatuated at the sight of you naked and ready for him on the layout of his bed.

Knowing this time would be different than the others you two have had sex.

Spencer slowly took his time to kiss every inch of your body. His lips making their way from your collar bone to the inside of your thigh, sucking on the skin to leave bruises. Marking you officially as his.

“About to make you feel so good, baby,” he mumbled.

“Spencer…I-Ohhh” you moaned, his fingers dipping slightly to graze you only to attach his lips to your folds. Head nuzzled between your soft thighs as he kneeled in front of you, your core pulsing at the sight of him devouring you like you were his last meal.

Watching him suck the bundle of nerves, the arousal in your heat pooling. The sight of him flicking his tongue while he swirled that silver tongue of his on your area driving you feral. Your hands gripping his hair while you pushed his head further, feeling your stomach tighten.

His moans vibrating against your cunt, sending you even further into your climax. Still violently flicking and licking your fingers with every swish of his delicious tongue. You panted heavily, the pace of his swirling and sucking quickly increasing until you came hard.

Humming in approval, Spencer looked up at you. His eyes clouded with hunger and lust while he licked his lips. Collecting the remnants of your cum before swiping his tongue on the inside of your thighs.

“Sweet, you taste like heaven, my love,” he praised. A smirk being sent your way while you eyed him, the bulge more than evident as his cock restrained against his boxers.

“Do you trust me?” You asked, eyes looking up at his brown ones. Still needing the reassurance that he was comfortable with you pleasing him. A boundary you two have respected since the day you first hooked up with each other.

Reid’s eyes softened again, still not used to someone caring for him that much during their most intimate times. A small smile on his face, he grabbed your hand before giving it a squeeze.

“I trust you.”

His eyes softening again, still not used to someone asking for his consent. A small smile on his face, he grabbed your hand before giving it a squeeze.

Giving him a quick kiss, you tugged his boxers down. Your eyes now leveled with his hardened length as his tip glared at you red and angry. Slowly pumping his cock, you ran your hands up and down his shaft. Feeling him tense under your touch, you began to work your mouth on his tip.

Swirling your tongue around his tip, collecting a few drops of pre-cum. Loving the taste of him on your tongue. Arousal soaking your folds again while you thought about him filling you, putting a baby, his baby inside of you.

“You’re so beautiful, Spence,” you cooed. Stroking his cock in your hand, slowly rubbing your hand up and down it. His tip red and aching due to how hard he was for you.

A blush crept on his cheeks at your compliment, muttering a small ‘thank you’ and ‘you’re so pretty’ before peppering kisses down to your collar bone.

Catching Spencer completely by surprise. You grabbed his length by the shaft, forcing it down your throat. Till his tip hit the back causing you to hold back a gag as you choked due to his size. Your saliva coating his cock as you began to hollow your cheeks in and out. Creating a sucking motion as you slid his cock up and down, Reid’s moans filling your ears sending you in a spiral. His fingers knotting through your hair to shove your head further down his cock.

“J-Just like that, honey,” he moaned. The pet name he has only ever used for you falling from his swollen lips.

His moans filled the silent room, continuing to fist your hair while he face fucked you. Tears running down your cheeks with every thrust of his cock hitting the back of your throat. Grabbing the back of his muscled thighs to get a better grip for stability.

“Fuck, you feel-“

In a swift motion, Spencer flipped you on your stomach with your ass on full display for him. Hearing the rustling of his sheets behind you, he climbed on the mattress. Grabbing his still achingly hard dick before running the tip teasingly up and down your wet folds.

A moan leaving your lips while you withered beneath his touch, growing desperate to feel him inside of you again.

“Use your words, baby. What do you want me to do you?” He nipped at the skin of your ears, sucking lightly.

“I….want you,” your breathe hitched as the tip of his cock filled your entrance, shutting your eyes tightly.

“What was that, sweetheart? I need your words. Where’s my please?” He halted, stilling his movements. Your core ached, begging for more of his cock to fill its velvet walls.

Little shit. You rolled your eyes, growing impatient by the second. Debating on just taking his dick into your own hands so that he would finally fuck you. His hands grasping your arse before smacking one cheek. Hard.

“Ohh. Fuck. Spencer, I want….I need you to fuck me. Please, pretty please baby. Fill me with all of your cum until it’s dripping out of me. Till I’m pregnant with your baby. Want to make you a daddy so bad-“

A strangled moan left your lips as Spencer finally thrusted into you, hard and fast. Leaving you no room to breathe while you struggled to catch your breathe. The wind knocked out of you as he continued to thrust into you from behind.

“Yes. Spence, baby, harder. I know you can fuck me harder,” you panted. Ready for him to completely stretch you to your limit.

Feeling completely feral as the bed rocked beneath you. Spencer’s movements harsh and rough, gaining more momentum with every thrust, railing into you from behind. His hand gently wrapped around your throat while he pounded into you underneath. The tip of his cock hitting your g-spot sending moan after moan to leave your body.

His grunts and lewd moans in your ear while he held you flushed against his chest, leaning your head to fall back onto his shoulder. Sweat dripping down both of your bodies as the room grew thick with heat and arousal.

“I can’t wait to fill you with my cum….Watch it drip outside of you. Having you wish that I could fuck you this good every single night while your pregnant with our child, right baby? Isn’t that what you want,” Spencer breathed, his own pants in your ear, moaning louder than you have ever done before.

Roughly pulling out his cock before flipping you over. Your back hitting the mattress while you lifted your legs up, wrapping them around his waist. His hand grabbing to support you up. Spencer thrusting back into you like he never pulled out, both of you keeping eye contact while tears threatened to spill from your eyes.

“Need to see you…you’re so beautiful, my love. Just look at you. Might have to put a ring on your finger too,” Spencer whispered in your ear. Moaning in your ear as your pussy clenched at his promising words.

The coil growing in your stomach as you peaked in your high. Thrust after thrust, Spencer added more momentum, quickening before finding another steady rhythm. An ache growing between your legs, a definite sign that you won’t be able to walk tomorrow.

Your nails dragging along his back only to pull him in for another kiss. Not having enough to taste of him, you moaned into his mouth. His thrusts never faltering as his cock twitched inside of you. Clenching your walls around his thick shaft, pushing him to release as hot spurts of his come filled you. Your own release mixing with his while he slowly thrusted inside of you. His lips still entangled with yours, nipping at your bottom lip while your tongues swirled. Tasting every bit of each other.

Breaking away from the kiss, Spencer brushed his thumb under your eye. A few tears had fallen from the intensity and roughness of his handling. Both of you silently knowing that you could handle it and that you trusted each other.

He slowly pulled out of you, massaging the inside of your thighs before placing a delicate kiss on them. Leaving to get a wet towel as he gently cleaned your folds. A hiss leaving at your soreness and the harsh sensitivity of your nerves.

“Sorry, angel, I know you hate this part,” Spencer apologized.

You always loved how attentive and loving he was after sex. He always took care of you even if you wanted to rush out, he still made sure that you were okay after being so vulnerable.

“You don’t have to apologize, Spence, I appreciate you taking care of me after this” You smiled, still feeling on cloud nine from the work of his cock and tongue on you.

“I’ll be taking care of you nonstop for nine months then a little mini version of us for a lifetime,” he joked.

Your heart fluttered, still in awe of the fact that someone would want to have a child with you. Let alone someone like Spencer Reid.

“Do you think I’ll make a great…dad?” Spencer stammered. The word, and his soon-to-be new name, still so foreign to him.

His hand nervously playing with yours while he let it silently dawn upon him that he was actually to be one.

“The best. Spence….you are not like your father, you will never be like him. You will make an amazing dad, a caring one who will give his child the best upbringing and life possible that is full of nothing but love.”

Spencers eyes welled up with tears. getting choked up by your words. Knowing that you truly mean them. Already picturing your bump, all the milestones you’d celebrate together, and the life you would soon bring into this world.

He always dreamt of being a father. And now, that dream was become true all because of you.

[spiderfunkz]

SELF CONTROL

pairings. cho hyun-ju x f!reader

cw. established relationship, mentions of drinking & partying, a headcanon blurb on how i think hyun-ju would react if her partner gets flirted on.

author's note: this isn't written in my usual layout because i just feel like it lolz.. anyways sorry for not posting, the squid game fandom is lowkey dying. but my requests are still open!!

hyun-ju doesn't typically get jealous, but oh boy, does she get protective. she always has an eye on you, especially if you two go out. if it's a walk she'll have her arm wrapped around your waist or she'll hold your hand. but if it's a lively party at night, she likes to see you have fun, though she makes sure she has a clear sight of you.

she just needs to make sure you're safe and don't go near any trouble. she'll sit by the bar as you dance or sing, taking a sip or two of soju. hyun-ju isn't a big drinker, however, her alcohol tolerance is surprisingly high.

she doesn't look at you in a creepy way, but it's her movement of gesturing that you're taken, and you're hyun-ju's. it's not a stare, maybe more of a glare, but people seem to pick it up sooner or later.

but to the ones that don't?

"hiya, pretty. what'chu doing around here?" a guy steps up, his posture seems confident. you're sure the facade will fade, "sorry?" you chuckle, seemingly startled by his bold-self. "oh, please, don't be sorry. tell me, angel, are you free after all this? let's leave, just the two of us."

hyun-ju knows you can handle situations like these, but she's sure to check if you're uncomfortable. your body language speaks waves to her, she can read you like a book. but for situations like these, where the guy gets too close, hyun-ju stands by closer.

"i'm taken," you shrug. "ah, i'm not surprised. someone as gorgeous as you? i'd be shocked if you weren't taken. so, who's the lucky guy? he doesn't need to know, trust me, baby. we'll have an amazing time." — "she's a woman, actually. and i'm uninterested. you can go find someone else who is willing, maybe the exit."

the guy scoffs, at your joke and because he doesn't seem believe you. hyun-ju is quick to step up. it's funny to see his stupid smirk die down, and it's funnier because hyun-ju is taller than he will ever be.

"is he bothering you? hon?" hyun-ju's tone is assertive, she's intimidating. she makes sure the other person knows to just back away. you nod, "there you are, hyun! he's just about to leave, right?" you tilt your head, almost mocking him, he just runs to his crowd of friends.

she always asks if you're okay. she's so proud to have someone so beautiful and a person who can stand up for themselves. but she doesn't like to see your hands get dirty, if a guy gets touchy, hyun-ju's fist is the only thing he'll touch.

[aquamarixx]

sweeter the second time around

married out of convenience, you and your best friend, Kita Shinsuke share a not-so-normal married life, intil Kita realizes he never wants to let you go

‎‧₊˚✧ TURNING POINT 2025 ENTRY ✧˚₊‧ pairing kita shinsuke x reader word count 2.9k words tags post timeskip, aged up, friends to lovers, somehow established relationship, hurt/comfort, bit of fluff, marriage of convenience, navigation

You and Kita Shinsuke have always been close—steady, reliable friends who could depend on each other through anything.

It started back in high school, when you crossed paths as the student council secretary and he, the volleyball club’s captain. Even after you moved to Tokyo for university and later got a job there, you never lost contact with him. Through every milestone, every struggle, and every little moment in between, Kita remained a constant in your life—one of the few things that tethered you back to Hyogo, aside from your family.

He’s always been the person who listens without judgment, the one who quietly understands you in a way most people don’t. He knows everything about your life, from the smallest details to the most frustrating realities. Like how your love life, despite your best efforts, has always been disappointingly stagnant.

You’ve tried dating over the years, but relationships never seem to work out. No matter how promising they start, something always feels off. It’s like you’re chasing a connection that just won’t stick. 

Kita, on the other hand, has never seemed interested in romance. He’s always been content with his responsibilities, with the joys of his rural life as a rice farmer, never feeling the urgency to settle down.

And then, everything changes.

Your mother—your single mother, the woman who raised you on her own—falls terminally ill. And suddenly, time, something you always thought you had, begins slipping away.

One evening, in the quiet of her hospital room, she smiles at you, eyes warm but tired.

“You used to drape the blankets around yourself like a wedding dress,” she murmurs, voice fragile but full of fondness. “Always twirling, saying you’d be the most beautiful bride in the world.”

You let out a small, breathy laugh, remembering the image vividly. But there’s something in her voice—something wistful.

She squeezes your hand. “I always thought I’d get to see it."

Your throat tightens.

She doesn’t say it as a plea, not as something she expects or even asks of you. It’s just a quiet confession, a bittersweet acceptance that she won’t be there when it happens.

The weight of it presses into your chest, heavy and suffocating.

You try not to cry. Even the tears threatening on your lash line, with all your might, you hold yourself back from sobbing. Instead, you hold her hand a little tighter, as if that alone could slow down time. And you wish it would.

Marriage has never been something you’ve chased. You figured if it happened, it would happen naturally. But now, with her words echoing in your mind, you feel lost.

Later, you tell Kita about it. You’re not sure why. Maybe because he’s the one person who never judges, who always listens. Or maybe because, deep down, you already know he’ll say something that makes it easier to breathe.

He doesn’t respond right away. He just sits with your words, letting them settle between you.

And then, in that calm, matter-of-fact way of his, he says, “Why not marry me, then?”

You blink. “What?”

“I’ll marry you.” His voice holds no hesitation. “It doesn’t have to change anything. If it’ll bring her some peace, we can do it.”

Your heart lurches. “Shin, you don’t have to—”

“I know.” His gaze meets yours, unwavering. “But I want to.”

You stare at him, still trying to process, still trying to find the right words to refuse because this is—this is too much. 

“But what if you meet someone?” you blurt out. “Someone you do want to marry?”

“I won’t.” His response is simple, final.

Your lips part, but nothing comes out. He doesn’t even say it with sadness. Just with this certainty, like he’s always known.

“We can figure it out later,” he continues, reassuring you. “Right now, what matters is your mom.”

“But still, Shin, this is—”

Before you can finish, you see him reach into his pocket. You watch him as he tinkers with it in his hand before placing it—whatever it is— in your palm.

You glance down. It’s a small, makeshift ring, twisted from a strand of hay, clumsily looped together.

A surprised laugh bubbles up before you can stop it. “Shin—what is this?”

“A proposal.” His lips quirk up slightly, just enough to tell you he’s amused.

It’s ridiculous. A hay ring, of all things. Yet, for some reason, your chest tightens.

Your fingers curl around it, warm against your palm. “You’re serious about this?”

“I wouldn’t say it if I wasn’t.” His voice is quiet, steady.

And just like that, the argument dies on your lips.

Because this is Kita Shinsuke. The boy who has always been there in your life.  The one who never makes promises he doesn’t intend to keep.

This isn’t a romantic proposal. There’s no nervous confession, no grand gesture. Just the certainty of a man who doesn’t think twice when it comes to doing right by the people he cares about.

And that’s how you find yourself married to your best friend.

Your wedding is small and intimate. Less of a grand affair and more of a quiet gathering of the people who love you both. There are no extravagant decorations, no towering cakes, no lavish venues. Just a modest shrine in Hyogo, the scent of fresh flowers in the air, and the warmth of familiar faces surrounding you.

You rented a beautiful white gown. It’s not the kind you dreamed of as a little girl, but something simple and elegant, something that feels right.

Your friends from Inarizaki High are there, the Miya twins bickering as usual, Suna looking unimpressed but still wearing a pressed suit for the occasion. Kita’s other former volleyball teammates and his grandmother sit near the front, watching everything unfold with quiet joy.

And then, there’s your mother.

She sits in the first row, her hands clasped together, her smile trembling at the edges. Her eyes shine with unshed tears, her face alight with love and pride. This moment isn’t perfect—not in the way you once imagined—but it is enough. Because she is here. She gets to see it.

Only a handful of people know the truth: that this is not a love story, not in the way everyone assumes.

To most, it looks like something out of a dream. Two best friends who have always been by each other’s side, finally finding their way to one another. The way people whisper about how it was inevitable makes you laugh under your breath. If only they knew.

And yet, when you stand at the altar beside Kita, it feels… surreal. Not wrong, not forced, but strange. :ike stepping into a life you never planned for.

You don’t know how to feel.

But when you look at him, standing there in a crisp black suit, something shifts.

Kita has always been composed, always steady, but right now, there is something in his gaze that you’ve never seen before—yearning. Like you are the most beautiful bride he has ever laid eyes on.

It steals the breath from your lungs.

He watches you as if you belong there, as if there was never a version of his life where you wouldn’t end up here, standing next to him.

The ceremony moves forward, words exchanged, vows spoken. You repeat them without hesitation, your voice calm and sure. When it comes time for the ring, Kita slides it onto your finger with the same deliberate care that he does everything. With intention, with certainty, with the kind of patience that makes your heart ache.

Then, the final moment. The kiss to seal your vows.

You barely have time to react before Kita’s hands move. One cradles your face, fingers brushing lightly against your skin, while the other snakes down to the small of your back, pulling you close. His lips meet yours in a long, firm kiss and somehow unexpected in its intensity, yet still so him.

For a moment, the world fades.

His touch is gentle but unyielding, the warmth of him pressing against you in a way that feels almost… real. Your hands, almost instinctively, grip at the fabric of his suit, anchoring yourself.

And when he pulls away, you are left breathless.

A faint red tinge colors Kita’s cheeks, a rare sight, and you find yourself laughing softly. He exhales, lips twitching slightly in amusement.

The moment is fleeting, but it lingers, settling somewhere deep in your chest.

This is the beginning of something new. You don’t know what, exactly.

But it’s something.

You resign from your job in Tokyo, choosing to stay in Hyogo indefinitely, dedicating yourself to your mother. And throughout it all, Kita is there.

He is there in the mornings, helping you prepare your mother’s meals, making sure she takes her medicine even when she insists she doesn’t need it. He is there in the evenings, when exhaustion weighs you down, guiding you to bed before you collapse from lack of sleep.

He is there when you break, when the reality of what’s coming hits you so hard you can’t breathe. He doesn’t try to fix it, doesn’t offer empty words of comfort. He just holds you, steady as ever, as you cry into his chest.

For six months, you live as a married couple.

You cook together, fall into a quiet rhythm of shared responsibilities, navigate the difficult days with patience and understanding. It’s not traditional. It’s not normal.

But it’s yours.

And when the seventh month comes, your mother slips away in her sleep, peaceful and warm in her bed, and the grief is unbearable.

Kita holds your hand at the funeral, fingers wrapped tightly around yours as if to keep you from unraveling. He makes sure you eat when you forget, sits with you in the silence of your shared home, never forcing words where they aren’t needed.

He is there. Always.

And when the dust settles, when the world finally stills, you and Kita remain married.

Eventually, you return to Tokyo. You find a new job, move back in with your friend, and step back into the life you left behind.

But every weekend, you take the two-and-a-half-hour journey back to Hyogo.

It’s a routine you’ve had for years, even before the marriage, and it doesn’t change now.

Kita’s grandmother welcomes you back each time with warm smiles and teasing remarks, treating you as if you’ve always been part of the family. Kita never expects you to play the role of a wife—not in the traditional sense. He never pressures you, never makes you feel obligated.

He doesn’t even mind if you take your ring off.

But you don’t.

You wear it always. Not because you have to, not because anyone expects you to. But because it feels right.

During the weekdays, Tokyo wears you down. The endless crowds, the rush of work, the constant noise—it’s exhausting. By Friday night, your body feels heavy, your mind clouded with stress.

But the moment you step off the train in Hyogo, the air feels different. Lighter. Quieter. Coming home to Kita is like stepping into a world that moves at its own pace, where time slows and nothing feels urgent.

Your married life is simple. Shared dinners at his house, soft laughter over tea, the quiet understanding of two people who know each other well. Chores fall into place naturally, neither of you needing to ask. Some afternoons, you bring him snacks in the fields, watching as he wipes his hands before taking the food from you with a quiet smile. Other days, you visit the market with his grandmother, weaving through stalls and listening to her stories.

When it’s just the two of you, he never forces anything. He doesn’t expect you to be a perfect wife or demand anything beyond what you’re willing to give. The touches he allows himself are simple—his hand finding yours, a light press to your lower back as he guides you through a doorway, a steadying hold on your waist when he moves past you in the kitchen. And then, there are the kisses.

They don’t happen often, but when they do, they linger. He never rushes, never takes more than you give, but there’s something about them—about him. His lips are firm, patient, but starved in a way that always leaves you wondering. Wondering if it’s just habit. If it’s just for show.

Or if it’s something more.

Not that you’re complaining. Because no matter how much those kisses leave you wanting, they also leave you waiting.

Waiting for something you can’t quite name.

It’s easy. It’s comfortable.

It’s enough.

Or so you think.

One evening, the two of you are having dinner at Onigiri Miya. The scent of fresh rice and seaweed lingers in the air as you pick at your food, laughing at something Osamu said. Kita sits beside you, relaxed as always, his hand gently caressing yours.

Then the door swings open, and Atsumu walks in, loud as ever, with a few MSBY Jackals in tow. Their voices fill the small restaurant, easy grins and playful banter making them impossible to ignore.

Kita steps outside to join Osamu, leaving you inside for a moment.

That’s when one of the MSBY players slides into the empty seat across from you, flashing a charming grin. “Didn’t think I’d see a woman this pretty around here.”

You glance up, amused. “Is that a pickup line?”

He shrugs, undeterred. “Depends. Is it working?”

You chuckle, shaking your head. He’s harmless, just being friendly, but before he can push further, you lift your left hand slightly. The silver band on your ring finger glinting under the restaurant lights.

“Sorry,” you say lightly. “I’m married.”

The shift is instant. He exhales a short laugh, hands raised in surrender. “Damn. Lucky guy.”

Through the restaurant window, Kita watches.

He watches the way you smile, the way you casually hold up your hand, the way the man across from you takes a second too long to look away.

And for the first time, something unfamiliar stirs inside him.

He’s never thought much about the nature of your relationship before. You are his best friend, his wife in name, his partner in a quiet, unspoken way.

But you are also a beautiful, kind, and capable woman. Someone who could be loved by another man.

You come home to him every weekend, walking up the dirt road to the house with that tired but relieved smile, greeting his grandmother with warmth that never fades. You fit into his life so seamlessly, as if you were always meant to be there.

And Kita realizes what he could lose.

Osamu exhales beside him, dragging out his words. “You look like a man about to do something real dumb.”

Kita ignores him. Maybe it is dumb. Maybe it isn’t. But he’s never been one to hesitate once he’s made up his mind.

So he steps back inside.

You look up as he approaches, something shifting in your expression, as if you can sense the change in him. Kita doesn’t acknowledge the other player—he barely even registers his presence. Instead, he reaches for your hand, his fingers finding yours, warm and familiar.

You blink at him, confused. “Shin?”

“Come outside with me.” His voice is steady, but something in it makes your pulse quicken. You don’t argue, don’t question, just let him lead you out the door and into the quiet night air.

And as the cool breeze brushes against your skin, Kita watches you under the dim glow of the streetlights.

For the first time, he wonders what it would be like if you weren’t his.

And for the first time, he doesn’t want to find out.

So he just goes for it.

“I want us to stay married.”

Your head snaps up. “Wait—what? I’m not divorcing you or anything,” you say, genuinely confused.

Kita lets out a small sigh, shaking his head. “That’s not what I meant.” He looks at you, his expression unwavering but… nervous?

“Let's get married.”

You blink. “Shin, we’re already married.”

“Not out of convenience,” he clarifies, his fingers brushing against yours. “For real this time. Because I love you.”

Silence. Your brain short-circuits.

It’s the first time in your entire year of marriage that Kita Shinsuke has said I love you to you directly.

You stare at him, blinking rapidly. “Wait. Hold on. Back up—you love me?”

He nods. Like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

You squint at him. “You sure?”

Kita exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “Would I be proposing again if I wasn’t?”

And then, he pulls something from his pocket.

A ring. A makeshift one, out of hay.

You gasp, in mock disbelief. “Again? Shin, why do all your proposals involve farming materials?”

His lips twitch, almost smiling. “Didn’t really plan this one either.”

You snort, shaking your head in disbelief. “You’re such an idiot.”

“Guess that makes two of us,” he says simply, still holding out the ring.

You bite your lip, pretending to think about it, just to mess with him. “Hmm. I dunno. You haven’t even taken me on a proper honeymoon.”

He deadpans, “You don’t even like traveling.”

“True,” you admit, laughing.

Kita just waits, patient as ever, steady as ever.

You look at him and you thought, how could you say no?

“Of course, yes,” you say, grinning. “For real this time.”

You don’t give him time to respond before you pull him in for a kiss.

And this time, when he kisses you back, with such yearning just like the kiss on your wedding day. 

And somehow, the proposal, the kiss, and everything about this moment feels sweeter than the last time.

amari's notes: kita shinsuke is, if nothing, the best husband anyone can ask for. posting this on my birthday and on the last day i'm writing for my turning point event. anyway, I’d love to hear your thoughts, so feel free to leave a reply or drop an ask or even a request! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

taglist: @inu1gf

[thoughtfullyrainynightmare]

For some time I thought about if I should post anything, but I decided to do so in case anyone else needs it (because I have been a tiny bit burnt out for the past year or so):

Your hobbies are supposed to bring you joy. Don't let it become a job; a "responsibility". You don't have to be "on" every day

Chances are that there will be someone who keeps bugging you even after politely telling them that you're not interested or that "you might consider it" or something along those lines. (This is how I ended up doing some role-playing for a fandom I was not interested in, in my dms) Some people will keep expecting things from you, while ignoring your boundaries. Don't let them (aka block; they might call you "mean" or "rude", but you're not)

You can't cater to everyone, so it's better to have your group of friends, along with some friendly acquaintances with whom you can make the best of your fandom experience

A block isn't a reflection of morality or "badness", especially on algorithm based mediums or Discord (tip: if you're in a larger public server with someone who overwhelms you or annoys you, blocking them will hide their messages from you. It's like being able to be in the same club house without forcing yourself to engage with someone) Yes on Tumblr you can always unfollow, but you can still see their posts in the tags. Cater to your experience. A block isn't a big deal (I know I have been blocked by people who don't like seeing reader insert fics in their feed/tags, and that is completely fine. And I have probably been blocked for other reasons as well. It's not a big deal)

Promote things you want to see, create things you want to see, and enjoy the process

Publishing that Work/Art/Fic is scary, but that is the only way to get it out there (and if you're worried about "not being 'good enough'" whatever that might mean, remember that you have to start somewhere. I started with sentences that were all over the place, and just last year got a comment about having good grammar; after 3-4 years of writing in a foreign language)

Be cringe. Be free. Do things you enjoy! Pet a dog, go for a walk, draw that oc or blorbo or both or daydream about them. The world is bleak rn, but you have to try and find enjoyment from little things. You can't give from an empty basket, so if you're spent all the time, being there for those you care about becomes impossible somewhere down the line. "You have to take care of yourself, in order to care for others." Stop to breathe

More often than not, you just existing and enjoying life brings a kind of stability and enjoyment to others. I think about this one time in high school chemistry class, where I was knitting (yes Chemistry, don't ask), and this one girl came up to me afterwards and said something along the lines of "I was feeling a lot of anxiety in class, and then I saw you knitting, and I went 'okay, [she]'s knitting, it's going to be okay'". I still to this day don't really know why that was, but it did tell me a thing: people around you, especially those who seek you out, follow you on social media, ask you out just to hang, they like having you around. And to these people, you existing as you are, including taking a step back when you need it, you are valuable as you are

[possibilistfanfiction]

i know you're working on it so no rush at all but i will love to read some poor unsuspecting queer person having a giant crush on cait only to be met with handsome vi, thank you!!

[rip to this queer person just trying to flirt, who wouldn't be a little overwhelmed by cait lol. a counterpart to this silly guy. on ao3.]

//

you show up early because you’re nervous; you remind yourself that you’re an impressive, competent person, a badass attorney, a great uncle, a thoughtful friend — you can do this. it helps, immediately, when there are a few other people early too, milling around the trunk of an suv, laughing and dividing gear between themselves into their packs. you don’t have any real gear yet, beyond a pair of beginner shoes and a chalk bag, mostly because you have no idea if you’ll like this hobby or not, but you’d seen one of your acquaintances post the flyer for the event in their stories, and it was free, and this year you’re pushing yourself to get outside more, to try new things, to be brave. 

you take a deep breath and then turn your car off and grab your backpack from the passenger seat. when you start to walk over to the group, a little cold in the morning and grateful you had decided to layer warmly, you breathe a little easier because they all look toward you and smile.

‘hi,’ one of them says, and she’s — unfortunately for you, but also very fortunately — kind of devastatingly beautiful: she’s tall, with sleek dark hair and bright blue eyes and a horribly charming gap in her teeth when she smiles in greeting, dressed in what you can tell are nice climbing clothes, even if you don’t know a whole lot about the sport. ‘i’m caitlyn. you’re here for the queer crush climbing clinic?’

she has an accent, clipped and proper, god help you. you get it together, though. ‘yeah. yes. i’m alé.’ you offer a hand to shake, way too formal for the situation, but she accepts it without any fuss.

‘wonderful,’ she says. ‘i can’t quite remember what gear everyone needed, but i know i packed it according to the spreadsheet. jayce —‘ she points at a handsome man with broad shoulders and a friendly grin — ‘should be able to get you fitted for a harness and a helmet if you need.’ 

you nod and jayce motions you over to the trunk, very neatly organized, and walks you through the basics of how a harness should fit, and how adjustable their new helmets are. you fight down a wave of nausea when he asks if you’d like a men’s or women’s harness, but then he just tells you that one might fit a little more comfortably than the other, and it’s up to you because there’s no significant differences overall. still, when the men’s harness feels just fine and jayce deems it to be a perfect, safe fit, you breathe a sigh of relief, and he gives you a high five. ‘i love the color of that one,’ he says, and then grabs a helmet to hand to you. ‘cait got all of these new last week; we’re really excited,’ he tells you, like it’s totally normal to just buy fifteen climbing helmets, but whatever. a queer climbing collective that has a gear library and hosts beginner outdoor clinics is definitely not something you’re going to complain about. 

you get your harness back in the bag and shoved into your backpack, and the helmet clipped to the outside, like jayce had suggested; you’re worried you’re going to have to wait awkwardly, because you kind of got here way before any of the climbers were supposed to show up, but no one seems bothered.

‘we’re going to go rig the routes,’ caitlyn says, and you can feel yourself blush just being around her. ‘jayce is going to hang out here to wait for other climbers, and then they’ll do the approach together, so you’re totally welcome to just wait here. but if you want, you can come with us while we set everything up; could be fun to see, if you’re interested.’

you — thank god — refrain from making a joke about how you’d probably follow her off a cliff, and instead nod totally normally. ‘that would be really cool. thanks.’

‘of course,’ she says, and then hands you a climbing rope with a wink that makes you, kind of just a little, want to die. ‘carry this over your shoulders if you think you can?’

you stand up straighter. ‘i definitely can.’

one of the other people waiting rolls her eyes with a little scoff, but she takes off out of the parking lot. ‘let’s go,’ she says, annoyed. ‘i wanna climb before i belay for seven million hours.’

caitlyn rolls her eyes fondly. ‘ignore her; she’s just grumpy her pack is so heavy.’

‘yeah, yeah,’ she says, then turns toward you. ‘anyway, i’m jinx.’ she points to the third member of their trio, who seems quite peaceful for this early in the morning and that full a pack. ‘this is ekko.’

he waves and takes off down the trail confidently, surefooted and relaxed. jinx follows, and caitlyn makes sure to stay close behind you. she’s quiet, probably to let you focus on the trail, which requires you, closer to where you assume you’ll be climbing, to scramble around on some rocks, using your hands. you’re a little embarrassed, because jinx and ekko hadn’t had to, but caitlyn compliments you as you approach an intimidatingly tall rock face, and you chance a look at her, cheeks slightly pink from the hike, eyes bright. 

your voice comes out a little hoarse when you say, ‘thanks,’ but she doesn’t mention it.

/

jinx and caitlyn get all set up to climb, including a little squabble about whether or not jinx actually needs a helmet which ends in her admitting a very dramatic defeat and putting one covered in stickers on while she grumbles, and ekko kicks back near you after he’s laid out some ropes and other gear. he explains that they’re going to sport, or lead, climb the routes, putting what are called quickdraws — he shows you one — in bolts that are already in the wall, and then set top rope anchors for everyone else to climb: on top rope, he says, there’s really no way anyone will fall, and, ‘cait is great at setting anchors; she knows, like, every safety thing ever invented, i’m pretty sure.’ he glances over at jinx starting to climb, already zipping up the wall, and smiles something tinged with a lot of fond devotion. ‘jinx, not so much, but she’ll be really safe for this clinic, at least. and cait will check everything anyway.’

it’s kind of amazing, to watch them do something that you know will be really hard for you, and have it look so easy. ekko explains what cait’s doing on belay that’s great technique in case jinx falls — ‘this is an easy route for her, but you never know’ — and you’re drawn by caitlyn’s careful hands, the rhythm she has feeding and taking slack with jinx as she clips into each bolt that speaks to hours and hours of doing this together. it’s not hard to tell that ekko and jinx are kind of in love, or whatever, but cait isn’t here with anyone who seems like a partner, so you still have some hope. you haven’t dated much since you transitioned, and it’s time to get back out there, according to all of your friends and your therapist, at least.

jinx finishes whatever she’s doing at the top of the route, and then cait lowers her smoothly while jinx takes each quickdraw off the rope and out of the wall. they give each other a little fist bump when she gets down, smiling happily, at ease and in their element. 

‘ekko,’ jinx calls, untying her knot and then hopping out of her climbing shoes with a grimace, not caring that she’s barefoot on the cold ground, ‘wanna belay cait on the 5.10a?’

he gives a lazy salute and gets up with a kind smile, dusts his pants off and leaves his warm jacket on the rock next to you, and walks over to caitlyn. they go over some safety checks, you surmise, and jinx sits next to you after she shrugs into ekko’s coat over her long sleeve t-shirt with a happy little sigh, and then rummages around in her bag and pulls out a to-go mug and some chips. ‘breakfast of champions,’ she says, grinning and offering you the bag, licking some fake cheese dust from her fingers, which also have some chalk residue still on them. 

you politely decline and think about all the possible conversation topics you could start, but then caitlyn begins to climb and you’re entranced: she looks like she’s dancing, easily crossing her feet sometimes, smoothly resting, putting quickdraws in, clipping in the rope, and then continuing on without any pauses, one fluid, precise motion, over and over. 

jinx notices and rolls her eyes, but there’s no malice in it. ‘she’s pretty good. but don’t ever tell her i told you that.’

you laugh, a little more in the world with it. ‘secret’s safe with me.’

‘it helps to be, like, a million feet tall with the longest legs on the planet,’ jinx points around another mouthful of chips and washes them down with a swig of coffee as as caitlyn easily navigates a far reach. ‘at least on routes like this.’

all you can do is nod, breathless, as caitlyn reaches the top, not even breathing hard, and then sets up another anchor. ekko lowers her after she calls out that she’s done, and he gives her a high-five, easy and familiar. they wave jinx over and she gets ready to belay ekko on the third route while caitlyn walks off back toward the parking lot, telling them that she’s going to go help jayce with the rest of the gear library and helping lead the approach for the rest of the group who’s arrived by now. you watch her walk away, her climbing pants just tight enough to give you an idea of what might be under them: god fucking bless.

/

it’s easy, once other people arrive, to feel like you’re all in it together: you do an ice breaker with your names and pronouns, how much climbing experience you have — you’re relieved to learn that most people have little to none, just like you — and what flavor of ice cream you’d be. there are so many trans and non-binary people, and a lot of people of color, and you can tell that, even if the climbing itself might be a little scary, it’s a good space to be in: you’re already grateful for it. then caitlyn goes through a bunch of the basics: a figure 8 knot, the way they rigged top rope anchors, how the belay device, called a grigri, works, and what grade each route is, from easiest to most challenging, so that everyone has a good understanding and feels as safe as possible. it’s thoughtful, and organized, and kind, and it only makes your giant crush even worse. you sit with a few people, too intimidated to go first once everyone actually gets to start trying it out.

after a few people go, though, the route caitlyn is belaying is open, and you decide that you can fucking do it: you’re brave and you’re strong and she grins when you walk over, your climbing shoes already hurting your feet and your heart beating hard.

things are fine, totally cool and you’re so chill and normal, but then you struggle tying the knot. 

‘do you mind if i help?’ she asks, and you shake your head, gesture for her to go for it. suddenly you’re hit with her perfume and her shiny her hair is, how close her face is, her thing, dextrous fingers very, very close to your body as she explains each step and guides the rope through the loops properly. you have to clear your throat when she finishes, which is mortifying, but she just smiles and shows you that her grigri is locked and loaded properly. ‘you can start whenever you feel comfortable,’ she says. ‘i’ll keep it tight, so that you’ll be super safe.’

you will your brain to ignore i’ll keep it tight and instead struggle, so hard, even at the beginning of the route. it’s a little embarrassing, especially since this is the easiest route, one jinx had climbed in, like, a minute, doing a ton more than you, but then caitlyn shouts some encouragement, and helps you with some suggestions when you get stuck, unsure what to do at a certain point in the route. you make it almost all the way to the top anchor before you get a little freaked out and ask to be lowered down. caitlyn smiles so genuinely — her tooth gap on display again — and the sun hits her face just right, and it’s kind of like the proudest moment in your life.

‘great job, alé,’ she compliments, and you thank her, your voice as steady as you can will it to be. 

/

eventually, caitlyn gets to take a break and, just your luck, sits in a camp chair jayce had set up right next to you. she stretches her feet out, legs crossed elegantly, and rifles through jinx’s gigantic backpack which is, apparently, full of snacks, before pulling out some trailmix and offering you some. you take a handful and thank her.

‘how are you enjoying the day so far?’ she asks, and you can tell she’s genuinely invested. 

‘it’s really awesome,’ you answer honestly. ‘i’m trying to spend more time outdoors and move my body more, so this is super cool. climbing always seemed like such a hard thing to get into.’

she frowns in understanding. ‘it can be. that’s why i started this collective, with jayce, a few years ago. taking out the cost of gear and having experienced climbers volunteer has, at least as far as i can tell, helped a lot of people get into it.’

‘well, i for one can definitely say that i want to keep learning more.’

she perks up, pleased. ‘we host meetups at some gyms, too. if you ever need a free guest pass, you can dm us on the account and we can get you set up. gym climbing is a lot less stuff, at least. and no hike there.’

she laughs at her own joke, and you’re glad you’re sitting down because you’re a little weak at the knees from it all: the lilt of her accent and the tune of her laugh and her perfect skin, the way her practical fleece stretches across her chest and then, when she takes it off, the set of her shoulders and arms, dainty but so strong at the same time. you force yourself to ask questions about her life — she’s a doctor and she works in public health, which makes her a good person, let alone a hot person — and she seems honestly invested when you tell her about your legal work on tenants rights. it’s not a first date, obviously, but you kind of maybe think it might feel a little like one. it’s easy to enjoy her company, but then jinx calls to you and asks if you’d like to climb again, and it would be silly if you didn’t, especially after caitlyn pats your shoulder encouragingly. you make it to the top of this one, and you hear jinx and caitlyn cheering you on, and the weather has warmed up in the sun. 

/

things are going great until they’re really not. it’s not that anything happens, really, at least nothing scary or bad, but you’d talked on and off for hours with caitlyn and you were working up the courage to ask if she maybe wanted to grab a late lunch after this, since it seems like the group is kind of winding down. but then a new person shows up, an adorable, blocky-headed pitbull training behind her closely, his mouth open in the best puppy smile. she’s seemingly a little harried but with gives a big, genuine smile when jinx grins and shoots a finger gun in her direction. ekko calls out a hello from where he’s belaying, and jayce sighs in relief.

‘vi!’ he says, and the new person sets her pack down and waves. ‘thank god. cait says you’re gonna clean everything?’

’sure am. i really am sorry i couldn’t be here for the whole morning.’

he waves the thought off. ‘i’m just glad you could make it, even though you didn’t have to come after a shift, you know.’

vi shrugs, then stretches her arms over her head. her shirt rides up a little, and you see abs and a trail of hair up toward her belly button, and you’re just kind of sitting in admiration until it all comes crashing down. caitlyn finishes lowering a climber and then gets off belay and walks — or, more aptly, saunters — over to vi, who grins like she’s watching the sun rise after the longest winter night. 

‘hello, darling,’ caitlyn says, and then leans in to kiss vi quickly. your heart sinks as vi gently touches caitlyn’s waist, at the hip just over her harness. 

‘hey,’ she says, her voice a little rough around the edges. ‘sorry i’m late. how’s the day gone?’

‘splendidly, i think,’ caitlyn says, happy and at ease. ‘and don’t apologize, i told you that you didn’t have to come at all.’

‘yeah, but i wanted to.’

‘well,’ caitlyn says softly, ‘i’m glad you’re here.’

you sigh in disappointment, a little stormy, before jinx plops down next to you with a laugh; it might be even more mortifying that someone had noticed how down bad you were. ‘don’t worry,’ she says, ‘cait is annoying as fuck, actually. vi is my sister, so i’ve had to put up with this shit for years.’ the dog wanders over to her happily, putting his big, dirty paws on her chest while she laughs and lets him kiss her face and greets him with nonsense baby talk he seems to love. it soothes things a little, when he snuffles at your leg and looks at you with his big eyes, asking for a scratch behind the ears. ‘this is their dog, atlas.’

it’s an alright consolation, you guess, to have had a beautiful day outside with cool new friends and what you think could become a great new hobby, and to get to hang out with the friendliest dog you’ve ever met; it’s not the worst, you’ll admit, to watch vi, who takes her shirt off to reveal scars across her chest and scattered around her stomach, and then a muscular back and arms covered in gorgeous tattoos, climb the routes easily to, as jinx tells you, clean the anchors, when everyone declares themselves too tired to climb any longer. 

you all pack out and get back to the parking lot soon after, the hike back feeling easy after you’d done so much; vi loads some gear into a cool vintage bronco, letting atlas hop into the back seat before helping caitlyn finish loading everything into her subaru. ‘see you at home?’ she asks.

caitlyn brushes back vi’s short, messy hair from her forehead for a moment, tender, and vi sinks into the touch. ‘drive safe.’

vi backs up and then salutes with a grin. ‘always do.’

caitlyn rolls her eyes and waves to vi, then waves to you too as you head off to your car. you got a few people’s numbers, so that you can try out the gyms they climb at and maybe go to a few meetups together: you tried something new, and you were brave, just like you’d set out to be. 

[buckbuckbarnesstuff]

Girl, you can hit me with your rambles anytime you want. I make an effort to avoid comparing my writing or my word count to that of popular books. It places so much unwarranted pressure on you. Being a fanfic writer should never feel stressful or challenging. It’s something you choose to do in your freetime for your own enjoyment and that of others and I believe that to be so truly remarkable on its own. So I feel sorry that we often times tend to impose such high expectations on ourselves regarding writing. Do what feels right for your own writing style and pace.

I totally get that pre-writing thing and I probably should be doing that myself. But unfortunately, I can never seem to hold off on sharing my work lol. Though you are right, it allows you more time to consider everything and work out the plot completely. But truly, I would have loved all that you could create from "a dish served cold" because it just got me hooked right away.

Also, I let my younger sister read my work before sharing it to get her feedback. Maybe you have a family member or friend you can give your writing to for a preread. So you'll receive some feedback prior posting.

Personally, daughter of the rotsál sounds incredibly interesting and intriguing, especially due to the darker elements and Isolde's isolation, perhaps because it also somehow is a parallel to me. I'm so full of genuine anticipation and there is no doubt in my mind that you will turn this into a masterpiece. I know I can only speak for myself here and there may be people wishing things to be different, but I suppose that will always be a thing. Just yesterday I stumbled upon some comments criticizing my absolutely favourite book series. It will alwas be like that. So the best you can do is trying not to think about how others could respond. All I can tell you is that I am going to love it. And I won't be the only one.

I wish you the best for your further writing process and I'll be here patiently waiting. 40k is actually so impressive already, huge congrats on that!!

My love goes out to you!! 💕💕

daughter of the rotsál snippet

hi all, ive been hit with my usual seasonal depression yippe... my goal for this month was to write 50k words. i am currently at 37k on the first draft of the daughter of rotsál. this fic is turning out to be a lot longer than i first anticipated it would be so it's been a bit overwhelming to work on. per usual my imposter syndrome is telling me i'm a bad writer (as is the curse of a creative). thought i'd share a snippet with you all, so here is a full scene where isolde the oc meets bucky for the first time.

in the mean time while i suffer writing this first draft, would you guys be interested in seeing some more snippets or lore bits? i did contemplate writing a one-shot just so i would have something more to post than these ramblings haha. let me know!

Head held high, Isolde strode through the emerging path, ignoring the whispers and stares. 

“Ah, here she is.” Father Dreykov spoke, his hand finding the small of Isolde’s back as he guided her before the Naraki leadership. “Isolde. The bride.”

The Naraki leadership loomed before her, a half-circle of men clad in armour and furs, each radiating authority. The man in the seat was undeniably the Ealdorman Steve of House Rogers. He sat tall, his posture regal yet relaxed, his broad shoulders draped in a wolf fur cloak, his armour battle-worn, streaked with faint scratches and dents. His face was as commanding as the rest of him—a square jaw, strong cheekbones, and a mouth set in a line of quiet contemplation. His golden hair was tied back, though a few strands had escaped to frame his face. His blue eyes settled on Isolde with an unsettling intensity. His wife, Lady Peggy, stood tall and poised, a hand resting lightly on Steve’s shoulder. 

Isolde was sure that if Lord Steve wasn’t already married, she would have been offered as a bride to him instead. Isolde swallowed hard as Peggy’s gaze lingered, her expression unreadable. There was no malice in her eyes, but neither was there comfort. Isolde got the impression that this was not a woman who tolerated weakness—not in herself, not in her husband, and certainly not in anyone who might step into their world.

“She is Idamirian.” Lord Steve spoke, a hint of surprise in his words. 

“Well, yes. She was once before she became a daughter of the Rotsál.” Father Dreykov replied, and Isolde recognised a slight hesitancy in his words, as if he was carefully selecting each that passed his lips. “Do you take issue with this?”

Isolde’s chest tightened.

“No. The opposite.” Lord Steve raised his hand to absentmindedly stroke the stubble across his jaw. “I wasn’t aware that any from Idamir survived.”

They didn’t. Hatred coiled in Isolde’s gut like a mighty serpent, and it took everything in her not to sneer at the Ealdorman. His words were so casual, so dismissive—the anger that roared in her veins was as hot as any molten rock that rained from the sky. Of course the Naraki hadn’t thought of the repercussions; of course, they had thought Idamir extinct except those already married into their bloodlines. 

“I expect most didn’t.” Father Dreykov chuckled in relief. “Isolde was one of the few we managed to save during The Black Dawn.”

“An Idamirian daughter of the Rotsál…” Lord Steve pondered aloud. His pronunciation of Rotsál rolled across his tongue with a rumble, his southern accent thick. “A good choice, priest. I will give you that. There is worth in such a bride. She speaks our language, I presume?”

Yes. Yes, she did. Isolde remembered quite vividly the number of times she had been scolded and beaten for her southern accent slipping through in etiquette classes. The Rotsál aimed to neutralise, ensuring a girl could fit in any and all situations. She had not spoken the language in nearly a decade, so she imagined she would be rusty and stiff in ability, but she had spent the first thirteen years of her life communicating in nearly strictly the southern tongue. 

“No, not that I am aware. The Southclaw is not exactly something we cultivate when raising these girls.”

Isolde held her tongue, but annoyance swept through her. Her knowledge of the language would have to be a surprise for her husband once they were wed. Her husband… she wondered which of the armed thegns positioned around and behind Steve would be him. They all had an equal bulkiness to their stature, pure muscle and strength, lined with scars. She did not dare squint too closely at them nor meet their eye. 

“A shame. She will have to learn.” Steve replied with a sigh, settling further into his seat. “What exactly do you cultivate in a bride, priest? I have only ever known your Rotsálian daughters to be assassins, or they meddle in politics that aren’t their own, dressed up in riches to disguise the fact that below it all, they are just simple whores.”

The casual way in which Steve spoke to Father Dreykov astonished Isolde; it was as if disrespect dripped from his every word. It was a carefully constructed vision of mutual respect between the two; that was for sure. All for the sake of alliances. Yet Steve seemed eager to push the boundaries, prodding at Father Dreykov in the hopes that he may pop. 

Isolde’s eyes shot over to look at Father Dreykov, equal parts shock and equal parts horror seeping through her neutral facade. Father Dreykov, to his credit, had not gone red in the face; rather he puffed out his chest and let out a strained chuckle. “That is why daughters of the Rotsál are so special, you see… they are trained to be anything you need them to be. I would not… doubt their prowess.”

Lord Steve’s curiosity peaked, and he leant forward in his seat. “So this one is a bride, but if required, she can be an assassin? A whore?” 

“If that is what you want from her, then yes.”

Steve leant back in his seat once more with a chuckle, looking over his shoulder at a warrior who stood half-drenched in the shadows. “You hear that, Bucky? An assassin in your mix. Is this to your liking?”

Steve’s words hung in the air, a strange blend of jest and command, and as the name was spoken, the figure in the shadows began to move. Slowly, deliberately, the man called Bucky stepped forward, peeling himself from the darkness like a predator emerging from its den. The flickering firelight from the torches cast sharp, angular shadows across his face, revealing a visage that seemed carved from ice.

The infamous Bucky of House Barnes, the White Wolf, the Vetur Soldat, Thegn and Warlord was every inch the Naraki warrior. His shoulders were broad, his frame tall and imposing, clad in dark leather armour. The left pauldron bore faint, jagged etchings in the Naraki style, designs that marked him as a warrior of high standing, though not overly ornate. Across his shoulders a mantle of white wolf fur, its edges worn and weathered by years of riding beneath ash-laden skies

His face was a harsh masterpiece, handsome in a way that unsettled more than it comforted. A strong jawline was covered with stubble, two days old, Isolde estimated. His cheekbones were sharp, his nose slightly crooked—broken at least once in his past. The most striking feature, however, were his eyes: cold, piercing, and unrelenting. Steel blue, they cut through the dim light. They were the eyes of a man who had seen too much and felt too little, who measured the world and its people with a calculated detachment.

His hair, dark and shoulder-length, was pulled back loosely, a few messy strands falling forward to frame his face. A scar ran from the corner of his jaw up to his cheekbone. His left hand rested on the pommel of his sword, the leather-wrapped hilt worn smooth from use. 

“She looks too weak… too small to do any real damage, don’t you think?” The man replied, his tone callous and cold, though edged with a cruel amusement. A rumble of laughter passed over the tent. His expression barely shifted as he scanned her from head to toe, his lips pressing into a thin line that spoke of disappointment—or disdain. Whatever he was looking for, he did not see it in her. Isolde recognised the undeniable sting of disappointment in his expression. His words, though directed at Steve, were aimed at Isolde, each one sinking into her like a barbed arrow.

“You want a different bride?” Steve queried. Isolde held her breath. Perhaps this was a blessing in disguise, even if it felt like her cheeks burned in shame under the scrutiny of so many eyes. She would never hear the end of it when she returned to Rotsál Manor, denied and dismissed. Spoiled goods. The other Sisters would mock her relentlessly, not even good enough for a Naraki Savage. Would she ever be offered another mission? Or would she be cast away, ruined? How could she look Natasha in the face… how could she face Sister June—

“No. She will do.”

Despite the hatred and the disgust, Isolde found herself exhaling sharply in relief. She would do.

She would do.

Father Dreykov gave her a pleased look, the other Father’s bristling in approval.  

Isolde noticed how Lady Peggy subtly twitched, her nails digging into the shoulder of her husband. The blond man tipped his chin up, meeting the eye of his wife. Then, with a gentle elegance, the brunette woman leant over to whisper into her husband's ear.

“My wife wishes to ask a question.” Steve spoke up, the hint of a smile pulling at his lips. Bucky, who had begun his retreat back into the shadows, hesitated.

“Of course.” Father Dreykov offered with a slight bow of his head. Isolde wondered if the Father’s skin crawled every time he was forced to show respect to these Horselords. She wondered if rage boiled beneath the surface, knowing he had to treat these inferior men as equals. 

“Does your bride have no tongue?” Lady Peggy’s tone cut through the tent like a knife. The crowd shifted in agreement. “Does she not speak? I would like to hear her speak on this matter of marriage before any finalisation.”

Isolde’s eyes shifted to Father Dreykov. The Father, knowing how many eyes lay upon them, subtly nodded his head in permission. 

“I speak, my lady.” Isolde silently thanked Lord Velka that her voice held steady. 

Lady Peggy’s brow quirked in surprise, a delighted smirk pulling at her lips. Even Lord Bucky, in all his indifference, grew still at the sound of her voice. 

“Idamirian… your mother was a healer, I presume?”

“Yes.”

“And your father a blacksmith?”

“No. He was a hunter.”

Lady Peggy’s head quirked in surprise. 

“And you can ride a horse?” 

“Yes.”

“What about running a household, a village? The duties expected of a thegn's wife?”

“Yes.”

Peggy paused, a small hmph passing her lips. Her fingers trailed a pattern across her husband's shoulder, swirling in thought as she continued to assess Isolde with clever eyes. “And how old were you? The day of the Black Dawn?”

The memories flooded back to her. The earth rocked, the walls shaking so hard that dust fell from the roof. Dishes clattered, clay bowls and plates slipping off shelves and shattering by the hearth. The explosion, the boom of it so loud that she thought her head would be split in two…her mother, her face was blurry now, ushering her from the house as the walls caved in. You must go. You must run. Ash rained from the sky, coating every surface. In the distance, a plume of smoke so large, an indescribable mass—

Isolde swallowed back the bitter taste, relaxing her jaw to ensure the words she spoke did not sound through grit teeth. “Three and ten.”

“Which makes you…”

“Three and twenty.”

The question confused Isolde. What was the Lady looking for, evidence that she was unfit? That she was a child, unfitting of such a position? 

“And do you consent to this marriage?”

A quizzical expression slipped onto her face before she could catch it, her body twisting to glance at Father Dreykov as if asking what he made of the question. She found herself stumped momentarily, consent? Why would she need to consent when it was Lord Velka’s will?

“I do.” Isolde finally replied, spine straightening.

“No, do you truly consent to this marriage? You have not been forced or persuaded into this?”

Maybe her confusion betrayed her, or perhaps her tone was not final enough. Her gaze shifted to Father Dreykov once more, brows knitting together before she spoke up once more, more forcefully this time. “I do—”

“Don’t look at the priest. Look at me.” Lady Peggy cut her off immediately, and Isolde snapped her eyes back to meet hers. There was a fierceness to her tone but an underlying worry Isolde could interpret. “Do you consent? You can say no. Tell me, truthfully.” 

The tent had fallen into a hush. Lord Bucky watched her carefully with narrowed eyes. She only now realised that the lid and waterline were marked with a smudged kohl, adding to the intimidation of his stare. Isolde was consenting, wasn’t she? She had trained her entire life for a mission as important as this—why would her opinion, her decision, ever come into question? She had no reason to question her autonomy; The Order of Rotsál knew what was best for her. This was her mission, her path.

“I consent to this marriage, my lady.” Isolde cut back, words final.

Peggy inhaled sharply, then with a tight nod, she turned to look at her husband. It seemed Isolde’s words had convinced her, or at least for the moment. 

Steve looked up at his wife with a smile, eyes wide with unmistakable love. “Wonderful. Tonight, we will celebrate. Come nightfall tomorrow, they will be wed, and our two clans will be bound by blood.”

[dishesoap]

one of the hardest things you can do, but one of the most rewarding, is understanding the fact that if one of your friends is annoyed with or mad at you, they will tell you. and if they are annoyed with or mad at you and they dont tell you, that burden is on them, not on you. catastrophizing in your head about how your harmless interactions might be enraging or disgusting a friend is damaging to you both. if someone respects you as a friend and as a person, they will tell you if they need a change. otherwise, its not your problem, baby. you are both individuals capable of communicating your needs, and neither of you (i am assuming) are telepaths.

[katyspersonal]

Thinking about that time when a popular artist was a prick to me personally (claimed that I "baited" them for a conflict when all I did was pointing out something in lore contradicting their claim, without any rudeness or condescension, and basically told me to go hang out with other autists instead of bothering them) but the reason I blocked them was not that, it was the fact that they've admitted on not even caring about the source material and just using scraps from it to do their own thing. Priorities hfngkfngj

[moeblob]

I started fanart today but my thumb kinda hurts so I can't finish it so take OC art I never posted as my 'art of the day'.

Melo (mute) and Lody (can talk) are the twin advisors to the demon lord Sascha. They're probably his two most trusted demons and they adore him and respect him. While everyone in the demon army calls him "boss", Lody addresses him as "my lord" or "our lord" if with Melo.

Their pink/yellow eyes are actually a link of sorts. Whatever Melo sees, Lody can see. Whatever Lody sees, Melo can see. So they often travel apart from each other to have a wider range of what's going on in order to help Sascha determine the wisest course of action.

[beneaththebloodylake]

i really cant buy the headcanon that phoenix and edgeworth were romantically interested in each other as kids or that they were in love for the 15 or so years they didnt see each other, like it just doesnt make any sense or work at all. but i dont think this actually contradicts the way i think some of those scenes in the anime felt a bit romance coded, or like viewing phoenixs becoming a lawyer for edgeworth as like a romantic gesture? like it wasnt actually motivated by romantic feelings at all but the actual motivations and everything that happens ends up contributing towards a romantic storyline? (from a shipping perpesctive that is obviously)

[transsexualbloodlust]

day 2 and a half of being high. this just shouldn’t be physically possible is the thing.

[egg2k16]

This may be the depression speaking + the earliest trauma I've ever gone thru (completely accidental as well), but I think it's kinda pointless to give me gifts. I have clothes that still fit me and are in excellent condition. I have shoes. I have a sizeable movie collection (that tbf I can always add to), and all the books I'd want. I don't paint anymore so it's useless giving me art supplies. And unfortunately even giving me money is hilariously pointless bcus I'm not even gonna spend it on anything, I'm just gonna put it into my savings account and keep living day by day as I do: doing nothing...interesting

[our-lady-of-mcr]

.

[yandere-romanticaa]

Seen the request, so I shall deliver. Could you pls write a drabble or hcs of a yandere sunday with an isekaied reader?

Good timing because I'm actually planning a non yan isekai fic for him, I wonder if you saw that post. Here it is in case you haven't.

Sincerest apologies if this isn't the best, this fic is 100% emotionally charged by my obsession with him and frankly with a little bit of a high for passing a tricky exam. This is a treat for myself.

EDIT: Please check out this wonderful comic that @danijaci made me based off this fic!! 😭🫶

Picking up the cup from the fine oak table, you gazed towards the eerie galaxy before you, hundreds upon thousands of stars giving you a constant reminder of just how far from home you truly were. Taking a sip from the little porcelain cup you could not help but to hum in delight, the soft notes of the tea soothing your nerves ever so lightly as you pretended to ignore the heavy gaze which lingered at the back of your head.

Even from this distance, it was easy to tell that Sunday was eager to approach you. Still, he kept his distance and made a silent offering in the form of the very tea you drank at the moment.

Anything is better than Himeko's coffee but you were never going privy her to that.

In a not so distant past, all of this was nothing but fiction. The Express, the story, the characters - it was all nothing more but fiction, something to pass the time as your days went on and on, the same monotony repeating each and every day.

It was hard to not think about your friends and family, what sane person would not? Lord knows how they must be feeling right now, worried sick out of their minds with indescribable sorrow. In their eyes you had merely vanished, not a single trace to be found. For all they knew you could have been left for dead in a ditch somewhere, beaten, bloodied and broken, never to see the light again or if they were even more inclined to be morbid, you had succumbed to a fate worse than death. Death at the very least grants you finality, that all is over regardless of what happened moments prior.

But that was simply not the case for you.

Here you were, lounging about in a comfortable chair as you pondered on your old life while enjoying tiny little luxuries, far away where none of your loved ones could reach you. However, life was funny sometimes because it had some fun games in store.

Sunday was very kind upon arrival. He made sure to always be there for you, always checking up on you, always there to keep you company. You were already smitten with him but now to actually witness him in the flesh was just... Indescribable. You got along like a house on fire, so much so that the crew liked to tease that you ought to just get a room. Sunday, ever the gentleman, would just brush their words aside and assure you to not take their playful little jabs to heart.

You wouldn't say anything, resorting to merely giving him a smile but not because of what he said but rather of what he did not - never once did he actually shut down those perverse accusations. Never, not even once did he deny them.

He became an emotional crutch, someone to whom you would come running to when things got tough and he would always welcome you with open arms. Sunday would hold you tenderly, his serene voice dripping with honey along with a tender drop of ecstasy, for his excitement with holding you would just show itself sometimes. His grip would be too tight at certain moments, never quite ready to let you leave. His hugs were warm and comforting, he always smelled so good too. He smelled like kindness and sweet wildflowers, always lulling you back to him no matter the time. In dark corners and perhaps even under the watchful eyes of the crew, Sunday would wrap his scarf around your head, securing the soft fabric in order to provide you with a sense of comfort.

It was humiliating just how much you would try to inhale his scent as much as possible. You wanted it etched deep inside your memory, you wished for it to linger on your very soul and for it to follow you everywhere you went, sticking to your being like tar. The fabric of the scarf would muffle your ears a little but someone was always chatting in the background. Be it March bickering with Dan Heng, Mr Yang scolding someone for doing something they were not supposed to, or just Conductor Pom Pom trying to give a speech, all of it was irrelevant.

You were ready to kill whoever would try to pry you away from sweet Sunday. That thought came often which had left you worried - just what kind of person had you become? Regardless, you kept your mouth shut and had no plans of sharing such violent sentiments with anyone, particularly not to the one you held so dear.

When it was time to part for the evening you would bid the crew farewell and wished them a good night. You always made sure to take a few extra seconds with Sunday, just to ease your aching soul. He would tell you to sleep well and would see you in the morning, ready to take on any endeavor that crossed your paths.

As everyone parted ways, Sunday would wander off somewhere dark and distant, somewhere no one could see nor hear him. He would fall to his knees and clutch his chest in agony, fat tears streaming down his face as he did everything he possibly could to steady his raging heart. In a rush he would reach for the scarf which clung around his neck, his grip tighter than iron as he would bring it close to his nose. Taking a large, deep breath, Sunday was greeted by your familiar scent which would promptly calm his poor heart.

He sometimes wondered if his heart would start bleeding from the pain due to the sheer intensity of his emotions.

This was wrong, everything about this was not right and it hurt. Sunday was obviously ill but he had no clue on how to fight this... This emotion, this white hot feeling of need whenever you stood by his side. He started to choke on the air around him and fell into an abrupt coughing fit but even then, he could bring himself to remove the scarf from the lower part of his face.

Sunday wept and sobbed, filthy snot coming out from his nose but he could not handle that now. He needed you, Oh Heavenly Aeons, how he needed you. However was he going to tell you how he felt? How, oh how was he going to express the sheer magnitude of his true thoughts? He would scare you off, he was sure of it.

Even with this pain, even with these clipped wings and bleeding heart, Sunday had never felt so alive, so harrowingly present in the moment whenever he was with you.

Perhaps, he was doing himself a kindness by just letting you be. Drink your tea, be at peace.

He can always just make you another cup if you so desired.

Without knowing, you both haunted each other in the most agonizing way known to mankind and neither was strong enough to face the reality of the situation.

[asahicore]

fast forward - pjs

pairing. jay x fem!reader

synopsis. After yet another romantic disappointment in the form of one Jake Sim, you go to the well you’ve always believed to grant wishes and ask for your one and true love to appear. That night, you go to sleep in your bed but wake up in a strange house. When you head downstairs, you find a man washing the dishes and telling you your favorite meal is waiting on the table for you. You’ve spent hours glaring at the back of that head, you could recognize it anywhere—it belongs to none other than Park Jongseong, your high school sworn enemy... and future husband, or so it seems.

genre+warnings. high school au, the type of e2l where they never really hated each other to begin with, they act like they're academic rivals even though they're not particularly academically gifted, jay has a thing about german the language, sunoo and kazuha besties, heeseung is a loser, jake and sunghoon are assholes sorry, ive liz is german, 02z get into a white-boy locker-room fight, attempts at banter etc, they're a little bit silly

word count. 26.6k

a/n. had the idea for this listening to fast forward by somi LAST SUMMER... and only wrote it this summer and only posting it now <3 i hope u guys enjoy reading this as much as i enjoyed writing it !!!!! jay is an absolute cutie here pls love him as much as i do.... as always let me know what u think and remember to vote for @zreamy president in the upcoming elections, shes the only one i trust to beta-read and hence to run a country <3 no it doesnt matter that shes scottish put this woman in the white house

There is only one thorn on the otherwise immaculate rose that is your life.

Every morning, you wake up feeling refreshed from eight hours of restful sleep. You go downstairs to the kitchen, a boiling cup of milky Earl Grey tea already waiting for you, and eat breakfast with your brother Jinwoo and father. Your mom dashes in, placing a kiss on your and Jinwoo’s foreheads, and on your dad’s lips, saying she’s late for work but will see you in the evening. “Have fun at school,” she bids every morning without fail. Your dad teaches Korean Literature at your school, so the three of you drive there together. He watches amusedly as you and Jinwoo bicker light-heartedly on the way there—even in the pits of his puberty, you and your brother get along like two peas in a pod. He still tells you about everything he learns at school and fills you in on the drama in his class, up-to-date with everything even though he pretends not to be interested.

You’re always one of the first to arrive at school, so you scroll through your feed or finish up some homework as you wait for your classmates to file in. Your friends circle your table and you chat about the last episode of the show you’ve been watching until the bell rings and they leave you for their assigned seat.

Class starts with your teacher handing out the math tests you took last week. “Jay and Y/N, great job, keep it up,” he says as he walks past you and the boy in front of you, and hands you your paper. Relief floods your body as you take in the bright red 82 in the top right-hand corner—not the best of the class, but enough for you to be satisfied. 

Good friends, good grades—nothing extraordinary, but it’s a life you dare say any high school senior would want.

There’s just that one thing. The thorn in your side that won’t stop poking.

You glare at it as it whips around in its seat and takes a peek at the grade on your paper before you get to snatch it away from view. It only gives you three seconds to rejoice over your grade. 

“Aw, Y/N. Good effort! Maybe you’ll do better next time!” Jongseong coos, holding up his test for you to see and glare even harder at. 85. Not that big of a difference, but it makes you want to punch the faux sympathetic pout off of his face. 

You’re about to spit something just as petty back at him, but someone whispers your name, and you turn your head in their direction. Beside you, Jake is smiling at you as he asks what grade you got. Your attention is swiftly taken off of Jongseong, whom you don’t even notice dramatically rolling his eyes, huffing in annoyance, and turning around. 

“82,” you whisper back, holding up your paper for Jake to see. His friendly, absurdly handsome smile makes your ears burn. “You?”

The corners of his lips fall down into a sad pout—the kind that makes your heart melt rather than gets on your nerves like someone else. “68,” he says. Leans in over the gap between your tables. Your heart jumps uncontrollably around your rib cage. “Do you wanna go over it together during the break? I think I need some help.”

One-on-one time with Jake Sim? You don’t need to be asked twice. You nod silently, almost mesmerized by Jake as his grin widens. He leans back in his chair. “Perfect. I’ll see you in the library, then.”

“Library, yeah,” you echo dumbly, but thankfully, your teacher tells you to all quiet down and starts the lesson. 

You’re antsy all throughout the rest of your morning classes and lunch break, so nervous that you barely manage to finish your yogurt. Of course, your friends, Sunoo and Kazuha, have a field day with this, and even you can’t help but laugh along as they jump between reassuring you that it’ll be fine, slapping your shoulders with excitement and making fun of your uncharacteristic quietness.

Jake arrives at the library five minutes after you, looking around the room before he finds you at the big round table in the back of the library. Your brain is too riddled with anxiety for you to make more small talk than “Hey,” “Hey,” “How was your lunch?” “Good, yours?” “Good.” And so you just jump straight into it.

You’ve only had a couple minutes of quiet explanation on your part and heavy nodding on Jake’s when Jay appears at the entrance of the library. He spots you and Jake immediately, and without any hesitation whatsoever heads towards you and sits down at your table, right across from the two of you.

“Hey, Jay,” Jake greets in a friendly manner, but Jay only responds with a nod of his head.

“Oh, don’t mind me,” he says when he notices you glaring. “I won’t bother you.”

As if he could be anything other than a bother, you think, but courteously keep to yourself. The childish rivalry you and Jongseong have got going on has no business spoiling a rare hour of alone time you get with Jake. As you go over the exercises he had the most trouble with on the test with you, your eyes often drift over to Jongseong as if to check on him—you’re cautious like he’s a spider in the corner of the room that might spring on you at any moment.

And indeed, the moment your gaze leaves him for more than a minute as you explain an intricate theorem to Jake, he’s out of sight, and panic shoots through you. Where the hell has he suddenly gone off to? you wonder, but not for long.

“There’s a much easier way to do this, really,” says a voice from behind you, and of course, it’s none other than Jongseong himself, quite literally butting his way into your tutoring session. Right between you and Jake, he bends over and rests his elbows on the table, taking Jake’s pencil from him and describing the theorem in a way that isn’t that much simpler. Your eyes shoot bullets into the side of his face while he, unbothered, explains this and that to Jake, who glances at you a couple of times but otherwise does not seem so perturbed by the sudden change of tutor. Either Jongseong doesn’t notice your glare or doesn’t care, because he doesn’t budge.

Just when they’re done with the exercise and you think you’ll get Jake to yourself again, another voice appears from behind, a much higher, girlier one. You notice the hand on Jake’s shoulder first, until slowly, your eyes drift to the face—you recognize Yunjin, head of the cheerleading squad, and she’s smiling at you, a smile that at once tries to cover and betrays her surprise at seeing you and Jake together. She doesn’t acknowledge you any more than that, gaze going back to “Jakey,” asking him if he wants to head to class together. You check the time—five minutes before the first bell rings. What do they need so much time getting to class for? It’s not like any room in this school is more than a three-minute walk away.

But Jake doesn’t even look back at you, just says “Sure!” with far too much enthusiasm for your taste as he packs his stuff. “Thanks, you two,” he says, looking at Jay first, then at you. You think his eyes linger on you for a second, but just like that, he’s gone, him and Yunjin walking side-by-side.

You watch them leave—they look good together, the cheerleading captain and the soccer team’s star. The white Vans she’s wearing have a bunch of red love hearts on them that look drawn on, and you think, Of course, Jake is the type to date someone cute, someone fun, someone who would draw on their shoes. Not someone like you, whose idea of a good Friday night is lighting up a scented candle and reading your favorite novel for the nth time. When they’ve left the library, you slump in your seat, crumpling the sheet of paper you had drawn a bunch of graphs and formulae on to make things clearer for Jake. Jay awkwardly clears his throat and finally returns to his seat, looking at you with his lips pressed in a tight line.

“Y/N?” he asks tentatively, and the sound is too much to bear, so you pack your things and head to your next class early, too. Your mind is racing with a million thoughts a minute—who is that girl to Jake, how come you’ve never seen them together before, how come he was so eager to leave with her, what was that smile she gave you about? In the fifty-five minutes of your biology class, which you uncharacteristically don’t pay any attention to, you’ve convinced yourself that they are crazy in love and that none of Jake’s actions or words towards you had ever meant anything, that you’d liked him so much you’d dreamt up the possibility of his liking you back, too.

Your next lesson starts—the smile Jake gives you as he walks into History is so bright, it dissipates any clouds hanging over your head. You do believe in male-female friendships, but despite yourself, you can’t help but think that anyone in a relationship wouldn’t give someone else such a perfect, warm smile. It just wouldn’t be right. And so, you reason with yourself that simply walking to a class together didn’t mean two people were a couple.

For an hour, you stare at the back of Jake’s head, and although you do eventually come to the more sensible conclusion that a smile may just be a smile, you also think it's unlikely that he and Yunjin would be a thing. If they were, why would they hide it? Jake is so nice, you wouldn’t be surprised if he’d exaggerated his enthusiasm upon seeing her. You’re sure you still have your chances. He even says see you tomorrow when class is over and slips out of the room to go to soccer practice. 

You feel like you’re walking on cloud 9 as you head from History to your next class—but when you remember that the next class is German, your mood drops significantly. Because the universe has it out for you, you and Jay are two of just ten students in your year taking German as your second foreign language option, everyone else having gone for either French, Japanese or Spanish. Your reasoning for it is that your dad has had an obsession with Germany since his year abroad in Bavaria, and twelve-year-old you had wanted to make him happy. Eighteen-year-old you regrets it slightly, but at least now your dad is ecstatic every time you tell him in German that the dinner he made was really tasty. Why Jongseong decided to take it beats you—he’s probably just insane.

But because you don’t really know anyone else in the class, and because it’s your last period of the day, you have no friends to run off with once the lesson is over, and he gets to bother you all the way from the classroom door to the staff parking lot. 

You’ve barely finished bidding Auf Wiedersehen to your teacher and Jongseong is already harassing you. “So, I didn’t take you as the type to be into guys like Jake Sim.” He says Jake’s name with such disdain, like he thinks he’s so much better than him, or like he hates him. It confuses you just as much as it annoys you; Jongseong didn’t seem to have a problem with Jake earlier at the library.

“And that’s your business, because…?”

You don’t look at Jongseong, who’s quickened his pace to keep up with yours, but you can feel the smirk on his face. It’s insufferable. “Oh, it’s none of my business. I’m just surprised, is all. You guys are so… I don’t know, different.”

You scoff. “If you think I’m not good enough for someone like Jake, I’d rather you tell me straight up, Jongseong. Or actually,” you say, looking up at him with a dry smile. “Keep it to yourself and leave me alone.”

He looks offended by your words, and it only adds to your already immense annoyance—he’s the one who just insulted you, so why is he looking at you with those stupid furrowed eyebrows?

“I never said that.”

“You didn’t need to.”

“No, Y/N.” He grabs your wrist and makes you face him, your stomach flipping in surprise that you quickly cover up. When he releases you, you cross your arms over your chest and wait for him to speak, keeping your eyes trained on a spot behind him. “I don’t think he’s too good for you.” 

This makes you look at him. You have to admit, your curiosity is piqued. Not like Jongseong to say anything even vaguely in your favor. “He’s just…” He sighs, searches for the right word. “Well, he’s just a bit of a dick, isn’t he?”

You freeze for a second. You’re so taken aback, your scoff comes out more as a laugh—Park Jongseong, king supreme of all dicks at this school, just called Jake Sim a dick?

“I’m sorry?”

He sighs again, as though you’re the unreasonable one. “He’s so… smug. A wannabe class clown and thinks he’s the shit because he’s on the soccer team. Have you seen the way he swaggers around school?”

You look at him with fake sympathy. “Jong, are you jealous?”

“Pfft. No way. I just think it’s a shame you keep going after these dudes who are not even worth your time, or whatever, so yeah…” he says, voice trailing off and looking down at his feet as he speaks. Hands in pockets and blank expression on his face, you can tell he’s trying to look cool, but the way he’s avoiding your gaze is a dead give-away. Even his ears have turned red. Jongseong is having one of those shy moments he has when he’s trying to be nice to you. Clearly, a simple act of kindness towards you is so hard for him that it radically changes the way he behaves. 

Like when you were fifteen and you just couldn’t get this stupid art project right, so he stayed behind for three hours after school with you, helping you draw and paint and cut and glue. 

Like when you were sixteen and your grandma just passed away, making you miss a week of school, and without a word, barely looking at you, he gave you a stack of handwritten notes of all the lessons you missed. To this day, you’re not sure how he did it—you weren’t in the same class that year.

Like when you were seventeen and Park Sunghoon rejected you in the middle of a crowded hallway. You’d run off to the girls’ bathroom to cry it out, but Jongseong quickly found you and spent the entire period cursing Sunghoon out instead of being in English, like you were both meant to be. He was uncharacteristically nice to you for a few days after that, never starting an argument for no reason or interrupting you when you spoke. When you snapped at him, telling him it only made you feel worse that he treated you differently, he smiled and told you how stupid you looked when you cried. It made you laugh more than it should’ve.

Like now, when he suddenly decides that Jake Sim is also a wrong choice for you. “Him and Sunghoon are good friends, you know that?” he says. “Birds of a feather, and all…”

So you know that Jongseong is not all bad. He has his redeeming qualities. He can even be nice sometimes, when he so wishes. But those moments are so few and far between that when he returns to his usual insufferable self, you wonder if you’d dreamt it all up. Which is why you can’t quite take him seriously right now. You roll your eyes and resume walking towards the parking lot, but of course, he continues to follow you. “Why do you even care who I go after?”

“I don’t-”

“You clearly do, otherwise you wouldn’t be bothering me like this.”

“Well, if all your attention is taken up by that douche, who am I going to go up against?”

“That’s what you’re worried about? That I stop arguing with you?” you say, disbelief clear in your voice.

“I’m offended, Y/N,” he starts, his sarcastic tone making you roll your eyes again. “That our little rivalry matters so little to you.”

“We’re not even the top students of our class, for God’s sake, we’re not fighting over anything.”

“I’ve actually got the best grades in German, thanks very much.”

“Whatever. I wouldn’t call it a rivalry so much as a mutual dislike of each other, because one of us woke up one day and decided to start going against everything the other said.”

“At least you’re self-aware.”

The exit to the parking lot now appears to you like the gates of heaven. You don’t even bother replying to him, thinking that he’ll just leave you alone now that you’re here. But as you step outside, he places himself in front of you and blocks your path, arms splayed out, eyes wide like he’s just seen a ghost.

“What are you-”

“Have you done the German homework for tomorrow?”

The sudden change of subject gives you whiplash. “What? No, Miss Schumacher assigned it just now-”

“Well, given your tendency for getting the word order all wrong, I can already tell you you’re not gonna have fun with it-”

You pinch the nose of your bridge, trying to calm yourself down before you lose what’s remaining of your mind. “Jongseong, were you actually dropped on the head as a baby? Go away. My dad’s gonna be here any second.” You try to walk around him, but he steps in front of you again. You peer up at him, undisguised annoyance in your eyes. Where are your dad and brother when you need them?

“I’m just saying, you’ll probably need help with it-”

“I won’t. And if I do, I’ll just use Google. Now get out of my way,” you say, and manage to duck under one of his arms.

Then you see it.

Well, actually, it takes you a second to understand what it is you’re seeing. At first, you think it’s one of those horny couples thinking they’re being really discreet by going to the staff parking lot to make out, when in reality they could be caught by any one at any time. They’re just far enough that when you do a double take, you realize that you do know the back of that head; that fluffy mop of brown hair. You sit behind it every History period, next to it every Maths and English period.

The girl is up against the wall, and you can’t really see her, what with her and Jake’s tongues being down each other’s throat and his body blocking her from your view, his hands on her hips, her arms around his shoulders. All the works. She’s wearing a cheerleader uniform, so she could be any of twenty girls—but you’re pretty sure only one of them wears a pair of white Vans with red love hearts on them.

Your heart sinks to your stomach.

You’re frozen in place when a whistle rings in the distance, and Jake and Yunjin separate, giggling to each other as they jog to wherever the sound came from. The sports field, probably. It’s Monday; the cheerleaders and the soccer team share the field for their practice. 

Jake spots you and Jongseong staring at them. He waves quickly, awkwardly at you, still smiling even when surprise coats his features. Yunjin tugs on his hand and just like that, they’re gone. 

“Y/N-” 

Jay’s voice fades in the background. You want to get away from this situation as quickly as possible—it’s embarrassing enough seeing the guy you like and thought you had a chance with kissing a girl that is arguably much more on his level than you are, but having Jongseong of all people not only witness it, but try to protect you from it, God knows why, makes it impossibly mortifying. You speed-walk to your dad’s car, huffing as you plop in your seat and slamming the door behind you. Your brother is already sitting in the passenger seat, and you don’t even argue with him about it. When you only give single-word replies to his questions, he shrugs and returns to playing Clash of Clans on his phone. 

The moment you get home, you fish a five cent coin from your purse, change into mud boots and grab your dog’s leash. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

After half-an-hour of trudging through leaves and soft ground, muddy from many a rainy November night, you and Pablo, your massive, fluffy airhead of a German Shepherd, find yourselves at the well in the middle of the forest. Ever since you were little, you have attributed magic powers to the well—not that anyone told you any sort of myth about it, but you remember reading a story about a magic well and decided that your well would be magical, too. You’ve never wanted to abuse its powers, so you’ve used your wishes conscientiously: things like getting a certain present at Christmas (when you were nine and the most important thing ever was getting the Monster High doll you wanted) or not stuttering during your presentation in class (when you really didn’t want to embarrass yourself in front of Park Sunghoon and his cool friends). Every wish you’ve made has come true. Whenever a faint voice of reason tells you that it’s because you always ask for very realistic things, you squash it and continue to believe in the well.

Because today, you’re not asking for something realistic. 

Today, you’re asking the well to show you the way to love.

You’ve grown up watching The Notebook and Pride & Prejudice. Your parents are high school sweethearts who are still, twenty-five years later, happily married. You devour romance novels and binge-watch Asian dramas, the more unrealistic and romantic, the better. You are convinced that soulmates exist, that love always finds a way, that it is there for anyone to see. That it can take form in a childhood friend, an archnemesis, a total stranger.  

But for some reason, it hasn’t shown itself to you yet, no matter how valiantly you’ve looked. 

You’re absolutely sick and tired of it. It is Jake kissing another girl, it’s Sunghoon leading you on for months and then rejecting you in front of everyone, it’s your ex-boyfriend-who-shall-not-be-named, your first love and first heartbreak, dumping you after a year and getting with the girl he had told you not to worry about a week later. At a party a few months later, he’d said, word for word, “At least I didn’t cheat on you.”

Coin lodged between your hands, you interlace your fingers and press your palms closely together, eyes screwed shut in desperation. “Hey,” you start simply, because you and the well are good friends. “It’s been a while since I’ve asked for anything, so I hope you can indulge me… This is gonna sound so cliché, but I’m really tired of getting fucked over by boys — excuse my French — and I just wanna meet the person who’s right for me, you know? Mom’s always reminding me that I’m only eighteen, and that I’ve got plenty of time to meet someone, but I just feel like if I don’t find someone now, I never will. And if I get fucked over again — sorry — I’ll just lose hope and write off men for the rest of my life. So help a girl out, will you? I’ll leave it to you how you wanna go about it, but… just show me that there’s someone out there. Please.”

When you open your eyes, you need a few seconds to adjust to the darkness. You toss the coin in the well. It doesn’t make a sound as it hits the bottom, as if it has been absorbed within the old brick walls. You know better than to question it—the well works in mysterious ways.

You’re quiet that entire evening, making up an excuse of a tiring day at school when your parents ask. Really, you’re just thinking about your wish, whether it’ll work, what might happen. You half-ass your homework—Jay was right, the German exercises throw you into a bout of despair, so you quickly close your textbook and bury yourself in your sheets, falling asleep hours earlier than you usually would.

--

For some reason, the first thing you notice when you wake up is that it’s still dark outside. It must be the middle of the night, you think. It takes you a few seconds to realize that you’re in a completely strange room.

Instead of your floral-patterned sheets, you find yourself covered by delicate silk sheets that your parents would never agree to buy you, no matter how adamantly you argued for the benefits of silk for your skin. If skincare experts online had convinced you of one thing, it was that silk would do wonders for your obstinate acne. You slide out of bed and find a pair of slippers on the floor, as if waiting for you. Even the pajamas you’re wearing are fancier, more grown up than the ones you have at home, a set composed of a pinstriped button-up and shorts. You look around, for some reason more surprised and curious than panicked. You could’ve been kidnapped, for all you know, but all you care about right now is this room. Rather than the pink and white walls that have surrounded you since childhood, covered with pictures of you and your friends, postcards of artwork bought at museums, and posters of your favorite movies, the walls here are beige and mostly bare, except for a painting of Japanese cherry blossoms above the bed and a family portrait on the opposite wall, above a wooden chest of drawers. 

The family portrait. A woman, a man, and what you can only assume are their children. They look like twins—two girls. Can’t be older than three years old. Out of the four faces, you recognize two of them. You recognize them far too well. One of them is yours, of course. You look slightly older, by a decade, maybe? You’re glad to know that you won’t fall off after twenty-five, like much of social media has led you to believe. 

The other face you recognize immediately, too, but it takes you a few seconds to truly believe it.

It belongs to none other than Park Jongseong.

A dry chuckle falls from your throat, as if someone has just made a very insulting joke at your expense and you have to pretend you find it funny. The well has a very odd sense of humor, you think. It’s probably just a prank, a magic-induced nightmare before the real thing. Except this already feels real, disorientingly so. The fabric on your skin, the picture, the room. It all feels too real, more tangible than any dream you’ve ever had.

You take a step closer towards the picture, as if looking at it harder will make Jongseong’s face fade into that of another man, the real man that will become your husband and father of your children. But alas, his features remain the same, frozen in time by the photographer’s camera. He, too, looks older—and not only does he not fall off after twenty-five, he becomes all the more handsome for it.

Is this how you find out that Jongseong was handsome all along? You stare at it until the familiar face becomes practically unrecognizable, like repeating a word so much it stops feeling like one. The straight nose, the almond-shaped eyes that seem to have softened overtime, whereas his jaw has remained as sharp as ever. Have his eyebrows always framed his face so perfectly? Has that dimple always been there? 

You look around again, and the bright numbers on the bedside alarm clock catches your attention. They read 9:57 p.m., but it’s the date that makes your stomach sink—today is still the 18th of November, but ten years later. You stare at the clock, at the unfamiliar number, a date so far into the future you can’t wrap your head around it. You could barely envision life after high school.

Downstairs, the sudden clang of pots and the sound of a tap running manage to rip your gaze away from the alarm clock. An overwhelming curiosity tells you to follow the noise. This is all a dream, so there are no consequences if you explore a bit more, right? 

You’ve never been in this house before, and you have no idea where your feet are taking you until you find yourself in the kitchen. It’s the only lit room in the house, and you’re creepily standing in the dark under a wide archway that connects the kitchen to what looks like the dining room. A man has his back to you, washing dishes and putting them out to dry on a rack next to the sink. He’s wearing a white cotton sweater, one that you feel you recognise without ever having seen before, and a brown apron is tied around his neck and waist. 

The first thing you think to yourself is Oh, his haircut hasn’t changed. In almost every class you share with him, Jongseong has made it a point to sit either next to you or right in front of you, so you’ve spent a lot of time glaring at the back of his head. You wouldn’t be surprised if he started developing two eye-shaped bald spots there. His hair is still short and spiky at the back and on the sides, longer on the top. When he lets it grow too long, it sometimes covers his eyes, and he obnoxiously keeps having to push it back like a heartthrob in an 80s movie. 

Something like a memory flashes through your mind, blurry like those images you aren’t sure came from a dream or from real life. Your surroundings are unclear, but Jay’s face is nestled against your neck, your hand in his hair. You can feel the softness of the close shave against your palm as clearly as if you were touching it right now. You ask him why he’s always kept it that way, and he replies that it’s simple to maintain. Then in classic Jay fashion, he adds, “And it makes me look awesome.”

Another memory, a clearer one, this time—this definitely happened. It’s halfway through sophomore year, a random Tuesday, and Jay walks in, holding his head high and looking smugly around himself. The bastard got a new haircut. Long gone, his messy, unorganized flop of black hair that looked like it didn’t know what it was doing; hello, sleek undercut. It accentuates all of his best features, which is terrible news for you. You had never even thought of Jongseong as someone having “best” features, but now they’re being thrown in your face. His nose. His jawline. His smile.

It ruins your day, and a few after that. You can’t quite put it into words when your friends ask what’s wrong at lunch—or rather, you don’t wanna face the humiliation of uttering something along the lines of “Park Jongseong looks good with his new haircut, and it’s bothering me.”

Here, it’s a familiar sight in an unfamiliar environment, the back of his head. Without really thinking, you take a step forward. Jongseong starts at the sound of your slippers against the marble floor tiles, but his face relaxes into a smile when he sees you.

“Oh, it’s just you, honey. I thought you were sleeping.”

Just you. As if the two of you being in the same kitchen is normal. You guess it must be, to this version of Jongseong. To him, you’re not the annoying girl he strives to best in every class—you’re honey. 

“I was,” you say, walking around the kitchen island to join him by the sink. Something in you needs to look at him, really look at him, maybe pinch yourself or pinch him to be sure you’re not going crazy. Maybe you caught wafts of some ancient algae that lives in the well and made you hallucinate?

“I left a plate out for you in case you woke up. Made your favorite. The girls weren’t so happy, seeing as it’s the third time this month,” he says with the special kind of smile reserved for parents talking about their children. The girls. A mention so casual, so obvious, your heart hurts. “But I think I got it really right this time,” he continues. “Honestly, it might even be better than the original.”

He goes back to washing the dishes and you watch the sponge in his hands as it scrubs away tomato sauce, the soap as it runs from the plates into the sink. A knot forms in your stomach, something like a deep sadness that overwhelms you all of a sudden, and tears form in your eyes, threatening to fall any second.

When you haven’t budged in almost a minute, Jongseong starts to say, in an intimate, almost worried voice, “Aren’t you going to eat, honey?” but when he sees your wet eyes, the tremble in your lower lip, he shuts the water immediately and dries his hands. With his thumbs, he wipes away the tears that have started falling from your eyes. “What’s wrong?” he whispers.

You can’t reconcile the man in front of you with the image you have of the boy that torments you in every class you share. You can’t reconcile the genuine concern in his voice with the snarky tone you’re met with every day. And yet, they respond to the same name, their features are identical, if not for the years that separate them, the stress of adulthood on one and the carefreeness of youth on the other. 

Your body reacts automatically to the soft touch—never in a million years would you let the Jongseong you know come near you like this, but here, nothing feels more natural than his hands on your face, your shoulders, your hair, as though they’re just as much his as they are yours. You realize the emotion in your stomach is not sadness—tears fall, but you’re not sad. You’ve never felt as home as you do now, and if one thing romantic novels have taught you, is that this must be love.

You look up at the man in front of you, eyebrows furrowed as you search his face for confirmation or some sort of an answer. There’s a tremble in your voice when you speak next. “I just… I think I love you, Jongseong.”

He chuckles. “Well, we established that a while ago, didn’t we? What with getting married and having kids. But I’m glad you still feel that way.”

The mention of marriage and children doesn’t faze you nearly as much as it should. You’ve only got one thing on your mind. “Do you love me too?”

You expect him to laugh—not out of cruelty, but because the answer is so obvious, it almost doesn’t deserve to be answered seriously. Like when your brother asks if he can have one more of your cookies and you tell him you’ll cut his hand off. Sometimes you think it’s easier to be sarcastic than be unabashedly nice to someone. Especially with Jongseong, whom you don’t expect kindness or patience from, you wait for him to stay something like, “No, that’s why I’ve stayed with you these eight years.” 

So when instead, he says, “More than anything on this Earth,” voice low and vulnerable, tears flow even harder. 

“Sorry, it’s probably just my period,” you say through sobs, although you have no idea where in her menstrual cycle this version of you is.

Jongseong chuckles again, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “You do get emotional around this time.” And you cry more, because you can’t believe someone other than your mother knows you so well that they know what your period symptoms are.

Rubbing soothing circles against your back and whispering soft words in your ear, he holds you for as long as you need to calm down. When you finally do, he tells you to go sit on the couch, that he’ll finish up the dishes then heat and bring your food for you. You think you’ve got your emotions under control, but the moment you bite the pasta, cooked to perfection with the most succulent tomato sauce you’ve ever had, sweet with a little kick of spice and a generous amount of parmesan cheese, tears start to fall again as if you had an endless stock of water behind your eyes.

“This is so good,” you mumble.

Jongseong smiles, his gaze full of affection miraculously directed at you as he tucks away strands of your hair so they don’t get in your eyes or in your food. “I’m glad, baby.”

You react to the nickname viscerally, words tumbling out of your mouth before you can even understand them. “You haven’t called me that in ages.” You widen your eyes at yourself, wondering how this was something you even knew. But when you look at Jongseong, all he does is smile more.

“You’re right, I haven’t. I guess I was reminded of college. You cried all the time back then. As much as it pained me, I can’t say I wasn’t happy to be the one you always came to for comfort.”

You haven’t been through college yet, so you should be unable to tell whether this truly happened or not—and yet, the memories of the body you’re in all confirm what Jongseong just said. But it feels impossible—going to university with him, letting yourself be vulnerable enough with him to not only cry in front of him but let him comfort you. Whatever could have happened in the years between the present you know and your time at university for things to change so drastically?

But before you can make sense of any of it, Jongseong speaks again. “Why? Do you like it when I call you baby?”

Your stomach flips. Heat rises to your face at his words, the tone with which he said them, the things he was alluding to—you know that having children means you’d popped your cherry at some point, that you’d had sex with Jongseong specifically, but to be confronted with the fact was something else. 

“Maybe,” you mumble, and proceed to stuff your mouth with pasta so that you can’t incriminate yourself further.

He puts on a recent movie, something you should arguably be paying attention to, since you’re literally getting a glimpse into the future of cinema—you could steal the idea, go back to your present and sell it for an outrageous price.

But Jongseong’s presence next to you makes it impossible to concentrate on anything but him. The warmth emanating from him, the scent of his perfume envelop you, give you a sense of just how real this all is—despite how comfortable being with him like this feels, you’re still not convinced you’re not just in an unsettlingly vivid dream. You take one of his hands in yours, examining each finger, turning his hand over, tracing the lines of his palm, smoothing your thumb over his nails—it’s an undeniably human hand. Warm against yours, slightly rough. He’s started using hand cream, you think, all these winters when his dry hands would crack because of the cold coming up to your mind, teenage Jongseong’s hard refusal to wear any sort of cream to protect himself. Memories bob up to the surface: fixing his cracked hands up with a plaster, your tear falling on his hand, the both of you in your school uniforms in what looks like the school infirmary; awkwardly gifting him some hand cream the Christmas of that year, not looking at him as you hand him the small package. Saying, “It’s a waste of plasters for something that could be fixed so easily.” Him treating you to warm, spicy tteokbokki because he felt bad for not having gotten you anything, even though this was the first time either of you had ever given the other one a present.

As your fingers trail up from his hand to his forearm, his shoulder, his jawline, more memories flood your mind. Clumsy first kisses; squabbles of the kind you were already used to; lazy mornings in bed; hours spent in your kitchen or his, before you shared one, cooking dinner together; the way you felt when he proposed, a feeling so intense remembering it is almost unbearable now. Your eyes and fingers examine his face in detail—even though you’ve seen him almost every day since the start of high school, this feels like the first time you really perceive him. The delicate bow of his lips, the strong nose, the softness in his eyes when he looks at you. Your heart beats uncontrollably as you hold each other’s gazes, but you feel inexplicably relaxed at the same time, two nearly opposing realities fighting each other inside of you—one in which you and Jongseong regarding each other with such affection is unthinkable, the other in which it is daily routine.

“Movie not to your taste?” he asks, voice gentle, breaking you out of your stupor.

“Hm?”

He nods towards the TV screen. “I see you’re not paying much attention.”

“No. I have… things on my mind.”

He raises an eyebrow, a smirk slowly growing on his lips. “Yeah?” You think your heart might actually flatline when he brings you in closer to his chest, and, face buried in your hair, says, “You know, I’ve been thinking that the twins might want a younger sibling to play with soon enough…”

You’re not sure whether he actually wants a third child or if this is weird dirty talk that apparently turns parents on—all you know is that this is something future you will deal with, not high school senior you. 

You whip up your head at him, eyes wide in panic that he mirrors immediately. “Or—or not. Later. Later?” You nod fervently, and the worry dissipates from his handsome features. “Okay, later,” he whispers, kissing the top of your head before returning his attention to the movie. 

A couple hours later, you’re laying in bed in the dark together—you can tell Jongseong is falling asleep by the regularity of his breathing and his stillness, but you’re wide awake. You don’t know how you’ve managed to spend all this time with him, acting like the wife he knows and loves, without imploding. But suddenly, the idea of waking up in your childhood bed, surrounded by your pink-and-white walls, going downstairs to be greeted by your brother and parents, sends a wave of panic through you. You haven’t felt this comfortable in a long time—Jongseong’s arm draped over your waist, the fact that you could reach over and feel his skin against your palm if you wanted. You don’t want to go back to a time where you hate him. In fact, you don’t know if you could hate him after this.

“Jongseong?” you say softly, the syllables unfamiliar on your tongue, even though the name rings brusquely through your head for the best part of every day.

It takes a few seconds, but he reacts eventually. “Hm? Did you just call me Jongseong?” he murmurs sleepily, as if you’d just called him Robert or Christopher and not the name his own parents gave him.

“Yeah.”

He chuckles. “Now that’s something you haven’t called me in ages. Makes me feel like you’re mad at me,” he says, turning over and burying his face in the crook of your neck. His hair tickles your skin, and one of your hands comes up reflexively to feel the softness of his close shave.

“...Jong?” you try.

“That’s a step up, but not quite what I want,” he mumbles.

You’re silent for a few moments. “Honey,” you say tentatively, voice a mere whisper.

“That’s better.” You can hear the smile in his voice.

“Will you be here in the morning?”

“Mh-hm. It’s Saturday tomorrow.”

“No,” you say, feeling out of breath. “I mean, will you be here?”

You’re aware you’re not making much sense—and yet, Jongseong needs no further explanation. “Of course, baby,” he starts, voice soothing. “I’ll be here tomorrow, and the day after that, and every day afterwards. ‘Til death do us part, remember?”

You let out a shaky breath. “Okay.”

“I love you, Y/N.”

“I love you, too,” you find yourself saying, and, more importantly, meaning. It’s the last thing either of you says before falling asleep.

--

Tears are streaming down your face when you wake up the next day. When you open your eyes, pink and white obnoxiously stare back at you. The clock reads 7:12, just three minutes before your alarm goes off, and unfortunately for high school you, the night hasn’t given in to Saturday morning—it’s Tuesday, and you have to go to school and act as if you hadn’t just had the weirdest, most realistic dream of your life. You don’t even get a weekend to shake this weird feeling in your stomach off, you’re going to have to face Park Jongseong full force. At least, this will become your friends’ favorite bit for the foreseeable future.

They’re already sitting in the classroom when you get there, animatedly chatting to each other. You plop down in your seat in front of them, and when they see the sullen look on your face, ask you what’s wrong.

“Did you wake up during the night to play Hay Day again?” Kazuha asks, eyebrows knotted with genuine worry.

“I’m not that person anymore,” you reply. “No, I just had a really weird dream. More like a nightmare, really. It feels like I didn’t get any sleep.”

“What was it about?” Sunoo asks.

Your eyes dart back-and-forth between the two of them as you brace yourself for their reactions. Not wanting anyone else to overhear, you lean in conspiratorially. They mirror you. “I was married to Park Jongseong,” you whisper. As expected, they burst into laughter immediately, and you lean back in your seat, crossing your arms in annoyance. “It’s not funny.”

“It’s very funny,” Kazuha retorts. “It’s ironic, even, considering how much you hate the guy.”

“Exactly!”

“But I guess even you know how ridiculous it is that you hate him, if your brain is able to imagine yourself being married to him,” Sunoo adds, shrugging. “It’s a good reminder that you’re literally the only person in this school with a vendetta against him.”

Kazuha nods energetically. “He picked up a pen for me, once. He’s a nice guy.”

You look around the room in panic. “Keep it down, will you?” you hush, despite the fact that no one is paying any attention to the three of you. You sigh, resolving yourself to telling them the entire truth. “But guys, I’m scared. I think this might be a sign.”

Their eyebrows perk up. “A sign that your hatred of him has actually been disguising a crush this entire time?” Sunoo asks, feigning innocence.

“No—what? Where did you get that idea?”

“Nowhere. Go on.”

“Whatever. Come here,” you say, gesturing for them to huddle again. “It’s the well.”

“Oh my God, Y/N, you’ve actually lost it,” Kazuha says, fascinated by your stupidity.

“I’m not going to tolerate any well slander, this is serious. I just wanted it to reassure me that there was someone out there for me. And then I had that stupid dream.”

Kazuha and Sunoo exchange a look like they’re parents trying to announce to their daughter that she’s adopted. “Y/N…” Sunoo starts.

“This is crazy. Like, love philters and writing Park Sunghoon’s name a hundred times are one thing, this is…”

“Crazy,” Sunoo said, nodding along. “This is crazy. There’s no other word for it. Your eighteen years of boyfriendlessness have finally caught up to you.”

“You guys don’t get it. What about that time I asked it to give me a good grade on our Literature exam and I literally came first out of our class? Or when I told it I missed Jung Hae-in and his military discharge announcement came the next day?” you say, aware that the look in your eyes is only confirming their suspicions—but you need someone to believe you, or at the very least understand you.

“One, you’re a good student. Two, that was pure coincidence,” Sunoo explains.

“But girl, if you want to marry Jay, that’s fine. You’ve got our blessing,” Kazuha says, shrugging.

“Yeah. He picked up her pen, once,” Sunoo adds.

“And you know, you guys clearly have some sort of chemistry.”

You scoff. “If you think that him refuting my every word and finding every opportunity to make fun of me, then yeah, I guess you could say we have chemistry.”

“You guys have banter,” Kazuha says as if it’s obvious.

“Oh, please. Banter is cute. I want to kill him every time he opens his mouth.”

Your friends both roll their eyes. “While I understand that most men are better off staying quiet—no offense, Sunoo—”

“None taken.”

“You have to admit Jay is not nearly as insufferable as you make him out to be,” Kazuha says.

“Are you kidding me? He’s always acting like a child. Rubbing it in my face when he gets a better grade, trying to start arguments for no reason, sucking up to teachers, stealing my erasers, for God’s sake, you’d think he’s twelve. I know that I’m not on the majority's side, but I seriously cannot understand how other people tolerate him at all.”

Sunoo sighs. “Because he’s nice to everyone. He never hesitates to help people, he’s even funny, sometimes, and—well, look at him.” He nods his head towards the door, and when you turn around, Jongseong is indeed walking in the classroom. “He’s not a bad-looking boy.”

“Gosh, Sunoo, maybe you should marry him,” Kazuha says, but since you laid your eyes on Jongseong, you’ve stopped listening.

You feel weird. You look at him, and you feel weird. It’s the same feeling you had during your sleep last night, a feeling that paralyzes you from head to toe, that starts in your stomach and spreads to your entire body, weighs you down in your chair. 

“Hey, guys,” he greets simply, and his voice wraps itself around your heart and squeezes. You can’t do anything but watch him as he takes his seat next to you, plopping his bag on the table and taking his notebook out. He looks at you, watches you watching him, then swivels around in his chair.

“What’s wrong with her?” he asks your friends.

“She had a dream that she m—”

“Do not finish that sentence, Zuha, if you want to live to see another day.”

“Yes, ma’am,” she replies, a satisfied little smile on her lips.

Despite yourself, you’re still staring at Jongseong, trying to figure out what the hell these emotions are that are raging up a storm inside of you. Instead of ignoring you, he turns to face you, resting his elbow on the table and his chin in his palm as he stares back at you, smirking. “What’s up, Y/N? Has it finally dawned on you how devastatingly handsome I am?” he asks, and you frown, because he’s not so far off from the truth.

“Please, kids, it’s 9 a.m., don’t flirt right in front of us,” Sunoo says, despair in his voice.

“She’s the one who started it,” Jongseong replies, still looking at you, his smirk growing.

For some reason, this startles you out of your trance, and you look away from him like you’ve been burned, preoccupying yourself instead with your notes for this class. “In your dreams, Jongseong,” you mumble.

“More like in yours,” Kazuha says, her and Sunoo giggling.

“Zuha!” you exclaim. Jongseong looks at you with raised eyebrows, and with his infuriating capacity to put two and two together, you’re scared he’s figured out what she meant, but you’re literally saved by your teacher who walks in at that moment and starts the class. 

The second the bell rings to signify the end of the class, you hurriedly pack your things and mutter an excuse about needing the bathroom, trying to get as far away as possible from the boy whose all-too familiar scent had messed with your thoughts all class, whose every brush of his arm against yours had made your heart race uncontrollably.

--

It hadn’t just been a dream. It couldn’t have been.

Just like there was no doubt the 28-year-old Jongseong from last night had once been the annoying boy you knew, the 18-year-old Jongseong was sure to one day become the husband of your dreams. A devoted partner and father, his presence comforting, his good looks indeed devastating, unwavering.

There was no mistake to be made. The well had worked its magic.

Whether you liked it or not, you would end up marrying Park Jongseong. You, of all people; him, of all people.

Was there already something of your future husband in the boy that snickered when you mixed up your genders in German class, or would he one day spring out of nowhere? Apparently, you’d be around to find out.

But for now, how to act around him? It felt unfair that you were privy to this knowledge of your shared future while he was ignorant of it. Blissfully, perhaps. You couldn’t imagine that he would rejoice much at this news.

Your mind is somewhere else the entire day. At lunch, your other friends try to get the thing that’s obviously bothering you out of you, but Kazuha and Sunoo are there to tell them not to bother. You’d needed to tell someone about it, but you don’t want the entire school to know about your marital premonitions. The two knuckleheads you call your best friends are already doing a good enough job teasing you about it—”There’s your husband, Y/N,” when Jongseong walks past; “So have you thought of baby names? Kayleigh and Mackayleigh, perhaps?” unsolicited, during Physics. You turn around to check on the culprit — because yes, Jongseong is the culprit here, you, a mere a victim — and when he notices you staring, nods at you as if to say, What’s your problem?, trying to look threatening in his white lab coat that’s three sizes too big and protective goggles.

It doesn’t help that Jongseong has a way of hovering around you. Even in classes in which your teachers assigned the seats for you, he’s never far from your seat. The two of you sit next to each other in German, your last class every Monday, Tuesday and Thursday. But today, the seat next to you is empty—what would’ve been a cause for celebration just yesterday is now a source of worry. You’d seen him just two hours ago in your previous class together, so where the hell was he now? He’s lucky that your teacher is an old German lady who always spends the first ten minutes of the lesson rambling about something in dialectal German no one understands but nods along to anyway. When he walks into the room, five minutes late, she just says, “Hallo, Jay,” and continues with her story. It’s about her first school trip to Berlin when she was fifteen and the country was still divided. You think.

He winks at you when he takes his seat and you roll your eyes. You pretend to listen to your teacher for thirty seconds, then hit him gently with your elbow. “Where were you?” you ask without looking at him.

He doesn’t answer immediately, probably surprised you initiated a non-hostile conversation with him for once. “I was just hanging out with my friends, something you clearly wouldn’t understand.”

And your friends wondered why you hated him?

“Still having imaginary friends at eighteen is really concerning, Jongseong. You should see someone about it.”

When you glance at him, he’s already looking right at you, smiling. You’ve never felt so conscious of your side profile. 

“Why? Were you worried?” he whispers, kicking your foot with his.

You look at him, horrified—where the hell had he gotten that idea? How was he so spot-on? You scoff, trying to diffuse the tension inside yourself. “No.”

He kicks your foot again. “I was five minutes late and you started to worry?”

“No. Stop.”

“I didn’t know you cared about me so much, Y/N.”

This time, you give him a harsh look, one that lets him know you really mean your words—“Stop it.” Finally, he relents, getting the assigned homework out now that the teacher has actually started the lesson. Your face softens—he looks hurt. Guilt tugs at your heartstrings.

Despite what you might say, you like the way things are with Jongseong. If some people always need to be crushing on someone, you always need to have someone you perceive as an enemy—it was Na Jaemin in elementary school, because he’d once made fun of your incapability to climb the monkey bars; Shin Ryujin, in middle school, for kissing your crush during a game of spin-the-bottle at your own birthday party; Park Jongseong, since freshman year, for simply existing. Your reasons for disliking him are trivial, you’ll admit. You weren’t sure you could even place a finger on what had first triggered your disdain towards him—one too many awful jokes, one too many times raising his hand in class and rattling off a perfect answer, then looking around himself proudly, one too many roars of laughter heard throughout the entire cafeteria. The fact that no one else seemed to be bothered by him only added to your aggravation. He just got on your nerves, and it seemed that you openly showing your dislike of him — him, who was so used to being loved by everyone around him, pampered by his family, praised by his teachers, popular among his peers — was enough to make him dislike you, too. So, after a few failed attempts at trying to be your friend, because Jongseong was unable to not be friends with everyone he met, he didn’t simply give up. 

If he couldn’t be your friend, then fine, he’d be your enemy.

At least, that’s how it appears to you, still now. It’s never gone dangerously far, but if there’s an opening to tease you or get on your nerves, he’ll do it. Not passing you the ball during soccer, or conversely, only aiming for you during dodgeball, not sharing his textbook with you when you forgot it unless you beg, loudly clearing his throat when you speak in class. And, lately, pouring salt on your wounds in the form of reminding you how impossible you and Jake Sim are. His motto must be if there’s a will, there’s a way. And when it comes to making your life hell, his will is infinite.

Everything is upside-down now. The question of how your relationship can possibly go from this to that obsesses you. It feels like you’re more capable of sharing a funeral, dying at each others’ hands, than a wedding. 

“Jong, your textbook.”

He squints at you. “Funny how I’m Jongseong when you hate me, Jong when you need a textbook,” he says, sliding his book closer to himself.

“It’s not my fault your name is a mouthful,” you retort, trying to pull it back to the middle of the table, but he’s quicker than you.

“Then maybe you should call me Jay, like everyone else on Earth.”

“Where’s the fun in that? Now give it here. Please?” you ask, mustering your best smile. Any other teacher would’ve scolded the two of you by now, but Ms. Schumacher is peacefully going on about the importance of word order and punctuation in the German sentence, oblivious to her two students bickering in the back row. Jongseong usually never sits at the back of the classroom—only here.

He gives in, smiling back, but there’s something behind it, something that tells you nothing good is brewing in his brain. “Only because you’re so pretty.”

Normally, this kind of remark would’ve warranted a slap on the arm or an array of insults, but if today is anything, it is not normal. You look at him like you’ve been stung, visions of your not-dream coming to you in flashes like you’re the titular character on That’s So Raven—the affection in your husband’s eyes, the kindness in his words, the sincerity in his smile. Again, you’re left to wonder if this man is already taking root inside of the boy next to you, if Jongseong’s future capacity to love you presently exists in his heart.

Does your future capacity to love him already exist in your heart?

You watch as his smirk softens into a grin, your flusteredness and lack of a response clearly amusing him, then as he circles the exercises Ms. Schumacher is assigning for the lesson. She seems to have forgotten there was homework due—Jongseong will be sure to remind her of it quickly.

He kicks your foot again, tells you to focus. His ears have turned red.

You wonder if those capacities haven’t existed from the start.

--

As much as you love a good friends-to-lovers story, characters hiding their feelings out of fear of ruining the friendship have never failed to frustrate you — just tell her, you dummy, it’s obvious she likes you too — and yet, you’ve never related more than now.

Whatever it is that you and Jongseong have, you don’t want to lose it. It adds entertainment to your otherwise average life. 

“Good thing she didn’t pick on you while we went over the homework, ‘cause you clearly put zero effort in. And I wouldn’t have helped you, even if you’d asked, by the way.”

You hum absent-mindedly as you put your notebook and pencil holder in your bag. Are you sure that these are even your feelings in the first place? Just because the well put a silly idea in your head doesn’t mean you have to believe it like it’s scripture. If what you saw is real, then it will happen in its own time. Things don’t have to start changing right this instant.

“Gosh, Y/N, what’s up with you today? You’re so boring,” Jongseong continues, following you out of the classroom. 

“Just tired,” you reply. Wouldn’t it be unnatural if you were to radically alter the way you behave with Jongseong? Love should come about organically. Sure, his presence has always provoked some kind of reaction within you, but that’s usually been annoyance. Whether he’s stealing the fifth eraser you’ve bought that month or running on the soccer field, beads of sweat running down his temples, hair sticking out everywhere, victoriously smiling when his team scores—you’re annoyed. Whether he’s sticking up his hand higher than yours or going to the school dance with Ahn Yujin—you’re annoyed. When you learned that she’d been his neighbor since infancy and that she had a boyfriend, who went to another school and only trusted Jongseong to take her to the dance, you were still annoyed—this time at yourself for feeling even the tiniest bit relieved that nothing was going on between them.

And this — his quick steps trying to keep up with yours, his dumb story about yogurt coming out of Heeseung’s nose today at lunch when they were laughing too hard — yes, you’re still annoyed. But you realize you’re not annoyed at him.

You’re annoyed at how he makes you feel.

“Y/N?” he says, but you’re too deep in your thoughts, only vaguely registering the sound until he repeats it, louder this time, and grabs your hand, making you abruptly stop walking. “Are you sure everything’s okay?” he asks with genuine concern in his voice. “You’re barely listening to me. I mean, it’s not like you usually really do, but you’d have told me to get lost, like, five minutes ago now…”

He chuckles self-deprecatingly, but despite his words, you’re focusing on something else yet again. His hand on yours, his loose hold on your fingers. Your brain is yelling at you—hold his hand, hug him. It’s like there are still traces of the 28-year-old version of you you visited yesterday, urging you to behave like her and not 18-year-old you. 

So, the well had let you know that you need not look much further to find what you wanted. Here it is, in the form of a boy you have convinced yourself you hated, and hated you, and yet, he’s holding your hand, asking you if you’re okay, worry knotting his eyebrows together. 

Hold his hand. Hug him. Instead, you retract your hand, let it fall limply by your side. Jongseong’s eyebrows shoot up.

He’s so close, the supposed love of your life. You don’t know how to reach out to him.

For now, you smile. “Get lost, Jong.”

--

you guys how the hell do i act around jongseong now that i know our fates are romantically intertwined

kazuha i think not treating him like the number one public enemy would be a good start

you so what… be nice to him? how do i do that

sunoo oh my god y/n when she has to treat another person like a regular human being

you he’s not just another person!

sunoo okayyyyy i see you little miss repressed feelings

you i hate u

kazuha just don’t roll your eyes at everything he says anymore and don’t start arguments for no reason

you he’s the one who starts them… but okay i’ll try

--

“Let’s pair up for the reading analysis today. You can stay with your deskmate or pick a partner, I don’t mind as long as you get the work done. I’m talking about you, Chaewon and Yuri. This is English class, not a gossip session.”

The second your English teacher has finished speaking, Jongseong swivels in his chair. “Let’s partner up, Y/N?”

“What about me?” Jake asks, eyes darting back-and-forth between the two of you.

“You can partner up with Minju,” Jongseong replies, pointing to the girl he’s usually seated next to. “Look. You guys will be great together. Say hi, Minju.” Minju waves shyly at Jake, braces on display as she smiles ecstatically. It’s not everyday that she gets to talk to one of the most popular guys in school.

Jake reluctantly switches seats with him, glancing back at you and Jongseong who just grins at him, fake friendliness plastered on his lips, until he turns around again. Your new partner’s smile softens and reaches his eyes when he looks at you. “Hi.”

You have to look away—you feel your face burn under his gaze. “Hi, Jong.”

He tilts his head. “What? Do you hate me so much that you can’t even look at me now?” he asks, and you can’t tell whether he’s joking or genuine.

You frown. “I don’t hate you.”

“Oh? That’s a recent development.”

“I guess,” you mumble after a few seconds. Is it really? You suddenly can’t remember if you ever really hated him, or if you’d exaggerated your own feelings.

His smile widens. “Well, good. I mean, you were going to have to realize at some point that I really am funny, smart, endearing, handsome-”

“Back to hating.”

“Let’s start the assignment.”

You agree on reading the passage first, but you realize halfway through that not a single word has been absorbed. “Hey. Why did you switch seats with him?” you ask, whispering so as not to be overheard.

Jongseong shrugs. “I thought you wouldn’t want to work with him, considering…”

“Right.” You’re silent again, but only for a bit. “What’s it to you?” you mumble. 

He scoffs. “Sorry for trying to be considerate.”

“That’s not—”

“Let’s just focus on this.”

His sudden coldness vexes you. You know you should let it go — don’t start arguments for no reason, and all that — and you know it’s childish, but you can’t help yourself. You have certain reflexes you’re not particularly proud of when it comes to one Park Jongseong. “Let’s just focus on this,” you repeat, mocking his grumbling tone of voice and shaking your head like a puppet.

He glares at you. “Can you not act like a toddler for once?”

“Can you not be a dick for once?” you bite back.

“Y/N, Jongseong, I’m sure you’re having a fascinating conversation on the use of chiaroscuro in the text?” your teacher asks, a look of warning on his face.

“Yes, sir,” you reply, embarrassed.

“Yes, so much chiaroscuro,” Jongseong mumbles, resting his cheek on his knuckles. When the teacher has turned away, he kicks your foot. “See, you’re getting us in trouble.”

“Do you even know what chiaroscuro is?” 

He hesitates. “That’s not the problem here. You are.”

“Well, maybe if you didn’t-”

“Y/N, Jay, final warning.”

“Sorry,” you both say at the same time. With one last glare at each other, you finally get to work.

So your plan to start getting along with Jongseong isn’t in full-force yet. On the drive back home that afternoon, you reassure yourself that these things take time. When the moment is right, the two of you will grow closer.

--

But increasingly, it feels as though the right moment will never come.

Two months have passed since your visit to the well, and things between you and Jongseong have not changed. Not really, at least.

You still bicker like cat and dog — it goes without saying that you’re the cute puppy and he’s the heartless cat — and he gets as much on your nerves as ever, especially now that you know that the potential to be nice to you, to love you, even, exists somewhere inside him. Somewhere deeply hidden perhaps, but somewhere nonetheless. Of course, after telling yourself that what must come will come of its own accord, you haven’t done much to change the dynamic between the two of you. But if you used to see your retaliations against him as necessary to your survival, you now find some sort of enjoyment in them—some might call it Stockholm Syndrome, you perceive it as a step in the right direction. You’ve followed one of Kazuha’s pieces of advice: you don’t roll your eyes at him anymore, simply because you don’t feel the need to. You argue with him with a smile on your face, his attempts at insulting or annoying you have started to make you laugh.

He doesn’t say anything but seems to gladly welcome this change. If you get a lower grade than him on a test, he doesn’t try to stick the knife in further, but genuinely offers to go over it with you later. If you give in after two hours of tearing your hair out over a German exercise and text him for help, he doesn’t make fun of you. If he says something particularly arrogant or makes a really bad joke, all you need to do is give him a look, and he’ll mumble an apology. 

Could it have been like this the entire time? you wonder, watching him across the schoolyard as he and Heeseung hunt for Pokémon. Just a couple months ago, you would’ve scrunched your nose at the sight, making fun of him for his childish interests. Now, you notice the way he laughs, audible all the way to where you sit with Kazuha and Sunoo, the way he jumps excitedly and points at things only he and his friend see, and all you feel is endearment.

“Look at you, look at that,” Sunoo says as he hits you on the forehead with his metal spoon, startling you. He tuts. “You’ve got love dripping from your eyes, sweetie.”

“Sunoo, that’s disgusting.”

“Love? I know.”

“No, your spoon. Your saliva’s all over that,” you say, and all he does is eat another mouthful of his yogurt while staring wide-eyed right at you. When you look back at Jongseong, he’s high-fiving Heeseung. You wonder which creature he’s caught now. In the library yesterday, he spent thirty minutes showing you every single one he had captured so far instead of revising for the upcoming Physics test.

“Yeah, we know you’d like someone else’s saliva more,” Kazuha chimes in, and the two of them snort.

“It’s not like that,” you say, biting into an apple slice.

“Oh yeah? What’s it like, then?” Kazuha asks.

“We’re… becoming friends,” you say, but you’re not sure who you’re trying to convince more.

“Y/N, I’ve had to watch the two of you giggling to yourselves in the library one too many times to believe you’re friends. I know your homework’s not that funny,” Sunoo argues.

“Friends can giggle with each other!” you exclaim, but your friends are inflexible.

“I would tell you to get yourself together if you giggled at me like that,” he says.

“I saw you twirl your hair the other day,” Kazuha adds.

“I never—When?!”

She shrugs. “The other day.”

You deflate, crushed under your friends’ accusations. “I wouldn’t twirl my hair…” you mumble. You decide to busy yourself with your apple slices, not even bothering to find out what Kazuha and Sunoo start snickering and elbowing each other about.

“Hey,” a familiar voice greets, making you look up. Jongseong smiles at you and steals an apple slice from your tupperware as he sits down next to you, Heeseung across from him.

“Hi, Jong,” you say, sitting up straighter. You offer a piece of fruit to Heeseung but he declines, saying he doesn’t like apples without peanut butter.

In front of you, your friends exchange a look, and you’re immediately terrified of what they’ll do next. Leaning in, they place their elbows on the table, and Kazuha starts them off. “Jay, you and Y/N know each other pretty well, right?”

Jongseong glances at you, eyes wide. “Uh, sure.”

“Have you ever noticed her, say, twirling her hair?” Sunoo asks, tilting his head innocently at the poor boy by your side.

You’ve never seen him look so confused. “Um, yeah, she does that when she’s concentrating on something, sometimes…”

They lean back. “Huh,” Kazuha says, studying Jongseong’s face.

“Interesting. Very interesting,” Sunoo says, slowly nodding.

You glare at your friends. “See, that’s different,” you tell them. “I was concentrating on something, not doing… whatever you guys had in mind.”

Jongseong looks at you. “What did they have in mind?”

You answer before either of them can dig your grave any deeper. “Nothing. It’s nothing. We were just having a stupid conversation.” You muster your most convincing smile, and the subject is finally dropped.

No one says anything for a few moments, until Heeseung decides to speak up: “You should’ve seen Jay earlier, Y/N. He caught this super rare version of Pikachu earlier, it was awesome.”

“Dude…” Jongseong murmurs.

“What?” Heeseung asks, his enthusiasm quickly dissolving into confusion. Jongseong just shakes his head. Thankfully for all of you, the bell rings then, and you head to class. The three of them walk in front of you while you and Jongseong fall back a step.

“Why were you guys sitting outside? It’s freezing today,” he asks you. Walking side-by-side like this, you can’t help but notice the inches he has over you, the broadness of his shoulders in comparison to yours.

“They turned the heat way too high in the cafeteria, so we came outside for some fresh air,” you explain. He’s right, the air is chilly today—it’s a few days into December, and the temperatures have been accordingly low.

“Aren’t you cold?”

Your heart skips a beat. One of the side effects of not being at each other’s throat anymore was that you got more and more often to be privy to this side of Jongseong—attentive, considerate, kind. What you once thought were his moral attempts at not being so mean to you all the time, you found out was actually his real nature. He wasn’t a prick who was sometimes nice, he was a nice person who turned into a prick with you. Whether the fault lay on him or you was another debate.

“No, I’m alright,” you say, but your body decides to betray you and makes you sneeze three times in a row.

“Bless you,” Jongseong says, laughing. “Here.” You try to stop him, pushing his hands away, but he takes his gloves off and forces them in your palms.

“I’m going to be inside for the next four hours, Jong, I’ll be fine. Keep them.”

“No, it’s okay. Just so you can warm up quicker.”

You eventually give in, putting the gloves over your hands, laughing at the extra fabric that hangs off the tip of your fingers. But when you look at Jongseong’s now-bare hands, something catches your attention. Stopping in the hallway, you grab one of them, examining the cuts on his knuckles. “You need to wear hand cream, Jong, your hands are too chapped.”

He lets you turn his hand over, smooth over his skin, do the same thing with his other hand. “Men don’t wear hand cream,” he says, a grin on his lips.

You burst out laughing. “I think that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

“Seriously, though, I don’t like the way it feels. Too sticky.”

“You just need to get a quick-absorption one.” Then, you make the terrible mistake of looking up from his hand and meeting his eyes—you gasp silently, his gaze and soft smile transporting you right back to that night, the images of 28-year-old and 18-year-old Jongseong mixing into each other, becoming indistinct from each other. Your gaze drifts down to his lips — chapped, too, when they’re usually plumper, rosier — and his hand, still in yours, balls into a fist. The second bell rings and you both take a step back, eyes meeting again for a brief moment before looking down at the floor. With uncharacteristically shy, embarrassed words of parting, you make your separate ways to your next classes.

“That was beautiful, Y/N,” Sunoo says, waiting for you by the door, and you walk past him without so much as a glance.

“I don’t wanna talk about it.”

--

sunoo jay and y/n almost kissed earlier

kazuha WHAAAAT

you KIM SUNOO.

kazuha WHEN?????

sunoo right before class after the lunch break y/n was sooo embarrassed afterwards lol

you we did NOT almost kiss you’re talking out of your ass

kazuha i can’t believe i missed this fml

you YOU DIDNT MISS ANYTHING NOTHING HAPPENED

sunoo be serious u guys we’re standing inches apart

you were* and no we weren’t

sunoo oh stfu it was autocorrect i saw it w my own eyes y/n… you WERE literally holding his hand and staring into those beautiful eyes of his

kazuha sunoo…?

sunoo what can’t a man acknowledge another man’s objective attractiveness if i was y/n i would’ve folded the moment i saw him

you literally one of the first times he talked to me was to make fun of my handwriting

sunoo yeah he’s on his tsundere shit i fw it

you …

sunoo anyways zuha you shouldve seen it when the bell rang they practically leaped away from each other and u didnt know what to do w yourselves afterwards likeeee it was so obvi what you both were thinking of

kazuha cuuuute

you i resent these accusations.

sunoo istg if u dont kiss him next time i will

kazuha ???

you SUNOO?

sunoo WHAT

--

Something happens a few days before the start of winter break.

Ms. Schumacher is absent, gone off to Germany to visit her family there—she has enough seniority in the school that they let her abandon her responsibilities as a teacher once in a while. A week is too short a period of time for them to bother finding a substitute. It’s usually your last class of the day, but you have to wait around for your dad to be done working, so while most of your classmates have gone home early, you sit with about six other people in the unsupervised study room, absent-mindedly jotting down tid-bits of dialogue for your new story idea, too preoccupied with Jongseong’s absence to really pay attention to anything else. It’s fifteen minutes after the hour, but he’s nowhere to be found, although you know for a fact that he takes those weird Molecular Gastronomy cooking classes your Chemistry teacher offers for extra credit every Thursday after school, so he should be here. And anyways, if he’d gone home, he would’ve texted you something like, Have fun sitting around for an hour, I’m gonna go do awesome stuff with Heeseung, even if awesome stuff meant playing Mario Kart or drinking Sprite and holding a two-person burping contest.

You’re so engrossed in your own thoughts that you pay no mind to the sudden ding of a phone in the room, followed by some gasps and heated whispers. The exchanged words go through one ear and out the other—There was a fight? In the locker rooms? It must be bad if they were sent to the nurse before the principal… Huh? Over who? So he took both of them on? Damn, I didn’t know Jay got like that. He seems so well-behaved.

Your head whips up at the mention of your friend’s name. “Jay? Did something happen to him?” you ask out loud, the whispers dying down immediately as everybody stares at you. 

Gaeul, who was in your class last year, is the only one who answers you. Holding up and waving her phone, she says, “They say he got into a fight.”

Jongseong? A fight? It sounds like a practical joke. He admitted to you he once started crying watching Heeseung playing Call of Duty, it was so violent. You shake your head. “He-he did? With who?”

Gaeul and the girl next to her exchange a concerned, almost guilty look. “Jake and Sunghoon.” The crease between your eyebrows deepened. You don’t need to ask anything else before she adds, “They’re at the nurse’s station. It sounds pretty bad…”

That’s enough for you to leap out of your chair and run to the nurse’s station. It seems the news has spread impossibly quickly among your year group—even Kazuha and Sunoo are already blowing your phone, asking you if you’ve heard, if you know how Jay is. You ignore them, reminding yourself to text them back later, until one message from Sunoo in particular catches your attention: It apparently started because Sunghoon said something about you, Y/N. They’re saying Jay got angry.

The nurse is busy on the phone when you get there, her back to the entrance, so you’re able to slip in unnoticed. You head to the adjoining room where the beds are, all three of them taken—you walk by Sunghoon first, his arms crossed over his chest and pointedly not looking at you, then by Jake, who calls out your name. You glare at him and pull on the white plastic curtain that separates his bed from Jongseong’s. They’re already going to hear you, you don’t need them seeing you on top of that. 

Jongseong sits up with a grunt when you appear at the end of his bed. The sight of him makes your stomach flip, and not in a good way, for once—his left eye is swollen and circled by a deep purple bruise, shiny with ointment, there’s a cut on his cheek, his lower lip is busted, his right hand is wrapped in bandages. “Oh my God,” you whisper as you help him up, voice breaking. He stares at his hands, jaw locking when you gently place one palm on his good hand, the other on the side of his face, moving it this way and that so you can take a better look at his injuries. He winces, and you let go, resting your hand on his shoulder instead. “What the hell got into you?” you whisper vehemently, unable to decide if you’re worried or angry or both as tears form in your eyes.

He tries to shrug, but even that seems to hurt. “Don’t shrug, Jongseong, tell me what happened.”

“I’m Jongseong again now?” he says, attempting a smile, but only one corner of his lips rises.

You sigh. Even in this state, he has to be a smart-ass. “You’re Jong when I need a textbook, Jongseong when you get into stupid fights,” you reply, and he smiles wider but immediately winces, hand coming up to the cut on his lip. You notice that his hand is still riddled with cracks, and whether they’re due to their dryness or to this fight doesn’t matter—”Wait here,” you say, and go rummage through some drawers for plasters. “She forgot some spots.” You feel Jongseong’s eyes on your face as you patch him up to the best of your abilities.

“I don’t want to tell you what happened. I’ll do the job of hating these idiots for the both of us, so don’t concern yourself with them,” he says, apparently not caring that the idiots in question can hear his every word.

He keeps his promise—you never hear another word from him about the cause of the fight. 

Later, you find out through other means, namely Sunoo’s questionably remarkable ability to unearth any and all gossip, that in the locker rooms after Phys Ed, someone had started Jake on the topic of Yunjin, who had been recently revealed as his girlfriend. They’d apparently kept it secret because it was just fooling around at first, and only later had gotten serious enough for them to parade around the school as the couple. 

It had been an unremarkable conversation until Jake said, “You guys know Y/N from our class? She saw us in the staff parking lot once, and I was sure we’d be busted then. But she didn’t tell anyone.” And just like that, the conversation turned to you, someone who was usually never a topic among these boys, jocks, soccer players, “the kind of people who peak in high school and still have a superiority complex at forty,” as Sunoo describes them. 

He has a harder time explaining what happened next, can’t quite look you in the eye as he recounts what was said. “So, this is what they say, apparently someone said that you used to be obsessed with Sunghoon, then with Jake, and Sunghoon said you… Well, he said you were pathetic, that asshole, and that you had been so easy to lead on, then Jake joined in, saying the same things, basically, how funny it was seeing you so obviously in love with him when he would never give you a chance…” He looks at you worriedly, but you tell him to go on. “And so that’s when Jay got up and just straight-up punched Jake in the face. And while Jake was trying to figure out what happened, Jay punched Sunghoon, and then they both got on him, pushing him, but when he wouldn’t stop throwing punches, they started fighting, too. I think they all got some good ones in before the other boys were able to break them apart and the P.E. teacher arrived…”

But that would be later. Now, sitting with Jongseong in the nurse’s station, tears falling onto the plasters you place on his hand, nothing matters but him. You don’t need the details—he’s hurt, he got hurt over you, you feel as though every cut on his body may well have been done by your own hand. You’ve never felt so guilty for something you didn’t do. Your voice trembles when you speak; you’re unable to look at him, at his busted eye. “I just don’t want you to get hurt for me.”

Without missing a beat, he says, “What else would I get hurt for?”

You can only meet his eyes for a split second. Even like this, he manages to look at you with the same softness that has haunted you since the night you met 28-year-old Jongseong, that has rendered all thoughts of anything other than him meaningless since the day your gaze drifted down to his lips just weeks ago. “Jong…” is all you can mutter as you look down at your hands holding each others’, your lips trembling.

He raises his bandaged hand, still not used to his dominant side being ineffective for now, then lowers it when he realizes. Clumsily, he pats your hair with his left hand. “Don’t cry, please…”

Jake’s head pops out from behind the curtain. “Y/N, I’m really sorry—”

“Not right now, man,” Jay quickly interrupts. Jake pathetically disappears behind the curtain again.

“Just promise me you won’t do this again.”

“Y/N…”

“Promise me,” you say, more demanding this time, sticking out your pinky finger. Jay, hesitant, looks between your outstretched finger and your face a few times, but eventually gives in.

The nurse, upon coming to check on the boys, catches you with Jongseong and chases you out immediately. You sulk back to study hall, where everyone’s head perks up the moment you walk in. “They’re okay,” you reassure vaguely, and unenthusiastically answer their many questions. It’s only a few minutes until the bell rings, and you’re free to go then.

--

jong so… guess who got a five-day suspension

you you idiot what did your parents say?

jong they’re not happy i have to do all the household chores for a month

you boo-hoo

jong not sure why i came here thinking i’d get some comfort…

you … are you feeling better?

jong a little bit the nurse gave us some really strong painkillers but i’m okay because there’s a pretty girl that’s going to drop off the homework for me after school every day :)

you oh did you ask chaewon to do that?

jong um no i was talking about you ..if that’s okay

you haha i know i just wanted you to say it straight up

jong ykw maybe i should just ask chaewon

you i’ll see you tomorrow jong!!

jong :) see you tomorrow pretty 

 --

The months that separate your return to school and graduation come and go in the blink of an eye. Jongseong can’t come to school the last day before the holidays or the first four days after, and he’s grounded in-between. Things change bit by bit with every day you visit him—To give him the homework, you tell his parents, although there isn’t much to do when the semester isn’t in full swing, and you could’ve easily sent him pictures. The first time, you spend more time scouring the pictures and trinkets in his room than actually talking to him, and awkwardly give him a half-hug when he tells you he won’t be able to hang out at all during the break before practically running out of his house, your heart beating a thousand miles a minute from the innocent contact. By the fourth time, you lie together on his bed and talk about your plans for college, your hands sitting centimeters apart on the navy sheets. You haven’t dared touch his hand since that day in the nurse’s station.

You’re window-shopping with Kazuha when you spot the hand cream you had seen yourself gifting Jongseong in your well-given vision. Buying it is one thing, actually giving it to him is another, an awkward, stuttery situation in which the wrapping done by the store employee suddenly seems over-the-top and out-of-place. But Jongseong seems to like it—it’s the last day of his suspension, his black eye is now a yellow-ish color, he can smile without risking splitting his lip in two. He applies it immediately, tells you he’ll make sure to wear it every day until the end of winter. You find yourself wishing there was something you could give him for every season so he wouldn’t go a day without thinking of you. When you leave, he bashfully thanks you for making sure he doesn’t fall behind and says he’s excited to see you at school the next day. You hardly know what to do with yourself, so you squeak out a “me too” and slip out the door.

His first day back is a Friday. It starts with Mathematics, a class in which you sit by each other. You remember the first week of classes when Kazuha and Sunoo had ran to sit with each other, expressly because they knew that if he saw you were sitting alone, he’d take the seat next to you, just to better torment you all year. You’d resented it then; it couldn’t make you happier now. Your body is humming with nervous energy, your foot tapping relentlessly against the tiled floor. When he appears in the doorframe, you wave at him as if he’d forgotten his seat in three weeks of absence. His elbow brushes against yours as he sits down.

Between the two of you, friendship blossoms over these months. To the detriment of everyone around you, you continue to bicker as you always have, but it’s now clearly done out of habit, out of affection, even, than out of actual dislike of each other. He and Heeseung slowly integrate your small group of three, and before you know it, it feels as though there have always been five of you. Together, you welcome spring.

In January, to thank you for helping him to pick out his mom’s birthday present, Jongseong treats you to some tteokbokki, which you said you’d been craving all week. He orders the spiciest one, then has to take a sip of water between every bite. You laugh at his teary eyes and red face while you devour the bright red rice cakes easily. 

In February, he makes a show of giving you and Kazuha and Heeseung and Sunoo some homemade chocolates, saying it’s a friend thing. You find out that evening that the others each have five in their box—there are twenty in yours. It’s one of the things that makes you second guess what sort of feelings he has for you. For years, you’ve been convinced he harbored strong feelings of disdain for you; now, he seems to enjoy your friendship. You’re scared to read too much into anything, because if Jongseong is well-liked throughout school, it’s for a reason: he’s nice. To everyone. Even to you, too, nowadays. But if nice is giving five chocolates, what is giving twenty?

A sudden realization hits you in March—Jongseong appears at your door, drenched from the rain, a bag of your favorite snacks in hand. “You weren’t at school today. I had to find out you were sick from Kazuha,” he says as if she was a random classmate of yours and not your best friend, as if he should be the first to know about these kinds of things. Your mom rushes him in, finds him so charming in the five minutes they converse that she decides he should stay over for dinner, and as you watch him laughing with her, you think, I haven’t thought of 28-year-old Jongseong in ages. I’ve only thought of you. And although you can trace the start of your feelings to that dream-like experience you had, you can now say with confidence that it’s not the only reason for them.

College application results come out in April, right on his birthday. The five of you celebrate together at an American-style diner, gorging yourselves on crispy bacon and chocolate chip pancakes. Kazuha is going back to Japan, almost a decade after moving to South Korea—”I’m gonna miss you guys, but I miss takoyaki and my grandma more right now.” Heeseung has been accepted into the Engineering department at the country’s top university. You, Sunoo and Jongseong are all heading to the same place: you for Screenwriting, which you’ve known since you were one of the winners of the scholarship contest last October, Sunoo for Communications, whatever that is, and Jongseong for European History and Literature with a minor in German, that freak. It’s a good university, and it’s not far from home. The way Jongseong tells you about his acceptance sticks with you: he doesn’t say, They accepted me, too, or, I’m going to the same university as you. He says, We’ll be together.

May is filled with afternoons at the park when you should all be studying for exams. Your mom keeps asking when she’s going to see “that wonderful boy” again. Your friendship with Jongseong has given him new ways of teasing you—after four years of near-kleptomaniac tendencies, he’s finally stopped stealing your erasers and has instead started to let his gaze linger on your face, to call you pretty when you least expect it, to tuck your hair behind your ear. You hate it most when he asks you whether there’s something from your romance novels or movies that you want him to recreate. “Is there a field big enough nearby that I can walk through at the break of dawn, Mister Darcy-style?” he’ll say, or “I’ve always wanted to try that upside-down kiss from Spider-Man. It’s a classic, really.” 

Summer comes early in June. You need to bring a two-liter water bottle and a hand fan to your exams, and you’ve never felt such relief as when it was all over. After endless pictures with your parents and siblings, just your parents, just your siblings, then Kazuha and Sunoo, together, then separately, then with Heeseung and Jongseong as well, Kazuha forces you and Jongseong together, watching with a smile as he shyly wraps an arm around your waist and you awkwardly throw up a peace sign. It’s your first picture of just the two of you.

In July, you and Jongseong unlock a new first: saying goodbye. He’s leaving to stay with his American family as he does every summer. You show up at his house the day before at four p.m. “to help him pack,” you say, but it’s Jongseong, and he finished packing two days ago. So instead, you sit on his desk chair, he on his bed, and you fight back tears. “You’re coming back, right?” you ask, like he’s leaving to go to war and not Seattle. Amusement and affection flicker in his eyes. “Of course I am. I wouldn’t throw four more years of being a pain in your ass away, would I?” he says, and you smile, because you know it’s going to be much more than four years.

But he doesn’t just leave you with a few nice words. Avoiding your gaze, he hands you an envelope. Inside is a single ticket, a two-month membership for your city’s arthouse cinema that you can only go to when they have student deals or when your parents have had enough of your begging. You can’t even begin to imagine how much this must’ve cost. “Jong…” you murmur, in awe at the thin slip of paper between your hands. “This is incredible. Thank you so much.”

Jongseong looks down at his feet, fighting a smile as he kicks the invisible rocks that obviously litter the floor of his bedroom. “I thought you’d get bored without me around, so, that way you can entertain yourself, I guess… And if you run into any film bros next year, you’ll have seen as many pretentious movies as them.”

You burst into laughter then, and, without thinking, wrap your arms around his neck, thanking him over and over again. It takes him a second, but he wraps his arms around your waist and says it’s no big deal.

As you walk down the path from your house, he calls out your name. “Don’t be a stranger,” he says.

You smile. “Never.”

So, he’s not here for summer. Kazuha is working in her parents’ ramen restaurant to make some money before leaving, even Heeseung leaves two weeks into July for Seoul to visit some relatives there and get accustomed to life in the big city. You only get to laze around with Sunoo, but even he eventually leaves for his grandparents’ house by the sea, making you promise you’ll come visit him at some point, otherwise he’ll “die of boredom.” 

It’s August now, and your brain and body alike buzz with restlessness. You go to the cinema almost every day, making the best of your subscription. If you’re not going around your house looking for spider webs with your vacuum cleaner, you’re riding random bus lines and discovering parts of your town you’ve never set foot in before. If you’re not making your way through your never-ending pile of unread books, you’re creating your own stories, finally taking the time to properly outline and draft the one-line ideas you’ve had sitting in your Notes app, preparing yourself for the start of your degree. Your mind is taken up with love stories. From Romeo & Juliet to Dirty Dancing to Book Lovers, you can’t get enough of the genre. You become particularly obsessed with stories involving time travel, rewatching After Time and Lovely Runner like they contain some precious knowledge. By the end of the month, you’ve turned your life into an eight-episode TV series—a desperate girl makes a wish on a star only to discover she is fated to marry the one boy she hates most. You know you’d watch that. You send Sunoo and Kazuha the pilot, and after calling you insane numerous times but also heaping on praises, Sunoo says this: lol your going through jay withdrawals.

It shakes you so much you’re not even compelled to message back you’re*.

But he’s not wrong. The more you let yourself admit it, the more you realize how true it is: you miss Jongseong. You text once in a while, you’ve even stayed up late talking on the phone a couple of times, but you miss him, his corporeal form, having his gaze on you, having the possibility but never the courage to touch him. Every day, there’s something you want to tell him about. The cats huddling around a young neighborhood kid as he pours milk into a bowl, the clearance sale at your local library, most books for one buck only, the actor from an 90s Hong Kong film you swear has the exact same smile as him. You don’t want to bother him, so you write letters instead. Some you send, some you don’t—the ones you keep hidden in your drawer usually hint too obviously at your feelings for him. Some of them don’t just hint and contain lines of your declarations: I miss you, everything I see reminds me of you, I want to check that your bruises have healed completely even though the last trace of them faded months ago. You keep these letters a secret, even from Sunoo and Kazuha, who would never let you live down such woebegone, down bad behavior.

You do it because it feels good, getting all of your feelings out on paper. You’re a romantic at heart, so you’re prone to over-exaggeration when it comes to things like these—but everything that you write remains based in truth. You’d started with a postcard of your hometown, jokingly writing, Don’t forget where you came from. How is it over there? and he’d actually replied with a postcard of his own, filling it from top to bottom. You easily went from these small postcards to multiple pages of stream-of-consciousness-like writing. You think it’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever done—although you’re not sure he feels the same way, considering he still writes to the German pen pal Ms. Schumacher had assigned him in your first year of high school. No one else’s correspondence had lasted more than four months because she’d immediately forgotten to make sure you kept in touch regularly.

I ran into Jake Sim at the city library, you write one day. You’ve replied to everything in his latest letter, so you’re now catching him up on your recent adventures. He was checking out some books about Linguistics, of all things—he bought me bubble tea afterwards and told me that the injury he got last April was actually a relief. Did you know his father was a big name in soccer here? Apparently, he never wanted to be a soccer player that badly, and he wants to do Linguistics and Social Anthropology, who would’ve guessed it. He’s like Troy Bolton if High School Musical was about Humanities and not singing. Anyways, you probably don’t want me to go on and on about him, so I won’t, but we did talk about that fight you guys had back in December. He apologized for it, to you and me both, although he didn’t go into much detail — Sunoo is still the only one who’s had the balls to tell me exactly what happened, and he wasn’t even there! — and I was reticent at first, but he seemed genuine. He said he didn’t even hang out with Sunghoon or Yunjin or any of those people anymore, that it was only out of convenience really, and that he hopes starting university will be like turning over a new leaf. Well, he could be full of shit, who knows. As I sat there listening to him I wondered what it was I used to see in him. He’s nice enough, but we only spoke about him for the entire hour. He asked me no questions that weren’t “and you?” so it was a bit exhausting. 

But it got me thinking about your fight again. Reflecting on it now, I can say that it was a turning point for me in my perception of you.

You look at your words, smiling to yourself—this is one of the times where you find yourself erring from the topic at hand, instead indulging in sappiness and nostalgia. You write about how your opinion of Jongseong has changed over these months, how it wasn’t seeing him as your husband in all those years that had really shaken things up, but rather that day in the nurse’s station, the frightening colors around his eye, his attitude like it was natural that he would get hurt like this for you. You write, Have I been wrong about you this whole time? I thought you harbored the same negative feelings towards me as I had you since the moment you’d laid eyes on me, but all of a sudden, here you were, bloody, bandaged hand holding mine. Even with your busted eye, you looked like an angel next to all that white in the nurse’s station. I’ll never forget your words that day. Would you really not get hurt for anything else, Jong?

“I’m going to the Post Office for a package soon, Y/N. Are you done with your letter?” your mom calls from the staircase landing.

“Give me five minutes!” you call back.

You forage through your drawer for a new sheet of paper and re-write your letter, making sure to leave any compromising parts out and fold both letters into neat squares—one that will cross the seas and reach Jongseong, one that will live out its days in the darkness of your crowded drawer. You’ve run out of envelopes, so you go look for one in your parents’ office. Your mom calls out your name again, impatient to leave — if she sends her package off before twelve p.m., it will get to the receiver tomorrow, and she’s hell-bent on getting perfect five-star Vinted reviews — so you hurriedly put your letter in the envelope, close it, stamp it, and write Jongseong’s name and address on the back. The other letter you absent-mindedly throw in your drawer with the dozens of other letters in which you’d crossed the line.

--

A few weeks later, like an apparition, Jongseong stands before you again.

He’s tanner from months under the Washington sun, from afternoons spent at his family’s lake house, on their boat. His hair is slightly shorter and suits him even better; you don’t recognize any of the clothes he wears. He grumbles as his mother goes back-and-forth between hugging him, staring at him worriedly and reminding him to call at least twice a week while his father unpacks the trunk. “I’ll only be a thirty-minute train ride away, Mom,” he says. 

He’s still Jong.

You moved in yesterday, and you’re now waiting for your new roommate, who, after five minutes of deliberating whether she should bring a jacket or not and finally decided against it, changed her mind the minute she stepped outside. 

It’s been two months since you last saw him. Shortly after sending your letter, you’d gone to stay with Sunoo’s grandparents for a week, just a day before he was set to come back from Seattle. Amid packing and other preparations, you haven’t had time to see each other. Is it okay if I respond to your letter in person? I think I’ll be too busy these two coming weeks, he texted you. You replied that it wasn’t a problem, you told him which dorm you’d been assigned and found out his was the one next door.

When he notices you staring, he does a double-take. You wave at him, and even from this distance, you see the blush that creeps up his neck and takes over his face as he shyly waves back. You’ve never seen him like this—he’s always been either arrogant or friendly, never… flustered. He makes a motion as if to say, I’ll text you, and heads inside the building with his parents and all of his luggage.  

Indeed, he texts you some hours later while you’re sharing a piece of strawberry and matcha cake with your roommate Liz, whom you find out is half-German—Jongseong and your dad would probably love her for that simple fact. Some of the first things she’d asked you were what your astrological signs were and whether you wanted her to pull tarot cards for you when she was all done setting up her side of the room. Between that and her dyed blonde hair, you’d felt comfortable telling her all about Jongseong, the well and your dream. Unlike your skeptical and sarcastic friends, she’d nodded along to your every word, a serious expression on her face. “A sign from the universe,” she’d called it, and she gasped in excitement when his name appeared on your screen.

He sends you a link to a freshers’ week event, some potted plant sale happening on the main campus square, and asks if you’re free to go with him tomorrow. I need something to liven up that depressing room, he writes.

So that’s how you find yourselves among green plants of all shapes and sizes, searching for one that’s both low-maintenance and appealing to the eye. You’re glad that you have something to actually do—if you were just sitting at a café and having a conversation, you’re not sure you’d be able to stand the awkwardness. You’d chalked up his behavior on the day of his move-in to nerves, or to surprise upon seeing you so unexpectedly. But apparently, it wasn’t a one-time thing. He keeps clearing his throat as if he were sick with some cold, won’t look into your eyes for more than split seconds at a time, and in complete opposition to his usual confident, deliberate speech, talks in a quick and disorderly manner. And he’s either really caught a cold, or his ears have just permanently turned red. You ask him if something’s wrong a couple times, but he violently shakes his head, says, “No, what could be wrong?” then looks at you as if you might tell him what’s wrong.

When you’re alone again, you wonder what on earth could have happened over the summer that could make him change his behavior with you so radically. Did something happen in Seattle? Maybe he met someone there and doesn’t know how to tell you. Maybe you went overboard with your letters, he doesn’t want to be friends anymore, he wants to let you down easy but doesn’t know how to tell you. Or maybe—maybe you got impossibly pretty during those two months, and absence does make the heart grow fonder, as they say, and every thought you have about him, he has about you, but he doesn’t know how to tell you.

In any case, he’s hiding something.

The theory that he might want to stop being friends soon falls flat—the invitations to other freshers’ events keep coming, be it free wine & pizza taster sessions from the Wine Society, karaoke nights with the Taylor Swift Society or a shark movie marathon with the Bad Film Society, and he never turns you down when you tell him there’s something you want to visit in this new city of yours, even when the thing you want to visit in question is a bakery you have to queue in front of at seven a.m. if you want to get a pain au chocolat. In your defense, they turn out to be the best ones you and Jongseong have ever tried—although, to be fair, neither of you has been to France.

Things progressively return to normal. He’s able to make eye contact for more than three seconds again, he listens carefully and laughs along when you tell him about your week by the sea with Sunoo, he fills you in on what Heeseung’s been up to. One thing remains different, however—when you throw quips at him, he usually would’ve delighted in coming up with a better, wittier response, but now, he’ll roll his eyes at best, look at you amusedly and stay silent at worst. “Won’t you even entertain me?” you ask him once, to which he replies that you’re doing a good job entertaining yourself as is. 

Instead, he becomes more earnest. As per usual you badger him with questions like Aren’t I so pretty right now? or Isn’t my outfit so cute today? to get a reaction out of him, and if during your high school days he’d either fake a puking sound or look you up and down and grumble I guess, he now smiles and simply says Yes, you are, Yes, it is. It seems impossible to keep track of his attitude: one day, he’s one thing, the next, he’s another person entirely. 

It annoys you. You take his changing demeanor to mean that now that he’s a college student, he won’t indulge in your childish squabbles anymore, as though he was above all of that now, when just three months ago he was stalking your parents’ Facebooks to find unfavorable photos of you from when you were thirteen and using them as reaction pictures in your friends’ group chat. You think of your graduation day, of the box he’d given you, all done up in wrapper paper and a bow—he had filled it with every eraser he’d stolen from you over the years, he’d even gone so far as to date every single one of them, from the second of October freshman year to the twenty-eighth of November of your senior year. You didn’t count them, but there had to be at least a hundred. At the time, you’d just thought it was funny—but what if the gesture had meant something deeper than you’d realized? What if he was marking the end of something with that box? No more playing around, we’re adults now. But classes have barely started, you don’t know your way to the off-campus library, you aren’t a different person to who you were just weeks or even months earlier. Why is he acting like he is? You look at him, and you see the boy whose fault it was you had to buy a new eraser every week—who knows how many books you could’ve bought with that money. But when he turns to look at you, too, and your eyes meet, you’re suddenly assailed with the memories of that night, the kind eyes, the soft smile. 

Does his future capacity to love me already exist in his heart?

Your heartbeat speeds up and you have to look away.

--

From your letters, it seems to be much hotter back home than in Seattle—you talk of sunburns, of afternoons spent inside with the fan on maximum speed, of ice melting instantly and watering down your Coke Zeros, whereas Jay can walk around the city pleasantly and needs to bring a jacket if he’ll be out until late after sundown. And yet, as he reads your latest letter, his skin prickles feverishly, from the top of his head to the tip of his toes. He’d excitedly torn the envelope open the second it arrived in the mail, heart thumping as he counted the pages, at least three more than usual — he was always happy that you wanted to talk to him at all, so the fact that you had this much to tell him sent him over the moon — but he would have never expected what was awaiting him inside.

With a smile on his face, he read your replies to the questions he’d asked you last time, your reactions to everything he told you about, the live Mariners game, the lake house, the rides on the boat. He imagined you as you sat at your desk in your room he’d only seen once, when you’d held a small party for your birthday and he, having arrived first, was honored with a tour of your house. He imagined your smile, the way you played with your hair when you focused on something, wondered whether you pondered every word before you wrote it down as he did or whether you poured your thoughts out onto the page without hesitation. His smile faltered when Jake Sim’s name appeared in your neat handwriting, but he was relieved to find out your description of him now was miles away from the one at the start of the school year. 

Then you start writing about him. Him, Park Jongseong, and your words startle him so much, it’s like he’d forgotten he was the recipient of this letter in the first place.

But it got me thinking about your fight again. Reflecting on it now, I can say that it was a turning point for me in my perception of you. 

He’s been lying comfortably in his bed, but he sits up the moment his eyes take in these words. If there is one topic the two of you have practically never broached, it’s this exactly: your relationship, the changes it’s gone through this past year. Except for a few mentions made in jest here and there, you’ve always conveniently ignored the fact that not so long ago, you were at each other’s throats. At least, you were at his throat, and Jay let you be, let you think the hatred went both ways, when in reality all he wanted was to keep you close one way or another. To him, anything was better than indifference.

But here you are, writing about how you feel about him, not in hints, not in jokes, but actually telling him black and white what goes through your head when you think of him—in other words, everything he’s been dying to know ever since he met you and especially ever since you started warming up to him a few months ago.

I have never told you about that night because I know it’ll just be more fodder for you to endlessly tease me, and I haven’t even mentioned it in these letters that I write and don’t send. Sometimes I debate the ethics of it—if I know something about our futures, isn’t it right that you know, too? But then again, I still hesitate whether what happened was real or not. As with anything, the more time passes, the more I forget about it. What kind of cheese you’d put on the pasta, the movie that played in the background, whether the stairs were carpeted or wooded—these details have evaded me by now. All I clearly remember is your face and how I felt, seeing it then, seeing it the next day at school, ten years younger, the same exact person in what felt like a different universe. As much as I tried to deny it, I know now that it was no coincidence—I was talking about it with Sunoo and he said that sometimes, we want something so badly, we conjure it up for ourselves. He’s not always a dimwit. And he’s right, the kind of love I felt from you in that dream — or not-dream — I’ve yearned for it ever since I first watched Pride & Prejudice, the 2005 film to be precise, when I was ten. But with you? That was what I couldn’t believe at first. I don’t think I need to explain why—you were there, I think you knew how I felt about you for over three years, it’s not like I tried to hide it.

Then you turned up and the sight of you was enough to bring back all the feelings from that dream. You must’ve wondered why my behavior with you switched so suddenly—well, a glimpse into marital bliss is sometimes enough for a girl to make some changes in her life. Yet I valiantly tried to convince myself that any flutter of my heart around you was due to this stupid dream, to a version of you my brain had conjured up because it was starved for affection, and you happened to be at the forefront of my mind, even if not for the right reasons. But it was no use. I had entertained the possibility that this future was really mine, and I couldn’t go back to seeing you as the boy who annoyed the living daylights out of me.

But Jong, if you weren’t you, I would’ve been confused for a week and then I would’ve gotten over it. I stayed confused for a while, and everything you did only served to confuse me further. I started to notice you more, to see you for who you were and not for the idea I had constructed of you in my head, I stopped taking note of only the things that reinforced this idea. And that changed everything.

Let’s get it out of the way: as much as I hate to admit it because it proves you right, I saw that you are indeed devastatingly handsome. It devastates me every time I have to look at that stupid, wonderful face of yours. And if aging is something you’re worried about, don’t be. I’ve seen you at 28, and let’s just say that your jaw somehow only gets more chiseled. I’ve realized that you don’t just participate in class to be a prick — except for when you contradict me in Literature, I know you only do that to piss me off, and yes, it works — but that you actually care about what we learn and that you don’t want the teacher to feel like they’re talking to a classroom full of students made out of bricks. I’ve also realized that you didn’t specifically pick German to be the one subject where you must beat me at all costs, you just actually really like German, even if I’m still undetermined as to why. And I can finally admit to myself—you are funny. Sometimes. There were so many times I had to stop myself from laughing at one of your idiotic puns because I could not bear to give you the satisfaction. That feeling when the worst person you know makes a funny joke, and all that. And as much as I’ve mocked you for it, I do actually like your laugh. I like that you’re only loud when you laugh, or sneeze, or get excited over something. You don’t scream, you don’t get angry, and I think that’s a lot for a boy fresh out of puberty. Or for any boy, really. 

But above all, you’re kind, Jong. I think it’s the best thing about you. I think it’s the best thing anyone can be. I see it in your patience with Heeseung when he starts one of his rants better reserved for Reddit than real life, I see it in the way you took Sunoo and Kazuha in stride, even though they’re a bit rough around the edges sometimes, I see it in the way you guide the freshmen at the start of every year, when all anyone does is complain about them, I see it in the gentleness with which you let down the girls who confess to you, even the more persistent ones. I used to think they were crazy, but I understand them more than ever now. I also used to think that all those kindnesses meant that the ones you occasionally showed me meant nothing more than that—occasional kindnesses. You were just a nice guy, occasionally so to me. But you sort of ratted yourself out when you gave me those twenty chocolates for Valentine’s.

Or, really, what made things clearer was that fight in December. I guess I was wrong—you do get angry. I remember a thought I had at the time: just when I think I know you, you do something to shake it all up. You punched two of the star soccer players of our school in the face because they said some mean, unimportant things about me. Thinking about it now, I still don’t understand it. Was it another one of your acts of kindness? 

And then I thought of those other times you helped me out. Do you remember them—the art project, the handwritten notes after my grandma passed away, you tearing Park Sunghoon a new one in the girls’ bathroom. I’m sure there are many more that I’ve dismissed simply because I did not want to see you in any other light than the one I’d decided to shine on you. 

Maybe I’m rewriting the past here, but I’ve been thinking about something lately. The theme today seems to be honesty, so I’ll lay myself bare and tell you something I haven’t told anyone yet, not even myself. The more I write, the more I become aware of its truth. I like you, Jong. I think I have for a long time, longer than either of us thinks. Maybe that’s why I kept buying erasers.

I don’t have the best memory — I suspect iron deficiency, it runs in my mom’s side of the family — but I do remember this. The first time I saw you. I haven’t noticed your face changing in real time, but I’m sure I’d laugh at how much of a baby you looked back then. Although I didn’t fare much better, I’m sure. Well, you’re the one that has all these embarrassing pictures of me, you freak, so I’m sure you could tell me. Moving on… 

I found you really cute. You were chatting to the person next to you, maybe it was Heeseung, I didn’t look properly—I only looked at you. Don’t laugh at me. It was the first day of high school, there was a nervous energy in the air, but you seemed happy to be there. You know I don’t have hordes of friends like you do, I don’t walk through life with people naturally gravitating towards me. I’m okay with it now, but it was something I struggled with back then. Kazuha, Sunoo and I have had each other since our elementary days, and I never needed more than that—but fifteen is the prime age for comparison, and as the weeks passed and we got used to being high schoolers, I listened to everyone sing your praises, I watched as you talked with all of our classmates, even our teachers, like you were old friends. But we sat next to each other in a couple of classes, and you wouldn't talk to me outside of partnered work. I, who wanted to be easily charmed by you like everyone else was, who thought maybe you’d help me come out of my shell. But it felt like sitting next to me was torture to you, like the boy whom I watched speak with ease to everyone else disappeared when I was around. And so — and I’m not proud of this — every smart remark in class, every joke that had the entire class roaring, every high five you gave out in the hallway, I started to despise them. And by association, I started to despise you. After that, it was easy to find fault in everything you did, my contempt was only enhanced by everyone’s admiration. But I’m not alone here. It went both ways, didn’t it? I don’t think you liked that I didn’t like you and openly showed it, so used to being everyone’s favorite person you were. I remember how you showily tried to be nice to me after that, maybe you just wanted another friend, but I didn’t let you. I don’t blame us for how we acted, only for taking so long to get our heads out of our asses.

(I have to say, I also have a thing for hating people. Remind me to tell you about Na Jaemin and Shin Ryujin one of these days.)

Anyways, I think it’s because I had liked you so much at first that I could then seemingly hate you so much. But I never hated you, Jong, not really. I’m sorry if I gave you that impression. Can I take it all back now? 

Now that we’re entering university soon, I can’t help but look back on high school. This is what I want to know, but I’m not sure I’ll ever have the courage to ask you, because if your answer is the one I suspect, I don’t know how I’ll handle all the regret in my heart.

Have I been wrong about you this whole time? I thought you harbored the same negative feelings towards me as I had you since the moment you’d laid eyes on me, but all of a sudden, here you were, bloody, bandaged hand holding mine. Even with your busted eye, you looked like an angel next to all that white in the nurse’s station. I’ll never forget your words that day. Would you really not get hurt for anything else, Jong?

Your letter abruptly ends here, no concluding remarks, no wishing him a fun time in Seattle and looking forward to his next letter, no sign-off. It was as if someone cut you off before you could say everything you wanted, but then why send him this seemingly unfinished letter? It is all the more bizarre since your letters are usually meticulous: you write on every other line, it looks like you take your time with every single letter, the only disturbance in your otherwise perfect handwriting is your going back-and-forth between cursive and script s’s. But this particular letter looks rushed, your lines are sloppy, some words need to be read a few times over to be understood. What kind of state had you been in, writing these words? Jay’s heart swells, thinking that you were as moved writing as he was reading. He even looks through your letter again, wishing to find a tear stain somewhere, but there are none. Maybe he’s been watching too many of these romantic period dramas you always go on about.

He has to pace his room when he’s done reading your letter, but he feels trapped inside these four walls, so he dashes outside, saying that he’s getting some air when his relatives ask him where he’s off to in such a rush, and walks around the block five times. When he’s back in his room, he rereads your letter, eyes taking in each and every word slowly and carefully, making sure he doesn’t misread anything.

You like him. You, Y/N, like him, Jongseong, it’s a fact, it’s real, you said so yourself, you went into quite some detail about it, he can’t believe it, but it’s real, it’s written right there on the page, if anyone dares tell him he’s fooling himself, he can prove them wrong, you’re the one who said it.

The smile doesn’t leave his lips for the rest of the day, he can barely eat, he’s already full of happiness. He reads your words over and over before falling asleep, committing them to memory, dreaming about them, about you.

You. How should he respond to this? Are you even expecting a response? You seem to know he’s not impartial to you, either, although that’s an understatement. 

In the following days, the thought that you hadn’t meant to send him this letter nags at him. The abrupt ending, the absence of your usual Love, Y/N. The fact that this had come out of left field—none of your previous letters had even a romantic undertone, no matter how he tried in his own to hint at his missing you, the most reference to seeing each other again you would give him was It’ll be better to show you this in real life. The act of sending letters itself didn’t feel very platonic, but you never went there, so he didn’t, either. He had secretly yearned to have you this close all these years, he would never forgive himself if he ended up chasing you away now with his over-eagerness.

You had landed on something very real in your letter: I don’t think you liked that I didn’t like you and openly showed it, so used to being everyone’s favorite person you were. I remember how you showily tried to be nice to me after that, maybe you just wanted another friend, but I didn’t let you. He cursed his fifteen-year-old self, that idiot who couldn’t even speak to a girl no matter how much he wanted to, just because she was so pretty, he was afraid of saying something stupid and messing it up before it even had a chance to start.

On days when you’d had particularly nasty or petty arguments — it could get pretty bad, at the start, before you both started maturing and realized how ridiculous you were, especially with your classmates telling you to keep it classy — he’d stay up all night, wondering why you hated him so much in the first place, what on Earth he could’ve done to warrant such vitriol. Now, finally, he knew, and he could only resent the fact that no one had invented time machines yet, so he could nip his useless ego in the bud; so he could tell younger Jay not to take it personally, that you had your reasons for disliking him, that even if you hadn’t, the world won’t end if someone doesn’t like him like everyone usually does. 

Because, he hates to admit, that was what had done it for Jay. He couldn’t stand that someone — not just someone, but one of the prettiest girls he’d ever seen, a girl he’d been hyping himself up to talk to every day, but never found the courage to — didn’t immediately fall for his charms. And not just that, but even showed just how much she disliked him. You looked him up-and-down with disdain, made disgusted faces at his jokes, rolled your eyes when he spoke up in class. It made him burn with anger, but he also weirdly enjoyed it—at least, you were paying attention to him. So, he amped it up. Talked louder, laughed louder, hovered around you. He even stole your erasers, wrote the date on which he’d taken them, kept them in a box on his desk that he looked at every time he studied at home. He aimed to beat you in every class you shared, even though neither of you cared that much about grades—the annoyed look on your face when he boasted about the two points he’d gotten over you was enough satisfaction.

All in all, he behaved like a child, and you reciprocated in like.

Until you didn’t.

It was a random Tuesday when something in your attitude towards him shifted. It wasn’t a complete 180, but he noticed everything about you, so even a slight change of your tone was obvious to him. You started using your nickname for him more often than his full name—he never told you, but of course he loved that you didn’t call him Jay like everyone else, that you had your own way of addressing him. It was a sign to him that the two of you had something special, even if it was on the opposite end of the spectrum of what he wanted with you.

He again spent sleepless nights wondering what had caused this change: was it something he had done, or something within you? It was a welcome change, that much was sure, but he was initially too confused to take it in stride. He’d long made peace with the fact that he’d never have you the way he really wanted, so he was fine with whatever this was—but now, you were changing, your interactions were tinged with something like shyness, the distance between you felt greater than ever. He tried to keep up his smart-ass appearances around you, but you only indulged in your old habits once in a while, as though you had grown tired of arguing with him, even of giving him the time of day.

So he resolved himself to adapting his behavior to yours. If you stared at him intently like his face was a puzzle you were trying to solve, he let you, rested his head on his palm and smiled as he stared back at you. Finally, he had an excuse to look at you without you threatening to punch him or saying a picture would last longer. He knew they did, he’d had to resort to scrolling through Sunoo’s and Kazuha’s Instagrams to find any photos of you. Yours was private and at the time, you would’ve probably cursed him out if he’d sent a follow request. If you seemed too annoyed or upset over something, he’d leave you alone, he’d do something nice to let you know you didn’t need to have your guards up at all times around him. If you seemed to silently call for a truce of hostilities, he easily complied.

Then, after a few weeks, your petty arguments resumed, but those too were different—if before they felt filled with real disdain and irritation, they now seemed to be a comfortable habit to fall back on, almost like a fun hobby. Those, too, Jay readily welcomed.

And so things changed in a direction Jay had never thought would one day be possible. You gave him no explanations, nor did he ask for any, and soon he stopped losing sleep over the why’s and the how’s and simply let himself enjoy the fact that you now had the semblance of a friendship, that he could compliment you and pass it off as amical teasing, that he could learn things about you like what you spent your weekends doing, what your relationship with your family was like, whether you were a dog or cat person, whether you wanted to visit his farm in Stardew Valley. 

Unsurprisingly, this only enhanced his already pathetically strong feelings for you. He worried over how to make sure this wasn’t some sort of 30-day friendship trial you had wanted to test out. He reveled in the fact that his top university of choice was the one you had already been accepted to. He now knew what it felt like to have you smile at him, smile because of him, and he never wanted again to live in a world where this was not a daily occurrence. 

He now sort of has an answer—your letter doesn’t make it very clear, it makes him think again that you really had not meant to send it, but you seem to have had a dream. A dream of him, 28-year-old him, to be precise, of your life together—he’s not sure. At this point in time, he doesn’t care much, either. Whether it was a dream or a real vision of the future that you had, all that matters is that it allowed you to see him in a new light, a light which he had hoped for years would one day appear to you, and it had changed things. And now, you liked him.

You said so yourself.

He’s at a loss for words. He can’t concentrate for long enough to put all his thoughts in order, he can’t make himself calm down and write his feelings down. He has to pack to go home, once he’s home, he’ll have to pack for university. But it’s only two weeks from now to the day you meet again, and it’ll be better to say what he wants to say in person, anyway.

Is it okay if I respond to your letter in person? I think I’ll be too busy these two coming weeks, he texts you.

And then those two weeks pass like two seconds and you’re there, a few meters away from him. All the speeches he’d prepared in his head, from grand declarations of love to laid-back admittances of Yeah, I like you too, you’re cool, I guess, they all vanish from his head. For fourteen days he’s been going through scenarios upon scenarios of your reunion, what you’d look like, what he’d say, how you’d react. But now that he can actually see you, now that he would just have to walk a few steps if he wanted to touch you, hug you, kiss you — hoping that was something you wanted to do — he freezes. He forgets how his body works, the part in his brain that’s meant to manage language ability fails him. HIs mom calls him over, urging him into his new dorm building, and all he can do is wave back at you like an idiot.

When finally he musters the courage to text you, what he hopes will be the day that starts your romantic relationship turns into the day Park Jongseong realizes how much of a loser he is. For the first hour, he can’t look at you, he can’t get through a sentence without stuttering out half of his words, he runs out of things to say in record time. All he can think of is how easy it’d be to grab one of your hands, hold it in his and walk around this stupid potted plant sale as if the two of you were two halves of a whole. He doesn’t even want a potted plant, his roommate already has five, he just wanted an excuse to see you. He steals glances at you when you’re looking elsewhere, and he notices everything about you tenfold now that he can, now that caring about you doesn’t need to be in vain any longer. He tells himself that he just needs to calm down a bit, even when you have the confirmation that the person you’re about to confess to already likes you, revealing your feelings to someone is always nerve-wracking, the two of you haven’t seen in each other in a while, he’ll talk to you once his heart gets out of his throat.

But you’re acting normal. Suspiciously so. You’re acting like you never told him you liked him, like nothing has changed between you. He rereads your letter the second he gets back to his dorm. He’s not crazy, it’s written right there, I like you, Jong. I think I have for a long time, longer than either of us thinks. He knows the words by heart now, but he checks them anyway. So why are you acting like you never said anything? Had you really not meant to send that letter? Did Jay actually intrude on your private thoughts by reading words that had never meant to be seen by another soul?

You continue to behave as you usually would around him, but if he couldn’t go back to vicious bickering when things changed the first time, he can’t go back to friendly bickering now that things — for him — have changed a second time. He doesn’t even want friendly to be in your shared vocabulary anymore. 

So he stops giving in. If you make fun of him, he just stands there with an unimpressed if amused look on his face. If you pedantically correct him on something, he just nods his head and accepts it. He can tell you’re bothered by it, but he needs to show you that he doesn’t want to go on being just friends with you—he wants to compliment you without having to pass it off as teasing, he wants to stare at you with hearts in his eyes without having to look away when you catch him, he wants to spend every waking second of every day with you, he wants to hold your hand, hold you. 

He could wait for things to change slowly again, but why wait when he could help things along?

--

It’s nine p.m. on a Saturday and you’re sneaking Jongseong into your dorm. Liz is away for the weekend, gone back home to celebrate her aunt’s birthday, so you have the room to yourselves. It took some convincing to get him to come — What if we get caught coming in, What if your T.A. sees us, What if I get reported to campus police — and so when your verbal reassurances failed to work, you resorted to blinking up at him through your lashes and that did the trick.

Jongseong was in many ways unlike any other man you’d ever met; in some other ways, he was the exact same.

Plastic bag of the tteokbokki you’d asked for in hand, he looks around the deserted hallways like someone might jump out of nowhere and beat him to a pulp at any given moment. At this time of the week, everyone’s out partying or holed up in their dorms, presumably either to rest or because of a lack of friends so early on in the semester. You grab his free hand and hurry him along to the elevator—once inside, it takes you a few seconds before you realize you’re still holding it, and you retract your hand quickly while he just smiles. 

You settle yourselves on the floor—comfort is not worth getting gochujang sauce on your white sheets. You sit criss-cross in front of each other, the food between the two of you, and catch up on your first week of class in-between bites of spicy, gooey rice cakes and fish cakes. You wonder, if one day you and Jongseong are no longer friends, how long you will keep associating tteokbokki with him.

When you tell him that you and Jake share a class, Introduction to Film Studies, he gives you a look. “What’s that face for?” you ask.

“Did you guys sit next to each other?”

You chuckle. “Of course. We only knew each other in that room, it would’ve been weird not to.”

He continues to stare at you. After a while, he muses, “You’re not…?”

You halt in your tracks, rice cake at the end of your plastic fork hanging in the air, halfway between the container and your mouth. “Whatever you’re thinking, the answer is no.” Still in love with him, interested in him again, you don’t know the exact details of Jongseong’s thought process, all you know is he has nothing to worry about—if it’s something he worries about.

When a smile slowly grows on his lips and he nods, saying, “Okay, good,” you let yourself think it might be.

Later, you’re ten minutes into a senseless blockbuster movie when he suddenly pauses it. It snaps you out of a trance—his hand was awfully close to yours, so is his shoulder, his thigh, his knee, everything, really, and you haven’t been able to concentrate on anything but the warmth radiating off his skin and the intensity with which you crave to feel it intentionally rather than accidentally. When he speaks, there’s something serious in his tone that makes you nervous. “Y/N,” he says as he turns to you, and now his face is awfully close, too. There’s still many centimeters separating you, but in this tiny, barely lit-up room, he feels closer than ever before. “Do you remember when I said I’d reply to your letter in real life?”

You tilt your head. “Yeah, that was ages ago.”

“Well, I thought I’d do it now.”

“Now?”

He takes a deep, shaky breath. “Now.”

And then those safe centimeters suddenly disappear, and Jongseong’s lips are on yours. It’s a brief, chaste kiss, so quick you wonder if it even happened when he leans back again.

“I like you, too,” he says, and your heart stops.

“W-what?” is all you can say back, eyes wide like he’s just admitted to killing someone rather than reciprocating your feelings.

His confident facade quickly crumbles. “God, this was so much cooler in my head, I-I’m sorry.” He pulls something out of his sweatpants pocket, pages folded over and over into a tiny square. As he unfolds them, you recognize your paper, your handwriting—but what do your letters have anything to do with him kissing you, of all things? “I don’t think you meant to send this. But I’m glad you did.”

He hands you the pages and your eyes skim over the words, not detecting anything out of the ordinary, until—But it got me thinking about your fight again. Reflecting on it now, I can say that it was a turning point for me in my perception of you. You remember this line, because you had made sure to strike it and everything that came afterward out when you rewrote the letter that you would actually send Jongseong. So how was he giving you this? 

“I-How do you have this?” you ask, voice trembling. You feel as though your heart overflows with all kinds of emotions, and so your eyes follow, tears staining your lower lashes. 

But Jongseong is not one to let you hide things from him. “Hey, no, it’s okay,” he says, warm hands coming to cup your face. “Look at me.” You have no choice but to oblige—his gaze is somehow both soft and stern, a mix of concern and determination. “Did you mean what you wrote in here?” You nod. “Then everything’s okay. You don’t know how happy I was reading this.”

The tension in your body slowly starts to fade. “Really?”

“Really. I cherish every single word in there.”

“Really?” you repeat, and he chuckles.

“Really.”

Your heartbeat speeds up as you gaze into his eyes, as you let yourself bask in the affection and endearment you find there. You can’t quite comprehend what’s happening. The letter, the kiss, his confession, your inadvertent confession, it’s all a mess in your head; so sudden, but such a long time coming at the same time. You never imagined that things would change so quickly—less than a year ago, you thought Jongseong was the most irritating person on this planet. After meeting his 28-year-old self, you thought it’d take ages for the two of you to be on such good terms. But now, just a week into your first semester of university, belly full of tteokbokki and Sprite, you like each other enough not only to be in the same room without hurling insults at each other but to actually be smiling at each other, willingly at that.

Your eyes drift down to his lips, just like in the hallway all those months ago, and the words slip out before you can stop them. They’re a mere whisper—”Kiss me again.”

Jongseong doesn’t need to be told twice. Still cupping your face, he bridges the gap between the two of you again, and this time, when your lips meet, they don’t come apart so quickly. It’s your first kiss, and it’s nothing short of magical, better than any romance novel could’ve prepared you for. His lips are warm and soft against yours, moving slowly, gingerly; as if he’s scared to take any wrong step, he lets you control the pace, follows every tilt of your head this way and that. It’s a relief that he seems to know as little about this as you do—his hands haven’t moved from your face, yours are on his knees, all you can do is focus on the movement of your lips, to think of anything else at the same time would be overwhelming. 

“I’ve liked you from the start,” he suddenly says, face still so close you can feel his breath on your lips as he speaks. 

“Hm?” you hum, body reeling from the kiss.

“I’ve liked you from the start,” he repeats, grinning—he looks relieved, like he’s been waiting to say these words for a long time. “I can’t believe this is happening after all these years. Or at all, really.”

“I think I did, too.”

“Yeah, you mentioned that in your letter.”

Your eyes widen and you bury your face in your hands as Jongseong laughs. “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?” you mumble.

He smooths over your hair with one hand, brings your face back up with the other. “Don’t worry. I won’t ever make you regret this.”

Your brain and heart are too all over the place for you to come up with a coherent answer, so you lean in and reconnect your lips to his. It’s already becoming your favorite sensation, feeling him smile into the kiss, threading your fingers in his soft hair.

Time passes delicately like this, the two of you on your single bed, in the sheets that you bought three weeks ago. A lot of it is spent kissing and learning how to fall into each other’s rhythm, but you also spend hours talking, comparing situations and how you’d experienced them. You thought his occasional acts of kindness were done out of guilt, evidence that he did have some morals; he was trying to show he cared about you. He thought you’d despised him from the moment you saw him; you reiterate in more detail than your letter what really happened, you say you wish you knew then what you know now. 

“But I never hated you, Jong. I think I wanted to believe that I did, but I never actually did.”

“You glared at me everytime I walked past like I killed a member of your family.”

You groan, ashamed of yourself. “I did, didn’t I?”

“You did,” he says, chuckling, placing a kiss on your forehead. His arms are around you, your head rests atop his heart—you’ve never felt more comfortable in your life. “But it’s okay. We’re here now, and I don’t want us to have any regrets about high school. We had a good time, didn’t we?”

You tilt your head up to look at him. “I’m sure you did, stealing all my erasers.”

He lets out a hearty laugh. Clearly, he’s very proud of his feat. “Hey, I gave all of them back.”

“And what am I going to do with a hundred erasers, Jong?” you ask, laughing too, pecking his cheek aggressively—your way of punishing him for a grave deed.

“Keep them as a token of my love for you,” he says, and your breath falters at the mention of that word. “In fifty years, it’ll be a sign that I’ve liked you since the beginning, I just had a funny way of showing it.”

“Fifty years, huh?”

He grins. “Fifty, a hundred, whatever. You’re not getting rid of me.”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

You’re both smiling so wide, you can barely manage a kiss. He trails kisses from your lips to your ear. Holding you close, he whispers, “It’s always been you, Y/N. Always and only you.”

There may be thorns on the otherwise immaculate rose that is your life, but Park Jongseong was never one of them—all along, he was a bud waiting to bloom.

--

The more time passes, the more you wonder whether that night you had seen in your vision will ever come. There’s been evenings similar to it—crashing the minute you came home from a long day on set, telling yourself you’d take a fifteen-minute power nap only to wake up three hours later and coming downstairs to find your husband cooking dinner, cleaning the kitchen, taking care of your son or simply watching TV, but waiting for you, always waiting for you. He seems as happy now watching you come down the stairs as he was then finding your face among all the students flocking out of lecture halls. 

The details are blurry now, but many small things seem to be different from what you’d seen. He still tries to recreate your favorite meal, but it’s not pasta all'arrabbiata, it’s laksa, because your first date as an official couple was to a Malaysian restaurant, not an Italian one. He’s still the best father you know, but you have one son, not twin girls—although that offer to “give him a younger sibling to play with” is always on the table. Even the house you live in is different from the one in your dream, which has now become nothing more than a funny anecdote you share with people when they ask you the story of how you and Jongseong met.

You think of Sunoo’s words from all those years ago: Sometimes, we want something so badly, we conjure it up for ourselves. Had 18-year-old you been in such denial over her feelings for Jongseong that she’d had to convince herself a magical well had bestowed a crazy dream upon her to admit that, yes, there was something there, something other than childish hatred?

It doesn’t matter anymore. Months pass without you thinking about that well, anyway. 

Tonight, you come home late from work after having had to do last-minute changes to the script for your current project, a movie that starts shooting in a few days. Jongseong texted you that he was going to bed an hour or so again, so you’re greeted by a plate of japchae covered in film paper. The post-it note stuck to it reads, I’m afraid of the repercussions of too much curry consumption on our son, so no laksa tonight my love. Hope you like it. Come to bed quick. You were starving a second ago, but you decide food can wait—other things can’t.

You tiptoe up the stairs and into your son’s room, breathing in the scent of his hair and placing a kiss there. His hair is still worryingly sparse, but if he’s anything like his dad, it’ll come in a bit later than the other kids. You always thought babies with a full head of hair were freaky, anyway. He doesn’t budge a bit, sleeping like a log—his dad is another story, shuffling in bed the moment you step into your shared bedroom. He opens his arms wide, a silent invitation.

“You’re home,” he says as you attach yourself to his body, your leg hiked up over his, your face buried in the crook of his neck, your thumb caressing the start of stubble on his cheeks.

You smile. “I am.”

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[rumisgf]

❝ THINGS THEY DO THAT GIVE YOU BUTTERFLIES ! ❞ ╰┈➤ MHA EDITION (PART 2!)

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ a/n: y’all wanted a part two i shall give a part two

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ includes: katsuki bakugou, hitoshi shinsou, shoto todoroki, denki kaminari, iida tenya, kirishima eijirou

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ warnings: black!reader obv, cursing, mentions of drug usage/marijuana, suggestive if u squint, fem reader implied, mentioning of babies/children

BAKUGOU KATSUKI

✮ wipes your tears sort of aggressively but only because he’s so urgent to comfort you and take care of you

✮ always hugs you by your lower waist

✮ when you go to the gym together, he’s the type to always say “c’mon, you can do one more.” or “do three more”

✮ ruffles your hair/flicks your forehead in a teasing way

✮ “act right.”/“watch out.”

✮ doesn’t remind you to drink water— he simply justs brings water bottles up to your mouth and tells you to “open up”

✮ if you have any, he cares for your pets like they’re his own

✮ just something about the sight of him holding a baby

✮ bites you just because he can

✮ pulls you into his lap whenever he’s tired of your attitude

✮ gets super close to your face like he’s gonna kiss you but pulls away just to mess with you

✮ “that’s my girl” in the most proud voice ever every single time

TODOROKI SHOTO

✮ any time he does get high he’s all over you and staring at you with half lidded eyes

✮ it’s just something about the way he curses man.

✮ loves falling asleep on the phone with you and takes facetime photos of you sleeping because he thinks you look like an angel

✮ runs his thumb over your hand whenever you hold hands

✮ loves giving earlobe kisses

✮ will casually be like “when we have kids,”

✮ sends voice memos ranging from something funny that happened in class to how much he misses you and needs to see you

✮ kisses your lip gloss off every chance he gets right after complimenting how nice your lip combo looks

✮ sends you pictures of yourself and says “you look so pretty in this”

✮ him whispering in your ear.

✮ has your contact as the only one pinned in his messages

KIRISHIMA EIJIROU

✮ pats away your tears with his finger instead of wiping them (those who watch love island usa and are kordell + serena fans know what i’m talking about)

✮ places his hand on the small of your waist to guide your somewhere or move you out the way

✮ constant forehead kisses

✮ lifts you up and spins you around when he’s excited to hug you

✮ guides you into the right form when you workout together

✮ runs his hands down your waist and hips when he’s checking you out while you’re right in front of him

✮ him around kids. that’s all.

✮ gives you flowers pretty much every week— and one time he gave you a money bouquet for your birthday

✮ flexes for you when he feels you staring at him and pretends he’s not doing it on purpose

✮ throws his arm around you and presses you flush against his chest when you go to sit on the couch next to him

✮ refers to you as his “wife” to his friends

KAMINARI DENKI

✮ you could have been rotting in bed all day and when he facetimes you he always greets you with something along the lines of “hello my beautiful princess” with a lovesick tone of voice

✮ calls you “mama” and “ma”

✮ obsessed with skinship because he aches to be able to “crawl inside your skin” and just needs to be close to you

✮ blows kisses at you from across the room

✮ for comfort, he runs his fingers through your hair and rocks you back and forth while hugging you

✮ his morning voice :)))

✮ lets you bite him and encourages it

✮ gets very touchy when you’re on his lap

✮ the king of “i know you’re probably asleep, but” texts

✮ goes on rants about how gentle and how well he would care for you when you’re one day pregnant with his children

✮ always calling you his “pretty baby”/“pretty girl”

✮ always posts pretty candid pictures of you and makes heartfelt story posts for every birthday, anniversary, and valentine’s day

HITOSHI SHINSOU

✮ has read for you + sung you to sleep on multiple occasions

✮ grabs you by your chin to force eye contact

✮ “say please”

✮ checks you every time you have an attitude with a smirk on his face

✮ has a habit of biting his lip

✮ says “there you go, babe” way too much.

✮ glares at anyone who flirts with you while tightly wrapping an arm around your waist

✮ has made multiple shared playlists for the both of you

✮ says he’s “gatekeeping” you because you’re just too pretty and he has to keep you to himself

✮ plays with your fingers when he’s bored or nervous

✮ buries his face into your neck to bask in your scent when he hugs you

✮ randomly stares at your for a full five minutes when you’re talking, barely listening to a word you’re saying, then lovingly sighs “i love you so much…”

IIDA TENYA

✮ always opens every door for you

✮ holds your hands while walking across the street or through the hallways

✮ very protective over you and will respectfully cuss anybody out who disrespects you

✮ pretty much has replaced your name is his vocabulary with “honey” and “sweetheart”

✮ never calls you hot— he always calls you beautiful, pretty, gorgeous, or stunning

✮ grabs you by your sleeve or your belt loop to take you somewhere if you don’t hear him call your name the third time

✮ the thought of ever calling you his “bitch” disgusts him, he calls you his lady or his love instead

✮ will immediately grab the nearest box of tissues to wipe your tears or your nose whenever you’re crying

✮ kisses your cheek to greet you and say goodbye

✮ has deep conversations about your future together when you get to that point in the relationship, and is open about how much his heart swells at imagining you as a mother

✮ kisses your forehead when he notices you asleep on his chest

© rumisgf