#i hate overhead lights so now they do too

[xitsensunmoon]

Im hoping that Im not asking a question that has already been asked but

Do Vampire Sun and Moon have a preferred light colour? (Hopefully this makes sense, but just imagine they have a room with mood lighting/rgb led strips)

Feel free to ignore this if this makes 0 sense, words are hard when brain go wee

-beep boop.

Waah well I never thought about it actually but it's a good question.

I think they both would go crazy over galactic type of lamps, the ones that project galaxies on your walls and stuff. Moon would like warm and dim colours, Sun would like bright ones <3

Y/N's room probably has at least one of these and also the one with stars, slowly spinning around

[acourtofquestions]

Overhead, the stars shone clear and bright, and though Mala had only once appeared to him at dawn, on the foothills across this very city, though she might be little more than a strange, mighty being from another world, he offered up a prayer anyway.

Then, he had begged Mala to protect Aelin from Maeve when they entered Doranelle, to give her strength and guidance, and to let her walk out alive. Then, he had begged Mala to let him remain with Aelin, the woman he loved. The goddess had been little more than a sunbeam in the rising dawn, and yet he had felt her smile at him.

Tonight, with only the cold fire of the stars for company, he begged her once more.

A curl of wind sent his prayer drifting to those stars, to the waxing moon silvering the camp, the river, the mountains.

He had killed his way across the world; he had gone to war and back more times than he cared to remember. And despite it all, despite the rage and despair and ice he'd wrapped around his heart, he'd still found Aelin. Every horizon he'd gazed toward, unable and unwilling to rest during those centuries, every mountain and ocean he'd seen and wondered what lay beyond... It had been her. It had been Aelin, the silent call of the mating bond driving him, even when he could not feel it.

They'd walked this dark path together back to the light. He would not let the road end here.

[dirt-str1der]

hello i just wanna say i genuinely like ur observation about nishiki's fighting style and then ya manage to bring it back to ur 'drug addict nishiki' headcanon like it caught me off guard but im also not surprised that is so fair and real of u okay thank u

In a world where drugs dont exist, nishikiyama’s strength comes solely from his anger and i guess he goes to the gym too

[notlongtolove]

like a lover

he doesn’t answer. he doesn’t even look at you again. he just shakes his head and walks into the bedroom. by the time you follow him, he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like it holds the answer to whatever’s boiling inside him. fine. If he wants to ice you out, two can play that game.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (second person, no y/n)

genre: hurt comfort

content: student!reader gets drunk after a brutal final and spencer is beyond mad. very brief mention of abduction. lowkey spencer is in the right bc #safety but he made reader cry n for that he is found #guilty!!!

word count: 3.1k

note: based off this ask! random fact the last line of this fic was the inspiration for empty my soul but idk why i just couldnt fit it in there, anyways i hope you guys like it! (pls tell me if u do i was struggling with a resolution for this)

a line: Spencer thinks, for a split second, that he’d rather die than ever have to see you cry like that again.

I give you an onion. It is a moon wrapped in brown paper. It promises light like the careful undressing of love. Here. It will blind you with tears like a lover. It will make your reflection a wobbling photo of grief. I am trying to be truthful. - carol ann duffy

You probably should’ve stopped five drinks ago—maybe four if you were feeling merciful. That last Vodka cran? A spectacularly bad idea. But whatever. You earned this. You’re young, you’re fun, you look good, and for the first time in weeks, you have no deadlines clawing at you. The final had been a nightmare. You knew your fate was sealed the second you flipped to question three. What the hell is textual and symbolic environmentalisation? But it’s over now. That’s all that matters.

The wind bites at your bare legs as you stand by the curb, aimlessly kicking a pebble. You hug your arms close, fighting off the chill. Maybe you should’ve brought a jacket. Spencer had suggested it, but you’d waved him off. He’s usually right.

You frown, glancing up at the street sign. He said he’d be here. Right? Your phone’s dying battery blinks at you in its final moments, mocking you before shutting off completely. Definitely should’ve taken his offer of a portable charger, too. You sigh, shifting your weight from one foot to the other.

A man stumbles by, reeking of booze. You don’t need to look to know.

"Hey," he calls out, voice slurred and gravelly.

You keep your eyes down, pretending not to hear.

“Hey,” he says again, louder this time.

Where the hell is Spencer?

"D’you know when the bus starts running again?"

You hesitate, half-relieved that he’s asking something semi-coherent. "I—I’m sorry, I’m not sure."

He nods to himself, swaying on his feet. 

"I told you to wait by the bodega on 3rd," a familiar voice mutters. Spencer’s hand closes around your arm, already steering you away.

"Oh, hey," you say softly, relief washing over you. "Is this not—" You glance at the street sign overhead—4 Maple Drive. Shit. "I—sorry, I thought—"

"It’s fine," he says, but the sharp edge in his voice tells you it’s not.

The car ride is suffocatingly silent. When he pulls open the passenger door for you, there’s no trace of his usual warmth. No soft smile, no gentle tease about your perpetually dead phone. Just a click of the door and the quiet thud of it shutting behind you.

You hate this. Hate the tension humming between you, the way his jaw is set tight as he drives. He was so different this afternoon, greeting you after your final with those cupcakes he knows you love from the bakery on the other side of town, his lips brushing yours in endless, giddy kisses. This Spencer is nothing like that. 

"They played ‘Dancing Queen’ tonight," you venture, voice tentative. He knows it’s your favourite. Knows it always pulls you to the dance floor, no matter how tired or tipsy you are. "It was so funny—some guy bought us a round of shots—"

"And you drank it?"

The question lands heavy. His first words to you since he’d started driving. 

"Well... yeah?"

"What else did you drink?"

"Not a lot," you say quickly, tripping over your words. "Just vodka, tequila, a bit of wine—"

"You mixed?" 

The way he says it makes you bristle. There’s a hint of disbelief, maybe even disappointment. 

"Spence," you say softly. "I’m not that drunk, I promise."

Nothing.

His knuckles tighten on the steering wheel. The silence in the air is almost tangible, a crackling, oppressive thing. When he pulls into the driveway and kills the engine, he doesn’t move to open your door. He always does that. But not tonight. 

You’re pretty sure he’s mad at you, though you’re not entirely sure why. It’s not like you go out that often, and you can’t even remember the last time you let yourself get this drunk. Tonight was an exception, a celebration. He understands, doesn’t he?

You follow him inside, trailing behind like a shadow. He doesn’t head to the kitchen like he does after you get back from a night out—no tea, no toast, no quiet ritual of making sure you’re okay. Instead, he walks straight into the study, his back to you. Yeah, he’s definitely mad. 

"You’re mad at me," you say, standing in the doorway.

He doesn’t answer. His hands grip the back of his chair, his head bowed like he’s trying to gather himself. You’re not one to push, usually giving him the space he needs when he gets all broody like this, but the alcohol that’s running through your system is making it hard to practice patience. 

"Why are you mad at me?"

Still nothing. 

When he finally moves, it’s only to brush past you, heading for the bedroom without so much as a glance. "We’ll talk about this tomorrow," he says, his tone flat, clipped. "I can’t talk to you when you’re like this."

This. The word hits like a slap, sharp and dismissive. It irks you. 

"If you didn’t want to come, then you shouldn’t have come," you mutter under your breath, the words slipping out before you can stop them. "I could’ve gotten a ride—"

"You were slurring on the phone." He stops in the hallway, turning just enough for you to see the tight set of his jaw. 

"Yeah, no shit, Spencer. People slur when they drink," you fire back a little too harshly, the alcohol fueling your irritation as you cross your arms defensively.

"Don’t," he warns, his voice low, dangerous in a way that makes your chest tighten.

​​You glare at him, heat rising in your cheeks. "Don’t what? Don’t point out how ridiculous you’re being right now?"

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even look at you again. He just shakes his head and walks into the bedroom. By the time you follow him, he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like it holds the answer to whatever’s boiling inside him. Fine. If he wants to ice you out, two can play that game.

You head to the bathroom without a word, your movements jerky as you swipe at the remnants of your makeup. You grab your moisturizer, fingers fumbling with the cap. A sharp tug and it goes flying out of your hands, clattering to the floor. 

"Fuck," you mutter, bracing yourself for a bout of instability as you bend down to retrieve it.

Before you can grab it, Spencer moves. He scoops it up, straightening with an ease that feels almost mocking. When you meet his eyes, they’re unfamiliar. It’s not the Spencer you know. Not the Spencer who covers your eyes during scary movies or kisses your forehead when you’re half-asleep. No, this Spencer feels distant, cold. 

"And I’m supposed to believe you’re not that drunk," he says flatly. Your chest tightens, a lump forming in your throat as heat flushes your face. He offers a hand as you steady yourself, trying to rise to your feet, but you brush him off, snatching the bottle from his grip with a bitterness you don’t try to mask. 

"What the hell is your problem?" you snap.

"My problem?" he repeats, incredulous. "I’m not the one blackout drunk on a Wednesday night."

"I’m not—"

"Would you—would you just stop!" he barks, the words sharp enough to make you flinch. "You’re slurring your words. You got the streets wrong. You couldn’t even get the damn moisturizer open," he snaps, gesturing toward you harshly with a mixture of frustration and exasperation.

Your knuckles whiten as you cling to the edge of the sink, unsure if you’re holding on for balance or just to keep from breaking. You spin back toward the mirror willing yourself not to cry. The frustration, the confusion, the ache in your chest—everything wells up at once.

"God, you’re being so—"

"So what?" he interrupts, his voice rising as he steps closer. His eyes bore into yours, daring you to say it. "So concerned? So worried? So—"

"So fucking mean!"

The silence that follows deafening. For a moment, he freezes, the hard edges of his expression softening into something else—shock, regret, guilt—but it’s fleeting.

"So what if I’m drunk?" Your voice cracks as the words tumble out, your frustration too overwhelming to contain. "And yeah, maybe—" You shake your head, swallowing the lump in your throat as you glare at him, "Maybe I’m slurring a little but forgive me for wanting a drink after the final I’ve been stressing over all fucking month."

He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair, his frustration barely contained. "It’s not about you having a drink. It’s about you not knowing your limits—"

"Oh, for fucks sake," you interrupt, throwing your hands up. The movement makes you sway slightly, and you hate how it only seems to prove his point. "Newsflash, Spencer, I’m a university student. Sometimes we get drunk. You don’t get to make me feel like shit just because you don’t drink.”

You push past him, your shoulder grazing his as you move to sit on the edge of the bed. The mattress dips under your weight, and you grip the edge, willing the room to stop spinning.

"You were being reckless," he bites back, the word hanging heavy in the air. "You don’t see what I see. You’re out alone, you don’t—"

"I wasn’t alone," you say, your voice rising to meet his. "I had friends—"

"Yeah, friends who left you alone on a curb at 3am," he shoots back, cutting you off. The words land with precision, a calculated jab, but you refuse to flinch.

"Because you said you were on the way!" you fire back.

His voice is cold now, practically seething. "And what do you think would’ve happened if I hadn’t reached you just as that guy was coming on to you?"

"He was asking for the bus!" you shoot back, the words ringing out louder than you intended. You hate everything about this fight. You hate how unfamiliar he feels, hate the part of you that wonders if you’re the one who brought this out of him. "Nothing would’ve—"

Spencer’s expression darkens, his gaze narrowing. "Nothing?" He scoffs. "Tell that to Nina Radha. To Caroline Wrenley. To Mindy Denver. They were all ‘just waiting for a ride home’ last week. And now? All abducted. All dead." 

The room goes silent. Your chest tightens, and the fight drains out of you as his meaning sinks in. 

"You’re being cruel," your words are barely audible, trembling on the edge of your lips. The tears come faster now, streaking your face, but you don’t bother wiping them away. "Why—" you whisper, weak and watery, "Why are you being like this?" 

When Spencer finally turns to look at you, the sight of your tears stops him cold. They streak your face in uneven paths, and he feels something inside him splinter. Spencer never likes seeing you cry—he hates it, actually. It’s not just discomfort or unease; it’s a literal, physical ache. But knowing he’s the reason for your tears tonight? That’s pain in its most visceral form. It’s failure in its purest state.

"I—" he starts, his voice faltering. It cracks mid-sentence, and he stops, swallowing hard. His breath shudders as he exhales, trying to find the words, but all that comes out is a quiet, broken, "I was scared." 

Your tears have momentarily slowed, caught off guard by the sudden shift in his tone. The anger in his voice has faded, replaced by something softer, something raw—fear, tangled with guilt, with regret. He takes a tentative step closer, then hesitates, unsure of what to do. 

"I thought that… something could’ve happened to you, and I—I didn’t know how to handle it." 

After a moment, he lowers himself to your level, crouching in front of you. He lifts his hand, reaching out to wipe away the tears that stain your face. But the instant his fingers near you, you flinch, turning your head to avoid his touch. The movement is small, but Spencer’s heart shatters at the rejection all the same. He hates that he’s made you cry, hates that you won’t let him near you, hates that you won’t even look at him.

"I’m sorry," he says, the words low and weighted with sincerity. He knows it’s not enough, but it’s all he has left to give. 

Your tears fall, dripping onto your hands that rest limply in your lap. You shake your head, your shoulders tense, refusing to meet his eyes. The rejection stings, sharper than he expected, but he doesn’t blame you. He knows he deserves this. The room is still except for the sound of your quiet sniffles. 

Spencer tries again, his voice quieter now, almost pleading. "I just—" His breath catches as he exhales, his hand running through his hair in agitation, the movement more to calm himself than anything else. "When I saw you standing there alone—alone and with that man, I got scared. And I lashed out. I shouldn’t have. You didn’t— you didn’t deserve that."

The silence that follows is thick, but finally, you break it. Your voice is quiet, bitter. 

"I’m not them."

You’re still not meeting his eyes, still keeping that distance, but at least it’s something. 

"Those girls… I’m not them, Spencer."

"I know, I know. I was—", his voice is low, the regret weighing heavily on every syllable.

​​"That case was tough on you, I know it was," you interrupt, "And what happened to those girls, it was horrible. But I'm not them, Spence. I'm not…" Spencer watches helplessly as you furiously wipe away a tear from your cheek. 

"I'm not dead. I'm here."

“I was projecting, I—” His voice catches, “I shouldn’t have taken it out on you,” he admits quietly. You nod, grimly. Another single, heavy tear slips down your cheek and Spencer feels his heart break all over again. 

"I know you’re scared. How do you think I feel every time you go out into the field?" You take a deep breath, and say bitterly, "I get it." 

Each word is a struggle, but you say it with conviction. He can see how much you’re holding in, the effort it takes for you to keep your voice from cracking. 

You pause, swallowing hard as you steady yourself, "But you—You don’t get to talk to me like that." When your eyes meet his, they flash with both anger and sadness. "You don’t get to take that out on me." 

"I know, I—That was—I was being horrible, I was an ass," Spencer admits, his voice small. "You didn’t deserve that, honey. God, I’m just—I’m so, so, sorry." 

You look at him for a long moment, searching for any sign that he’s being sincere. All you see is regret, raw and heavy. And something else, something softer. Love. He reaches out, and this time you don’t pull away. Just getting to touch you is a brief, bittersweet, blinding relief. Spencer lets his fingers graze your cheek as he wipes away your tears gently, his thumb brushing over the wet path they’ve left behind. 

A soft, almost bitter laugh escapes you. "An ass is putting it lightly." 

Spencer’s chest tightens, a small breath of relief escaping him, though it’s quickly replaced with guilt. "M’so sorry sweetheart," he breathes out, comforted by the familiar bite in your tone. It lightens the air between you, just a little.

He shifts to sit next to you on the bed. "I didn’t—I really didn’t mean to," he says quietly. You rest your head on his shoulder, letting out a soft sigh, the fight slowly draining out of you. Spencer gently takes your hands, cradling them in his. 

"I—I never want to hurt you, never want to make you cry. Ever." Spencer's voice cracks slightly as he talks, fingers tracing your palm. "You know that, right?"

You nod, your voice small but steady. "I know."

Shifting, you tuck your legs beneath you, turning to face him fully. Your hands lift to cup his face gently, your thumbs brushing against the faint stubble on his jaw. The touch is tender, almost protective, as you guide his face to meet yours. His eyes can’t hold your gaze for long, shame clearly written across them.

"I was just—I was—" He stumbles over his words.

"Scared," you finish softly, filling the silence for him. 

"I—I’m sorry," Spencer’s voice falters, "I’m really sorry honey, I should’ve never—That was—"

Your hands guide his face back toward yours, coaxing him to meet your eyes. This time, he doesn’t resist, his breath shaky as he clings to the comfort you offer. "S’okay, baby. M’not mad anymore," you murmur.

"Sad?" he asks, his voice barely audible, like he’s afraid of what you’ll say.

"No," you smile faintly, shaking your head, "Not sad, baby," you whisper, leaning closer. Your thumb traces the curve of his cheek in silent reassurance. His shoulders relax just a little. "I just—" you sigh as you let out one last, quiet sniffle, "I really hate fighting." 

Carefully, he coaxes you into his lap, his arms wrapping around you. "Me too, honey," he says, his voice thick with emotion as he shifts closer. You don’t resist, letting your head rest in the crook of his neck, your breath warm against his skin.

"S’not nice," you murmur against him, your words muffled.

"I know, I know," Spencer whispers, his fingers tracing slow, soothing circles along your back. You let out a shaky sigh, sinking further into his embrace. “Was awful, wasn’t it?” he says, quietly.

"Mhm," you mumble quietly, your voice soft but pointed as you lean into his touch. "Made me cry," you say, looking at him through wet lashes to prove your point. Spencer thinks, for a split second, that he’d rather die than ever have to see you cry like that again. After a beat of quiet, he tilts his head just enough to press a soft kiss to your temple. 

"I love you, you know that?" 

You hum softly, nuzzling your face into his neck with a contented sigh, "Love you too."

"Love you so much, sweet girl," he says again, quieter this time, like it’s a truth meant only for you.

"Sap," you tease, lifting your head just enough to meet his gaze, the faintest hint of a smile on your lips.

Spencer grins, soft and boyish. "Always for you," he mumbles fondly, and before you can respond, he leans forward, pressing a playful kiss to the tip of your nose.

You stick your tongue out at him in mock protest, but he’s already chasing the moment. A kiss lands on your cheek. Then another on the other side. Each one dripping with easy affection. 

"Spence—" you laugh, the sound bubbling up. It spreads a warmth through Spencer’s chest. 

"My sweet girl," he says quietly, almost to himself. 

His smile only grows as he drinks in the sound of your giggles, tears long gone. He presses a fluttering series of kisses across your form until you’re laughing into his lips, each kiss softer than the last. 

One on your cheek, two on your shoulder, a thousand on your lips.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ hi if you're here! thank you for reading! feel free to like or reblog or comment or reply!

ᯓ★ song recs if you feel like it: false god by taylor swift moon river by frank ocean

[bitchimasnake-sss]

☆ oliver aiku vs. his ex!

synopsis: oliver aiku was always a ladies' man. a sadistic one, at that. he enjoyed playing with emotions, enjoyed being in control, enjoyed ruining women at the whims of his heart and dick. so, when he decides he's had enough of his cheerleader!gf and breaks up... why does she not look upset? in fact, why is she brushing him off, acting like he didn't mean shit to her?? huh? guess it's upto him to remind you just what a wonderful boyfriend he is. pairing: pro soccer player!oliver aiku x cheerleader!gf cw: hate-sex. marathon sex. making a sex tape. nsfw includes: fingering, penetration, creampie, oliver being a bitch and lowkey toxic. NOT PROOFREAD. wc: 2.9k

oliver aiku wasn't an actor by profession. no, he was a soccer player. the entire world knew that by now, you knew that by now.

yet the way he had clasped his hand — intertwining his digits — and looked at you with his pretty face all furrowed, you may as well given him an oscar for best actor.

"it hurts me to do this. it really fuckin' does." oliver nodded, splaying his large palm against his muscled chest, "but, i'm afraid it's just not working out between us."

you almost wanted to laugh in his face.

so, this is why he had booked a reservation at the same restaurant he had asked you out at just two months prior.

you could recall that night as if it was yesterday. the winds were unforgiving as you had sat on the same table in the same balcony area. that night, his heterochrome eyes were locked in on yours and he smiled so softly when he asked you out. words candied, so awfully, awfully sweet: "'s you and me, baby. forever."

how funny that forever lasted 2 month and 6 days.

now, the same dim overhead lighting panted the man in a subtle glow, hiding his dark intentions just as well as it hid the dips and curves of his facial features.

he reached for your hand on the table, methodically rubbing circles into your skin as his eyes bore into yours. he repeated, "you get me, right, baby?"

you almost did laugh in his face.

stifling your amusement under the guise of sadness, you nodded, "i understand it all, oliver. all too well, at that."

you knew oliver was a sadistic man, a man that replaced women with the flick of his fingers. something in him got off at their spluttering breaths, their wide eyes as they tried to ask him questions: but why? why do you want to break-up? oliver, why? why, why, why?

too bad you weren't one of those girls at oliver aiku's feet.

maybe he had forgotten that you had known him for ages, that you were well-versed with his tactics — being the captain of the national japanese cheerleading team. maybe he had forgotten that you knew what kind of man he was long before he started chasing after you. and maybe he had forgotten that if he tried to ruin you, you'd ruin him thrice over.

covering his larger palm with yours much smaller ones, you leaned forward. the swell of your tits was a sight to see, your cleavage so delicious against that low-cut dress but it was your words that made oliver aiku question his sanity, "i really get you, oli. with your career and mine, it's just so hard to make this work. i was gonna suggest the same. we should really break up."

what?

whatever flickers of amusement were left in his heterochrome eyes turn to ashes, sinking within his tanned skin as he physically froze. his eyes took you in, words barely pushing past his lips, "what?"

"you're right." you patted his hand sympathetically, "we should break-up, baby."

the two of you sat in silence, basking each-other in as the chatter in the background faded off. suddenly, the sensual ambience of the restaurant turned into one of stark... confusion...?

the man opened his mouth, pretty lips parting before closing again, and again, and again like a goddamn fish out of water.

"right. right." the man finally breathed out, shifting backwards in his seat and nodding, "i'm glad we both agree then."

"thanks for the meal, oliver." you smiled, pulling your hands back to your lap. your posture straightened, eyes tangling against his in such a cruel dance. "i'm so glad we could end this mutually."

"of course," the man rasped, trying to mask his disappointment at your level-headed tone.

why weren't you in shambles yet?

his lips wobbled as they fell into a smile, and the gesture left some sort of sick, twisted satisfaction in your gut.

oliver grit out, "i'm glad too."

that was two weeks ago, and you had walked away from the restaurant with heart well and intact. oliver aiku was a language you were well-versed in, after all. he was destruction, ruination, he was everything you should stay away from.

but now... the real question was: if oliver aiku was soo glad that you broke up, then why was he running towards you after winning the championship quarter-finals?

sweat dripped off the planes of his cheeks, down his jaw and into his jersey. he cleared his throat, completely ignoring your teammate who had been talking to you seconds prior. his eyes zeroed in on you, "oh, didn't see you there."

the man huffed, eyeing you in your tight-fitting uniform. the man in question smirked, keeping up with his own nonchalant attitude, "how ya doin', sweets?"

"didn't see me?" you repeated with a jump in your brows, "you didn't see the cheer team throughout the match? have you lost your vision, aiku? or worse, your mind?"

"oh? have i?" the slight, seductive lilt in his voice never gave up and you stared daggers at him, "what is it, aiku?"

"how was that, huh?"

"how was what?"

"my... play? the game?" the man slowed his speech down as if you were not comprehending him thoroughly.

"good, i guess?" you shrugged, still turned towards the teammate that seemed to sense the tension between you two. as if on cue, she left you to alone. walking away with the signature ponytail swaying with each graceful step.

you dragged your gaze back to the man and waited for him to spill. and spill, he did.

"i was thinking about the break-up." he finally fessed, a hand flying up to tame his unruly hair, "and i think it may have been a mistake."

a smirk threatened to break out on your lips but being a woman of class, you cooed instead, "but i do think it was the right decision. i don't think we should get back together, oli."

"what? f'real?" he panted, wiping a hand to get rid of the sweat that was cascading down his forehead.

you just hummed.

"what? jus' asking." and he grinned — unabashed, uncaring that the whole world might make when they see his crazed expression, "dont'cha miss me? be honest. don't you miss my dick? bet i can get you to come back with just an one night sta—"

"—nah, you're too tiny, aiku. it won't get the work done."

of course, the former captain didn't lose his cool. instead, he laughed — the kind that made your skin crawl and sent a violent, hot throb down to your core. his heterochrome eyes narrowed in some sort of evil satisfaction and he dragged his hand over his stubble so, so slowly.

he finally leaned in, "you want me to ruin you? ya wanna gamble your life like that?"

"can you?" you paused, purposefully looking at him with those doe-eyes, "can you 'ruin me', oliver?"

"hah." he pulled back, giving you an easy smile, "trying to push all my buttons? you have no idea how this'll end for you."

you nodded, "you think you'd scare me, aiku?"

"baby..." his voice was a drawl, words so well-pronounced, "i'd do you worse than that."

maybe you forgot that if you tried to ruin oliver aiku thrice over, he would go for a nasty total of four times instead.

"oli— a-aiku." your breath stuttered as his silhouette became blurry. hot tears pricked at your lash-line as he bullied his digits deeper and deeper into your cunt once more.

his pace was inhumane, fingers still playing against your gummy walls till he found the spot that was your kryptonite. and then, he kept assaulting that very spot over and over again. over n' over n' over again till your back arched and moans tore out of your throat so pathetically.

"i can't. i can't. ca-can't." you babbled — fucked so dumb on his thick fingers — as he tried to pull your fourth orgasm out of you, "a-aiku."

"ah." he hummed, his fingers fucking into you so, so mean. his pace slowed only so that you could focus on his rough voice, "tch, look right here."

his digits moved with purpose, their purpose being your ruination. and you lost yourself in the feeling of your stomach tightening, another violent orgasm trying to pry itself out of your aching body.

you were pulled into reality with a harsh squeeze of your cheeks. your teary eyes widened, wobbling lips falling into a forced pout as oliver repeated himself, "look into the fuckin' camera, doll."

"o-okay." your eyes dragged upwards from man to the tripod set at the edge of the bed. your shaky vision took in the metallic luster of his phone and you tried to focus.

"okay," he rasped, "now tell 'em how good i'm fucking ya." he cut himself off with a laugh, "ah, wait i haven't even fucked you yet and you're still so fucked out, isn't it?"

"no-oh." a harsh slap to your throbbing clit had your head rolling backwards. oliver hummed, "i asked you to speak up," another harsh slap had you gasping, "so, speak the fuck up."

"i-" your voice wavered pathetically, eyes barely focused on the camera that was perched a few meters apart, "i fuckin' hate oliver aiku."

"oh?" his amused laugh hit your core, hot breath playing with your overstimulated cunt. his fingers steadied, the impending orgasm that was just now knocking at your door dissipated with each drawled out second.

"oh?" he laughed again, this time slowly pulling his fingers out, "you hate me?"

"i- i do." you almost cringed at the weak resolve in your voice, and cringed once again as you failed to meet his eyes. oliver stared daggers at you, pushing his pretty fingers past his hungry lips to finally taste you.

"hmm," he hummed against his digits, popping them out lewdly, "you taste so fuckin' sweet but you're a mean, lil' thing. aren't ya?"

"yeah, i am. why?" as your body finally caught a break from his unyielding acts, your voice grew firmer, "are you having a tough time handling me?"

"you're so cute." the soccer player raised himself upwards and caged you in under him, muscled back rippling with each step forward. his fingers hooked under your chin, voice so soft, "why do you hate me?"

the very next second, he was off you. clad only in his boxers, oliver aiku carried himself to his phone and removed it off the tripod. bringing the device to you, he started a new video, "how about you tell all the reasons you hate me to the camera?"

"wh-huh?"

the phone was handed over into your shaking hands and you stared at your flushed face in the front camera as the camera kept on recording. your eye makeup was a mess, highlighter and blush smudged as lipstick dragged off of your lips to your chin.

"go on." oliver dragged his boxers down and you to his lap. with one smooth motion, his achingly hard cock was inside your abused cunt.

"o-li-ver." his words were mere syllables as your eyes clasped shut. his hips rutted upwards, his strong hands wrapping around your waist as he kept fucking into you. the mushroom tip dragging so deliciously against your g-spot.

"go on," he grit, words a desperate command, "tell the camera w-why you hate me, doll."

"first, you're so me-mean sometimes." you caught your face contorting into pleasure as oliver kept up with his pace.

"am i?"

"mhm." you nodded, one hand shakily clasping the camera and another wrapping around his shoulders to stablize yourself. he dragged his lips down your jaw, his stubble a familiar scratch against your skin, "what else?"

"you keep flirt—ingh ah, ah, ah wi—with other women, oli." he inhaled your scent, obscenely licking at the thin layer of perspiration on your neck, "and?"

"and you're s-sho," your words slurred at his sudden hard thrust within you, "pretentious."

he smiled against your skin, words so scratchy as your velvety walls milked him to his demise, "using big words now, pretty?"

your eyes met his in a lewd, charged dance. the long-forgotten video still getting filmed in the background as he captured your lips in a messy kiss; all teeth and spit and sins.

"'m not dumb like ya," you breathed against his kiss-bitten lips for a bare second before your lips clashed against his again. a strong hand travelled up your spine, the touch so intimate as he pounded his cock up into your cervix.

"o-oli," your hand shook, another wrapping around him as your hardened nipples rubbed against his hard, muscled body, "'m gonna cum."

"not yet." the man babbled, "not yet. not yet. finish telling the camera why you hate me."

"i ha-te you." you nodded, eyes drooping dangerously as you tried to speak into the phone, "i hate oli 'cause he only da-dated me to... fuck, oli. he dated me jus' to break up."

"did you not wanna break up?" the man cooed, though the undertones of his voice revealed the dark satisfaction of your admission, "ya said ya wanted it."

"i— i did."

"an' now?" his eyes bore into your face, words so desperate that they dangled at the edge of insanity, "say you love me."

your eyes widened, sanity clearing only for a moment to deny his hurling accusations, "i don't."

a harsh roll of his hips had your eyes rolling back again, had your manicured nails sinking into his tanned skin and had your jaw slacking open just for his to kiss you senseless.

"say it." he mumbled against your lips, drunk on you, "jus' say it. say y-you love me, doll."

you found yourself losing your senses as he fucked into you with one harsh rut and then another, and another. a hand snaked lazily between your writhing, sweaty bodies to play against you long-neglected clit, "c'mon. spill, doll."

"i do." you nodded finally, lips wettened by your crazed kisses and body molding to his corrupt touches, "i love you, oli."

"good girl." he smiled against your glossed lips, "say you want me back."

you repeated after him, a mindless husk of a woman at his disposition, "i wan' you ba-ah fuck 'm gonna cum."

"say it."

"i wantyouback." your words mushed together as you finally felt your orgasm clash against your own body. your thighs shook, the limbs closing tightly against his well-defined waist and his phone dropped from your limp grasp onto the luxurious bed.

"good girl, jus' like that." oliver nodded, his words so very dark as you finally fell limp against his body. his hand methodically soothed you, rubbing patterns into your back as he fucked his erection right into your overstimulated core.

heavy breaths stuttered out of your used body, eyes clasping shut at the feel of his warmth against your entire skin and the mess he was making against your puffy folds.

"fuuuck." his hips came to a stutter, arms growing tighter against your ribcage as the man emptied himself within your inviting, plush cunt with a pornographic moan, "fuckin' hell, i forgot just how good you feel like this."

the sticky, white-ish liquid dribbled past your fluttering cunt and pooled within you two. oliver pushed you a mere inches away to bring his hands to your face. as his heterochrome eyes burned into yours, the warmth from his palm seemed to seep into your cold cheek... but now, his touch felt too hot, as if it would char you.

oliver aiku gave you a smile — a dangerous one — and the dimple in his cheek came alive, "i'm so happy we're back together, baby."

wait, what???

but before you could question him, before you could take a pause and wonder aloud, his syrupy lips caught yours and he shushed you, "shh, 's okay. jus' go to sleep, baby. i'll clean you up, okay?"

"but oli—"

"—baby." his words were gentle, actions so soft as he laid you down on the bed and kissed your forehead, "just sleep, doll. we can talk tomorrow, right?"

and you nodded. how could you not as he dragged his strong palms up and down your sore body and mumbled sweet nothings into the pliant, night air?

the next morning, as the sun shone past his glass windows and onto your sleepy face, you saw a half-dressed oliver hovering on the side of the bed.

"what?" you asked lazily, rubbing the sleep off of your eyes. half aware that you were still in his bed, you stared at him confused.

"what?" he repeated with a dopey smile.

"what'dyou want?" your words slurred, the morning voice creeping in within the syllables.

"nothing." oliver grinned, bending down to boop your nose with his index, "jus' wanted to say goodmorning to my beautiful girlfriend."

your eyes widened, body shooting up so fast that your forehead collided against his dense head, "—ouCH!"

"jesus," the man staggered, rubbing the area you had assaulted with his index and middle finger, "what?!"

"you were serious about that?!"

"you were not?" he quipped, and you shook your head as if he was the insane one, "obviously not."

"ah," oliver aiku nodded — as if in a deep thought — before looking down at you. flickers of amusement swam in his irises, lips lopsided and twisted as he looked at you as if you were his personal lab rat, "well, too bad we're back together now, doll."

what the fuck.

a/n: OLIVER AIKU THE MAN YOU AREEE. I LOVE TO HATE YOU. MY CRINGEFAIL HUSBAND FOREVER MWUAH MWUAH. tagging: @moodswing101 @actuallynarii @5hoe1 @mininji @scara-simp69 @heartfeltstarry @keimorii because like why, not?

[itneverendshere]

can we see rafe with a pouge reader and they are dating. they go out to go grocery shopping and rafe sees that she has a calculator out and watches as she picks up an item then types it in the calculator and then puts it back and chooses a cheaper option and he has to tell her that she doesn’t need to do that

birds of a feather - rafe cameron

word count: 2.9k belongs to this universe

The grocery store is quiet for a saturday afternoon, a rarity that makes the experience almost peaceful. Fluorescent lights buzz softly overhead as Rafe pushes a cart lazily with one hand, his other hand draped comfortably around his girl, you. 

He catches your eye and smiles, relishing the way you always lean into him, your bodies fitting together perfectly. Dating you was like finding the missing piece of himself—something he always knew he needed but never thought he’d find, let alone on the other side of the island.

Rafe grabs a box of cereal, tossing it into the cart without a second thought. “You good on milk, babe?” he asks, scanning the shelves for anything else that might catch his eye.

You nodded absentmindedly, focusing elsewhere. He notices that you are holding your phone in one hand and have a small calculator app open. His brow furrows as he watches you pick up a box of pasta, glance at the price, and then quickly type something into the calculator. After a moment of calculation, you place the box back on the shelf and reach for a cheaper brand.

Rafe's heart clenches. He hadn’t really thought about the differences between you in this way before. He knows you don't have the same privileges he does—didn’t grow up in a life of luxury as he had—but it’s moments like this that make him feel like a fucking entitled douche. 

He watches you do it again, this time with a jar of tomato sauce. You compare the prices, calculate the difference, and opt for the less expensive one.

“Hey,” Rafe stops you as you reach for another item. “What’re you doing?”

You blink, as if coming out of a trance, and look up at him with almost embarrassed smile. “Just trying to make sure I stay within the budget. Groceries can add up, y’know?”

He can’t stand the idea of you worrying about something as basic as food. Sure, he understands budgeting—everyone has to do it to some extent—but this? This was different. This was a mindset.

He gently takes the phone from your hand and slips it into his back pocket, keeping your hand in his. “You don’t need to do that. I’ve got you, okay?”

“Rafe, I—”

“I’m serious,” he interrupted, “You don’t have to worry about the prices. Just get what you want. We’re fine.”

You are grateful—God, you were always grateful—but there’s something else, something that has kept you up at night.

You hate relying on him. Not because you don’t trust him or appreciate everything he does for you, but because it reminds you of the whispers you’ve been hearing ever since you started dating. 

You can almost hear the voices now, like a nagging reminder in the back of your mind. “Gold digger,” they’d hiss. “Dirty Pogue. Look at her, clinging to him for the money. She’s got him wrapped around her finger, totally pussy-whipped.”

The rumors had messed with your head the first time you’d heard them, and even now, they still hurt, despite knowing they weren’t true. But the worst part is that a small, insecure part of you hates there might be some truth to what they said. You didn’t want Rafe to feel like he had to take care of you, or that you were using him for his money. You love him too much to ever want him to think that.

You glance at him, watching as he casually tosses another item into the cart without checking the price, without even a second thought. He’s so at ease, so unbothered by the things that you had worried about during your entire lifetime. You can’t help but feel guilty, like you’re dragging him down, making him take on responsibilities that should be yours alone. 

A you walk down another aisle, you keep your eyes on the floor, as you force the words out. “I know you’re just trying to help, and I really appreciate it, but I don’t want you to feel like you have to take care of me.”

Rafe stops in his tracks, turning to face you fully. His brows knit together in concern like he genuinely can't grasp what you just said.

“I don’t feel like that,” he says,“I want to take care of you because I love you. It’s not about feeling like I have to—it’s because I want to.”

“But I hear what people say, Rafe—”

“They don’t know shit,” he scoffs, hand wrapping tightly around the cart, “They don’t know. Anyone who says otherwise can go fuck themselves.”

You sigh, your shoulders slumping as you lean into him, “It’s not that simple, baby. But I appreciate the thought.”

His other hand tilts your chin up so you’re looking directly at him, “It is that simple. I love you. You love me. That’s it.”

You know he means it, that he’s not just saying it to please you, but it doesn’t make the worries disappear. You nod, giving him a small smile, but he knows your brain is working double shifts, imagining all kinds of scenarios.

He sighs, knowing this conversation is far from over, and presses a gentle peck against your temple, all while murmuring, “Let’s finish up here and get out of this place.”

You agree, and the two of you continue down the aisle. Your hands are itching to take your phone out of his back pocket, and your brain scrambling to do simple math. You hate it. You automatically reach for the off-brand items, skip over the more expensive snacks, and choose the smaller sizes of products to stretch your budget. Rafe is abnormally quiet and you know it’s taking every will power in his body not to pick you up and lock you in his truck while he finishes shopping for you. 

He pauses in front of the snacks aisle, his eyes catching on your favorite candy. It’s something he knows you love but rarely allow yourself to buy. Without hesitation, he grabs a couple of bags and tosses them into the cart.

“Rafe, those are expensive—” you start to protest, but he cuts you off with a playful grin.

“They’re my favorite too.”

You open your mouth to argue, but the way he looks at you, with so much affection, makes the words die on your lips. Instead, you shake your head huffing as he wraps his arm around your shoulders dragging you along, “You’re so annoying.”

“Don’t be mean, baby.”

You squeeze his waist in retaliation. 

When you finally reach the checkout line, he watches as you nervously glance at the total on the screen. It’s a small thing, for him, but it’s enough to make him realize just how much it affects you. Without saying a word, he hands over his card to the cashier, ignoring the way you try to protest.

“Rafe, you don’t have to—” you start, but he shakes his head, cutting you off.

“I know,” he says firmly, “But I want to.”

You bite your lip, nodding reluctantly as he pays for the groceries. It’s a small gesture, but it means the world to him. He wants to take care of you, to make sure you never have to worry about something as basic as food ever again. He wants to give you the life you deserve, the one you never experienced on The Cut.

He opens the trunk of his car, starting to load the groceries while you stand there, too quiet. He hates not hearing the sound of your voice. 

“Hey,” he closes the trunk and turning to face you. “What is it?”

“Nothing.”

He steps closer, his hand finding a home in your neck, thumb caressing your pulsing point, “Forget about them okay?”

You sigh, forehead touching his chin, “I’m trying. I just don’t want to be a burden to you. I don’t want you to feel like you have to take care of me.”

“You’re not a burden,” he says firmly, fingers pulling your head up, his blue eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that, no matter how often it happens, still takes your breath away. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Now get that fine ass inside the car.”

You can’t help but laugh at the way he says it, so casually and with so much conviction that it leaves no room for you to second guess his thoughts. His confidence, his overwhelming trust in everything that he says, is one of the things you love most about him. He’s always been like that—bold, sure of himself, and unafraid to go after what he wants. And right now, what he wants is you. 

“Why?” You tease, rolling your eyes but smiling as you let him guide you toward the car “You gonna make me if I don’t?”

You wish you could photograph the grin on his face, the way his beautiful eyes seem to drink you in like he’ll die if he doesn’t look at you all the time. 

“Oh, you know I will,” he says as he steps closer, his hand slipping down to give your ass a firm but playful slap. The sound echoes through the quiet parking lot, and you gasp, more from surprise than anything else.

“Rafe!” you scold, though your laughter makes it known there’s no real annoyance. The smirk on his face only grows, clearly pleased with himself.

“Consider that a warning,” he leans in closer, his breath warm against your ear. “I’d hate to have to follow through.”

You try to hold back a grin, biting your lip as you tilt your head to look up at him. 

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Wouldn’t I?” His tone is a challenge.

For a moment, you consider pushing more just to see what he’d do, but the way he’s looking at you—like he’s ready to scoop you up and take you back to his bed right then and there—makes you rethink it. Instead, you play along, giving him a coy smile as you turn and head for the door.

“That’s what I thought,” he calls after you, his deep voice filled with a smug satisfaction that makes you roll your eyes again. Before you can reach for the door handle, he gently pulls it open for you. You slide into the passenger seat, and before you touch the seatbelt, Rafe is leaning in, his hands brushing over yours as he clicks the belt into place.

“Safe and sound,” he murmurs, as he pulls back slightly. It’s something so simple, yet so endearing he has insisted on doing ever since the two of you started dating.

You smile up at him, practically oozing in your love for him as your hand reaches up to brush a stray lock of hair from his forehead.

“Thank you."

His gaze softens as he leans down to press a tender kiss to your lips, “Anything for you,” he whispers, his thumb brushing lightly across your cheek before he finally steps back and closes the door.

As he rounds the front of the car to get in on his side, you can’t help but watch him. It still blows your mind that this is real. The way he looks at you, the way he takes care of you without making you feel small—it’s everything you never knew you needed. You’re still not used to someone loving you like this, so openly. You never imagined Rafe Cameron would be that someone. 

He starts the engine, the low hum filling the silence between you. The radio automatically tunes to a soft indie station, one of your favorites, and Rafe reaches over to lace his fingers with yours. 

“I’m cooking tonight.”

You turn to him, even though you know his attention is on the road, “Really?”

Rafe’s thumb absentmindedly rubs circles on the back of your hand, “Hmmm.”

“So you can burn down the kitchen again?”

“Baby, that was one time.”

You snort, the image of Rafe with a fire extinguisher still fresh in your memory, “What’s on the menu?”

He grins, “I was thinking we could make that pasta you like, with the garlic bread.”

Your heart swells a little at the thoughtfulness behind his choice. He remembers all the little things—your favorite foods, the way you like your coffee, the songs that make you smile.

“Are you trying to get laid?”

He laughs, loud and boisterous as he lifts your hand to his lips and presses a soft kiss to your knuckles, “So you don’t want desert?”

You hit his shoulder gently, all too aware you’re still in a moving vehicle, “Don’t be nasty.”

His touch moves to your thighs, squeezing gently, "Can't help it when I'm around you."

The smile tugging at your lips is impossible to hide. There's something so easy about being with Rafe, despite everything. Despite the whispers, the looks, the insecurities that sometimes creep in—he has a way of making you feel like none of it matters. 

The city lights begin to twinkle on the horizon, the sun dipping low in the sky. It's peaceful, the kind of quiet that lets you sink into yourself. The idea of a cozy night in, just the two of you cooking dinner together, fills you with a warmth that has nothing to do with the summer heat outside.

Rafe glances over at you, a soft smile playing on his lips. "Penny for your thoughts?"

You shake your head, the smile widening on your face. "Just thinking about how lucky I am."

He quirks an eyebrow, "I think I'm the lucky one."

"Yeah, but you're also really annoying," you tease, earning a chuckle from him.

"Annoying but irresistible," he counters smoothly, pulling into the driveway of his house 

He parks the car and quickly rounds the front to open your door, always the gentleman. As you step out, you look up at him, your heart swelling with a love so deep it almost overwhelms you. It's not just the grand gestures or the way he spoils you—it's the little things, the way he makes you feel cherished, the way he sees you for who you are and loves you anyway.

"Ready for our gourmet meal?" he asks as he takes your hand, leading you towards the front door.

You laugh, leaning into him as you walk. "If by gourmet you mean slightly burnt, then yes."

He chuckles, his arm slipping around your waist as he presses a kiss to the top of your head. "With you, it's always perfect."

Before you can walk through the front door, he stops all too suddenly, dragging you against him. You’re confused for a second, looking up to see him ogle you.

“What?” You stutter out, “Something’s wrong?”

Rafe shakes his head, a smile tugging at the corners of his pink lips as he looks down at you with that same adoring expression that never fails to make your heart  stop. "No, nothing’s wrong.”

You blink up at him, still confused, “Rafe...”

 “I know you worry sometimes. About what people say, about what they think. But I don’t give a fuck about any of that. I only care about you, about us.” His hand moves to cup your face, his thumb moving gently along your cheekbone. “I love you, y’know that? Right? Aways.”

Your breath hitches at the sudden emotion in his voice. It’s random moments like this that remind you why you fell in love with him in the first place—beneath the confident, cocky exterior, Rafe Cameron has a heart that beats fiercely for the people he cares about, especially for you. 

“I love you,” you whisper, feeling the words settle between you like a vow.

“I love you more,” he replies, his voice full of conviction. Then, with a small grin, he adds, “And I’m gonna marry you someday. We’re gonna have our own place, our own life. Just you and me.”

It’s not the first time you’ve talked about the future, but hearing him say it so plainly, so confidently, sends a warmth spreading through your whole body.

“Is that a proposal, Cameron?” you tease, though your voice wavers just a little, eyes burning as you pathetically attempt not to cry.

“Not yet,” he smirks, leaning down to press a peck to the corner of your lips, “But when I do, you’ll know. It’s gonna be perfect. Just like you.”

You pull back slightly, resting your forehead against his as you take a deep breath, trying to calm the stupid fluttering in your chest. “You mean it?”

“More than anything,” he replies without hesitation. “I want to build a life with you, baby. The kind of life where you never have to worry about anything, where you can just be happy.”

Tears form at the corners of your eyes, but they’re the good kind, the kind that comes from being overwhelmed with love. So different from the ones you’d experienced as a kid, growing up. You nod, not sure how to explain how you’re feeling inside, so instead, you pull him down for another kiss, letting your lips show what your voice can’t.

You kiss each other like you have all the time in the world, which you have, savoring the way your lips fit perfectly against his. There’s no rush, no urgency—just you two. 

When you pull apart, both of you slightly breathless, Rafe gives you a lopsided grin, his lips just barely grazing yours as he speaks, “So, how about we start with dinner?”

[hoshifighting]

Salt, Sugar and Everything Us

Synopsis: What do you get when the guy who literally threw salt in your dessert during a Michelin star competition 11 years ago, waltzes up to the door of your NGO like he didn’t ruin your entire life plan back in the day?

WC: 22k

WARNINGS: jihoon and children to heal our souls <3, angst, fluff, references to professional betrayal and its lingering effects, throwing up due to emotional discomfort, moments that may bring up past trauma especially related to rejection or failure, power imbalance.

SMUT WARNINGS: explicit language, penetrative sex, fingering, orgasm denial, overstimulation, semi-public setting, mutual desperation, body fluids (cum)

Manoir = Mansion in french.

NGO = Nonprofit organization that operates independently of any government.

Monsieur = Sir

— // December 2013 // — 

You’re standing in the kitchen, staring at the bright lights overhead, your heart pounding so hard you swear it’s echoing off the marble countertops. The smell of sugar and chocolate floats in the air. You glance over at Jihoon, who’s methodically working on his plate. There’s no denying the guy’s a genius, but damn, does he have to be such an ass about it?

You flash him a shy smile—just a small one. Yeah, it’s a competition, and yeah, only one of you is gonna win and run the four Michelin-star restaurant in Switzerland—the prize of the contest. But like, after this, you’ll still all be chefs. You’ll still work together. You’d all end up in the same world soon enough, working in the same circles, maybe even crossing paths in some fancy kitchen.

Nothing. He doesn’t even look your way.

Fred, the tutor-slash-guardian angel for this trip, the one who dragged you halfway across the world to this kitchen in Europe, warned you. “Jihoon’s tutor hates you,” he had said, voice low like he was telling you some big secret. “It’s ‘cause you’re the only one who can match him. Maybe even beat him.” He had laughed, but it didn’t feel like a joke.

You shake your head and focus on your dessert. Your mousse sits on the plate, the top glistening perfectly under the lights, just the right amount of shine. The swirl of raspberry coulis looks like something out of a cooking magazine. You’re proud of it. Hell, you’re damn proud of it. You step back to admire it, and even the renowned chef standing in front of you—some big-shot Michelin-star guy whose name you can’t even pronounce—gives you a smile. But not a friendly one. More like a don’t get too cocky kind of smile.

And then he tastes it.

His face shifts so fast, your stomach drops. One second, he’s blank, and the next, he’s frowning, like really frowning, staring down at the plate like it face-to-face harmed him. He spits it out, not dramatically, just like he doesn’t wanna cause a scene. The whole kitchen goes quiet. Even the sound of knives chopping stops. You feel the heat crawling up your neck, spreading across your cheeks.

This can’t be happening.

“Did you taste this before serving it?” His voice cuts through the silence like a knife.

Your throat is dry. You swallow, shaking your head slowly. “Uh… no, I—”

“Taste it,” he snaps, holding the spoon out toward you.

Your hands shake as you take the spoon, and before you can think twice, you taste it. The second it hits your tongue, you freeze. 

Salt. Way too much salt. 

It’s fucking disgusting. 

You almost gag, but you force yourself to swallow, blinking fast as your brain tries to process what the hell just happened.

You glance over at Jihoon. He’s standing there, completely expressionless, not even pretending to be interested in the drama unfolding. But you remember. You remember when you left the mousse to rest, just for a minute, and Jihoon had passed by your station. Just a quick brush past, nothing suspicious. Nothing out of place.

Except now, all you can taste is salt.

The chef crosses his arms, still staring at you like he’s waiting for an explanation. You open your mouth, but no words come out. What are you supposed to say? That Jihoon sabotaged your dessert? That you think he did? You glance at him again, and for a split second, his eyes meet yours, and there’s the tiniest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. Just enough for you to see, before it’s gone.

“Do you have anything to say?” the chef asks, his tone icy.

You swallow again, shaking your head. “No, chef.”

This is it. The final round. Eliminatory. And you’re standing here with a plate of salted mousse because you trusted the wrong person for one damn second. You close your eyes for a brief moment, taking in a breath. You can feel the tension rolling off everyone in the room, and it takes everything in you not to scream.

You watch the chef walk over to Jihoon’s station, his expression already softening. Jihoon’s smiling now—this smug, self-assured grin plastered across his face as if he hadn’t just screwed you over minutes ago. His dessert does look good, though. Annoyingly good. Neat, precise, and probably just sweet enough to charm the hell out of the chef.

The chef takes a bite, nodding as if Jihoon’s dessert just confirmed every expectation. Then, just like that, he moves on, walking away without a second glance at you.

[...]

“Y/N, you’re eliminated. Please leave your apron on the station.”

The words slam into you like a punch, and your stomach twists. You don’t even know how you manage to stay upright, every muscle screaming at you to just collapse. You hear the gasps from the others behind you—your friends, competitors, but friends nonetheless—just as shocked as you are.

“What the fuck?” someone mutters.

“There’s no way…” another voice says, incredulous.

You don’t even turn around. You can’t. Instead, you glance at Fred in the back, your lifeline in this whole chaotic mess. He’s shaking his head, this look of defeat in his eyes that he’s trying so hard to hide. Like even he knew it was over the second Jihoon pulled that bullshit with your dessert.

Fred mouths, That’s it. Let’s go. But his sad eyes tell you everything you need to know. It wasn’t fair. And he knew it. You both knew it.

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you force yourself to walk up to the chef. Your hands are shaking, and you clench your fists, trying to keep it together as you shake his hand. He’s stiff, formal, but you can’t help but notice the faint hint of pity in his eyes.

You avoid it.

When you turn back to your station, the weight of the moment crashes down on you. The stupid fucking apron you worked so hard to wear now feels like it’s burning a hole in your chest. As you reach up to untie it, your chin starts to quiver. You fight it—God, you fight it so hard—but the tears are already pooling in your eyes. This is it. The dream…gone.

Because of salt. Fucking salt.

You fold the apron, mechanical, like maybe if you take your time, this won’t feel so real. But it is. The apron sits on the counter in front of you, this symbol of everything you’ve lost, and you walk away before anyone can see you break.

As soon as you’re backstage, the tears come. Hot and heavy, spilling down your cheeks as you crumble into the arms of one of the friends you’d made here. They’re hugging you tight, whispering things like, “It’s not fair, you didn’t deserve this,” and “You were so close.” Their voice cracks too, sad that they didn’t win either, but it’s different for them. They weren’t robbed. They were sure you had it in the bag.

And then, after what feels like hours, you spot Jihoon again, his face glowing under the lights, a damn set of keys in his hand. The keys to the restaurant. Your restaurant. It should’ve been yours.

You blink through your tears, watching as he basks in the victory. Nothing, absolutely nothing, can take this sting away. This moment is etched into your brain, and you’re certain you’ll never forget it. No matter how much time passes, nothing will make you recover from this.

Leaving Europe had felt like defeat. It wasn’t just a loss on some cooking show—it was like watching a dream you’d nurtured since you were a kid slowly crumple and fade. Back then, you were so young, so full of ambition that your heart couldn’t even contain it all. Every time you thought of that moment, standing in that bright, sterile kitchen as Jihoon held those damn restaurant keys, it was like hearing your inner child sobbing hurtfully inside your eardrums. And that hurt more than you ever expected.

For the longest time, it felt like nothing could fill the void that salty mousse had left behind.

— // A decade later // — 

But life has this weird way of surprising you when you least expect it. Turns out, there were plans far better than Michelin stars waiting for you. Plans you never even imagined, but ones that would heal you in ways a fancy restaurant never could.

It’s the little hands tugging at your apron now that remind you of just how far you’ve come. You’re not standing in some high-end kitchen with a sous-chef barking orders at you, or sweating over the chance to impress another judge. No, you’re standing in a small room, the walls plastered with drawings and messy crayon sketches of cupcakes, pizza slices, and lopsided bowls of spaghetti. Your apron’s a little stained, flour dusting the front of it, but you couldn’t care less.

“Why do you mix it like that?” A curious voice pipes up from below, and you glance down to find a pair of wide, sparkling eyes staring up at you. The flour and eggs in the bowl swirl together under your whisk, creating a soft, smooth batter. The kid—couldn’t be more than six—watches your hands like you’re performing magic.

“Because that’s how you make it fluffy,” you say, smiling as they nod, fascinated. A moment later, you feel tiny arms wrap around your leg, a small hug that makes your heart swell in ways that no standing ovation ever could. It’s innocent, pure, like they’re just happy to be near you, to learn from you.

Another voice chimes in, “How do you know when it’s ready?”

You chuckle, wiping a bit of flour from your forehead with your wrist. “You just know. It feels right.”

They tilt their head, brow furrowing like you’ve just told them some impossible riddle. You laugh softly and let them feel the batter between their fingers, watch as they giggle, amazed at how something so simple can be so right. There’s something about these moments, the curiosity in their eyes, the way they look at you with trust, like you’re some kind of culinary wizard. You weren’t Jihoon with his restaurant keys, and honestly, that’s never been more okay.

Because in these moments, surrounded by kids full of wonder, asking question after question, you realize that no Michelin star could pay for this feeling. There’s a joy here that runs deeper than prestige or recognition. A joy that healed something broken in you.

Your inner child, the one who cried in that cold European kitchen all those years ago, quieted here. She wasn’t crying anymore. She was laughing, learning how to mix flour with eggs, feeling the batter with her hands, like it was something new and wonderful. All those tears you shed for a dream that wasn’t meant for you? They were worth it, because they brought you here—to this.

It’s funny, really. Back then, you thought that only a shining career could fill the emptiness left behind by that loss. But here you are, standing in a room full of kids who look up to you like you’re a hero. And that? That’s priceless.

You’d started this nonprofit, an NGO for kids who didn’t have much, but who had the biggest imaginations you’d ever seen. You taught them to cook, sure, but it wasn’t just about food. It was about creating something with their hands, feeling proud of themselves, and finding a space to be themselves in a world that often made them feel small. Just like how you’d once felt—small, unworthy, like a failure. But now, every smile, every curious question they asked, it stitched up another tear in your heart.

It’s poetic, really. You thought you’d heal by chasing after the dream that slipped through your fingers in that European kitchen. But instead, you found healing in the hands of children, in their endless curiosity, in the way they saw the world full of possibilities. And in doing so, you healed the child inside of you—the one who had dreamed big but didn’t know how to handle disappointment when the dream didn’t come true.

Good things, they say, come to those who wait. And yeah, after everything you’d been through, you could finally see it—really see it. Your name, once tied to that one bitter loss back in 2013, now stood on its own, bold and bright in the culinary world. You weren’t just the kid who lost in Europe anymore. You were someone people sought after, someone who made a difference. The buzz around your NGO had grown so much that, by now, it felt like a new interview request hit your inbox every other day.

It was the fifth time this week you sat down for one.

"Tell us about your journey,” the interviewer smiled, setting the recorder between you both like they were about to hear some untold story. But by now, the story of your journey had become almost second nature. You leaned back in your chair, looking around the space—the walls adorned with photos of smiling kids, famous chefs who had come through your doors, all here to support the cause. This place, this NGO, had become something bigger than you ever imagined.

“Well," you started, a small smile tugging at your lips, “I guess it started with failure.”

That’s how you always began. Not shying away from what happened all those years ago but embracing it, wearing it like a badge of honor. Because, hell, if it hadn’t been for that loss, none of this would exist. Not the kitchen full of kids eager to learn. Not the world-class chefs flying in from every corner of the globe to share their wisdom with them. And certainly not the donations that had been pouring in, enough to keep this place thriving for years.

You ran a hand through your hair, glancing at a nearby photo. It was of you and a group of kids, all in their mini hats, standing next to one of the chefs from some Michelin-starred restaurant. They’d come to volunteer for a day, to give these kids a taste of their future—what could be theirs if they kept going.

“Back then, when I lost, I thought it was the end. But now…” You paused, looking around at the faces of the kids, at the excitement in their eyes as they tried to get their dough just right or figure out the balance between sweet and savory. “Now, I can’t imagine it going any other way. This is where I was meant to be.”

The interviewer nodded, clearly trying to keep up, but you could tell they hadn’t expected the story to take this turn. They probably thought you’d talk about how the loss fueled some revenge arc, a rise to the top, something a bit more dramatic. But the truth? The truth was softer than that, more human.

At this point, most of the world’s top chefs had been here at some point or another. Either they’d come to run a class, spend a day with the kids, or drop by to donate supplies. There was something magical about seeing their eyes light up when they walked through the doors, like they were stepping back into the beginning of their own journey.

“That’s amazing,” the interviewer said, scribbling something down. “You’ve had some huge names come here. What’s it like working alongside these big chefs now?”

You shrugged, letting out a soft laugh. “It’s surreal sometimes. You know, these are people I looked up to, the same ones I’d watch on TV or read about when I was younger, just starting out. And now they’re here, in my kitchen, helping my kids.”

[...]

You were just finishing up, wiping your hands on the towel after the last batch of cookies came out of the oven, when you saw Fred practically running into the kitchen. The grin on his face said it all before he even opened his mouth.

“Fifty grand!” he shouted, stopping just short of knocking over a jar of flour in his excitement.

“Fifty what?” you blinked, thinking you must’ve misheard. Fifty thousand dollars? That was… huge. Massive. Your mind raced, trying to figure out how that could even be possible.

“Yep,” Fred beamed, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. “Just got the news from the accountant. Some company called Lee Gastronomy—never heard of ‘em—but they sent the check and a little note saying they’re excited to support the house. Something about moving back to town soon and wanting to visit.”

You felt your heart race as you tugged your apron off, suddenly needing to see the paperwork for yourself. Fifty thousand dollars? That was enough to cover months of supplies, repairs, upgrades—hell, you could finally get that new oven you’d been dreaming about for the kitchen. “Lee?” you frowned, trying to jog your memory. “I don’t know any Lee.”

Fred shrugged, still grinning. “Me either. But who cares, right? We just got fifty grand!”

Even though the number hung in the air like a golden ticket, something felt strange. You didn’t know any Lee. You’d worked in this field long enough to know all the big players—chefs, donors, restaurant owners, food critics—but no one named Lee had ever crossed your path.

The next few days passed, Fred had started spreading the word about the donation, and suddenly, you found yourself knee-deep in logistics. Checking with the accountant, verifying the donation, making sure everything was legit. And yeah, it was. The company’s registration number checked out, the money had cleared, and everything seemed on the up and up. But that name… Lee Gastronomy. It still didn’t ring any bells.

Every time you mentioned it to someone—colleagues, friends, even the chefs who had been visiting the voluntary organization—they’d shake their heads too. No one had ever heard of them. You tried not to dwell on it too much; after all, it was a lot of money, and you had kids to take care of, projects to fund, and kitchens to keep running.

But then, more donations started rolling in.

First, another $10,000 from a small local bakery, then $15,000 from a chef’s association you’d partnered with in the past. Then $25,000 from an anonymous donor who didn’t leave any contact information—just a note saying they loved what you were doing and wanted to help. It felt like the floodgates had opened, and suddenly, people everywhere wanted to support your cause.

Each time, the donations brought a wave of gratitude and hope. The organization was growing faster than you’d ever imagined, and the possibilities felt endless. You could expand the programs, bring in more kids, offer more hands-on experiences with top chefs. And you did just that. You started upgrading the kitchen, organizing new field trips for the kids, even partnering with local schools to expand the reach of your work.

But that nagging feeling in the back of your mind never quite went away.

“Fred,” you said one afternoon as you both sat in the office, going over the latest set of donations, “Do you think it’s weird that all this is happening right after Lee Gastronomy showed up?”

Fred paused, leaning back in his chair. “I mean, maybe a little? But honestly, I just think word is spreading. People are seeing what we’re doing, and they want to help.”

“Yeah, maybe.” You nodded, but your gut told you there was more to it.

The next week, another $30,000 came in. The donation slip was clean, but again, no name. No big donor stepping out of the shadows to claim credit for it. Just money pouring into your NGO like it was destined for you, and yet, you couldn’t figure out why it was all happening now.

[...]

The early morning air was cool as you bent down, adjusting the vases of flowers in front of the organization beautiful entrance. The kids wouldn’t arrive for another hour, and this was your moment of calm. A moment to breathe before the chaos of the day began. Today, your mind was occupied with the meeting you’d been anticipating for weeks.

Lee Gastronomy.

Whoever this mysterious benefactor was, they were finally coming to visit. You’d replayed the moment in your head a hundred times—meeting them, shaking their hand, expressing your endless gratitude. You wanted to make a good impression, show them what their generous donations had been doing. You straightened up, brushing off your pants, when the sound of footsteps on the pavement caught your attention. Two pairs of Gucci shoes appeared in your view, black leather, polished, expensive. The kind of shoes that had power written all over them.

You lifted your head, the best smile already set on your face. "Oh, you must be Lee! I—" The words stuck in your throat.

The face staring back at you wasn’t some stranger. It was him.

Jihoon. Lee? Lee Jihoon?

Your breath tied, and for a second, everything around you disappeared. It was like time rewound itself to that kitchen in Europe, to the sharp look in his eyes as the corners of his mouth twitched into that subtle, knowing smirk. He was older now, more mature. His face had lost some of its softness, replaced with sharper angles, and yet… the eyes. You’d never forget those eyes. You couldn’t.

“Jihoon?” You muttered, like saying his name would break the reality in front of you.

Jihoon’s expression didn’t change much, but there was a faint smile on his lips. Fred, who had been standing beside you, froze. You could feel his tension, the silent question hanging in the air. He had no idea how you’d react. Hell, you didn’t even know how you’d react.

Everything came flooding back.

The way Jihoon had smirked as you stood there, staring down at your ruined dessert in disbelief. The way his fingers had curled around the restaurant’s keys, how he’d accepted his victory without so much as a glance your way. That little mole near his eye, the one you’d stared at for hours during the competition, watching it crinkle when he frowned or smiled—always at your expense.

You felt it then. The taste. That same, cursed taste of salt rising in the back of your throat. Your body tensed, memories crashing into you with such force it made you dizzy. You felt sick. So, so sick, that you feel like you are about to—

Your hand shot up to cover your mouth, and before you could stop yourself, you were rushing inside the house, pushing past Fred, not even sparing a glance back at Jihoon. The nausea was enormous, the weight of the past pulling at your gut, twisting it into knots. You barely made it to the bathroom, dropping to your knees in front of the toilet, just in time for everything to spill out of you.

Fred was right behind you, voice panicked. “Y/N! Hey, hey, it's okay, I’m here.” He knelt beside you, gently pulling your hair back, trying to keep you steady as your body trembled.

You could hear the distant sound of Jihoon’s shoes shifting in the doorway. He hadn’t followed you in. He didn’t move. He just stood there. Watching.

Jihoon stood, frozen at the threshold, his sharp eyes narrowing ever so slightly as Fred’s frantic voice echoed from inside. His assistant, standing beside him, looked equally stunned.

Were you this disgusted by him? To the point of throwing up? Jihoon wondered. He didn’t speak. He didn’t call out to you. Instead, he just stared at the open door, his fingers twitching at his sides as if he wanted to reach for something but couldn’t figure out what. The sound of you retching filled the air, and for a moment, he felt it too—a strange, bitter taste creeping up the back of his own throat.

This wasn’t how he imagined seeing you again.

Fred’s voice was soft behind you, concern threaded through his words. “Do you want me to ask him to leave?”

You shook your head, still gripping the edge of the sink like it could anchor you back to reality. “No. Just... give me a few minutes.”

He didn’t argue. You heard his footsteps fade as he hurried to welcome Jihoon and his assistant. You stayed there for another few seconds, staring at your own reflection. Your face had fallen so fast, drained of all that confidence you’d tried to wear this morning. You brushed your teeth with shaky hands, telling yourself to calm down, to just be serene.

Just get through this. You took a deep breath and headed to the waiting room.

Jihoon and his assistant were seated, quiet, as if they hadn’t said much since Fred greeted them. You couldn’t bring yourself to shake his hand, so you bowed politely instead, keeping your hands clasped behind your back. You felt Jihoon’s eyes on you, but you didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. 

His assistant, a bright-eyed young man who didn’t seem to sense the tension in the air, smiled warmly. “It’s such an honor to finally meet you in person. Jihoon has told me a lot about the great work you're doing here,” he said, looking genuinely impressed.

You forced a smile, keeping your tone professional. “Thank you. We’re really grateful for all the donations, it’s made a huge difference. The kids... they’ve benefited so much.”

Jihoon’s assistant continued, eyes flicking between you and Fred, clearly excited to be there. “And it’s amazing how far you’ve come since your days in the competition. It must’ve been so tough, especially considering how—”

The room froze. You felt Fred tense beside you, his polite smile flickering, your breath catching in your throat. Even Jihoon’s expression shifted, his face hardening as he quickly looked away, avoiding your gaze entirely.

His assistant, oblivious, continued. “I mean, you two were so competitive back then, huh? And to think, all of this came from that one event—”

Fred cleared his throat sharply, cutting him off, but the damage was already done, his assistant clearly didn't know how Jihoon won. How much does he know? Does he even realize what he’s saying?

“Ah, well—” Fred began.

Jihoon cut him off, voice tight and low. “It’s… a long story.”

Before anyone could say more, the sound of laughter and tiny footsteps echoed down the hallway, saving you from the suffocating silence. The children had arrived.

Fred turned to greet them, and you stepped aside, watching as they rushed into the room, immediately diffusing the tension. They swarmed around you, bright-eyed and smiling, some of the little ones immediately latching onto your legs, asking if they could help in the kitchen today. You smiled softly, crouching down to ruffle their hair.

But then, some of them turned their attention to Jihoon.

Two of the kids, a boy and a girl, who couldn’t have been older than five, ran straight for him, hugging his legs like they’d known him forever. Jihoon stiffened at first, unsure how to respond, but the shock quickly melted as he crouched down, a small, genuine smile tugging at his lips. You noticed how different it looked from the smirk that used to haunt you.

"Who’s this?" one of the kids asked, looking up at Jihoon with wide, curious eyes.

You exhaled softly, your hands clenching and unclenching behind your back as you felt Fred’s eyes on you. You forced yourself to speak, turning to the kids, your voice softening, sweeter for them. “He’s a really good chef,” you explained, keeping it simple. “He has a biiiig restaurant in Switzerland.”

The younger ones gasped in awe, their faces lighting up as they hugged him tighter. "Wooooow," one of them breathed, eyes wide. “Is Switzerland far?”

You couldn’t help but smile. “Yeah, it’s pretty far,” you said with a small scoff. It was cute how they clung to him without knowing anything about the man he was. How they immediately trusted him just because you said he was a chef, because in their world, chefs were superheroes who made magic with food.

But you didn’t miss the sound of the older kids behind you. Some of the pre-teens had recognized him. Their whispers were loud enough for you to catch, little gasps of “That’s Jihoon!” and “Oh my god, isn’t he, like, super famous?”

One of the girls, barely fourteen, looked at you with shining eyes. “You know Jihoon? Like, Jihoon Jihoon?”

You managed a nod, the tight smile still on your lips. “Yeah, I know him.”

Jihoon, standing there with the kids hugging him, stayed silent, his eyes drifting to you every now and then but never lasting. He looked uncomfortable. Maybe even lost. You wondered if he’d thought about this moment before—if he’d imagined what it would be like to see you again after all these years. Or if, like you, he hadn’t been ready at all.

You cleared your throat, trying to regain control of the situation. “Alright, kids, let’s give our guest some space,” you said gently, guiding them away from Jihoon’s legs. “We’ve got a lot of work to do today, and I’m sure Chef Jihoon is going to want to take a look around.”

The younger ones reluctantly let go, giggling as they scampered off to join their friends. 

You smiled softly when you saw Jihoon’s assistant already in the thick of it, playing with the kids like he'd been there for weeks. His laughter mixed with theirs, easy and carefree. 

But then you turned, eyes flicking to Jihoon, who was still standing awkwardly at the edge of the room, like he wasn’t sure what to do next. You called his name quietly, over your shoulder, “Jihoon, come on.”

He dawdled but followed. As he walked toward you, you tied the apron behind your back like you had eyes on your hands, the kids gathering around the kitchen counter, their eyes wide with interest. Jihoon stayed a few steps behind, unsure of how to approach this situation—teaching kids was never something he'd done. Hell, it wasn’t even in his plans for the day.

But he remembered being the kid, the one sitting in front of a chef, hungry for knowledge and desperate to learn everything.

You leaned against the counter, your arms crossed as you gave him a sideways glance. “Do you guys know what Chef Jihoon is going to teach us today?”

The kids chorused a loud, excited “Noooo!” bouncing on their heels.

You turned fully to him, holding his gaze. He swallowed hard, suddenly feeling like the spotlight was burning on him.

“I’ll let Chef Jihoon tell you then,” you said, challenging, like you were throwing him into the deep end on purpose. You wanted to see him squirm, maybe just a little.

Jihoon glanced at the eager faces in front of him, then back to you. His throat felt dry as he tried to come up with something to say, but for a second, all he could hear was the hum of his own nerves. The last time he had been in a kitchen like this, it wasn’t full of small hands and bright eyes—it was full of pressure, competition, and an entirely different energy.

But he wasn’t about to let you see him hesitate. He cleared his throat and stepped up to the counter, taking a deep breath before speaking.

“Well,” he started, a small, almost shy smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, “I think today... we’ll be learning how to make something really special. Something I first learned when I was just starting out.”

He shot a quick look at you, and you could tell from the flicker in his eyes that he was stepping back into habitat. You smirked, leaning back against the counter as he continued.

“Let's make risotto… How's that sound?”

​​The kids’ faces immediately dropped, little frowns forming as they shook their heads. “We already know that one!” one of them piped up, crossing his arms, indignant. “Chef Y/N taught us already!”

You couldn’t help it—a laugh escaped, filling the room, and Jihoon shot you a sidelong look, his own lips twitching like he was fighting not to falter. Of course they already knew risotto. You’d practically burned through every recipe in the book with them.

Jihoon looked at the kids again, genuinely surprised. “Really?” He raised his eyebrows. “You already know how to make risotto?”

They nodded, several of them bouncing with pride. “Chef Y/N is really good!” a little girl said.

Jihoon’s expression softened, the faintest hint of surprise in his eyes as he took it in. He took a breath, thinking, before a sudden idea sparked across his face. “Alright, then. What about soufflé?”

The kids’ eyes widened, jaws dropping as they exchanged glances. “A soufflé?” one of the older kids asked, almost disbelieving. “Like the one in movies?”

Jihoon nodded, his face a little smug. “Yeah. It’s tricky, but I think you guys are up for it.”

One of the kids tugged at your sleeve, whispering, “Chef Y/N, do you think we can really make soufflés?”

You smiled, glancing at Jihoon. “With a chef like Jihoon teaching you? I think you can do anything.”

You and Jihoon began laying out the ingredients on the counter. Flour, sugar, butter, eggs—every item carefully arranged in neat little bowls. Then, stepping back, you let the kids gather around as Jihoon took his place at the front, an eyebrow raised in question.

“You’re not going to help me?”

You smirked, crossing your arms as you leaned against the wall behind the children. “Nope. I’m here to learn too.”

He let out a scoff, but his eyes were amused. Reaching for a whisk, Jihoon’s fingers stopped as he noticed the brightly-colored utensils on the countertop—handles painted in cheerful blues, yellows, and pinks, completely different from the pristine silver ones he’d grown so used to in the rigid, professional kitchens. 

His brow twitched, a bit thrown off, but he picked up a neon pink whisk, holding it up almost in disbelief before he finally began mixing, putting on the best show of professionalism he could manage with a grin sneaking in.

The kids were entranced as he worked. He answered each of their questions, even the simple ones—What’s this do? Why are eggs so runny? Is soufflé really magic? He gave patient answers, a spark in his eyes as he watched their faces light up with each response.

When he was done, a perfect, puffy soufflé stood in the middle of the counter. Golden, light, and exactly what you’d expect from someone with his skill. The kids were practically bouncing in excitement.

“Alright, your turn,” Jihoon said, stepping back and motioning for them to take over.

You paired up with a small boy, who looked completely intimidated by the fluffy soufflé sitting next to him. “I can’t make it like that,” he whispered to you.

You knelt down next to him, helping him break the eggs with careful hands, showing him how to separate the whites, then guiding his little hand as he whisked. “Doesn’t matter if it’s perfect,” you told him with a warm smile. “Just give it your best shot.”

Meanwhile, Jihoon crouched down beside a little girl who was struggling to mix the eggs. Her arm had started to tremble, the bowl wobbling in her hands.

“Here, I’ll help you,” he said, holding the bowl steady with one hand while he took the whisk with the other. “Let’s mix it together.”

The smile that spread across Jihoon’s face as he watched her efforts, a real, genuine smile that you hadn’t seen in years, softened something in—No. Hell no. Back to the recipe.

When the kids finally placed their soufflés in the oven, the results were… varied. Some soufflés rose tall and proud, while others sagged or deflated at the edges. One came out a bit lopsided, and another had been forgotten for a moment, the top a little browned, but that didn’t matter. They each wore their own version of pride on their faces, and you couldn’t help but feel it too.

Jihoon looked at the table, and shook his head, smiling. “They’re perfect,” he murmured, glancing at the children with an approval nod. 

As the kids eagerly dug into their soufflés, one of the smaller boys took a big spoonful, his eyes lighting up at first. But then his face scrunched, his little nose wrinkling as he swallowed. He put his spoon down, looking directly at you with a distressed expression.

“Did I… put salt instead of sugar?” His lip started to tremble as he looked between you and Jihoon, mortified.

You froze. But before you could say anything, Jihoon, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, looked up, his eyes darting from the kid’s teary face to your stiff expression. The moment seemed to snap him to life, and he quickly sprang forward, kneeling down beside the boy, hands shaking in a mad rush.

“Hey, hey, don’t cry!” Jihoon said. He took the boy’s tiny hand in his. “There are tons of salty soufflés! I actually make one all the time. In my restaurant, it’s super fancy, with cheese and herbs, just like this one.”

The boy looked up, sniffling, his tears slowing a little. “Really? There’s… supposed to be salt?”

Jihoon nodded enthusiastically, glancing back at you as if asking for backup. “Absolutely! Chef Y/N could tell you all about it.” He shot you a look, almost saying like: What do I do now?

Taking a shaky breath, you knelt down beside the boy, putting a hand on his shoulder. “I think it’s a great first try.” You ruffled his hair, seeing him perk up a bit.

Jihoon took a spoonful of the soufflé and tasted it, giving an exaggerated nodl. “Mm! It's really good!” He winked at the boy, who finally cracked a shy smile. 

You watched with a small smile as each kid left with a bit of your heart in tow, feeling the echo of their laughter around you even as the room began to empty.

Fred lingered by the door, chatting with Jihoon’s assistant, while you and Jihoon moved to the side, staying silent, as if words would disturb whatever fragile peace had been built between you during the day. It felt strange, standing there beside him without the buffer of the kids to fill in the pauses.

Jihoon broke the silence first, clearing his throat softly. “I wanted to talk to you… I think my team and I would really love to support your organization long-term… Make it official, if you’d be interested. We could even bring some of the chefs, host classes, give the kids more to look forward to.”

“I appreciate the donation,” you began carefully measured. “I really do. But I need to be honest, Jihoon. I don’t want this house to lose what makes it special, what makes it ours. I don’t want it to turn into some… shiny project to impress donors or pull in crowds. It’s supposed to feel like us, like the kids. Not some big production.”

After a pause, he let out a soft hum, tilting his head slightly. “And what’s wrong with improving things? Giving the kids access to better resources, better… training?”

There it was—his tone wasn’t outright disdainful or insulting, but there was a bite to it, something faintly snobbish that made your stomach churn. You could feel Fred tense slightly beside you, the way his shoulders shifted like he wanted to step in but wasn’t sure if he should. Jihoon’s assistant, meanwhile, raised an eyebrow, clearly taken aback by his boss’s words.

You scoffed. “Better training?” you repeated, folding your arms. “Is that what you think this is about? You think just because this isn’t the fancy kitchen you grew up in—or whatever perfect, silver-lined school taught you—you have the right to waltz in here and act like this isn’t good enough?”

Jihoon opened his mouth, but you didn’t let him speak. The floodgates were open now, the words spilling out of you like they’d been waiting years. “I learned to cook in a place like this,” you said firmly, jabbing a finger toward the counters, the bright utensils, the slightly battered cutting boards. “And guess what? It brought me to the same competition as you. So don’t stand there and act like these kids need some ‘upgrade’ to be worthy of your world.” 

Fred's face went pale as he looked at you.

“You’re too busy chasing Michelin stars to see what really makes cooking special.” You spat.

Jihoon’s assistant visibly winced, and Fred looked at you with wide eyess. 

Jihoon, though, didn’t react right away. He just stood there, his hands clenching slightly at his sides. “Is that what you think? That I came here just to… what? Smudge this in your face?”

It wasn’t until Fred gently touched your elbow that you realized how tense you were, your hands clenched your crossed arms. You took a breath.

“I don’t know why you came here,” you admitted finally, your voice softer now but no less firm. “But if you’re here to help, then help. Don’t stand there and tell me what this place is lacking. Because it’s got something no five-star kitchen could ever give you.”

He just nodded once. His assistant looked like he wanted to crawl into the floor, and Fred let out a low sigh, clearly debating whether to step in again.

Finally, Jihoon spoke, “I’m not here to tear this place down,” he said. “But if I’m going to help, I need to know how. You think I don’t understand what makes this place special? Fine. Show me then.”

Fred cleared his throat awkwardly, stepping in to break the silence. “Maybe we should, uh, pick this up another day?” he suggested, glancing between you and Jihoon. Neither of you responded. Enough for now.

You watched Jihoon step into the car, the heavy door closing with a muffled thud. From the front window, you could see him lean back against the seat, his face partially obscured by the tinted glass. His assistant was halfway to the car when he stopped, paused mid-step, and turned back toward you.He turned slow, really slow, like he’d been debating this for a while and finally made up his mind.

You raised an eyebrow as he approached, his blond hair catching the light “Chef Y/N,” he began, his voice sweet, with a thick French accent. His hands reached out to clasp yours—oddly personal. “I hope you’ll excuse me for interrupting, but… I wanted to say I’m sorry. For everything today.”

His words took you off guard, and your brow furrowed slightly. 

He sighed, the kind of long, exasperated exhale that suggested he’d had this conversation—or at least a version of it—with Jihoon before.

“Monsieur Lee,” he said carefully, “was truly excited to visit your NGO. It has been all he talks about since we first began planning this trip. But, you know him… he doesn’t always measure his words. He means well, but he can come off as—how do you say it?—impolite.”

You huffed a small, mirthless laugh. “That’s one way to put it.”

The assistant smiled faintly, “I hope you don’t let it affect your view of his intentions. He genuinely respects what you have built here. I’ll make sure to put some sense into his head, I promise. But please, don’t forget about our offer. It’s a good one, and I think… deep down, Monsieur Lee truly believes in what you’re doing here. Even if he doesn’t always know how to say it.”

You held his gaze, searching his expression for any sign of insincerity, but found none. He was genuine, you could tell. After a moment, you gave his hands a light squeeze and nodded. “I’ll think about it,” you said softly. “But this place… it’s not just about the offer. It’s personal to me. If I do decide to work with you all, it has to be on my terms.”

“Of course!” he said immediately, his smile growing. “And that is as it should be. Thank you for considering it.”

With that, he let go of your hands and returned to the car, leaving you standing there in the fading light. Jihoon didn’t look up as the car pulled away, while you looked until it disappeared down the road.

The days after Jihoon’s visit were surprisingly quiet, almost too quiet. You’d half-expected a deluge of follow-ups or more awkward exchanges, but instead, you found yourself with space to think. The children, as always, were a welcome distraction. They filled the kitchen with their laughter and the occasional misstep, their joy a constant reminder of why you’d built this house in the first place.

Still, Jihoon lingered in the back of your mind. His presence at the NGO had stirred up so many old emotions. Every time you thought about his assistant’s words, you felt a strange knot of uncertainty in your chest. Was it possible that Jihoon’s intentions weren’t as cold as they’d seemed? Could you trust him to help without losing the heart of what you’d created?

One evening, Fred found you sitting at your desk, staring blankly at a stack of donation forms. “You okay?” he asked, leaning against the doorway.

You shrugged. “Just thinking.”

“About Jihoon?”

You shot him a look, and he grinned. “Come on,” he said. “You’ve been quiet since he left. I can tell he got under your skin.”

“Maybe,” you admitted. “It’s just… complicated. He said some things that really pissed me off, but his assistant made a good point. I don’t know, Fred. I don’t want to make the wrong decision.”

Fred crossed his arms, considering your words. “Look, I don’t know Jihoon like you do. But from what I’ve seen, he’s not the same guy he was back then. Maybe give him a chance to prove that.”

A week later, Jihoon showed up again, this time without his assistant. You spotted him standing awkwardly at the front gate, a bag slung over his shoulder. He looked out of place, like he didn’t quite know what to do with himself.

“Back so soon?” you called out, walking toward him.

He turned, his eyes meeting yours. “I wanted to talk. Without the… entourage.”

You raised an eyebrow but gestured for him to follow you inside. The two of you sat in the empty kitchen, the late afternoon sun streaming through the windows. Jihoon placed the bag on the counter and pulled out a small box. “I brought something for the kids,” he said, opening it to reveal a set of beautifully crafted utensils, each one colorful and child-sized.

You blinked in surprise, your defenses momentarily lowering. “These are… amazing.”

“I thought they might like them,” he said, his voice quieter now. “And I thought maybe I could help more, if you’ll let me.”

You hesitated, studying his expression. There was no trace of the condescension you’d seen before.

[...]

The sound of running water filled the quiet kitchen, punctuated by the clink of dishes being handed off between you and Jihoon. The day had been long, the kind of long that left you too tired to think straight but restless enough to keep moving. You focused on scrubbing the edges of a baking dish, the suds thick around your fingers, and handed it to Jihoon without a glance. His fingers brushed yours as he took it, pausing more than he should. You pulled back instinctively, grabbing the next plate before he could say anything.

Jihoon sighed, turning toward the wide window above the sink. The last light of the day was fading, casting a soft orange glow over the room. He dried the dish slowly, as if trying to draw out the moment. 

“You’ll never forgive me, will you?”

The question stopped you in your tracks. You placed the plate you were washing back into the sink and leaned forward, gripping the edge of the counter. The bubbles clung to your hands, foam dripping down to the marble. You stared at the suds for a moment, your mind swirling, before you turned your head slightly toward him.

“I never heard a sorry leave your mouth, Jihoon.” Your gaze shifted to the window, avoiding his reflection.

“I didn’t think it would matter,” he admitted. “I thought… what’s the point? Saying sorry wouldn’t change anything.”

You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head. “You thought what? You think you can just show up here, give donations, play nice with the kids, and everything gets wonderful well?”

Jihoon’s jaw tightened. “It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like?” You crossed your arms, still feeling the slickness of the detergent on your skin. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks a lot like you trying to fix something without actually addressing the damage you caused.”

You opened your mouth to continur, but he cut you off. “What am I supposed to do, huh? Go back in time? Undo it? All I can do is try to make up for it now, and if that’s not good enough for you, then tell me what the hell I’m supposed to do.”

The frustration in his voice caught you off guard, but you didn’t let it show. “You don’t get to decide how or when I forgive you, Jihoon. That’s not how this works. And for the record, no, you can’t undo it. You can’t take back the way you made me feel that day.”

He flinched at your words but didn’t look away. “I know. I know I can’t.”

You shook your head. “And yet here you are, acting like showing up and playing nice will fix it all. Like you can just… sweep it under the rug.”

“I’m not trying to sweep it under the rug. I’m trying to be better. To show you that I’ve changed.”

You go back to the dishes. The water ran over your hands as you scrubbed a stubborn stain on the bottom of a pot, the bubbles swirling down the drain. Jihoon stood beside you, methodically drying the dishes and placing them on the counter without a word.

But something twisted in your gut, you swallowed hard, the weight of the past pressing on your chest. Your voice, when it finally came out, was quiet, and more fragile than you wanted to sound.

“Why the salt?”

Jihoon froze mid-motion, the towel in his hands slipping slightly. You didn’t look at him, your eyes fixed on the pot as if it held all the answers you’d been seeking.

“Why did you do this to me Jihoon?”

He exhaled shakily, his knuckles white as he gripped the counter. It wasn’t just your question—it was the way you’d asked, like a small, innocent version of yourself had reached through the years to speak, like spiritually, your inner child canalized her voice to his ears. Jihoon felt it deep in his chest, an ache that mirrored yours. It was as though the girl you’d been when you first started chasing this dream was standing there, demanding an explanation he’d never given. He swallowed hard, his throat dry.

“I…” he started but faltered, running a hand through his hair, his voice dropped. “I didn’t… mean for it to be like that.”

You set the pot down, water dripping from your hands as you turned to him. Your eyes searched his face, looking for something—remorse, understanding, anything. “Then why? Why did you do it? Was it just… some sick joke to you?” Your voice wavered, and you blinked quickly, trying to keep the tears at bay. “Do you know what that did to me? What it felt like to watch—” You stopped, your words catching in your throat.

Jihoon closed his eyes, pressing his palms flat against the counter as if steadying himself. He felt sick, the kind of sickness that sat heavy in his chest and made it hard to breathe. “It wasn’t… it wasn’t my idea,” he said finally, his voice strained.

You frowned, your confusion evident. “What do you mean it wasn’t your idea?”

He turned to you then, his expression torn, guilt scripted all over his face. “It was my tutor’s idea,” he admitted, his words tumbling out like they’d been locked up for too long. “He… he told me to do it. Said it would make me stand out, give me an edge. He thought sabotaging someone else would make me look stronger. And I was—” He broke off, running a hand over his face. “I was stupid enough to listen.”

Your stomach churned, the twist in your gut tightening. “Your tutor?” you repeated, the disbelief clear in your voice.

Jihoon nodded, his eyes, pained. “He was more than just a tutor. He became my business partner after the competition. He was the one who pushed me toward the restaurant, who built me up to be this… this thing I didn’t even recognize anymore.” He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “And now…I can’t stand him. He’s why I’m back here. I couldn’t take it anymore. The way he runs things, the way he manipulates people—it was eating me alive.”

You stared at him, your mind spinning. “So you’re saying… you did it because he told you to?”

“Yes.. But I chose to do it. I could’ve said no. I should’ve said no. I was just so… desperate to prove myself, to win, to be the best.” He paused, his jaw tightening. “And I didn’t care who I hurt along the way.”

The importance of his confession lolled in the air. You turned your back to the sink. “I kept asking myself, What did I do wrong? And all the while, it was you.” Your voice cracked, and you hated how weak you sounded.

“I know, I know, and I’ll never forgive myself for it. Seeing you crying that day… it still haunts me. And when I saw you throw up when I came here, I realized just how deeply I’d hurt you. I…” He trailed off, his eyes glistening. “I can’t undo it. I know I can’t. But I’m trying to make it right. I just want you to know… I’m sorry. For everything. And I’ll keep saying it until it means something.”

“So…” you started, leaning back against the counter as you dried your hands on a towel. “You left a Michelin-starred restaurant behind? All of it?”

Jihoon nodded, like a weight had been partially lifted.

You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms. “And now that you don’t have it, you want this to be yours too? The house?”

He let out a scoff, but it wasn’t sharp like before, it was straight funny. “You could’ve had both,” he countered, tilting his head. “A Michelin-starred restaurant and this. I could never.”

You couldn’t help but hold back a small smile, shaking your head. 

The corner of his mouth tugged upward in a small, genuine smile. Then he extended his hand, palm open, toward you. “Come on,” he said softly.

You glanced at his hand, then back at his face, narrowing your eyes. “What are you doing?”

“Offering a truce,” he replied. “Come on. You can’t make me stand here forever.”

For a second, you hesitated, looking at his hand again. With a resigned sigh, you dried your hands fully, reaching out to take his. Your grip was firm.

But you couldn’t help it. “You sure you want to start here? With that hair?” You gestured to his slightly mussed locks, which looked more chaotic than usual after hours in the kitchen. “You’ve been running from Michelin stars, but your hair looks like it’s been running from a comb.”

Jihoon froze for a second, then let out a genuine laugh, his head tilting back slightly. It was the first time you’d heard it that day, and it made something inside you soften.

“Don’t think the kids haven’t noticed. One of them asked if you were cosplaying as a hedgehog earlier.”

Jihoon smiled wide, almost beaming, though he tried to downplay it by scratching the back of his neck. “Alright, alright. I get it. Point taken. But you know, I think they like me.”

“They tolerate you,” you corrected, smirking. “Big difference. You’re still on trial here, Jihoon.”

He pressed his free hand dramatically to his chest. “Tolerate me? That hurts, Y/N. I thought I had charm.”

“You’ve got something,” you teased, releasing his hand to grab another dish towel. “I’ll let you know what it is once I figure it out.”

Jihoon leaned against the counter, his eyes softening as he watched you. “You’ll let me know, huh? That sounds fair.”

Jihoon’s attempts to help with the house didn’t feel like an intrusion anymore.

A few days later, Jihoon was sitting cross-legged on the floor with a group of kids, trying to teach them a few basic culinary techniques. His patience was better than you’d expected, though he still had moments where he looked at you like: How do you deal with this every day?

“Chef Jihoon, is this how you hold the whisk?” one of the smaller kids asked, holding it in a fist like a sword.

“No, not unless you’re planning to fight your eggs,” Jihoon replied, gently adjusting the child’s grip. “Like this. Light, but firm.”

You stood nearby, arms crossed, watching the scene unfold. Fred sidled up beside you, nodding toward Jihoon. “He’s really trying, huh?”

“Yeah,” you said quietly. “He is.”

As the session wrapped up, Jihoon caught your eye from across the room. He raised an eyebrow, as if silently asking for your approval. You pretended to consider, then gave a small nod. His lips twitched upward, satisfied.

Jihoon had never considered himself great with kids.

He wasn’t the type of uncle who could entertain nieces and nephews for hours without breaking a sweat, like his friend Seungkwan. Yet, here he was, surrounded by giggling children who hung on his every word—and he had to admit, it wasn’t as terrifying as he’d thought. 

He’d found himself loving this. The chaos, the noise, the silly little moments. The kids, with their endless energy and bright smiles, were teaching him things he never thought he would learn. They were curing him in ways he never imagined.

Jihoon couldn’t hide the change in his mood when the kids started leaving for the day. They’d crowded around the door, each of them getting picked up by their parents, giving their final hugs, running out of the kitchen, their little hands waving goodbye. Jihoon stood in the doorway, watching them, his gaze soft. He didn’t admit it out loud, but there was something about seeing the kids leave that made him feel a little emptier inside. Maybe it was because he could feel the bond forming between them even though they’d only spent a short time together.

“Are you really sulking now?” you asked, walking past him to grab the last dish from the counter.

He didn’t turn around, but you could see the slight pout on his lips. “No,” he mumbled, hands stuffed in the pockets of his apron. “I just... I’m not used to saying goodbye. Even if I’m going to see them again tomorrow.”

You chuckled, watching him—you've found yourself in this situation multiple times at the beginning. “It’s fine, Jihoon. You’re just getting attached.”

He shot you a side-eye, as if daring you to make fun of him. “I’m not attached.” he muttered, crossing his arms. 

“Yeah, yeah, sure.” You teased, nudging him lightly with your shoulder as you moved to the other side of the kitchen to help clean up. “You’ve become one of them now. A softie.”

[...]

The kitchen had never felt more alive than it does today. Jihoon, who had never been particularly fond of chaos, was smiling—almost laughing—while keeping his eyes on the counter. It was supposed to be a “friendly” competition between the boys and girls, but honestly, it was just an excuse to see how much you and Jihoon could handle before the chaos completely overtook you. And right now, it was clear neither of you were winning.

You stood on the boys’ side of the kitchen, trying to keep them from getting too rowdy as they threw flour at each other in some misguided attempt to "season" their dishes. On the other side, Jihoon was managing the girls, who, much to his dismay, were doing exactly what you expected them to do.

Jihoon stood there in your pink apron, his now short hair practically glistening with glittering accessories—tiny scrunchies, little clips holding stray locks back—making him look like the type of man who should’ve been anywhere but in a kitchen with a bunch of kids.

One of the girls tugged at Jihoon’s sleeve. “Chef Jihoon, can you stir this? It’s too heavy!” she whined, her small hands gripping the bowl.

“Of course,” Jihoon said, crouching slightly to be at her level, but not before side-eyeing you. “Unlike someone,” he said with mock emphasis, “I don’t leave my team hanging.”

You gasped dramatically from across the kitchen. “Excuse me, Chef Lee, but my boys are doing just fine, thank you very much!”

Jihoon smirked as he whisked the batter.

A few minutes later, the competition was in full swing, and the teasing between the kids was relentless. Every now and then, you had to intervene.

“Chef Y/N, Chef Jihoon’s team says our cookies will burn!” one of the boys pouted, pointing accusingly at Jihoon’s side of the kitchen.

You shot Jihoon a glare. “Chef Lee, are you sabotaging my team’s confidence?”

Jihoon feigned innocence, holding up his hands. “Sabotage? I would never,” he said, though his smirk betrayed him.

“Uh-huh,” you replied, narrowing your eyes. You crouched to whisper conspiratorially to the boys, loud enough for Jihoon to hear. “Don’t worry, kids. His cookies will taste like his personality—bitter.”

At one point, Jihoon crossed behind you to grab a pan, but instead of taking the wide-open space on the other side, he chose to squeeze behind you in the narrow gap between the counters.

“Excuse me,” he murmured, voice low and entirely unnecessary given the proximity. His hand brushed your waist as he reached past you, and you stiffened, gripping the spoon in your hand tighter.

“There’s a whole kitchen, Jihoon,” you scolded, trying to keep your voice steady. “Why are you in my personal space?”

He bit his bottom lip, as he moved away, holding the pan. “Just testing the waters. Seems warm.”

You huffed, trying to ignore the heat creeping up your neck. “Go test the waters on your side of the kitchen before I throw you in the sink.”

He laughed, a soft, melodic sound that you hated how much you were starting to like. “Alright, alright. Don’t get flustered, Chef Y/N. I’ll behave.”

Later, you decided to up the teasing as revenge. Jihoon was bent over, helping one of the girls pour batter into a mold. You leaned close to him, hand on his back, making his back stiff under your hand. 

You scoff, your breath tickling his ear. “Careful, Chef Lee. Don’t spill. That would ruin your team’s reputation.”

Jihoon fumbled with the mold, nearly spilling the batter as he straightened up abruptly. He shot you a look, his cheeks faintly pink. “Very funny.” he muttered, grabbing the whisk with a little too much force, the batter splattering slightly.

The kids were oblivious to the Chef's bickering, fully focused on their creations. The teasing continued until the final moments, each team plating their cookies and presenting them proudly.

By the end of the competition, the kids were giggling and cheering as Fred and Jihoon’s assistant judged the dishes. Jihoon stood beside you, both of you wiping flour off your hands as the verdict was announced: a tie.

You stood beside Jihoon as the kids debated whose cookies looked better. He leaned closer to you, his voice low enough that only you could hear. “You know, you’re lucky there’s no actual judging panel. My team would wipe the floor with yours.”

You shot him a playful glare. “Keep dreaming, Lee.”

When the kids weren’t looking, he nudged you lightly with his elbow. You elbowed him back, harder, earning a stifled laugh.

[...]

You sat slumped at your desk, your face buried in your hands as Fred paced back and forth in front of you, rattling off potential solutions. The stress of the upcoming fundraiser gala was weighing on you like a damn cast-iron skillet. 

The shelves in the stockroom were stacked with ingredients that you weren’t even sure you’d be able to use now that the catering service had ghosted you. It was a disaster waiting to happen.

Fred sighed dramatically, flopping down in the chair across from you. “Alright, boss, what’s the game plan? Do we, like, call another service or… just throw in the towel and serve chips and soda?”

You groaned, peeking at him through your fingers. “Fred, I swear to God, if you bring up chips one more time—”

“Okay, okay, chill,” he said, throwing his hands up in defense. “But for real, though. We gotta figure this out. You know how fancy these people are. One whiff of ‘homemade’ and they’re gonna start asking if we milked the cows ourselves.”

You let out a dry laugh, leaning back in your chair and staring at the ceiling. “I should’ve just canceled the gala altogether. Who even does this every year? I’m not Beyoncé.”

Fred smirked. “True, but you’re like… Beyoncé of the kitchen. That counts for something, right?”

“Fred,” you deadpanned, narrowing your eyes at him. “That is not helpful.”

You were mid-spiral, staring at your disheveled desk, when a knock pulled you out of your chaos. Turning sharply, you found Jihoon leaning against the doorframe, hands shoved into his pockets like he was trying to look casual—but you could tell he was hesitant, maybe even nervous.

What the hell did he want now? You thought he already headed home.

“Am I interrupting?” he asked, his eyes darting between you and Fred, who was sprawled across the chair forehead red from how stressed he got.

Fred’s head shot up like a meerkat. “Not at all! Actually, perfect timing—”

You shot Fred a glare sharp enough to make him frown. “Fred. Shut. Up.” Then you turned to Jihoon, crossing your arms. “What do you want?”

Jihoon raised an eyebrow. “Heard about the cancellation. Thought you might need a hand.”

Fred couldn’t help himself. He snorted. “She needs more than a hand. She needs, like, divine intervention at this point.”

“Fred!” you hissed, your face heating up. Fred waved you off, muttering something about grabbing coffee, and practically bolted out of the room, leaving you alone with Jihoon.

You sighed and turned your full attention to him. “Alright, so what’s this about? Because unless you have a whole-ass catering team hiding in your back pocket, I don’t think you can magically fix this.”

Jihoon tilted his head, his lips twitching into that insufferable smirk you hated so much. “Well, I don’t have one in my pocket, but I do have a team. Or did you forget I used to run a restaurant?”

You blinked at him. Once. Twice. “Wait. You’re serious?”

“Dead serious,” he said, straightening up a bit. “I can bring my team in. We’ll handle the food. You focus on… whatever else needs doing. Win-win.”

You stared at him, trying to gauge if he was actually being helpful or just showing off. “And what’s the catch?”

“No catch,” he said smoothly. “I just want the kids to have a good night. And… maybe—prove to you that I’m not as useless as you think.”

You let out a groan, rubbing your temples. “God, you’re so smug.”

“Smug, but capable,” he quipped.

It wasn’t like you had a long list of alternatives, and time was running out. You were about to say no—hell, you even opened your mouth to shut him down—but the words didn’t come. You were stuck, and deep down, you knew it.

“Fine,” you muttered, crossing your arms even tighter. “But if your team screws this up, Jihoon, I’m holding you personally responsible.”

His smirk widened into a full grin. “Deal.”

He turned to leave, and you couldn’t resist one last jab. “And don’t think this means I trust you or anything!”

Jihoon glanced back, his smirk back to its usual lazy self. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Chef.”

Fred found you in the kitchen later, supervising a delivery of more ingredients that just reminded you how overwhelming this whole gala was going to be. “So, you really letting Jihoon handle the food?”

“Not like I have a choice,” you muttered, signing off on a receipt. “It’s either him or I start calling catering companies and praying someone says yes for this weekend.”

Fred snickered, nudging you with his elbow. “You’re playing with fire, boss. You know that, right?”

“I know...” you sighed. 

You bit your lip, your eyes fixed on Jihoon across the room as your thoughts tangled themselves into knots. He was chatting with his assistant, leaning slightly against the counter in that laid-back way of his. But then, a small hand tugged at his pant leg—a boy from the younger group, arms stretched high in the universal signal to pick me up, as he closed and opened his hands.

Jihoon hesitated for half a second, glancing down, but the moment the kid grinned up at him, Jihoon’s expression softened into something you weren’t sure you’d ever seen before. He crouched to the boy’s level, picking him up with ease, and the little guy immediately started chattering about… something. Jihoon nodded along like it was the most important thing he’d ever heard, even giving a small laugh that made your stomach twist.

“Y/N.” Fred’s voice brought you back, and you turned to see him giving you that I’m onto you look.

“What?” you whispered sharply, leaning closer.

Fred smirked. “I said, you’re really letting Jihoon handle this? Big leap of faith.”

You sighed, dropping your voice even lower so no one else could hear. “Do you think he’s gonna mess everything up again?”

Fred tilted his head, watching Jihoon over your shoulder. “Mess up? Nah. He’s too proud for that. He’d rather break his back making this perfect than give you more ammo to throw at him.”

You raised an eyebrow, still skeptical. “You’re awfully optimistic.”

Fred leaned closer, his voice lowering to match yours. “Look, I know he’s got a reputation—believe me, I’ve heard all about it—but people change. I’ve been watching him. He’s trying, Y/N. He really is.”

You glanced back at Jihoon, just in time to see him toss the boy lightly into the air and catch him, earning a giggle loud enough to echo through the room. Jihoon smiled, genuinely, and you caught yourself blinking like you couldn’t believe what you were seeing.

Fred nudged you. “See what I mean? That’s not the same guy who showed up on day one, looking like he wanted to be anywhere else but here.”

“Doesn’t mean he won’t screw this up,” you muttered, your fingers tightening around the clipboard you were holding.

Fred gave you a look that bordered on exasperation. “You’re allowed to doubt, boss, but at least give him credit for showing up. He’s not just phoning it in. Look at him.”

You did. Jihoon had set the boy down and was now crouching as a small group of kids swarmed him, waving drawings in his face. He listened intently, nodding as one of the girls pointed out the details of her masterpiece. Even from a distance, you could see the way his lips twitched into a small smile.

“See?” Fred whispered, his tone softer now. “He’s trying to be here, to be part of this. Maybe he’s not perfect, but none of us are. Don’t punish the guy for trying.”

You bit your lip again, uncertainty clawing at you. “It’s not just about trying, Fred. It’s about doing it.”

“And he’s doing,” Fred countered gently. “Every single day, in his own way.”

You stayed quiet, watching Jihoon stand up and ruffle one of the boy’s hair before turning back to his assistant. As if sensing your gaze, he glanced up, meeting your eyes for a fleeting moment. 

Fred patted your shoulder, snapping you out of it. “Look, I’m not saying you have to trust him blindly. But maybe, you can let him prove himself.”

You exhaled sharply, the weight of everything pressing against your chest. “Fine. But if he screws this up, I’m not holding back.”

Fred grinned.

Jihoon, still watching from across the room, gave you a slight nod before turning back to his conversation. The boy at his feet clung to his leg like a koala, and Jihoon, didn’t seem to mind.

— // One day before the Fundraiser Gala // —

The sound of heels and boots against the tile floor echoed through the kitchen, direct contradiction to the usual patter of children’s sneakers and laughter. Jihoon’s team had arrived, and damn, they looked like they meant business. Clad in immaculate white chef coats and black pants, they marched in like some kind of culinary SWAT team, their faces serious as their eyes scanned the colorful cabinets, the shelves stacked with bright utensils, and the whimsical decorations scattered around.

For a second, you thought they might’ve walked into the wrong place. This wasn’t their sleek with its stainless steel everything and clinical vibes.

One of the chefs—a woman probably in her late thirties, with warm brown eyes and a bright smile—broke away from the group. Her crisp chef’s hat stood out even more because of the colorful butterfly pinned to the front. She approached you with her hands clasped in front of her, her energy immediately softening the sharpness of the arrival.

“You must be Chef Y/N,” she saidt. “It’s such an honor to meet you. I’m a big fan of your work. My daughter used to come here a few years ago before we moved away.”

You blinked, caught off guard by her warmth. Then your lips curved into a genuine smile as you reached out to clasp her outstretched hand. “Oh, really? That’s amazing! What’s her name?”

“Ellie,” she said, her smile widening. “She loved it here—always talked about the classes and how kind you were. You really made an impact on her.”

Your chest tightened with pride as you squeezed her hands lightly. “That means so much to me. Thank you for sharing that.”

Jihoon’s voice broke through the moment, sharp but not unkind, as he began directing his team like a seasoned general. “You, start unpacking the equipment and setting up the stations. Over there,” he pointed toward the far counters, “clear the area for plating tomorrow. We’ll use this section for prep. Let’s move efficiently; we don’t have all day.”

The chefs snapped into action, moving in sync as they carried crates of supplies and ingredients to the designated areas. Some paused briefly to take in the kitchen's playful décor—bright red mixing bowls, pink spatulas, even a small chalkboard where the kids had drawn messy pictures of cookies and cakes.

A younger chef paused at the chalkboard and tilted his head, squinting at a crookedly drawn cake. “What’s this supposed to be?”

You smirked, stepping closer. “That’s a birthday cake. Pretty sure it was done by a five-year-old last week.”

He grinned sheepishly and quickly got back to work.

As the flurry of activity settled into a rhythm, Jihoon finally approached you, wiping his hands on a towel slung over his shoulder. His sleeves were rolled up, his forearms dusted with flour—intimidating or approachable? you couldn't name it. 

“So,” he said, nodding toward his team bustling behind him, “what do you think?”

You folded your arms, raising an eyebrow. “You brought an army.”

Jihoon smirked, his dimple flashing. “You said you were stressed about the gala. I figured I’d bring reinforcements.”

“I didn’t think reinforcements would look like... this.” You gestured toward the scene unfolding behind him—chefs moving almost mechanically, unpacking boxes of spices, knives, and tools that looked way too fancy for your humble kitchen. “They’re terrifyingly efficient.”

Jihoon’s smirk widened. “It’s what we do.”

You shook your head, pleasedly. “I’m not used to this many people in here. Usually, it’s just me, Fred, and the kids. Maybe a volunteer or two. This is... Geez.”

Jihoon’s expression softened just slightly. “It’ll be fine. They’re good at what they do, and they’re here to help.” He tilted his head toward the woman with the butterfly pin, who was busy organizing a shelf of ingredients. “And they’re not all bad, see? You’ve already made a fan.”

You let out a small laugh, glancing over at her. “She seems sweet. But you—” you pointed at him, mock serious, “—better not let this whole operation steamroll what we’ve got here. I don’t want this place feeling like some high-end restaurant. It’s not what we’re about.”

Jihoon held up his hands, a teasing glint in his eyes. “Noted, Chef. No steamrolling.”

“Good,” you said, though it was a simple conversation, it left your stomach flipping a little.

Fred appeared at your side, raising an eyebrow at the scene. “Well, this is new. You two... not bickering?”

Jihoon let out a low laugh. “Don’t get used to it.”

Fred snorted. “Noted.”

As the three of you stood there, Jihoon’s team settled further into their work. And for the first time in days, you let yourself feel a tiny spark of hope. Maybe  this fundraiser wouldn’t be a complete disaster.

The faint pop of balloons filled the air as you stood outside the big house, pointing toward the arch being assembled. The guy on the ladder adjusted the last few balloons based on your direction. “Yeah, a little to the left. No, too much—back a bit. Perfect!” you called, stepping back to admire the colorful display. Satisfied, you headed inside to check on the lobby.

The scene was coming together beautifully. Soft string lights cascaded down the walls, tables draped in crisp white cloths were adorned with modest floral arrangements, and a few colorful drawings from the kids had been framed and placed strategically to keep the spirit of the NGO alive. You smiled, exhaustion creeping in.

The kitchen door swung open briefly, the sound of movement spilling out. Jihoon’s voice rang clear as he called out commands. Curious, you moved closer, the faint smell of roasted vegetables and fresh herbs making your stomach grumble.

“Should we add the asparagus to the risotto?” one of the chefs asked Jihoon.

You peeked in to see Jihoon standing near the counter, frowning at the question. His arms were crossed as he considered the dish. “No. Substitute it with something the kids will like better. Maybe peas or sweet corn—something familiar.” His tone was sharp but thoughtful, and you couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. He’s got this.

With the decoration finished, you looked around the lobby one last time, hands on your hips, your legs were starting to feel the long day. Just as you were about to head upstairs for a quick break, Jihoon’s voice called out.

“Chef Y/N! Come to the kitchen for a second!”

You groaned dramatically, rolling your eyes but heading toward the kitchen anyway. The team had gathered around the main counter, dishes from the menu arranged neatly in front of them. Jihoon stood in the center, sleeves rolled up, looking completely in his element. When you stepped in, he placed a firm hand on your lower back, gently guiding you to the counter.

“Alright, Chef,” he said with a small smirk. “You’re the boss—taste and let us know if anything needs adjusting.”

You set your clipboard down by the edge of the counter, glancing at the team. Their expressions ranged from curious to tense, some with hands clasped nervously in front of them, others holding their breath. The way they watched you reminded you of the kids during class, eagerly awaiting your feedback with shiny, hopeful eyes. It was a window straight to their inner child, and it warmed you in a way you hadn’t expected.

You picked up the first dish—a delicate risotto plated beautifully with fresh herbs—and took a bite. The creamy texture melted on your tongue, and you couldn’t help but nod in approval. The team collectively exhaled, and a few shared quiet smiles.

Moving to the next dish, a roasted chicken breast with a honey glaze, you chewed thoughtfully before nodding again. Your eyebrows raised as you flipped to a fresh page on your clipboard and started writing.

From the corner of your eye, you noticed a few of them shifting nervously, trying to sneak a peek at what you were jotting down. You heard someone’s breath hitch, and you fought back a grin. Their curiosity bubbling over like kids at a science fair.

Finally, you set the pen down and looked up at the group with a big smile. “Everything is excellent,” you said warmly, your tone full of genuine praise. The room erupted into quiet sighs of relief and soft laughter as they exchanged congratulatory nods.

Jihoon stood at your side, his eyes on you, but you didn’t miss the curiosity there, too. You ripped the page from your clipboard and handed it to him. “Here,” you said. “See you all tomorrow—get some rest. You’ve earned it!”

As you left the kitchen, you could feel their eyes lingering on you, their whispers audible even as you stepped into the hallway.

“What did she write?” someone asked, unable to contain their curiosity.

Jihoon unfolded the note, and for a moment, his face was unclear. Then he scoffed softly, a smile breaking across his face as he shook his head.

“What is it, Chef?”

Jihoon chuckled and held up the paper for them to see. Written in bold letters, surrounded by a big smiley face, were the words:

"You have the best team ever, Jihoon-ah! (P.S. Don’t mess it up, or I’ll switch the risotto for instant noodles tomorrow.)"

The room blast into laughter, the tension evaporating in an instant. Jihoon rubbed the back of his neck, grinning sheepishly.

— // The day of the Fundraiser Gala // —

The afternoon stretched lazily into evening. You were on autopilot, clipboard in hand, mentally running through the checklist one last time.

You didn’t even notice Jihoon’s team gathered in a loose circle near the kitchen, stifling laughter as they watched you stride past, completely oblivious. Jihoon, standing at the center, tried to hold it together, his lips twitching and his cheeks dangerously close to full-on pink.

When you finally looked up, feeling the weight of their stares, you froze. Jihoon caught your gaze, his face crumpling into silent laughter as he pointed at your head.

You blinked, confused, before your hand flew up and landed on the pink rollers still perched on your head. Your cheeks flamed instantly. “Oh my God,” you groaned, rolling your eyes dramatically. “Not a word!” you warned, glaring at Jihoon, who was practically doubled over, biting his fist to keep from cackling.

“Come on,” he teased, still grinning. “It’s a look!”

You huffed, trying to keep your composure as you giggled despite yourself. Jihoon straightened, still laughing. “Alright, alright, no judgment. But seriously…” His tone softened slightly, and his eyes swept over you. “You’ve been running around all day. Go get ready—we’ll take care of the rest from here.”

You smiled tiredly, feeling the faint brush of his fingers against your shoulder as he winked. The touch lingered, even as you turned to head upstairs.

In your office, the mirror reflected someone entirely different from your usual self. The rollers were gone, replaced by soft waves cascading around your face. The long dress hugged your waist and flared subtly at your hips. It was nothing like the practical aprons or flour-dusted chef hats you wore every day. For the first time in a while, you felt glamorous.

A knock sounded at your door, and Fred poked his head in. “You look…” He sniffed loudly, dramatically. “...so good. Do you even know how to walk in heels?”

You rolled your eyes and pushed at his shoulder playfully. “Shut up, Fred.” The hard texture of his tuxedo jacket pressed against your palm, a memo that tonight wasn’t just another day in the kitchen.

The lobby was alive when you descended the stairs. Guests filled the space—reporters, actors, chefs with Michelin stars under their belts, the kids’ parents, and longtime supporters of the organization. Some children were already laughing and playing with the monitors, their joy cutting through the formal atmosphere in the most perfect way.

You greeted guests warmly, flashing your practiced smile as cameras clicked and people extended hands to shake yours. But out of the corner of your eye, you caught sight of Jihoon.

He stood near one of the round tables, his pristine white chef’s coat gleaming under the lights. Unlike the standard uniforms, his was sharp and sophisticated, accented with a brooch showcasing his achievements. His short hair was perfectly styled, and the smell of his soap lingered faintly in the air—jihoon always smelled like a fresh bath.

Jihoon was mid-conversation with a Michelin-starred chef, but his attention kept drifting. You could feel his eyes on you as you moved through the crowd. When your gaze met his, he subtly adjusted the collar of his coat, looking flustered.

He raised his hand, beckoning you over.

“Y/N,” he called, a bit more breathless than usual.

You walked over, smiling as he introduced you. “This is Chef Park. I had classes with him when I was just starting out.”

Chef Park extended a hand warmly, and you shook it, your voice full of charm as you exchanged pleasantries. Jihoon tried to stay focused on the conversation, but his gaze kept sliding back to you.

The dress—damn, the dress. The way it emphasized the curve of your waist, the dip of your back, the subtle swell of your chest—Jihoon felt his mouth go dry.

While you chatted animatedly with Chef Park, Jihoon fought to keep himself together. His eyes darted downward for a split second, landing on your ass before quickly snapping back up.

Fred sidled up next to Jihoon, smirking. “She cleans up nice, huh?”

Jihoon shot him a sharp look, cheeks pink. “Shut up.”

Fred grinned wider, nudging him with an elbow. “Bet you’re regretting all those jokes about her rollers now.”

Jihoon groaned quietly, running a hand through his hair as he muttered, “You have no idea.”

When the conversation with Chef Park ended, you turned back to Jihoon, your smile soft. “So? Everything on track?”

Jihoon swallowed hard, nodding. “Yeah. All good. Just… don’t trip in those heels, okay?” he teased lightly, though his voice was a little hoarse.

You smirked, leaning in slightly. “Don’t burn the risotto, Jihoon-ah.”

Fred’s laugh from behind was loud enough to draw attention, but you were already slipping away, leaving Jihoon standing there, flustered and very much not focused on risotto anymore.

Everywhere you turned, there were people—donors, parents, fancy celebs holding glasses of wine like it was part of their outfits. The kind of people who looked too perfect. 

Back in the kitchen, you caught glimpses of Jihoon barking orders—well, not barking, but you know, his stern-but-not-rude tone that somehow made you think, damn, is it hot in here, or is it just him? His uniform was doing wonders, too. That brooch on his chest? Fancy as hell. The sharp cut of his chef coat? Not fair. The dude was practically glowing, commanding his team with this quiet authority that made you wanna—well, your ego didn’t wanted to finish that thought.

But it wasn’t just his looks. Watching him orchestrate everything like a culinary conductor, was making your knees go weak—It just hit different. He made plating look like an Olympic sport—it was sexy in a he’s-too-distracted-to-realize-how-hot-he-is kinda way.

You tried not to linger in the kitchen doorway like some creep, but your feet betrayed you. You found yourself lingering by the double doors leading into the kitchen way more than necessary, just to sneak a peek. And when Jihoon glanced up mid-sentence—probably to tell someone to stop over-salting the soup, the devil on your shoulder moaned in the most slutty and mockingly way in your ear.

He had this stupid air about him tonight, like a general in a Michelin-starred army, his pristine chef’s jacket glowing under the lights.

Honestly, it was hot. Too hot.

Every detail mattered to him tonight, like he was pouring himself into every dish for the house—and for you.

Meanwhile, Jihoon… He felt you. He swore he could feel you every damn time you entered the kitchen. He didn’t even have to turn around to know you were standing there, clipboard probably in hand, lips pressed together as you analyzed everything.

At one point, as he was giving instructions about caramelizing the chiken, his assistant caught him mid-stutter. Jihoon blinked, realizing he’d glanced at the door when he didn’t even mean to. Sure enough, there you were, leaning slightly against the doorframe, watching him.

“Chef?” his assistant asked, clearly amused.

Jihoon shook his head, trying to focus. But god, how could he when you were out there looking like that? The memory of your dress earlier—was burned into his mind, everytime he finished a plate.

And you weren’t just standing around, either. You were networking like crazy, charming the big donors with your natural warmth. Jihoon kept overhearing snippets of your conversations, catching the soft laughs you’d coax out of the crowd. His chest tightened every time. How the hell were you this good at everything?

The main event started in the salon, where guests gathered around tables adorned with delicate flower arrangements. A massive screen hung at the front of the room, flashing photos of the NGO’s achievements, kids smiling and laughing, and heartfelt thank-you messages from families.

You had a glass of wine in your hand, but you weren’t drinking much—your attention was split between schmoozing the guests and keeping tabs on Jihoon. He entered the room with his team in tow, their white jackets contrasting beautifully with the dark, sleek space. His presence shifted the entire mood, drawing eyes like a magnet.

As the night went on, donations started rolling in. The screen showed the numbers climbing higher and higher, names of donors flashing beside each amount. You clapped along with everyone else, heart swelling every time the digits jumped. But then a new name appeared: Lee Jihoon. His real name by the side of the donation, not his professional one.

Your breath caught. The amount wasn’t just generous; it was enormous. Enough to make an audible gasp ripple through the crowd.

Fred’s hands landed on your shoulders, giving them a firm squeeze. You didn’t respond, eyes fixed on Jihoon as he stood near the back of the room, his hands shoved into his pockets. He wasn’t looking at the screen. Instead, his gaze was on you.

Later, after the gala dinner had been served and the kids had performed their adorable little skit, Jihoon’s team gathered in the salon, celebrating their successful service. Jihoon found you again, his hand brushing yours as he handed you a flute of champagne, making you abandon your clipboard once for the night, before heading to the kitchen. Cute.

Minutes later Jihoon saw you coming towards his team direction, and he stepped aside, making room for you in the circle. His hand brushed against your back lightly, making your skin shiver under the pads of his fingers.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

“Perfect,” you replied, glancing at him. “You really outdid yourself tonight.”

He gave a small smile, but it didn’t quite hide the way his chest puffed up a little at your praise.

One of the chefs leaned forward, clearly curious. “So… what’d you think of the risotto?”

You laughed softly, remembering the dish you’d tasted earlier. “Honestly? It was flawless. You guys knocked it out of the park.”

The team broke into wide smiles, their pride radiating through the room. Jihoon stood quietly beside you, but you could feel the satisfaction rolling off him.

“You really do have the best team, Jihoon-ah,” you said quietly, just for him to hear.

He chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I know. But don’t tell them that—they’ll get cocky.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile stayed.

[...]

The house was a ghost town now, silent except for the soft hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. The laughter of the kids and clinking of glasses had faded into memories, and the night felt heavy in the best way—like it had been full.

You stretched your legs out on the rest room couch, head lolling back. The long dress you’d cursed earlier now felt like salvation, hiding how much you wanted to just kick your heels off and sprawl indecently. Fred and Jihoon’s assistant sat across from you, chatting nonstop like they hadn’t just survived the most exhausting night of their lives.

Jihoon, was quiet, his head tilted back against the wall, arms crossed, looking done. You wanted to tell him to take a break, but you knew better—he’d earned the silence.

Still, your throat felt dry, and you sat up suddenly, pushing yourself off the couch. “I need another drink. Back in a sec.”

Fred shot you a look. “Champagne? Or vodka this time?”

“Champagne.” you fflip him off with a tired grin as you headed for the kitchen.

The kitchen was spotless, not a single dish out of place. You stared at the counters, blinking in disbelief.

“No way,” you murmured under your breath, tugging a fresh bottle of champagne from the cooler. “Even the dishes?”

A low voice startled you. “Even the dishes.”

You jumped, nearly dropping the bottle, and spun around. Jihoon was leaning against the doorway, his jacket draped over one arm, his hair slightly mussed like he’d run his fingers through it too many times. He smirked softly at your reaction.

“Sorry,” he said, stepping into the kitchen. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t,” you lied, grabbing a second glass for him. You poured the champagne and handed him one.

“Cheers,” you said, raising your glass.

He clinked his against yours with a quiet chuckle, the sound of the glasses meeting delicate in the silence.

You sat on the counter, letting out a soft sigh as you sipped. Jihoon moved to lean against the counter beside you, his thigh brushing your knee as he turned his glass in his hand.

“You proved me wrong tonight,” you said suddenly, catching his eye.

He tilted his head, curious. “Oh yeah? About what?”

You smiled, a little softer this time. “About whether you really cared about this place. About the kids. About any of it. I thought you were just here because…” You trailed off, shaking your head. “I don’t know. Because you had to be.”

Jihoon’s brows furrowed, no defensiveness in his voice when he said, “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t care, Y/N. You know that.”

“I do now,” you admitted, setting your glass beside you. “I see it in how you are with the kids. How you talk to them, listen to them. Even tonight, bowing to every single parent...”

Jihoon’s face softened. “They’re… incredible. Every single one of them. I’m not gonna lie—I thought I wasn’t great with kids. But these kids? I love them, Y/N. Like… it’s different. They’re different. They remind me why I even started doing all this in the first place.”

You leaned back slightly, studying him, your chest tightening at how genuine he looked.

“You’re a sap,” you said, grinning.

“And you’re not?” he shot back, smirking.

You nudged his leg with your knee. “Don’t deflect. I’m being serious. You’ve come so far since you got here. And honestly? The house wouldn’t be what it is tonight without you.”

Jihoon stared at you for a long moment, his lips twitching like he wanted to argue, but then he just took a final sip of his champagne and placed the glass beside yours.

You didn’t even realize you’d been holding your breath until he shifted, slotting himself between your legs with a smoothness that should’ve been illegal. His hands found the counter on either side of your thighs, and he leaned in close.

“You don’t give yourself enough credit,” he murmured. “This place is you. Every inch of it. I’m just… lucky to be part of it.”

Your breath hitched as you met his eyes, the proximity making it impossible to look anywhere else.

“Jihoon…”

“Hmm?” His gaze flicked to your lips, then back to your eyes.

“You’re… a lot.”

“And you’re not?”

Jihoon stood close enough for you to notice how the soft cotton of his t-shirt clung to him underneath the chef’s coat he’d shrugged off earlier. Without thinking, your hand lifted, fingers brushing against the collar of the shirt.

He didn’t move, didn’t flinch. His gaze stayed locked on you, soft and curious.

You cleared your throat, keeping your voice steady. “So… you staying in town? Or are you disappearing again?”

Jihoon tilted his head, smiling softly. “I’m staying.”

“Good,” you said with a small nod, your fingers lingering for a second longer before dropping back to your lap. “In that case… want to make it official?”

His eyebrows shot up. “Official?”

You grinned, your tired eyes sparkling. “I mean, if you want to be part of our team. Contract and everything. Full-on chef Jihoon at the NGO.”

Jihoon blinked at you, the surprise written all over his face. “Are you serious?”

“Dead serious,” you replied. “At this point, if you leave, the kids are gonna cry for days.”

He scoffed, shaking his head with a laugh. “The kids? I’d probably cry.”

You laughed with him, the sound soft and genuine. “Would you?”

“Definitely,” he said, then glanced at you with a smirk. “Would you cry?”

You raised an eyebrow, leaning back a little as you place your palms behind you. “Please. I’ve already cried plenty because of you.”

Jihoon groaned, throwing his head back in defeat. “Don’t bring that up,” he whined.

You softened, nudging his arm. “I’m kidding.”

He sighed, resting his head on your shoulder like he was trying to hide from your teasing. “I know,” he mumbled. “But it’s real.”

You didn’t know if he meant the apology or the gratitude, but the way his hand lifted from the counter to rest on your leg through the slit of your dress made your back arch a bit. His palm was warm against your skin, his touch featherlight as he squeezed gently.

He straightened just slightly, his face close enough now that you could see the faint flush creeping along his cheekbones. “What if,” he said quietly, “I made you cry with something good instead?”

Your lips parted, the question taking you off guard. Jihoon didn’t pull back, his gaze flickering between your eyes and your mouth like he was waiting for an answer. His eyebrows furrowing as if he was doing a really big effort to not kiss you.

“I—” You swallowed, your voice catching as his thumb began to trace slow circles against your leg.

His other hand brushed the edge of the counter beside you, steadying himself as he leaned just a fraction closer. “Would you let me?” he asked softly.

Your breath hitched as Jihoon’s hand slid higher up your thigh, his palm warm and firm. The tiniest, unintentional sound escaped your lips—breathy and needy—and the way his smirk curved made your panties sticky almst instantly. He leaned in, close enough for a soft, teasing peck. Merely there. Then he pulled back just enough to catch your reaction, his smirk deepening at the horny look in your eyes.

“Ji,” you whispered, grabbing the front of his shirt before he could get smug. Your lips found his, no uncertainty at all this time, your tongue slipping between his parted lips. 

His lips were impossibly soft, moving against yours with a rhythm that left your mind spinning. His tongue met yours, sweeping against it in a way that made you clutch his shirt tighter, pulling him closer. His hands abandoned your thigh, traveling upward, his palms smoothing over your hips, then the curve of your ass, before they settled on your waist.

Jihoon kissed like he worked in the kitchen—passionately, hard. Every movement was like he knew what would make you wetter, his lips pressing into yours harder, hungrier, as though he was savoring you. His thumbs brushed the edges of your ribs, fingers splaying as he drew you closer, swallowing the quiet moans that slipped out against his lips.

He broke away for a moment, sucking gently on your bottom lip before releasing it with a soft pop. His lips lingered, warm and swollen, against your skin as he caught his breath. You felt his breath fan against your jaw before his mouth trailed kisses to the sensitive skin behind your earlobe. The press of his lips there was wetter, slower, his tongue just grazing enough to make your head tilt back.

His lips were plush, his tongue warm as it laved over the skin just below your ear. The sensation was maddening—gentle nips and soothing licks. He kissed lower, his lips brushing the curve of your neck, finding the pulse point that fluttered beneath his tongue. His tongue darted out, hot and slick, tasting the salt of your skin before he pulled it back in to suck lightly.

You felt your pussy expulsing more honey right after an agonizing tug on your lower belly. You rolled your hipstrying to find his heat down there too. “Hey—Jihoon,” you murmured, hardly able to get his name out as his mouth kept working, your mind slurred, weak and the faint.

And then, just as his hand slid higher, brushing along your ribcage toward your chest, reality hit you like a slap in the face.

The kitchen.

You froze for a second, pulling back with a shaky laugh as you pressed a hand to his chest. “We can’t… here,” you whispered, your cheeks flaming. “This is literally where the kids cook.”

“You’re right. God, you’re right. Im sorry.” Jihoon said, voice muffled against your skin as he let out a shy laugh. “I know. I just…” He pulled back slightly, looking at you like he didn’t want to let go. “I’m sorry. You’re just…”

“Just what?” you teased, arching a brow even as you felt the heat rising to your cheeks.

“...So hot,” he admitted, his lips curving into a sheepish smile that only made you hornier. 

You were about to respond—maybe tease him, maybe kiss him again—when the sound of someone clearing their throat made you both snap out of it like a couple of guilty teenagers caught sneaking around.

Standing in the doorway were Fred and Jihoon’s assistant, their jaws practically on the floor. Fred looked like he’d seen a ghost—or maybe his entire worldview shatter—while Jihoon’s assistant was holding a tray of neatly plated desserts, now slightly tilted as they both froze in place.

“Um…” Fred finally managed. “Are we… interrupting… something?”

You and Jihoon pulled apart instantly—well, as much as you could with him still standing between your legs and his hands still firmly on your waist.

“No!” you both blurted in unison, your voices hitting slightly different octaves, which only made the situation even more awkward.

Fred squinted at the two of you, his gaze darting between your flushed face, Jihoon’s equally guilty expression, and the very obvious fact that you were still sitting on the counter with Jihoon standing way too close.

“Uh-huh,” Fred said slowly, folding his arms. “Because it looks like I just walked into a scene straight out of a porno.”

Jihoon’s assistant, meanwhile, was trying—and failing—to hold back laughter, his shoulders shaking as he set the tray down on a nearby table, grinning like he’d just uncovered the gossip of the century. “Should we give you two a minute? Or, like… ten?”

“Okay, stop,” you groaned, hiding your face in your hands as you tried to will the floor to swallow you whole. “It’s not what it looks like.”

Fred raised an eyebrow. “Really? Because it looks like you were—”

“Fred!” you snapped, cutting him off before he could finish that sentence.

Jihoon, to his credit, was doing his best to look professional again, straightening his shirt and stepping back slightly, though his ears were burning red and his black pants were almost exploding with the hard bulge poking the zipper. “I mean… we were just… talking,” he said, his voice awkwardly high-pitched. “Right, Y/N?”

“Totally.” you said, nodding way too quickly. 

Fred looked like he was physically restraining himself from rolling his eyes. “Oh yeah, because that totally explains why Jihoon’s lips were practically glued to your neck.”

Jihoon’s assistant let out a snort, finally losing it as he doubled over laughing. “This is so much better than I imagined,” he said between giggles. “I knew something was up between you two, but this? Oh, this is gold.”

“Can we not?” Jihoon mumbled, his hands rubbing his face as he leaned against the counter beside you. “Seriously, just… forget this happened, okay?”

Fred crossed his arms, looking suspiciously amused. “Oh, no chance. This is going in the house history books.”

Jihoon groaned. “You’re literally the worst.”

“Yeah, and yet you’re the one making out in the kitchen,” Fred shot back, smirking. “So who’s really winning here?”

You sighed, hopping off the counter and smoothing your dress as you tried to regain some semblance of dignity. “Okay, you’ve had your fun. Can we move on now?”

Fred shrugged, still grinning as he followed Jihoon’s assistant out of the room. “Oh, sure. But just so you know, I’m never letting you live this down.”

As they disappeared around the corner, Jihoon let out a long sigh, his shoulders slumping. His face softened as he caught your eye, and he let out a quiet laugh.

You shrugged, biting back a smile. “Could be worse.”

“Yeah?” Jihoon asked, stepping closer again, his voice reducing slightly. “Like what?”

You didn’t answer, but the look you gave him said everything.

[...]

The NGO was officially closed for a week after the fundraiser gala—a well-deserved break for everyone involved. You had practically collapsed in exhaustion the night after the event, but now, as the week began, your nerves were alive again for a completely different reason: Jihoon was coming over.

Your house, modest and cozy, suddenly felt inadequate in your eyes. It wasn’t that it wasn’t clean or comfortable—it was—but compared to whatever sleek, high-tech penthouse you imagined Jihoon lived in, with modern furniture, and probably some state-of-the-art espresso machine that greeted him in the morning with a personalized message, you felt like your space might seem a little too... quaint.

Still, you’d spent the morning scrubbing your house from top to bottom. The counters were wiped down three times, the couch cushions fluffed and rearranged, and the tiny plant by the window watered, even though it definitely didn’t need it. 

You glanced at yourself in the mirror for what had to be the fiftieth time, smoothing down the soft pink fabric of your loose dress. It wasn’t too dressy, but it was cute and casual enough to not feel overdone. The fabric swayed lightly as you moved, and you liked how it made you look pretty. Enough to say, “I’m not trying too hard, but also please notice I’m cute.”

Why are you acting like this is a date? you scolded yourself. It’s just Jihoon. He’s coming here for work.

To top it off, you’d spent way too long picking out a perfume that smelled sweet but subtle enough to not overpower him. You’d made sure you didn’t smell like cake batter or frosting—not that it would’ve been bad.

When the knock finally came, you nearly tripped over your own feet rushing to the door. Taking a deep breath, you smoothed your dress one last time and opened it, trying not to look like you’d been anxiously waiting there for twenty minutes.

Jihoon stood on your porch, casual but polished in a black crewneck and jeans, his hair perfectly messy in that way that looked completely effortless. He smiled softly, holding up a notebook and a small bag of groceries. “I come bearing snacks and bad handwriting,” he said.

You laughed, stepping aside to let him in. “Well, the snacks can stay. We’ll see about the handwriting.”

Jihoon looked around, his eyes scanning the cozy space. “This is nice,” he said, nodding appreciatively. “Way more personality than my place.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Really? I thought you’d be used to… like… manoir vibes.”

“Manoirs don’t feel like this,” he said, glancing at the soft lighting and the framed photos on your shelves. “This feels like someone actually lives here.”

He smirked, stepping into the living room and setting his bag down. “So, what’s the big plan for this super important work meeting?”

Ah, yes. The “work.” You’d convinced yourself that this was about finalizing the “Culinary Educational Outreach Program” you’d both been brainstorming for the organization. Jihoon called it “CEOP,” pronounced like “sip,” which made Fred gag every time he said it.

“First,” you said, trying to ignore how nice Jihoon looked standing in your living room, “we sit down and outline the goals for CEOP. Then, we cook.”

“Cook?” Jihoon raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening. “Are you just using this as an excuse to put me to work in your kitchen?”

You rolled your eyes, motioning for him to follow you to the dining table. “Shut up and sit down. We’ve got notes to take.”

The two of you sat across from each other, your knees brushing occasionally under the table. Jihoon’s handwriting was frustratingly neat for someone who claimed he didn’t care about stationary aesthetics, and for someone who claimed to have atrocious handwriting.

“So,” you started, tapping your pen against the page, “we want to make the cooking classes accessible, fun, and educational, right?”

“Yeah,” Jihoon said, jotting something down. “But we also need to keep the budget in mind. Like, how much can we actually afford to spend on those tiny aprons the kids keep asking for?”

You snorted. “You’re still salty about the aprons?”

“They’re expensive!” he argued, eyes narrowing at you. “And they’re just gonna get covered in flour and icing.”

“That’s the point, Jihoon. Let them be messy. It’s part of the fun.”

Jihoon shook his head, but you caught the way the corner of his mouth twitched up. “Fine. Tiny aprons. But if the kids start demanding personalized chef hats, that’s on you.”

You laughed, leaning forward slightly as you scribbled down some ideas. Jihoon’s gaze flickered to your neckline watching how your boobs moved as you breathe for a split second before he snapped back to his notebook, clearing his throat.

The plan transitioned seamlessly into the kitchen—almost seamlessly. You’d barely gotten past measuring the ingredients when Jihoon leaned over to adjust your grip on a whisk, his hand brushing yours.

“You’re holding it like you’re trying to stab the dough,” he teased.

“Maybe I am,” you shot back, sticking your tongue out at him.

Jihoon just laughed, stepping back to watch as you mixed the batter. His eyes wandered—innocently at first, but when you shifted your weight and the neckline of your dress dipped slightly, he had to bite the inside of his bottom lip to… focus.

“Okay, my turn,” he said, taking the whisk from you.

As he worked, you found yourself leaning in closer, watching the way his muscles shifted under his shirt, the way his jaw clenched slightly in concentration. You didn’t even realize how close you were until Jihoon dipped his finger into the icing sugar and smudged a line across your cheek, careful to not mess your pretty make up or accidentally spot your dress.

“Hey!” you gasped, stepping back, your eyes wide.

Jihoon grinned, holding up his hands. “What? It’s a kitchen. You’re supposed to get messy, remember?”

You frowned, sulking slightly as you wiped at your cheek. “I thought you were gonna kiss me, not… attack me with sugar.”

Jihoon leaned back just enough to meet your flustered gaze, his smirk downright unsafe. He tilted his head, pretending to be shocked, one hand pressed to his chest in mock disbelief.

“Oh,” he said, his voice low and teasing. “So you want me to kiss you?”

You could feel the heat creeping up your neck, your hands fidgeting at your sides. “I didn’t—”

“Mm-mm.” Jihoon shook his head, cutting you off as he stepped closer, crowding your space. “Don’t even try to deny it. You’ve been looking at me like that all dayy. And now this pout?” His eyes flicked to your lips, and the corner of his mouth twitched. “If you do that again, I might just have to—”

You couldn’t look at him. The pressure of his gaze was too much, and you turned your head to the side, lips pressed into a tight line. Jihoon wasn’t having it.

His hand reached up, fingers gently guiding your chin until you were looking at him again. “There it is,” he murmured, his voice a little rougher, like he was restraining himself from jumping on you. “That pout.” His smile widened, and he took a small step between your legs, his hands finding your hips and squeezing lightly. “C’mere.”

His lips brushed yours—insufficiently, like a mock. It wasn’t enough to satisfy the yearn already forming between your legs, but it was enough to make you almost moan. And Jihoon noticed.

He grinned against your mouth, taking his time as his hand slid up to cradle the back of your neck, bumping your tits in the process. “You’re gonna have to ask me properly, like the good girl you are,” he whispered, the tip of his nose grazing yours.

“Please?” you breathed, but it was all he longed for.

His lips captured yours fully this time, devastatingly thorough. He didn’t rush, every moment spent tasting your lips was something he savored. His tongue flicked out, tracing the seam of your lips, coaxing them open, and when you let him in, he took.

His tongue hungrily claimed yours, his tongue sliding against yours in deep, lazy strokes that made your knees weak. His other hand slipped around to your lower back, pulling you impossibly closer, so close you could feel the heat of him through his shirt.

He tilted his head, angling the kiss to deepen it further. His teeth grazed your bottom lip, tugging lightly before his tongue followed, soothing the slight sting. The contrast made you whimper, your hands clutching at his shirt like it was the only thing keeping you upright even though the kitchen counter was supporting your back.

“God, you sound so pretty,” Jihoon murmured against your lips. He pressed his hips into yours just enough for you to feel his cock growing inside his pants, making you frown desperately, your fingers tightening in the fabric of his shirt.

His hand drifted lower, squeezing your waist before trailing over the curve of your ass. When he pulled back, just slightly, his lips were plum, slick and swollen. He leaned in again, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth, then to your jaw, then to the sensitive spot that he tasted and teased days before.

Your head fell back as his lips traveled lower, his tongue flicking out to taste the skin of your neck. He sucked lightly, and you knew that it was enough to leave a redspot without even look at it.

Your hand slid between your bodies, and the second your palm made contact with the unyielding weight of his cock, Jihoon’s reaction was instant. His hips stuttered forward, a whiny, almost helpless sound escaping his lips as his forehead dropped against your shoulder. “Oh, fuck—you can’t just—” He cut himself off with a breathy laugh that turned into a moan, his hands gripping your hips to steady himself.

You couldn’t help but grin while rolling your eyes lightly, fingers curling around him to get a better feel. He felt big, so thick that your fingers barely wrapped halfway around the length of him. You gave an experimental squeeze, and his mouth fell open, his breath hitching as he muttered, “Jesus fucking Christ, Y/N.”

“Didn’t think you’d be so sensitive,” you teased, sliding your hand along him slowly, feeling the heat of him through the fabric. His hips jerked involuntarily, grinding into your palm, and you gasped at the weight of his phallus.

He lifted his head, his face flushed, lips shiny and parted. “Sensitive?” He let out a shaky laugh, biting his bottom lip before grinning wickedly. “You’re over here squeezing me, and you wanna talk about me being sensitive?”

You squeezed him again, just to see what he’d do, and he cursed loudly, his eyes squeezing shut. “Fuck—okay, okay, you’re insane.” His hands gripped your hips tighter, holding you still as he started to grind against your palm, his cock twitching under your touch.

“Jihoon,” you whispered, and he opened his eyes, his pupils broad as he looked at you.

“What?” he rasped with voice strained but, his hips never losing their rhythm against your hand.

“You’re literally humping my hand right now,” you pointed out, biting your lip to hold back a laugh.

“And?” His mouth curved into a smirk, though his voice wavered as you tightened your grip on him. “You think I’m just gonna sit here all chill while you touch me like that?” He let out another moan, his head falling back slightly before his gaze locked on you again.

You leaned in, pressing your lips to his ear. “Feels good, huh?” You pressed your palm harder against him, your fingers teasing along his length. His response was immediate—his hips bucked, and a whiny “shit” escaped his lips, his face scrunching up in pleasure.

Jihoon smirked, leaning in until his lips hovered over yours. “Keep playing, and see what happens,” he murmured, his breath warm against your skin.

You raised an eyebrow, your fingers brushing against the tip of him, and he groaned, the pads of your fingers starting to get sticky with the precum already jutting through his pants. 

He exhaled sharply, and suddenly, his body pressed against yours so firmly that you couldn’t move. The breath hitched in your throat as his hips pushed yours into the counter. Jihoon’s eyes flicked down, and that’s when he froze.

Your dress straps had slipped from your shoulder, the fabric falling just enough to expose the curve of your chest. The neckline dipped precariously low, your tits all but spilling out. He couldn’t decide if he wanted to worship or devour you.

“Holy shit,” he muttered, dragging his bottom lip through his teeth before smirking. “Hiding all that under an apron, hm? How dare you?”

You rolled your eyes and gave him a tiny, playful shake, but the motion only made things worse. Jihoon’s pupils dilated as his eyes flicked between the slight bounce and your face.

Without waiting another second, he hooked his fingers under the neckline of your dress and tugged it down, the fabric pooling at your feet in record time. He muttered something incoherent under his breath, hands already fumbling with the clasp of your bra, his desperation so endearing it made you giggle.

“You good?” you teased as he struggled with the hooks.

“Do not laugh at me right now,” he grumbled. Finally, the clasp came undone, and he yanked the straps down your arms like his life counted on it.

“Goddamn,” he whispered, his hands immediately cupping you, warm and firm. His thumbs brushed over your nipples, and you feel like jelly in his hands, your skin not even covering the shivering. “You’re actually perfect. Like, what the hell?”

You were about to retort when he leaned forward and pressed a wet, open-mouthed kiss to the swell of your breast, and whatever witty comment you had died on your tongue.

Jihoon pulled back just enough to look at you. “Counter,” he rasped, already moving to lift you.

But the universe had other plans. His elbow knocked into a mixing bowl on the counter, sending it clattering to the floor with a loud metallic crash. Both of you froze, eyes wide like kids caught sneaking snacks.

“Shit,” Jihoon whispered, glancing down at the bowl before meeting your eyes. A laugh bubbled out of him, breathy and slightly unhinged. “Okay, yeah. This is cursed. New location.”

You couldn’t help but laugh too, as he grabbed your hand, pulling you toward the bathroom like it was some grand escape.

The bathroom light flicked on, and Jihoon speeded, it was the next room. He turned to you, his hands sliding up your sides, fingers brushing over the straps still hanging limply on your forearms. “Let me,” he murmured, his voice softer now but no less heated.

Instead of rushing, he dipped his head, his lips trailing down your shoulder as he pushed the straps down. The fabric fell away entirely, and his hands followed the motion, sliding down your body.

When you reached for his shirt, Jihoon smirked, pulling back just slightly. “Oh, you wanna do the honors?”

You nodded, biting your lip as you tugged the hem of his shirt up. He raised his arms, letting you peel it off him, the fabric catching on his mess of dark hair before dropping to the floor. Your hands roamed over his chest, tracing the lines of his muscles as he watched you.

When it came to his pants, though, he grabbed your wrist. “Wait,” he said, his grin widening. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his pants and drawers and pushed them down himself.

Your eyes dropped, and you couldn’t help the way your mouth fell open slightly. “Wow,” you whispered, and he laughed, stepping closer until his body pressed against yours again.

“Yeah?” he murmured, his lips brushing yours. “Wait ‘til I’m inside you.”

You didn’t even try to stifle the shameless moan that ripped from your throat, loud and unrestricted. It sounded like something straight out of a porno, and Jihoon had the nerve to smirk. “Damn, we’re not even there yet… You like it when I talk with you like this?”

You nodded quickly, disoriented in the sense to say anything coherent. Jihoon smirked, leaning in to nip at your jawline before pulling back just enough to hook a finger into the waistband of your panties.

“Come nearer,” he whispered, tugging you forward by the elastic until your chest clashed against his. His nails grazed the skin just above the fabric, teasing the sensitive area before his hand dipped lower. He let the material slide over your hips, his knuckles brushing your skin as he pushed it down. When the panties reached your thighs, he let gravity do the rest, the fabric pooling around your ankles.

Jihoon’s hands immediately found your waist, lifting you like you weighed nothing and setting you on the cool marble of the bathroom sink. The contrast between the chill of the counter and the heat of his body made you shiver, your legs instinctively closing.

“Uh-uh,” Jihoon said, his voice a frolicsome warning. His hands gripped your knees, spreading them apart again, wider this time. His gaze dropped, and his breath audibly caught as the light from the mirror illuminated you perfectly—your thighs trembling, your folds glistening, and the way your body clenched and unclenched in forethought.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, his thumb brushing the inside of your thigh as if to test if you were real. “You’re so fuckin’ pretty down here. Like, actually unreal.”

Your face burned at his words, but before you could respond, his hand was back. His index finger dragged lightly through your folds, collecting your slick before circling your clit with a featherlight touch. Your eyes squeezed shut as your turned your head to the side, as if the sight of him would make you weaker.

“Jihoon,” you whined, your voice high-pitched and needy.

He grinned at that, his other hand bracing your hip to keep you from squirming away. “Patience.” he murmured. 

His finger pressed more firmly against your clit now, rubbing infinite motions that made you rest your back on the mirror, instantly melting. Just as you felt the stimulus start to build, he stopped.

Your head snapped up, a frustrated groan leaving your lips. Jihoon only laughed, leaning in to kiss your cheek, the corner of your mouth, before pulling back again.

“What’s the rush?” he teased, his finger sliding lower to brush against your entrance but never pushing in. “We’ve got all night.”

You whimpered, your hips bucking toward his hand. His smirk widened, and he slid his finger back up, tapping lightly against your clit like he was testing how much more you could take.

“Jihoon! N-no!” you practically sobbed, your thighs trembling as you clenched around nothing.

“No…,” he said, his voice low and commanding. “I want you shaking for me.”

He alternated his technique, sometimes circling your clit in lazy patterns, other times tapping. Each time you came close to your orgasm, he pulled back, leaving you swaying on the border.

Your breaths came out in short, shallow pants, and your hands gripped the counter so hard your knuckles started to hurt. “Please,” you begged, your voice breaking.

Jihoon leaned in, his lips brushing yours as he whispered, “Just one more time.”

This time, he used two fingers, sliding them in a v-shape around your clit and moving them side to side in quick, ribbing motions. The sensation was unlike anything you’d felt before, and your hips jerked involuntarily.

“Shes so puffy already,” he murmured, his eyes locked on your cunt as he worked you over. “I can feel you shaking, baby. You gonna cum for me?”

You nodded desperately, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “Yes—please, Jihoon, I can’t—”

Jihoon pulled his hand away, and you sobbed. Your chest heaved as frustration and desperation coiled tight inside you, tears welling in your eyes.

“Aww, baby,” Jihoon cooed, his voice a mocking singsong that somehow felt like a soothing balm and fuel to your fire at the same time. His hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing a stray tear that slid down. “Look at you. So needy. You’re so wet already, and you think you’re ready for this?”

Your breath caught as he grabbed his cock, thick and glistening at the tip with precum, and let it rest heavy on your stomach. He tapped it against your skin, each tap leaving a sticky, wet line that trailed down to your bellybutton.

“See this?” Jihoon asked, his tone low but tinged with teasing. He shifted his hips, dragging the head of his cock up your stomach so you could feel its full length. “How do you think this is gonna fit, huh? You can’t even take my fingers without cumming. What makes you think this cock’s gonna slide right in?”

You blinked down at him, the weight of his cock against your belly making your head spin. It reached your bellybutton, almost too far, the swollen head ruddy and glistening like it was mocking you, daring you to try.

Jihoon’s gaze softened for a second as he caught the wobble in your lip and the glossy sheen of your tear-filled eyes. “God, you’re too cute,” he muttered, before his hand was back between your legs. “Alright, sweetheart,” he said, cooing again as he pressed the pad of his finger to your entrance. “Guess I gotta get you nice and stretched out for me, hmm?”

You felt the slow, steady push of his finger as it slid inside you, every nerve brightening at the intrusion. Your walls clenched around him instinctively, and Jihoon let out a quiet groan.

“There we go,” He slid his finger in deeper, curling it slightly to press against your front wall. Your hips bucked at the sensation, and Jihoon smirked. “Right there, huh? You like that?”

“Y-yes,” you gasped, your hands scrambling for purchase on the cool marble.

His finger pulled back almost completely before sliding in again, this time with a second one alongside it. The stretch was immediate, but your body welcomed it, pulsing around him. Jihoon wasted no time, curling his fingers and dragging them against your walls in a way that made you see stars.

“God, you’re so tight,” he muttered, his free hand resting on your trembling thigh to keep you steady. “You’re squeezing me so good. Can’t wait to feel you clench like this around my cock.”

His fingers picked up a rhythm, alternating between deep, curling strokes and quick, shallow thrusts that kept you guessing. He started adding little motions that made your head spin—scissoring his fingers to stretch you further, pressing his thumb firmly against your clit while his fingers stayed inside, or twisting his wrist slightly to drag his fingertips over new spots.

“You like that?” he asked, after noticing your hand chasing his fingers. “Of course you do. Look at how you’re dripping for me. You’re making such a mess, baby.”

“Jihoon—o-oh my god,” you whimpered, your back arching off the counter as his fingers found a particularly sensitive spot.

“Yeah? Right there?” Jihoon grinned, adjusting his angle to hit it again, harder this time. Your breath hitched, and he chuckled. “That’s it. So good for me.”

You couldn’t help it—the words tumbled out of your mouth in a whispered chant, your voice trembling with every syllable. “Thank you, thank you, thank you…”

Jihoon smiled fondly at you, his cock twitching visibly against his stomach. “You’re so sweet when you beg,” he said, pulling his fingers out momentarily just to slide them back in with a delicious stretch. “You’re gonna make me lose my mind.”

This time, he focused on your clit with his thumb, rubbing quick, tight circles as his fingers curled inside you. He replaced fast stimulation and sudden, devastating stops.

“Ngh—Please,” you whimpered, your thighs trembling as you gripped his forearm.

“You’re so close, hmm?” 

He slowed his movements again, dragging his fingers out just enough to feel the way you clenched around him, desperate to keep him inside. His thumb moved in teasing patterns over your clit, never quite enough pressure to satisfy.

“I need it,” you choked out, your voice breaking as tears streamed down your cheeks.

“I know, baby,” he said, his tone softening again. He pressed a gentle kiss to your temple before his fingers resumed their relentless pace, curling and pressing against that sweet spot again. “But you’re doing so good for me. Just a little more, okay?”

The coil in your stomach tightened impossibly further, and you knew you couldn’t last much longer. Jihoon seemed to sense it too. His fingers curling like they were made to be inside you, massaging your g’spot with a rhythm that felt borderline illegal. His thumb merely rubbed your clit now, just enough to make you twitch, and the devilish smirk on his face said he was doing it on purpose. His other hand gripped your waist, steadying you like he knew you’d collapse if he let go.

“Um—thats why your strawberry mille-feuille is so good,” you suddenly gasped out.

Jihoon blinked, momentarily confused before realization dawned on him. His lips curled into that sly, cocky grin. “Wait—are you thinking about my dessert skills right now? While I’m two knuckles deep inside you?”

You whined, too far gone to deny it. “You’re too good with your hands!”

He chuckled, curling his fingers harder until your knees buckled. “Guess it’s a good thing I’m versatile then, hm?” His tone was light, but his fingers? Ruthless. He angled his wrist slightly, hitting that spot with pinpoint correctness, and you swore your vision went static for a second.

Your body jerked, your clit grinding against the heel of his palm as he shifted his thumb to flick at it—just once, but it sent sparks shooting down your back. His fingers pushed deeper, scissoring slightly, then dragging out achingly slow. “Jihoon, please," you whimpered, your nails digging into his wrist.

“Please what, baby? Want me to keep going? Or stop again?” he teased, his thumb pressing down on your clit just to lift off a second later, leaving you sobbing into his shoulder.

You wanted to slap him and beg him all at once. Instead, you cried out, “Don’t stop—oh my god—Jihoon!”

His smirk faltered for a second when your walls clamped down hard around his fingers, and a rush of wetness coated them. His hips grinding involuntarily into nothing, his cock throbbing visibly. “Greedy little thing.”

You couldnt form words anymore, your head falling back as your whole body spasmed. you chanted his name, completely gone, tears stinging your eyes as the coil in your stomach snapped hard, the force of your orgasm smashing you.

Jihoon didn’t stop. His fingers worked you through every wave, his thumb pressing firm, messy circles on your overstimulated clit until you physically had to push at his chest. “Too much” you croaked, but your legs trembled so bad you knew you couldn’t get far if he decided to keep going.

“Too much?” he repeated. He slowly slid his fingers out, holding them up for both of you to see, glistening and soaked. 

Jihoon still breathed heavily like he was the one being stimulated, giving you time to catch your breath, but you weren’t letting go. Your arms wrapped tight around his neck as you pulled him in, your lips pressing to his. His tongue slid against yours, massaging it in a way that sent heat straight to your sopping pussy. The sound of wet, sticky smacks echoed in the bathroom.

This kiss wasn’t rushed or desperate; it was soft, and so heartbreakingly sweet. Jihoon’s hands roamed over your waist, and as much as he loved the way you tasted—loved the faint hint of the wine you’d shared earlier, the lingering sweetness that seemed to pour from your lips—there was something deeper about it.

Jihoon knew tastes. He knew them better than most people ever could.

He knew the tang of citrus, the buttery richness of a perfectly baked croissant, the smoky depth of roasted meat, and the way sugar could melt on your tongue like magic. He’d spent years chasing after flavors, crafting them into stories on a plate. But none of it, none of it, had ever come close to the taste of you.

It wasn’t just your lips or your skin—it was the whole experience of you. The warmth of your arms wrapped around him, the faint floral scent that clung to your hair, the way your body felt like home against his. If someone ever asked him, in an interview or at some fancy gala, what his favorite taste was, he already knew he’d be in trouble. Because he’d want to say “you.” And how could he not? You weren’t just a flavor; you were comfort food, the kind that nourished your soul in a way no recipe could replicate.

He pressed closer to you, losing himself in the feel of your lips, of your tongue stroking his with an intoxicating rhythm. You were both so caught up in each other that you didn’t even notice when he shifted his hips, the tip of his cock brushing against your entrance. It wasn’t until the head of it nudged inside that you broke the kiss, gasping sharply as your chin fell forward, your moan feeling hot against his mouth.

“Jihoon—” you choked, and it made his stomach twist. He grinned against your lips, nasty and triumphant, his teeth grazing your bottom lip as he tilted his head back slightly to look at your face.

“You didn’t even notice, hm? So focused on kissing me good, you didn’t feel me slip in?”

Your nails dug into his shoulders, your head tilting back as another moan escaped you. Jihoon’s grin only grew wider, so big it almost felt boyish, but there was nothing innocent about the way his hips pressed forward, inch by inch.

Your walls clenched instinctively and then gave way, molding around his girth. You tilted your head down just enough to catch a glimpse, and the sight alone made your stomach tense.

The thin, glossy skin of your folds was stretched taut around him, clinging desperately as if your body didn’t want to let go. The contrast was stark, almost hypnotizing: the way your wetness coated him, leaving a shiny trail that dripped down, pooling at the base where your pussy tried to hug. He followed your gaze to glance down between you, his lips parting in disbelief.

“Goddamn, you’re taking me so well..” He shifted slightly, pressing a little deeper, and yyour vision blurred.

Your head fell back against the mirror as you moaned, your chest heaving. 

He cut you off with a slow roll of his hips, his cock pushing further, stretching you impossibly more. You gasped, your nails dragging down his shoulders as your body tried to adjust. “That’s my girl. Thought you could handle it.”

The slick sounds between you were filthy, echoing in the shadowy bathroom. You couldn’t stop the way your hips shifted, trying to meet him halfway despite the stretch. The movement made him groan, his hands tightening on your hips as he pressed you back against the marble sink.

“Fuck, you’re dripping,” he said, his voice almost a whine as his eyes flicked to where your bodies were joined. “You’re gonna ruin this counter... the floor..”

Your walls fluttered around him, pulling him deeper, and the motion earned a sharp intake of breath from Jihoon. 

His cock pulsed inside you, the wet heat of your walls squeezing him like a vice, clenching around every inch he gave you. His teeth caught his bottom lip as he pulled back just slightly, dragging against your sensitive core before thrusting back in. He wanted to watch you unravel, to hear every desperate sound spilling from your lips.

His hands slid from your hips to your thighs, pushing your legs wider to take him deeper. He paused to glance between you again, mesmerized by the way you swallowed him whole. “Can’t believe this tight little pussy’s taking all of me.”

You whimpered at his words, the sound shamelessly loud in the quiet bathroom, and it sent a quiver down his back. He smiled satisfied, as he leaned in, his lips brushing over your ear. “You like it when I talk to you like that, hm?” he teased, his tongue flicking over your earlobe before he nipped it lightly. “Tell me. Tell me how much you like it.”

“I—fuck—I love it,” you stammered. Your nails scraped down his back, leaving faint red lines in their wake. “Love when you—when you talk to me like that. Love—oh my god—love when you’re inside me.”

“Yeah?” His thrusts slowed again, almost unbearably so, the head of his cock pressing against your g’spot with each measured roll of his hips. He let his forehead drop to yours, his breath mingling with yours as he grinned. He changed his angle slightly, shifting his hips just enough to hit a spot that sent fireworks exploding behind your eyes. The slick, wet sound of his cock moving in and out of you filled the room, mingling with the gasps and moans you couldn’t hold back. 

Your head fell back, hitting the mirror with a soft thud, and Jihoon chuckled, his lips brushing over the curve of your jaw.

“Careful, baby,” he said, massaging your scalp with a care that made you lean on it. “Can’t have you breaking the mirror just ‘cause I’m fucking you so good.”

Your laugh came out breathless, cut off by a sharp gasp as he suddenly pressed harder on your clit. “Jihoon, please—”

“Please, what?” His thrusts slowed again, torturously so, and he pulled back just enough to make you whine in protest. His fingers tightened on your thighs, holding you in place as he watched you with dark, hooded eyes. Your hands slid to his neck, clinging to him desperately. “Please, gonna cum.”

“You want me to fuck you harder? You want me to make you cum all over my cock, baby? Say it..”

“Want you to fuck me—ngh,” you rolled your eyes.  “Want you to fuck me harder. Make me cum, Jihoon. Please.”

“So wet. God, I could fuck you all night. Don’t think I’d ever get enough of you.” Your walls clenched around him, and he cursed under his breath, his head dropping to your shoulder as he struggled to keep his pace steady. “You’re gonna make me cum if you keep doing it.”

“Then cum,” you whispered insistent. Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer as your lips brushed over his ear. “Cum for me, Jihoon.”

He groaned, his thrusts growing faster, rougher that you thought that your sink wouldnt handle it. But even as he pushed you closer to the edge, his focus never wavered. “I—shit—I need to make you come first. I have to, baby.”

You shook your head violently, your own orgasm already clawing at the edge of your sanity. “No—no, I’m so close, Jihoon,” you gaspedr. “Just—just keep going, don’t stop—please—”

His hips jerked at your words, his cock twitching deep inside you as his body teetered on the brink of losing control. His thrusts slowed further, unsteady and disjointed as his thumb continued to draw tight, firm circles on your swollen clit.

“You feel so fucking good,” your voice sounded sultry and wrecked, your eyes locking onto his. “So deep—so fucking thick. Jihoon, I can feel you in my stomach. You’re so big, you’re gonna ruin me, baby. Do it. Come inside me. Fill me up.”

That did it.

The sound Jihoon let out wasn’t even human—a choked, strangled mix of a moan and a curse that hit its peak as his body shuddered violently. “Oh—shit—ah, fuck, fuck—!” His cock pulsed hard, the first spurt of his cum hitting so deep inside you that you felt it bloom with warmth against your cervix. You swore you could feel each throb as he came, his hips snapping forward instinctively to bury himself even further, his moans blending into desperate gasps. “Ah—hah—baby—!”

The heat, the pressure, the way his orgasm filled every inch of you—it all tipped you over the edge, dragging you into your own release. Your walls clenched around him, milking him for everything he had as you cried out, “Jihoon—fuck—yes—!”

You arched into him, your hips lifting slightly off the counter to grind against his cock, riding the quakes as your climax ruptured through you. The movement made Jihoon gasp, his hands flying to your hips to still you. “A-ah—fuck—stop—baby, stop—hah—ah, shit—!” His voice cracked as he groaned, overstimulation evident in the way he hissed through gritted teeth. “T-too much—oh my god—aw, fuck—!”

Jihoon’s laughter broke through his moans, a breathless, disbelieving chuckle that melted into another string of curses as he shuddered beneath you.

Finally, you stilled, your body collapsing into his as your head dropped to his shoulder. Both of you were trembling, your breaths ragged and uneven, your hearts pounding in sync.

The room settled into a quiet purr after the chaos. The bathroom was small, its muted light casting soft shadows on the tiles. But in this moment, it might as well have been the biggest place in the world, holding all the unsaid things between you, the weight of your shared history pressing down like a furry coat.

“Do you remember the first time we met?” Jihoon asked suddenly, his voice soft, almost hesitant, like he wasn’t sure he wanted to dig this deep. He looked at you then, his eyes more serious, like he was searching for something in your face.

You laughed, a small, shaky sound. “You mean when you accused me of stealing your recipe for strawberry shortcake at the first days of competition? Yeah, hard to forget.”

His lips quirked up, but it wasn’t quite a smile. “God, I was such an asshole,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I didn’t even taste it. Just saw your name on the board and thought, ‘Oh, great. Another rich kid with connections, swooping in to take what I’ve worked my whole life for.’”

You frowned, your fingers twitching where they rested on his chest. “You really thought that?”

“I didn’t know you,” he admitted, his tone apologetic. “I was so used to fighting for every little thing, you know? Scholarships, internships, a spot on the team—hell, even a secondhand stand mixer. And then you walked in, all… pretty and shiny. I just assumed you’d never struggled for anything in your life.”

You bit your lip, unsure how to respond. Because yeah, he wasn’t wrong—you hadn’t grown up worrying about money or how you’d pay for school. But you’d struggled in other ways, ways that people like Jihoon—driven, hyper-focused, and painfully independent—might not have seen.

“That’s not fair,” you said softly. “You don’t know what I’ve been through. Just because I didn’t have to fight for a secondhand mixer doesn’t mean I haven’t fought for other things.”

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I know that now.”

The quiet between you stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It felt… cogitative. Like you were both sifting through the memories, pulling them out one by one to examine under the bathroom light.

“The NGO,” you said suddenly, your voice intruding upon the silence. “That’s when everything changed.”

Jihoon nodded, his hands still on your waist, his fingers tightening slightly. “Yeah. When I saw what you were doing—what the competition money was for—I felt like shit. Here I was, thinking you were just some spoiled kid looking for another trophy to add to the shelf, and you were… Something that important.”

You swallowed hard, your throat tight. “It wasn’t just me. It was all of us—Fred, the kids, you. God, Jihoon, you don’t even realize how much you’ve done for this place.”

He shook his head, a self-deprecating smile tugging at his lips. “I don’t know about that. I just… I wanted to help. And honestly, it was selfish at first. I needed a job, and you offered one. But then…”

“Then you fell in love with it.” The journey from strangers to colleagues to whatever this was had been anything but smooth. It had been messy and painful but it had also been beautiful in its own way. “I hated you, you know,” you said suddenly. “At the beginning, I mean. You were so… cold. And I thought, ‘How the hell am I supposed to work with someone who looks like he’d rather set the kitchen on fire than have a conversation with me?’”

He laughed, a genuine sound that softened the strain in the room. “Yeah, I hated you too. Thought you were this privileged, clueless brat who’d never survive a day in a real kitchen.”

“And now?”

“And now…” he bit his lip, analyzing your face as he tilts his head. “I can’t imagine my life without you in it.”

“Jihoon…”

“I mean it,” he said firmly, his hands moving to cradle your face, his thumbs brushing gently over your cheeks. “You’re… you’re my favorite taste, you know? Out of everything I’ve ever made, ever eaten, ever dreamed of tasting—you’re the one thing I’ll never get enough of.”

You let out a shaky laugh, your heart swelling in your chest. “That’s cheesy as hell.”

“Yeah, well,” he said, his lips quirking up into a small, shy smile. “Sometimes the truth is cheesy.”

Jihoon’s smile faltered just a bit. “Sometimes, though… I wonder if you really forgave me. Like, deep in your heart.”

You blinked, stunned by the sudden shift, and searched his face for more. His brows were slightly furrowed, his jaw tight, like the weight of the question had been pressing on him for longer than he cared to confess.

“Forgave you?” 

“For the way I acted back then,” he said, his gaze dropping briefly before meeting yours again. “The way I doubted you. The things I said, the things I did, the things I thought. I mean… I know we’ve moved past it. But deep down, I’ve always wondered if there’s a part of you that still holds onto it. That maybe you… couldn’t fully forgive me.”

You didn’t even hesitate. “I did,” you said firmly. “I forgave you, Jihoon.”

He tilted his head, skepticism flickering across his features. “How can you be so sure?”

“Because I don’t blame you for it anymore,” you said, leaning into him slightly, needing him to understand. “At that time, I had this picture in my head of what my life was supposed to look like. The glamorous Michelin-starred restaurant, the prestige, the accolades… It was all I wanted.”

“And I ruined it.”

“No,” you said firmly, reaching up to cup his cheek. “You didn’t ruin anything. If anything, you gave me something better.”

His eyes searched yours, still unconvinced. “But what if… what if I hadn’t? What if I hadn’t been so bitter, so determined to take you down? What if your dessert had won anyway?”

You paused, the weight of the question settling between you. “Or what if I’d won, Jihoon? What if I’d walked away with the title and the prestige and never thought about anything else? What if the organization never existed because I was too busy chasing some dream that wasn’t even mine anymore?”

He frowned at that, his lips pressing into a thin line. “You think… things were meant to happen this way?”

“I don’t know,” you admitted, your voice softening. “But I’d rather believe that they were. That everything—every fight, every misstep, every moment we wanted to strangle each other—led us here. To this.”

Jihoon let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “You always were the optimistic one.”

“Not always,” you said with a small smile. “But I am about this. About us. About what we’ve built together.”

He exhaled slowly, his gaze dropping to where his hands rested on your hips. “You know… I think about it sometimes. The restaurant, I mean. How it’s under new management now. How I used to dream about a place like that—sleek, modern, perfect. And then I look at what we’ve done with the organization, and it’s… messy and chaotic, but so beautifull. Like it actually matters.”

“It does matter… And maybe that’s the point. Maybe the restaurant was never supposed to be our story. Maybe this is.”

He looked at you then, something shining in his eyes. “You really think so?”

“I know so,” you said, your lips curving into a gentle smile. “Because if it wasn’t, we wouldn’t be here. We wouldn’t have the kids, the bakery, the messes we can’t clean up without three people and a prayer.”

He chuckled at that. “The messes are your fault, you know. You’re the one who thought it was a good idea to teach a bunch of middle schoolers how to make éclairs.”

You grinned, leaning into him. “And you’re the one who decided to teach them soufflés.”

He rolled his eyes, but his smile was soft. “Well played.”

As you looked at him—messy hair, tired eyes, and a softness in his expression that you rarely saw—you felt something settle in your chest.

“Jihoon,” you said quietly. “I wouldn’t change a thing.”

— // Two Years Later // —

The NGO was quieter than usual. You noticed it the moment you stepped inside. Normally, the kitchen buzzed with the chaos of kids laughing, mixing ingredients, and occasionally bickering over who got to use the electric mixer. But today, there was an eerie calm.

“Hello?” you called out, setting your bag down on the counter. The faint scent of something baking lingered in the air, but it wasn’t enough to mask the odd tension. “Where is everyone?”

You wandered into the main hall, expecting to see at least Jihoon with his clipboard, corralling the kids into some elaborate baking lesson. Instead, the room was empty save for a lone piece of paper taped to the center of one of the tables.

“Come to the garden.”

Your eyebrows furrowed. The garden? The small plot out back that you and Jihoon had transformed into a herb and flower garden over countless weekends?

Curious, you made your way outside, the warm sunlight spilling over the neatly trimmed rows of basil and lavender. At first glance, the garden seemed empty too, until you heard the faint giggle of one of the kids.

“Okay, who’s hiding?” you called out, scanning the area.

Suddenly, the kids burst out from behind the hedges, each holding a small bouquet of flowers, their faces lit with excitement. “Surprise!” they shouted in unison, running toward you and handing you the mismatched bundles.

“What is this?” you asked, laughing as you tried to catch all the flowers being shoved into your arms.

But before anyone could answer, Jihoon appeared at the edge of the garden, looking uncharacteristically nervous. He was dressed neatly, his usually casual outfit swapped for a crisp white shirt and a pair of dark slacks. His hands were shoved into his pockets, and his lips quirked up in a nervous smile as he approached.

“Jihoon?” you asked, your heart skipping a beat.

The kids scrambled to the side, forming a small semi-circle as Jihoon stepped closer. He stopped just in front of you, his dark eyes locking onto yours.

“You always said this garden was your favorite place,” he began. “You said it’s where you felt the most at peace, where everything feels real. So I thought it was the perfect place to do this.”

Your heart raced as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small velvet box.

“Yah… What are you doing Jihoon-ah?,” you whispered, your voice trembling.

He dropped to one knee, the kids giggling in soft gasps and excited murmurs. “I’ve spent the last two years trying to figure out how I got so lucky. How someone as stubborn and chaotic as me ended up with someone as kind and brilliant as you. And honestly? I still don’t know.”

You laughed softly, tears already welling in your eyes.

“But what I do know… is that I don’t want to spend another day without you. You changed my life, and you keep changing it, every single day. So…” He opened the box, revealing a delicate ring with a big, oval, sparkling diamond. “Will you marry me?”

The kids broke out into cheers before you could even process what was happening. Your hands flew to your mouth as you nodded quickly, too swamped to speak. Jihoon’s grin spread wide as he stood, slipping the ring onto your finger before pulling you into a tight hug.

“Yes,” you finally managed to say, your voice muffled against his buff chest. “Of course, yes.”

The kids swarmed around you both, cheering and hugging as Jihoon pressed a kiss to your temple. “I had a lot of help,” he admitted with a soft laugh, gesturing toward the group. “They’re surprisingly good at keeping secrets.”

“Well, I can’t believe you pulled this off,” you said, laughing through your tears as you looked down at the ring.

“I had to,” Jihoon said, his voice soft and sincere. “Because I wanted to give you a moment as perfect as you’ve made my life.”

The kids had prepared cupcakes with little fondant hearts on top, and the staff brought out bottles of sparkling cider to toast the two of you. Jihoon never left your side, his hand warm and steady in yours, his smile never fading.

As the sun set over the garden, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, you leaned into Jihoon’s side, the ring catching the last rays of light.

He tilted his head to look at you, his lips quirking into a soft smile. “You know, I was thinking,” he started, “when we’re, like, seventy or something, do you think we’ll still be able to handle all the chaos the kids bring?”

You snorted a laugh, turning to face him fully. “Seventy? Jihoon, I’m not even sure we’re handling it well now.”

He laughed with you. “What happens when we’re too old to keep up with their energy? You know they’re just going to keep multiplying, right? They bring their friends, their siblings, their cousins… It’s like a never-ending kid buffet in there.”

You shook your head, leaning into his side. “First of all, let’s not talk about being seventy when we just got engaged. Can I at least have a honeymoon phase before we’re planning for wheelchairs and dentures?”

He raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into that naughty smirk. “Honeymoon~?” he drawled.

You rolled your eyes, biting back the grin tugging at your lips. 

“And you’re stuck with me now,” he teased, waggling his eyebrows before leaning back, the smirk still firmly in place. “So, where are we going for this so-called honeymoon? Somewhere romantic? Tropical? Or do you just want to stay in and let me make you dinner—while wearing nothing but an apron?”

fanfic inspiration by @thepoopdokyeomtouched thank you for giving me the motivation to write this fic! you're the sweetener to my blog's flavor. wishing you all the best this holiday season!

[osaemu]

GOJO SATORU: ❛❛ ONE MORE CHANCE? (IT WON'T BE THE LAST) ❜❜

.ೃ࿐ you hate your ex, but nobody else can fuck you half as well — so maybe you'll give him one more chance.

contents: fem!reader. implied unprotected sex, dirty talk (?), lil' bit of praise, lil' bit of degradation, oral (fem. receiving), couch sex, gojo covers your mouth at one point, cursing, lil' bit of teasing/mocking (?). sorta toxic but whatevs we love a toxic king! 2000+ words.

author's note: got lazy in the middle of writing this loll

"he's just so fucking annoying," you groan, swirling the drink in your hand. the ice clinks against the side of the glass as you lift the cup to your lips, sipping the whiskey and wincing at the way it burns the back of your throat. you lean back in the plush couch in your friend's living room and sigh. "i don't know why i ever dated him."

your friend nods in agreement, eyes fixed on her phone for another second before she turns it towards you. "look what he posted on his instagram."

on your friend's screen is an instagram story, and the tag shows that it's from your ex-boyfriend — satoru gojo. tired of his insensitivity and annoying nature, you had dumped him two weeks ago, and god, you'd never had such a petty ex in your life.

after you broke up with him, he blocked you from all his socials and got all his friends to do the same. so, since he practically knew everyone, you lost a hundred followers.

and apparently, he's out fucking some other girl right now.

the story on your friend's phone is a picture of a smirking satoru with his arm wrapped around some girl with a red plastic cup in her hand. they're bathed in overhead red lights, and you can barely make out a familiar dark-haired boy in the back — another one of satoru's fuckboy friends.

"he's such a manwhore," your friend says with an eyeroll. "d'you want to stay the night?"

you shake your head, setting down the now-empty glass on a coaster. "it's alright, i wouldn't want to intrude," you say with a rueful smile.

your friend eyes you suspiciously for another second before leaning back in her own seat and closing her eyes. "stay safe, it's pretty late."

you nod and toss your things into your bag before stepping out the door, closing it gently behind you. as you get in your car and drive back to your house, thoughts of satoru fill your head. 

you don't recognize the girl under satoru's arm, but she's pretty — too pretty for him. sure, satoru was conventionally attractive, with his ocean-blue eyes and flawless physique, but still. 

satoru was a shitty boyfriend, and now he's an even shittier ex. when you two dated, his spoiled brattiness and constant sorry, i forgot's drove you insane. he couldn't even remember your birthday. it was a miracle that you tolerated him for that long — until your one-year anniversary, which obviously slipped his mind.

"you're so insensitive," you groan, dragging a hand down your face. satoru suppresses a sigh, blue eyes looking everywhere but at you. "and— satoru, are you even listening to me?"

you're quiet for three seconds before he responds, and naturally, it was with a "huh? yeah, what is it?"

every time. every single time.

"it's over," you mutter, shaking your head frustratedly. "we're over, satoru."

"fine," he responds after a moment. "i never really liked you anyways."

"fuck you."

if you didn't give a fuck about that white-haired bastard anymore, why did the memory of your breakup still sting?

you try to tell yourself that it doesn't matter. maybe it was for the best — he was out with some pretty girl, so why couldn't you go out and sleep with some hot guy? 

you make up your mind right as you step into your house, and thirty minutes later, you're in a tight dress and four-inch heels. and it's almost funny how easy it is to doll up when you don't have a horny boyfriend trying to fuck you every two seconds.

right before you step out the door, you eye yourself in the mirror and can't help but admire the way your dress hugs your waist, accentuating your curves. that smug manwhore didn't know what he was missing out on — so why not show him?

you pull out your phone and take a picture of yourself, snapping a couple before deciding on one and posting it on your story. you knew he'd see it — you intentionally let his burner stay unblocked, and coincidentally, he didn't block you either. 

just as you push open your door, you realize that your phone's on death's door — just over five percent remaining. so you plug it into your charger, kicking your feet impatiently as you wait for it to charge to a reasonable amount.

some part of you wants to chicken out, to stay home and spend the night watching a classic romcom. but the other part of you, the part that can't ignore the fact that you haven't had sex in two weeks, urges you to go out and get laid.

so twenty minutes later, when your phone finally hits forty percent, you practically throw open the door and rush out and find yourself face-to-face with the guy who's somewhere between belly conklin and andy bernard on your most-disliked list. satoru gojo.

"what the fuck are you doing here?" you snap, wrapping your arms around yourself as the cold night air touches your bare skin. satoru eyes you up and down, and suddenly, you're very aware of just how exposed you are. "satoru, answer the damn question."

"where are you going?" he asks, eyes narrowing when they settle on your dress's deep neckline. 

"none of your business," you reply shortly, biting the inside of your cheek. unfortunately, satoru looks good. just like in his instagram story, he has one button undone in his collar, and his hair is rumpled and perfect all at the same time. "answer the fuckin' question."

"saw your story," satoru replies, slipping his hands into his pocket. "you going out on a date or something?"

the question catches you off guard, and your irritated expression drops for a moment. strangely enough, satoru doesn't have his usual smug expression on his face — he looks conflicted. he never looks conflicted.

"doesn't matter," you respond, walking around him and relishing the way your heels clack on the concrete ground. without turning around, you ask, "so, what about my story made you come over?"

you're not sure why you're baiting him. maybe it's the slight chance that he would beg to get you back, maybe it's the tightness in your chest and pussy, or maybe you just want the satisfaction of seeing satoru squirm.

whatever it is, it lets satoru take you by the wrist and drag you back inside. you suppose that if you can get dick at home, then there's no point in going all the way to the club. and it's not like you're gonna get back together over one night — this would be purely physical. he wanted you, and you wouldn't mind him.

"fuck, right there, sweetheart," satoru groans, pushing your legs impossibly farther apart as his tongue laps at your pussy. the two of you barely made it to the couch in your living room before satoru pushed you down, a mischievous smile on his lips. one thing turned to another, and soon enough he was on his knees in front of you and eatung you out like a starving man.

"you're such a loser," you mutter, threading your fingers through his hair as his tongue makes you see stars. he really was — who shows up to their ex's place after getting dumped? a laugh bubbles out of satoru's lips while his mouth is still on your pussy and it makes you shiver. satoru looks up at you, an amused gleam in his eyes.

"s' that so?" satoru mumbles, pressing his lips to your inner thigh with a smirk. "then why'd you let me in, huh?"

"why would i go out when i can just get fucked at home?" you say dryly, a smile growing on your lips. "since you made the effort of coming all the way here."

"my pleasure," satoru scoffs sarcastically, getting up and joining you on the couch as he tugs you into his lap. "so i'm the pathetic loser here, yeah?"

you nod, letting satoru unzip the back of your dress with one hand. he laughs and shakes his head. "you're the one who let me in, baby."

"yeah, well, you showed up."

"you coulda slammed the door in my face."

"maybe i should've," you mutter, not liking the way he's grinning at you. "you gonna fuck me or what?"

"aw, you're desperate. how cute," he replies without missing a beat. it's been a while since you got to banter with satoru like this, and some part of you misses it. sure, he's disgustingly cocky, but at least he has the dick to back it up. and it's fun, too — you like the chase, and clearly, he does too.

"not really," you say with a shrug. that's a lie — the only reason you let him in was to get fucked, and contrary to the excuses falling from your mouth, you were getting impatient. not that he needed to know that.

"fine. have it your way, brat." satoru smiles cheekily and bounces his leg up and down, making you grit your teeth as you struggle to focus.

you make a face at satoru, crossing your arms. "what are you—"

"waiting."

"for what?"

"for you to beg."

your mouth falls open, and you glare at satoru, hating the way he's smugly grinning at you. this isn't the first time he's asked you to beg for him to fuck you — back when the two of you were dating, he had no problem edging you the whole night and practically making you cry for him.

"not this again," you groan, letting out a drawn-out sigh. "just fuck me already, satoru. or i'll go get someone else to."

satoru clicks his tongue, smiling lazily. "we both know you won't do that."

again, he's right, and god, you hate him for it. "just shut up and fuck me."

"alright, since you asked so nicely," satoru drawls, running his tongue over his teeth. he studies you intently, white hair falling into his eyes. before you can ask what he's looking at, he has you pinned against the couch cushions, face down and ass up. 

"good girl, stayin' nice and quiet for me," satoru groans, hand clasped over your mouth as he pounds into you from behind. "you always talked too much. never knew when to shut that damn mouth."

you moan against his hand, unable to think about anything else but satoru and his dick. that's the only reason the two of you stayed together for as long as you did — because the sex was irreplaceable. and after two weeks without getting fucked, you seriously consider throwing all pride out the window and begging for him back.

"shit, you're so fuckin' tight," satoru says with a rough laugh. "have you really not fucked with anyone else since you dumped me?" 

you shake your head, eyes pressed shut as satoru continues sloppily thrusting into you. there's a coil in your chest that's threatening to burst, and the whines slipping out of your lips increase in both pitch and volume.

at this point, you can hardly remember why you broke up with satoru — or maybe, he's just not giving you a chance to remember. his pace is relentless and mind-numbing, and shit, maybe it's for the best.

when he finally lets you cum, it's the best feeling you've had in what feels like forever. the edges of your vision go white, and satoru removes his hand from your mouth, letting out the lewd, muffled sounds that you've been suppressing all this time. not long after, satoru cums too, and it's sloppy, messy, and all over you. 

satoru collapses on top of your back, hot breaths slipping out of his mouth and brushing against your cheek. "took me so good, baby," he groans, pressing his lips to your neck and laughing breathily. "we should do this again sometime."

you shouldn't like this. you should be shoving him out your door, but his mischievous smile is irresistible. and even though you know this time probably won't end any different than the rest, you decide to give satoru one more chance.

"yeah, same time tomorrow?"

"anythin' for you."

[moonlightwritingf1]

The Christmas Party | LN4

❄️ summary ━━━━━━━ At a Christmas party hosted by a mutual friend, Lando overhears Y/N confessing her feelings for him to one of her friends. Amused, he teases her until she admits it directly, and to her surprise, Lando confesses that he feels the same way.

❄️ pairing ━━━━━━━ Lando Norris x she!reader

❄️ word count ━━━━━━━ 4.6k

It was the night of the much-anticipated holiday party at the lavish penthouse of one of their mutual friends. The air was filled with the hum of chatter, the clinking of glasses, and the soft rhythm of music playing in the background. Guests milled around, exchanging pleasantries and laughing together as colorful lights twinkled overhead. The Christmas tree stood in the corner, its ornaments gleaming in the glow of the candles scattered across the room. There was warmth in the air, despite the chilly December night outside.

Y/N was standing by the refreshment table, sipping her drink and trying to blend in with the crowd. She’d been invited to the party as one of the more laid-back guests, but her mind was elsewhere. Her thoughts kept drifting to the one person she could not escape tonight: Lando Norris.

It had been weeks of teasing, subtle remarks, and challenges from him. Lando had taken a strange delight in getting under her skin. It was like a game to him—he’d flirt, provoke, and make little jabs that were just on the edge of being too much. And she hated how much it got to her.

From the moment she stepped into the room, she could feel his gaze on her. Even as she tried to mingle with friends, his presence was unavoidable. He was standing across the room, leaning against the wall with his usual casual stance, one eyebrow raised as he took in the scene around him. His eyes caught hers briefly, and she could already feel the heat rising to her cheeks.

“Don’t look at him,” she muttered under her breath, turning her attention back to her drink.

But despite her best efforts to avoid him, she knew it was only a matter of time before he approached. And of course, when he did, he took his sweet time, letting the silence between them stretch on for just a few moments longer than necessary.

Lando finally strolled over with a carefree grin on his face. “Hey, Y/N,” he said in that infuriatingly smooth voice of his. He draped his arm around her shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world. She tensed, but she didn’t pull away. She had learned by now that pulling away only made him push harder.

She forced herself to maintain her composure and shot him a sharp look. “What do you want, Lando?”

“Oh, nothing much.” His voice was light, almost teasing, but his eyes glinted with something else—something that made her stomach flutter despite herself. “I just wanted to know if you’re still trying to hide how much you like me.”

Y/N’s heart skipped a beat. She took a deep breath and straightened up, trying her best to hold onto the edge of control she had left. “For the last time, Lando, I don’t like you.”

Lando raised an eyebrow, his grin widening as he took a step closer, leaning in just enough to make her heart race. His breath was warm against her ear as he whispered, “So when you were telling your friend you’ve been crushing on me for ages, what exactly were you talking about then?”

Her breath caught in her throat. The room seemed to blur around her, and all she could focus on was his voice, smooth and confident as ever. She froze, her mind scrambling for words, but none came. How could he have overheard that? She had thought she was being careful when she spoke to Emma -a good friend - earlier, but Lando always seemed to be everywhere.

“I—” She stammered, trying to gather her thoughts, but the words were stuck. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment, and she hated how easily he had caught her off guard.

Lando took in her reaction with delight, watching the way her face flushed and how she avoided meeting his eyes. He knew he had her right where he wanted her, and he was going to enjoy this.

“I overheard, Y/N.” He stepped back slightly, giving her space but keeping his arm around her shoulders, a casual but very intentional gesture. “No need to be embarrassed. Just admit it. You like me.”

Y/N swallowed hard, feeling like she was sinking into the floor. Her mind raced with a thousand different thoughts, but none of them seemed to make it past her lips. She felt trapped, cornered by his words. He was relentless.

“I don’t know how you can be so smug about this,” she muttered, trying to push him away, though she knew it wasn’t going to work.

Lando chuckled, low and rich with amusement. “Oh, believe me, I’m definitely enjoying this.” He leaned in again, his voice soft but deliberate. “But the real question is—do you want me to stop?”

For a moment, Y/N didn’t know how to respond. She was silent, caught in the intensity of the moment, torn between frustration and something else—something much deeper that she refused to acknowledge. She couldn’t tell if he was playing with her or if he knew something she didn’t.

His tone softened as he continued, a hint of sincerity in his voice. “You don’t have to hide it anymore, Y/N. It’s okay.”

Y/N could feel her heart racing, pounding in her chest. Was he being serious? Was it possible that Lando actually... knew? That he had been aware of her feelings this entire time and had been teasing her, pushing her, just to see how far he could go? Or was this just another one of his games?

She turned to look at him, her breath shallow. “I guess you already know then.”

Lando shrugged, his grin never wavering. “I think it’s been pretty obvious for a while now.”

Y/N’s mind swirled with confusion. It was like a part of her wanted to admit the truth, to confess everything to him right here and now, but the rest of her wanted to run and hide. She had spent so long pretending not to care, trying to ignore the way her heart skipped whenever he was near, the way his smile could make her feel like the world was lighter.

“Is it?” She didn’t even recognize her own voice as she spoke, her words coming out barely above a whisper.

Lando’s gaze softened for a moment, and he gave a slight nod, as if he was finally seeing her for who she was, and not just the woman who had been so easy to tease. “Yeah, it’s been obvious. But I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. You’d probably punch me if I pushed too hard.”

Y/N’s heart beat a little faster at that. She could hear the slight edge in his voice, the vulnerability that slipped through when he wasn’t trying to be the cocky, teasing guy he always was. She wasn’t sure what to make of it, but it made her feel something she couldn’t quite place.

“I’m not going to punch you,” she said, her voice stronger now, even though she was still trying to sort out the jumble of emotions inside her. “I just wish you’d take me seriously for once.”

“I do,” Lando said quickly, his expression more serious now, his tone a little softer. “I’m sorry if I’ve been a jerk about it. It’s just... I don’t know how to handle this. I never thought you’d actually like me like that.”

Y/N blinked, unsure if she was hearing him right. “Wait, what? You mean—”

Lando nodded, his smile returning, but it wasn’t the usual teasing one. It was almost... sheepish. “Yeah. I like you, Y/N. I have for a while. But I thought you hated me.”

Y/N’s heart skipped a beat at the confession. This was the last thing she had expected to hear. The cocky Lando Norris, the guy who had been relentlessly teasing her for weeks, was admitting that he had feelings for her too?

She shook her head in disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Lando chuckled, but there was an underlying sincerity in his voice. “No joke. I didn’t mean to make you feel like this was some big game. I just... wasn’t sure what to do.”

Y/N took a deep breath, trying to process everything he had said. Her emotions were a whirlwind—relief, confusion, excitement, and even frustration all swirled together in a storm inside her chest. She had been so caught up in hating the way he made her feel that she hadn’t realized the truth was much simpler than she’d thought.

For the first time that night, she smiled, a small, tentative smile. “Well, I guess we’re both idiots then.”

Lando laughed, his eyes sparkling with a mix of amusement and relief. “Yeah, pretty much.”

And just like that, the tension between them seemed to melt away. The teasing was no longer there, and in its place was something new, something neither of them had expected. It was the beginning of something, though neither of them knew exactly what. But for the first time in a long while, it felt right.

“So,” Y/N said, taking a deep breath and glancing at him with a raised eyebrow, “now what?”

Lando grinned, his hand still resting casually on her shoulder. “Well, now we just enjoy the rest of the party. And maybe... I’ll stop teasing you so much.”

She laughed softly, feeling a weight lift off her shoulders. “I think I’d like that.”

Lando chuckled in return, but his gaze lingered on her a little longer than it usually did. They were standing there together, amidst the laughter and chatter of the party, but for the first time, they weren’t just two people caught in a game. They were something more.

It had been a few days since the holiday party, and the conversation between Y/N and Lando had left a lingering, unspoken tension between them. The playful teasing that had defined their interactions for weeks had faded, replaced by a quiet understanding neither of them knew how to navigate. It was a strange and unfamiliar feeling. One moment, they were exchanging banter, and the next, they were admitting to something neither of them had fully acknowledged before: they liked each other. But neither of them had made a move since.

The days leading up to Christmas had been filled with their usual routines, but every time Y/N saw or talked to Lando—whether it was through a text, a chance encounter at a café, or even in a conversation with mutual friends—she couldn’t shake the feeling that something had changed between them.

Today was no different. Y/N had spent the morning running errands, trying to focus on the holiday preparations, but as the afternoon wore on, her thoughts kept returning to Lando. She had promised herself she wouldn’t overthink it, that she wouldn’t let him continue to mess with her head. But it was easier said than done.

She was sitting in a small café, sipping her coffee and scrolling through her phone when her notifications lit up. Among the messages from friends and family, one name stood out—Lando.

Lando Norris: “Hey, free for a catch-up? I know we’ve both been busy, but I was thinking we could grab a coffee. The café next to your place? My treat.”

Y/N bit her lip, unsure if she should respond. He hadn’t sent a message like this before. It felt different—more sincere than the usual playful banter. After a brief pause, she typed back.

Y/N: “Sounds good. I’ll be there in 15.”

She couldn’t help but smile to herself as she hit send. She wasn’t sure what Lando wanted to talk about, but she was curious to see where things would go.

Fifteen minutes later, she arrived at the café, her heart beating a little faster than usual. She spotted Lando immediately. He was sitting at a corner table, looking as casual as ever in a hoodie and jeans, his signature beanie perched on his head. His expression was thoughtful as he looked down at his phone, and for a brief moment, Y/N felt like she was walking into uncharted territory.

"Hey," she said, offering him a small wave as she made her way over to the table.

Lando looked up, his eyes lighting up when he saw her. He stood up immediately, pulling out the chair across from him. "Hey, Y/N," he said, his voice warm, but there was still a trace of something unsure in the way he spoke. "Glad you could make it."

"Of course," she said, sitting down and folding her hands on the table. "It’s been a while, huh?"

"Yeah," Lando agreed, settling back into his chair. "I mean, not that long, but..." He trailed off, clearly unsure of what to say next. "I feel like I should've texted you sooner. It's just been... chaotic, with the season winding down and everything."

Y/N nodded, sensing that there was something more behind his words. "I get it," she replied, her voice a little softer than usual. "I've been busy too. But you’re right... it’s been a while."

Lando leaned forward slightly, his hands resting on the table. "Look, I’ve been thinking about the other night—the party," he said, his voice quieter now. "I didn’t mean to make things awkward between us."

Y/N blinked in surprise. She hadn’t expected him to bring it up so soon. "I don’t think things are awkward," she replied, carefully studying his face. "I mean, yeah, it was a lot to take in... but I’m not mad or anything."

Lando chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck as he leaned back in his chair. "It’s just... after I heard you talking to Emma, I realized I was kind of a jerk about it. I teased you a lot, and maybe I pushed too hard."

Y/N took a deep breath, feeling her heart race in her chest. She wasn’t sure why, but hearing him admit that made her feel something she hadn’t expected. Maybe it was relief, maybe it was something else, but there was an honesty in his words that made her feel a little more at ease. "You were pretty relentless, I’ll give you that," she said, trying to keep the tone light.

Lando laughed softly, but there was a sheepishness in his expression. "Yeah, I know. I guess I was just trying to get a reaction out of you. But I think I went a bit too far."

Y/N shifted in her seat, feeling the weight of his words. She didn’t want to make things weird, but there was still a part of her that felt exposed—like he had unlocked something inside her she wasn’t ready to face. "I guess I just wasn’t sure if you were serious," she said, her voice quieter now. "I mean, you’re always joking around, and I didn’t know if you were just messing with me."

"I get that," Lando said, nodding in understanding. "I’ve always joked around with you, and maybe that made it harder to tell if I was being serious or not." He paused, looking directly into her eyes. "But I am serious. I like you, Y/N. I know it might seem like I was just having fun, but... I’ve been thinking about you. A lot."

Y/N’s heart skipped a beat at his words. She opened her mouth to respond, but the words caught in her throat. Instead, she simply stared at him, her mind racing. Was this really happening? Was Lando Norris, the Formula 1 driver who had spent the last few weeks teasing her, admitting that he liked her?

She took a deep breath and looked away for a moment, gathering her thoughts. "I guess I’ve been thinking about it too," she admitted, her voice soft. "It’s just... you were always so cocky about it, and I wasn’t sure if you actually meant it or if it was all just part of the joke."

Lando smiled, his eyes softening as he leaned in slightly. "It wasn’t a joke. I mean, yeah, I like messing with you, but that’s because I enjoy being around you." He shrugged. "I guess I was just scared of how you’d react, and I didn’t want to make things weird."

Y/N looked back at him, her heart racing in her chest. There was something in his expression now—something genuine, something that made her feel like maybe, just maybe, they could be something more than just two people caught in a playful back-and-forth.

"I don’t want things to be weird either," she said quietly. "But I’m not sure what happens next, Lando."

He grinned, his usual confident smirk returning, but there was a softness to it now, like he was finally letting his guard down. "Well, we don’t have to figure it all out right now," he said with a shrug. "We’ve got time. It’s not like Christmas is just around the corner or anything."

Y/N smiled, feeling a weight lift off her shoulders. Maybe it was the holiday season making everything feel a little more magical, but whatever it was, she couldn’t deny the spark between them. For the first time, she felt like they were on the same page.

"Yeah," she said, meeting his eyes. "We’ve got time."

Lando leaned back in his chair, his grin widening. "Good. Because I was thinking... maybe we could actually go on a proper date after Christmas? No teasing, just... us."

Y/N’s heart skipped again, and for a moment, she didn’t know whether to be surprised or elated. But then, with a smile that matched his, she nodded. "I think I’d like that."

As they sat there, sipping their drinks and talking more easily than they had in the past, Y/N couldn’t help but feel like this was the beginning of something new. The teasing and uncertainty were gone, replaced by something real. And maybe, just maybe, this Christmas would be the start of something special between them.

The days leading up to Christmas had been filled with holiday preparations, yet nothing could distract Y/N from the date she was about to go on with Lando. After their conversation at the café, everything had shifted. There was a new kind of excitement in the air, a quiet understanding between them that tonight was different. No more teasing, no more uncertainty—just the two of them, together.

When the evening finally arrived, Y/N was already dressed and ready, her heart fluttering in anticipation. She had taken a little extra time on her appearance, wanting to look good but also to feel comfortable. She had opted for a soft red sweater, high-waisted black jeans, and a pair of simple boots. It was nothing extravagant, but just enough to feel festive, especially with the season’s chill lingering in the air.

She had no idea what Lando had planned, but when she received his text a little earlier, telling her that he’d pick her up at 7:00 sharp, she felt a mix of excitement and nerves.

As she adjusted the scarf around her neck and checked her reflection one last time, there was a soft knock at the door. Her heart skipped a beat.

Opening the door, she was met with Lando, standing outside in a sleek black coat, a soft smile tugging at his lips as he looked at her.

“Hey,” he said, his voice full of warmth. “You look amazing.”

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat for a moment, surprised by how effortlessly handsome he looked. “Thanks,” she replied, a soft smile spreading across her face. “You look pretty good yourself.”

Lando chuckled and offered her his arm. “Shall we?”

She placed her hand in the crook of his elbow, allowing him to guide her outside. Lando's own car was parked by the curb—a sleek black sports car, polished to perfection, its design effortlessly sophisticated and understated. The engine purred softly as they slid into the plush leather seats, and Lando flashed her a grin, his eyes twinkling with excitement. “Ready for tonight?” he asked, his voice warm and filled with anticipation.

“So, how’s the holiday season treating you so far?” he asked, pulling away from the curb as they drove through the twinkling streets decorated with Christmas lights.

“It’s been busy,” she admitted, settling into the plush seat. “Work, family stuff, the usual. But I’m happy to finally take a night off.”

Lando nodded, his eyes twinkling with a mischievous gleam. “Good. Because I’ve planned something special tonight. No teasing, no distractions—just us.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. “You planned something?”

Lando smirked. “You’ll see soon enough.”

The car ride was filled with light conversation, the two of them talking easily as the festive lights outside flickered past. But there was a warmth between them now—something real and unspoken—that made everything feel right. They arrived at their destination not too long later, and Y/N couldn’t help but feel a little intrigued.

When the car pulled up to a small, elegant building tucked away on a quiet street, she was taken aback. The restaurant was quiet, almost magical, with soft golden light spilling from the windows and the faint scent of wood and spices in the air. Lando opened the door for her and helped her out of the car.

“This is it?” she asked, glancing around.

Lando smiled, guiding her toward the entrance. “I rented the place for the evening,” he explained casually, like it was no big deal. “Just for us.”

Y/N’s eyes widened. “You rented out the whole restaurant? For us?”

“Yep,” Lando said, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. “I wanted tonight to be special. Just the two of us. No crowds, no distractions. Only you.”

She couldn’t help but blush, a warm rush of affection flooding her chest. “Lando, this is... incredible.”

He grinned and opened the door, leading her inside. The restaurant’s interior was a cozy blend of rustic charm and elegance, with soft candlelight flickering from every corner, casting a warm glow over the space. The table in the center was set for two, adorned with a beautiful arrangement of red roses and white candles. The air felt intimate, peaceful, as though the whole world had been put on pause just for them.

Lando led her to the table and pulled out her chair, the sweet gesture making her smile. “After you,” he said, giving her an exaggerated bow.

Y/N laughed softly as she sat down, feeling both giddy and touched by the effort he’d put into this evening. “You really know how to make a girl feel special, don’t you?”

Lando chuckled, taking his seat across from her. “I try,” he said with a wink. “But, honestly, I’m just glad we’re here, together.”

The waiter arrived shortly after, offering them the menu. Lando took the lead, ordering a selection of their finest dishes and wine without hesitation. Once the waiter left, the two of them were left alone, surrounded by nothing but the soft music in the background and the warm, golden light surrounding them.

“I’ve been wanting to do this for a while,” Lando said quietly, his gaze soft as he looked at her across the table. “Take you out on a proper date. Without the jokes, the teasing... just us. It feels like everything changed between us after that night. I didn’t want to wait any longer.”

Y/N felt a flutter in her chest. It was rare to see Lando this sincere, and the tenderness in his voice made her heart race. “I’m glad you didn’t wait,” she replied, her smile soft and genuine. “I’ve been thinking about it too.”

Lando reached across the table, gently taking her hand in his. His touch was warm and steady, a grounding presence amidst the quiet of the evening. “I’m glad. I want to get to know you better. No more games. Just... whatever this is between us. I’m ready for it.”

Y/N’s heart swelled. “Me too, Lando.”

The moment felt suspended in time, their hands entwined across the table, eyes locked in quiet understanding. For the first time, everything felt right. They had been dancing around their feelings for so long, teasing each other and pretending things didn’t matter when, in reality, they both knew exactly what they wanted.

Their dinner arrived shortly after, a beautiful array of dishes that they shared between them, exchanging bites and stories. The conversation flowed easily, filled with laughter and gentle teasing, but there was something deeper now—something real—that made everything feel different. As they ate, they shared their favorite Christmas memories, their plans for the future, and, for the first time, the quiet hopes they both held in their hearts.

After dinner, Lando led her outside into the chilly night air, his hand gently resting on the small of her back as they walked. The quiet of the streets was soothing, the city twinkling with Christmas lights, and the soft snowfall seemed to add a layer of magic to the evening.

As they reached the curb, Lando smiled down at her and wrapped his arm around her shoulder, pulling her close to him. "This has been perfect," Y/N said softly, her voice barely above a whisper as she leaned into him. "I don't know what to say."

"You don't have to say anything," Lando replied, his voice warm and comforting against the cold evening. "I'm just glad we're here. Together."

They continued walking down the quiet sidewalk, their feet crunching in the light snow. Lando's car was parked nearby, its sleek black exterior glowing under the streetlights. He reached for the door and opened it for her, standing back to let her get in first.

“After you,” he said with a gentle smile.

Y/N gave him a thankful nod, sliding into the passenger seat as he closed the door behind her. Lando rounded the car and climbed in behind the wheel, the engine coming to life with a quiet purr. He turned to her, his expression soft but serious, as if he was gathering his thoughts before speaking.

“I don’t know what the future holds, Y/N," he began, his voice steady but filled with meaning. "But I know that I want you in it. I've never been more sure of anything.”

Y/N’s heart skipped a beat, her chest tightening in that way it always did when he said something that made everything feel so real. Without thinking, she leaned in toward him, closing the space between them. Her lips met his in a kiss that started slow and soft, both of them savoring the moment, as if time had stopped for just them. There were no distractions, just the warmth of their connection, the promise of something more.

When they pulled away, Lando’s gaze was soft, almost vulnerable. “I’ve wanted to do that for a while,” he murmured.

Y/N smiled, a quiet laugh escaping her lips as she reached for his hand resting on the gearshift. “Me too.”

The snow continued to fall gently outside, the night air carrying the distant hum of holiday cheer from the city around them. But in that moment, as they sat in the warmth of the car, everything felt still, like the world was holding its breath for them.

This was different—real—and it was only the beginning. There were no more games, no more teasing, just the two of them finally being honest, finally giving in to the feelings that had been simmering under the surface for so long.

And as Lando started the car and pulled away, the soft glow of the Christmas lights guiding their way, Y/N couldn’t shake the feeling that this was the start of something truly special. Something that, for once, felt like it was meant to be.

[montagoves]

redamancy | jason todd

genre: comfort x3

warning: jason todd

summary: jason is reminded of how much he loves you–and how much you love him

a/n: after a handful of failed tinder dates, i just needed to write something to remind myself that if no one got me jason todd got me

Redamancy: a love returned in full

The word itself stems from the New Latin redamantia, and from the Classical Latin redamō meaning, “I requite love”. How we translate redamancy is this: a love returned in full; an act of loving the one who loves you; the act of loving in return.

He hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but the clicking sounds from your last-minute essay writing and the soft sounds of The Cranberries had lulled him into the first real nap he’s taken in the last few months. The book he had barely gotten a chapter through laid over his face, blocking the overhead lights you both hated but you swore made you more motivated to do homework. In reality, you just hated them so much that it drove you to work quicker so you could turn them off as soon as you were done. 

You had a lot of small things like that – things that made Jason’s heart swoon in a way he didn’t think it was capable of. Like when you tell him that pile of laundry would eventually get done, you just had to get hit with the cleaning zoomies which occur “approximately every 3-4 weeks.” And when you do get hit with the cleaning zoomies, you put on your headphones, blare Deftones, and deep clean your entire apartment. You could spend hours cleaning the bathroom, neglecting all your other responsibilities. 

Like eating your meals, which in that case Jason always came to your rescue. He’d pat your pretty head and once you took off your headphones and looked up at him with those eyes, he’d tell you he made your favorite meal. You’d reluctantly go to eat with him, and after enjoying the meal with your lover you’d feel lazy. You’d blame him for ruining your motivation, and Jason would just kiss your sweet lips and tell you he could find a way to motivate you again. 

Jason also likes the way he feels when you look at him. You two would be over at Roy’s place, Lian in Jason’s lap as Roy talked about some sports team that pissed him off recently. And Jason would be bouncing Lian in his lap or mindlessly curling her hair with his fingers. Roy’s voice would fade into the background and your focus would only be on Jason – on that smile that creeps on his face whenever Roy curses and Lian repeats it, on the way his eyes seem to gleam whenever he glances over at you, on the way you picture him holding your child, which you two have talked about but you’re both far too young to consider now. 

And Gods, when he catches on to you staring, his hands get clammy the way they did when he first met you. His cheeks turn as red as his vigilante helmet and he noticeably clenches his jaw to keep from nervously laughing. He’s never been looked at with that much love before. He’s had you by his side for years yet he still hasn’t gotten used to the feeling. 

What is he supposed to do when he wakes up to the feeling of you perching yourself on top of him during his nap? He remains still, for the most part, feigning sleep as you try to get comfortable. You must have finished your essay because from under his book’s pages, he can see a candle flickering, the smell of whiskey and vanilla filling the small apartment. He’s quick to close his eyes when you gently move the book away. He hears you take his bookmark, one you had handcrafted yourself, and save his page before setting the book aside. He feels as you lay down fully, your head resting on his chest and your arms attempting to wrap around his waist. Your head moves as Jason’s heart flutters, and your lips brush his jawline in a way he’d only let you do. 

“Baby,” you whisper to him, your hand moving to brush the bangs away from his face. He pretends to be woken up, his eyelashes fluttering open to see you. 

“Hi,” he manages to whisper, making a smile form on your lips. You lean in and nuzzle your face against his neck, and a shaky breath leaves his lips. 

“How’d you sleep?” you mumble against his skin. He slowly moves his hands, slipping them under your hoodie so he can hold your hips. You feel so warm. 

“Fine,” he mumbles back, watching as you lift your head. You look like Heaven, and Jason’s heart is pounding so hard against his chest he fears it may explode. 

What a beautiful way to die, he thinks. 

“Finished your essay?” he asks, his hand reaching out to cup your cheek. His thumb slowly brushes your chin, then traces your bottom lip. You blush, leaning against his palm. 

“Mostly,” you admit sheepishly. “You looked so comfy and I was starting to get a headache, so I wanted to cuddle with you. I’ll finish it tomorrow morning.”

He bites back the smile you never fail to produce, and his thumb pulls back your bottom lip. 

“That can be arranged,” he says, tucking your outgrown bangs behind your ear. His fingers trace along your earlobe, fiddling with the earrings you wore. A peaceful silence falls over the two of you, and Jason’s extremely aware of the look in your eyes. His cheeks twinge that red shade, and he clenches his jaw. 

“I love you,” you finally whisper. He gulps, his eyes flicking to yours. At that moment, he swears no one could make his body react in the way you managed to do. 

“I love you too,” he whispers back after a few moments. The words are new to him, almost sounding foreign on his tongue. But he makes an internal promise to practice this language for you. 

He practices it as you lean down and press your lips to his. He cups the back of your head to bring you closer, in an attempt to become one. You let out a soft sigh that makes his body shiver, and you pull away with yet another gorgeous smile on your lips. 

You lay on him again, your head resting in the crook between his shoulder and neck. Jason’s fingers thread through your hair as soft snores leave your lips. 

He hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but your body on his makes his eyes shut and his arms move to rest around your shoulders. His muscles relax and his heart returns to its natural pace. He feels you shift for a moment, your lips brushing his neck to give him one final kiss. To remind him you’re here, and that you’re not going anywhere. 

Another thing Jason loves about you – you love him back just the same.

[reiding-writing]

please please please write a part two to adrenaline, i bet Spencer would be so worried about cold!reader in the hospital

OXYTOCIN — SPENCER REID!

you wake up in the hospital after the explosion, and spencer hasn’t left your side.

spencer reid x cold!reader | 2.0k | h/c? | cold!reader masterlist.

part one. | main masterlist.

a/n — singing sabrina carpenter in my head whilst reading this request

When you wake, it feels like you’ve been hit by a truck, repeatedly. The sterile scent of antiseptic and faint hum of machines confirms your location before your eyes even open. A hospital. Great. Just great.

You groan, blinking against the harsh fluorescent lights overhead. Everything hurts. Your thigh feels like it's been through a meat grinder, and even breathing feels like a chore.

“You’re awake,” a voice says from your side, a mixture of relief and exhaustion colouring the words.

You turn your head—too quickly, judging by the sharp sting in your neck—and find Spencer sitting in a chair near your bed. His hair is a mess, his clothes wrinkled, and his face is pale. There’s a small bandage on his temple and soot still clinging to the creases of his shirt, like he hasn’t left since the explosion.

“What... what are you doing here?” Your voice is raspy, dry. You try to clear your throat, grimacing as the action sends a dull ache through your chest.

“I...” He shifts, looking momentarily sheepish. “I didn’t want to leave until you woke up.”

You narrow your eyes, trying to ignore the way your stomach flips at his words. “You should be resting. You were barely conscious when we got out of there.”

His brows knit together in concern. “You were bleeding out when we got out of there.”

You don’t have a good retort to that. Instead, you glance down at yourself, noting the IV in your arm and the thick bandages wrapped around your thigh. A hospital gown replaces your smoke-stained clothes, and your boots—well, they’re long gone.

“God,” you mutter, leaning your head back against the pillow. “I hate hospitals.”

Spencer lets out a soft chuckle, though it’s tinged with guilt. “I know. You need one though,”

You scoff. “Yeah, yeah, whatever,”

The faintest smile tugs at his lips, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He shifts in his chair, his hands wringing together in his lap. There’s a heaviness about him now, a weight he seems unable to shake.

“What’s wrong with you?” you ask bluntly, unable to help yourself. “You look like someone ran over your cat.”

He winces at your choice of words, his fingers tightening around each other as he leans forward, his elbows braced on his knees. “I didn’t notice,” he says quietly.

“Notice what?”

He meets your gaze, his eyes glassy with guilt. “The injury. Your leg. I didn’t notice it when we were trying to get out. You were helping me the whole time, and I didn’t even see that you were hurt.”

You frown, watching as he rubs a hand over his face, frustration etched into every line of his features.

“It was chaos,” he continues, his voice trembling. “And I relied on you—again—to keep us alive, and I didn’t even—” He breaks off, inhaling sharply as if to steady himself. “I should’ve seen it. I should’ve done something. Instead, you almost—”

“Reid. Shut up.” The words come out harsher than you intend, and his mouth snaps shut. You sit up a little straighter, ignoring the stab of pain that radiates from your thigh. “You’re spiraling, and it’s annoying.”

“Annoying?” His voice is incredulous, his brows knitting together.

“Yes,” you say firmly. “Because none of this is your fault. Do you hear me? None of it. Not the explosion, not my injury, nothing.”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“You couldn’t have known about my leg. Hell, I didn’t even know about my leg until I was half-unconscious on the ground. And as for relying on me—” You pause, exhaling sharply. “That’s what we do. We rely on each other. It’s how we survive. You’d have done the same for me if the roles were reversed.”

“But—”

“No buts.” Your voice softens, though your tone remains firm. “You’re not a superhero, Reid. None of us are. We make do with what we’ve got, and we did. We’re here. We made it out. That’s what matters.”

He stares at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, he looks away, his gaze dropping to the floor. “I just— I hate that you got hurt because of me.”

You let out a dry laugh, shaking your head. “Don’t flatter yourself. It wasn’t because of you. It was because some lunatic decided to blow up a building while we were inside it.”

That earns a faint smile from him, though it’s fleeting. He rubs the back of his neck, his posture still tense. “I guess I just... I don’t know. I keep replaying it in my head, thinking of all the things I could’ve done differently.”

“Join the club,” you mutter. “But fuck that, it’s over now,”

He nods slowly, though the guilt doesn’t fully leave his face. You watch him for a moment, the vulnerability in his expression tugging at something deep inside you.

“You’re too hard on yourself, you know that?” you say softly.

He glances up at you, his brow furrowing. “What do you mean?”

“I mean you carry the weight of the world on your shoulders like it’s your job,” you reply. “You don’t have to, Reid. Not with us. Not with me.”

Something in his gaze shifts at your words, a flicker of emotion you can’t quite place. He sits back in his chair, his hands resting in his lap as he looks at you.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he says quietly, the honesty in his voice catching you off guard.

You don’t know how to respond to that. For once, the words escape you. Instead, you reach out, your pinky finger brushing against his. It’s a small gesture, but it’s enough. He looks down at your hand, his lips curving into a faint smile.

For a moment, the two of you sit in comfortable silence, the weight of the day easing just slightly. And despite the sterile surroundings and the ache in your body, you feel... okay.

And then the door opens. And you regret even thinking such an absurd thought.

“Hey hey hey, look who’s awake, how you feeling?” Derek Morgan strides into the room with a grin that’s entirely too bright for the situation. Behind him, Emily and JJ trail in, their expressions a mix of relief and exhaustion.

“Oh, fantastic,” you say dryly, pulling your hands back to drag them down your face. “The circus is here.”

Morgan chuckles, unbothered by your sarcasm, and sets a small bouquet of slightly wilted daisies on the bedside table. “We were starting to think you’d sleep forever. Reid here hasn’t left your side, you know.” He gives Spencer a pointed look, one eyebrow raised. “We had to practically threaten him just to get his head stitched up.”

Spencer shifts uncomfortably in his chair, mumbling, “I was fine.”

“No, you weren’t,” Emily chimes in, her tone matter-of-fact as she crosses her arms. “You were one sneeze away from collapsing yourself. But of course, you’d rather run yourself into the ground than listen to medical advice.”

“Runs in the family,” Morgan quips, throwing you a knowing glance.

You roll your eyes, already regretting being conscious for this conversation. “I don’t need a play-by-play of Reid’s stubbornness, thanks. I’ve lived it.”

“That’s true,” JJ says with a small smile. “You’re the only one as bad as he is when it comes to ignoring injuries.”

You open your mouth to respond—probably something sarcastic—but Emily beats you to it, her voice softer now. “We were worried about you,” she says. “Both of you.”

The words catch you off guard. You glance at Spencer, who looks down at his hands, avoiding the weight of Emily’s gaze. Your own throat tightens, and for once, you’re at a loss for something snarky to say.

“I’m fine,” you manage eventually, though you’re not entirely sure if it’s for their benefit or your own. “Just... ready to get out of here.”

“That’s not happening anytime soon,” JJ says gently. “The doctors want to keep you overnight, at least,”

You groan, leaning back against the pillow. “Of course they do.”

“Could be worse,” Morgan says with a smirk. “At least you’ve got Reid here playing nursemaid,”

“Don’t tempt me to throw something at you,” you mutter, glaring halfheartedly at him.

Spencer clears his throat, his cheeks tinged pink as he stands. “I should, uh, give you guys some time. I’ll grab coffee or something,”

“You’ve had six cups already,” JJ points out.

“Then I’ll grab water,” he counters, already heading for the door. He pauses just long enough to glance back at you. “I’ll be back.”

“You don’t have to hover, Reid,�� you call after him, but he’s already gone.

The room feels quieter without him, though not exactly peaceful—not with the three pairs of eyes now fixed on you.

“Okay,” Morgan says, clapping his hands together. “Let’s hear it. What’s going on between you two?”

Your stomach drops. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he says, grinning like a cat who’s cornered a mouse. “You and the boy wonder. Something’s different,”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You fold your arms across your chest.

“Sure you don’t,” Emily says, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Because it’s completely normal for you to nearly break down a wall looking for him and then collapse from blood loss without saying a word about it,”

You glare at her, though the heat in your face betrays you. “That was the adrenaline. And the smoke. It messes with people.”

Morgan raises an eyebrow. “Right. So the way you two were holding hands when we walked in—definitely adrenaline?”

“We weren’t—” You groan exasperatedly, and then grimace the pain it causes your throat. “I was comforting him. He’s got a guilt complex and I don’t want to deal with that for the next however long if he insists on staying.”

“Sure, sweet stuff,” Morgan smiles. “Maybe I should start calling you a puddle with how fast you melt around Boy Wonder,”

“Don’t you all have something better to do?” you snap, wishing desperately for an escape hatch.

“Not really,” JJ says with a sly smile. “Unless you count pestering you as ‘better’,”

You groan, dragging a hand over your face. “There’s nothing going on. Drop it.”

“Fine,” Morgan says, though the mischievous glint in his eyes tells you he’s anything but convinced. “But if you change your mind, let us know. We’ve got bets going,”

“You what?”

But before you can unleash your full indignation, the door opens again, and Spencer steps back in, a bottle of water in his hand. He looks between you and the team, his brow furrowing slightly. “Did I miss something?”

“Nothing important,” you say quickly, shooting a warning glare at the others.

Morgan grins but says nothing, and for once, you’re grateful. Spencer hands you the water, his expression softening. “How are you feeling now?”

“Tired,” you admit, taking the bottle. “And ready to get out of here.”

“I’ll talk to the doctors,” he offers. “See if they can expedite things,”

The warmth in his voice makes your chest tighten, and you look away, focusing on twisting the cap off the bottle.

The team watches the exchange with barely concealed amusement, but thankfully, they choose to keep their commentary to themselves. For now.

[tender-rosiey]

I have a ✨request✨

So I would like to ask (if you want to do this) if you can make husband!Sukuna and wife!Reader but the reader gets scared easily and she’s terrified of thunderstorms.

Thank you! Btw, love how you write everything 😌❤️

thunder — ryomen sukuna x f!reader

a/n: glad you do, love! hope you like this as well! <3

the skies turn an ominous gray, heavy clouds swirling as the first low rumble of thunder rolls across the horizon. you feel your stomach twist in response, a familiar unease creeping up your spine. the storm is approaching, fast.

you swallow hard, trying to distract yourself with the mundane tasks of the day, hoping the sound of the thunder will fade into the background.

but with each passing moment, the storm grows louder, the skies darker. a flash of lightning lights up the room briefly, followed almost immediately by a crack of thunder that shakes the walls.

you flinch, heart pounding in your chest, and hurriedly step away from the window, as if being near it somehow makes the storm more dangerous.

your fingers tremble slightly as you clasp them together, trying to keep your breathing steady.

it’s ridiculous, you think. you are the wife of ryomen sukuna, the king of curses. by all accounts, you have no reason to fear anything. and yet… thunderstorms always find a way to unravel you.

another bolt of lightning splits the sky, and you squeeze your eyes shut, bracing yourself for the inevitable roar of thunder that follows.

the sound reverberates through the room, louder than before, and despite your efforts to stay calm, you can’t stop the small gasp that escapes your lips.

you hate feeling this way—small, vulnerable. you have faced so much worse and come out unscathed, but the irrational fear of storms clings to you, reminding you of your humanness.

a faint sound behind you makes you jump, your pulse quickening before you realize it’s just the door opening. you exhale in relief but freeze when you sense his presence in the room.

sukuna’s aura is unmistakable—heavy, oppressive, and dark. yet there is something familiar and comforting in it, like the weight of his power grounds you in reality.

he stands in the doorway, watching you in silence for a moment, his four eyes taking in your tense frame, the way your shoulders are slightly hunched, and your knuckles are white from gripping your hands too tightly.

“you’re scared,” he says, his voice low.

it isn’t a question. he senses it, of course. there’s no hiding anything from him, least of all your fears. you try to shrug it off, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“it’s just a storm,” you mutter, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, though your fingers still tremble. “nothing to worry about.”

sukuna steps further into the room, his towering figure casting a shadow over you.

he raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed with your attempt to downplay the situation. another crash of thunder booms overhead, and despite yourself, you flinch again.

his gaze sharpens. “don’t lie to me,” he warns, his tone cold.

you bite your lip, feeling foolish. of course he sees through you. he always does. there’s no use pretending.

“I’m… not good with thunderstorms,” you finally admit, your voice quieter now. “I know it’s stupid.”

sukuna remains silent for a moment, his eyes narrowing as he observes you. he is never one for unnecessary softness, and certainly not the comforting type.

but there is something in the way he looks at you—calculating, thoughtful, as if he is deciding what to do with this newfound knowledge.

another streak of lightning illuminates the room, casting sharp shadows across his face. you instinctively take a small step back, but before you can fully retreat, sukuna moves faster, closing the distance between you in an instant.

his large hand wraps around your wrist, firm but not harsh.

“are you serious?” he asks, incredulity lacing his tone. the idea seems laughable to him.

“I can’t help it,” you reply, your voice barely above a whisper. the thunder crashes once more, and your body tenses involuntarily.

sukuna exhales, a low, rumbling sound that seems to match the storm outside. his grip tightens slightly, pulling you closer to him until you’re inches away from his chest.

he looms over you, his eyes dark and piercing, yet there is something oddly reassuring in his presence—something that makes the storm outside seem less terrifying in comparison.

“you fear something as insignificant as this when i stand before you?” his voice is a mixture of disbelief and amusement, but beneath that, there is a thread of something else—something almost protective.

you can’t meet his gaze, embarrassed by how small and fragile you must seem to him. sukuna, of all beings, thrives on chaos and destruction. the very elements of the storm that terrify you are likely nothing more than a minor inconvenience to him, if that.

“look at me,” he commands, his fingers tipping your chin upward to force you to meet his eyes. his red irises burn into yours, fierce and unyielding.

“do you think something as trivial as this storm could harm you while you’re mine?” his words are sharp, almost cutting, but the underlying meaning isn’t lost on you. sukuna would never allow anything to touch what was his.

he would never allow the world—let alone a storm—to hurt you.

you swallow, your voice shaky but trying to sound braver than you feel. “I… I know. It’s just—”

“you know nothing,” he cuts you off, leaning down until his face is inches from yours, his breath warm against your skin. “if you truly understood, you wouldn’t be trembling.”

you open your mouth to respond, but the thunder booms again, and instinctively, you press closer to him, your hands clutching the fabric of his robes as if he were the only anchor in the storm.

sukuna’s expression shifts subtly, his eyes softening—just barely—as he feels your grip tighten on him. he doesn’t pull away, doesn’t mock you for your fear, but instead, he allows you to cling to him, his body solid and unwavering.

“pathetic,” he mutters, though there’s no venom in his voice. he wraps an arm around your waist, holding you firmly against him. “but if you’re going to be scared, at least hide here.”

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copyright © tender-rosiey

do not copy or plagiarize

check out my buy me a coffee!

[yanderecrazysie]

Twisted Zoo: Chapter Twelve

First Chapter: here

Previous Chapter: here

This is based on the stories of a keeper reader with the octotrio by @ashensgrotto and @merakiui .

I am no longer doing tags. Tumblr hates me and I’d rather not waste my time when there are so many! You can keep up to date on Twisted Zoo on Tumblr, Quotev, Wattpad, or AO3.

Summary: You’re a brand new zookeeper at The Halfling Zoo- a place where half-animals live in captivity. Your job is simple- feed them and study them. Your main worry is that one of the more dangerous halflings might kill you. 

Unfortunately, that may become the least of your worries.

WARNINGS: yandere themes

Note: All characters are aged up, since there will be mature themes in future parts.

Note 2: This is the final chapter before the endings. Sorry!

—-------------------------------------------------------

The eerily flickering lights of the aquarium almost gave you pause. Strange. You stepped through the employee only entrance and pressed on the light switch. Still, the lights flickered.

“Shriiiimp!” Floyd’s telltale voice cried out from the edge of the tank, his arms crossed on the concrete and chin resting on top of them.

“Shrimp?” you laughed, “Is that what you’re calling me now?”

Floyd giggled and stared at you with lidded eyes, “Shrimp!”

“What’s up with the lights?” you asked him, gesturing to the overhead electrical issues. Floyd shrugged and slipped into the water with a breathless giggle. 

You frowned, feeling a little unsettled by the way his shadow danced along the wall as the lights’ flickering became longer. You took a seat at the edge of the tank.

“Where’s Jade?” you asked.

“Right here,” his voice startled you. You swerved your head so quickly that it cricked, spotting his mismatched gaze from a few feet away. Jade’s chin was just above the surface, so that he wouldn’t get water in his mouth when he talked, “We missed you.”

“I missed you guys, too,” you said with a smile, “What’s up with the lights?”

As always, there was a cold edge to Jade’s smile, “Nothing to worry about. Electrical problem. It happens sometimes.”

You nodded, though his answer didn’t make you feel any less uneasy. “I see. Let’s hope it gets fixed soon.”

To your surprise, white hair broke the surface and piercing eyes met yours before they softened behind their spectacles. This was the first time Azul had surfaced on his own without Floyd dragging him to the surface. 

“How nice of you to come,” he said, giving you a closed-eyed smile. His gaze suddenly turned serious and he seemed to size you up. “We rarely see you.”

“It’s nice to see you, Azul,” you offered with another smile. A tentacle slid out of the water and brushed against your ankle. You noticed it beginning to curl around the appendage and quickly stood up, knocking it back into the water. 

You backed away from the edge, ignoring the hurt look on his face, “I should really check on the electrical system. It might not be safe if the lights are acting up like this.”

“Noooo,” Floyd wailed, his eyes gleaming with hidden mirth, “Shriiimp, stay! We miiiiss you…”

You felt something brush against your ankle again and stepped back from the edge. Black tentacles slid back into the tank. Jade smiled pleasantly at you, “There’s no rush. You can stay with us.”

“No,” you backed away from the tank, “No, I think I’m done for today.” The lights continued to flicker, staying dark for even longer, sending shadows playing across the faces of the tank’s three inhabitants, making their leering faces look even more frightening in that moment.

As the door slammed behind them, Azul turned to the twins in amusement, speaking in what sounded like clicks to the cameras above the tank, “I believe I have her measurements down.”

Floyd giggled, “Next time?”

“Next time, she’s ours.”

—---------------------------

You decided that, today, you would visit Idia before the snakes. You were much too excited to give him the gift you had brought him to wait any longer.

“Idia! I have a surprise for you!” you called out as you entered the enclosure. The lizard halfling was in the very back of the terrarium, curled up in the corner gloomily.

“What is it now?” he asked, not sounding enthusiastic in the slightest.

You handed over your old, blue Nintendo DS along with a ziploc bag filled with games. Idia’s eyes widened, “What is this?”

“It’s a handheld gaming device. You just pop the game you want to play in and open it up,” you explained happily, “It’ll eventually die but-”

“It will die?!” Idia looked horrified, “It is alive?!”

“No no no,” you quickly explained, “I just mean it’ll run out of battery, but I can always charge it again for you.”

Idia’s shoulders sagged in relief and the corners of his lips turned up in a soft smile, “Thank you.”

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” you said, straightening up and turning to leave. To your surprise, an electric blue tail curled around your ankle. You turned to face the lizard halfling and were met with pleading eyes.

“Stay, teach me to use it,” Idia begged. 

With a smile, you sat down and picked a random game out of the ziploc bag and popped it in the empty compartment. You flipped open the device and turned it on as Idia watched in awe.

—-----------------------------------

“Hey, Jamil! Hey, Kalim!” you called out, your voice echoing in the heated terrarium. Jamil lifted his head from where he was coiled, his slitted eyes lazily studying you. Kalim, on the other hand, slithered forward eagerly.

“Yay! You’re back!” Kalim cried out, his arms wrapping around your midsection and his face burying itself into your stomach. You stumbled backwards at the enthusiastic force he put into his hug but managed to stay upright. 

“Jamil and I missed you. Jamil talked about you.”

You looked over at the viper halfling, who avoided eye contact. You stifled a giggle and said, “Well, I missed both of you too.”

Kalim’s face brightened, but Jamil’s expression remained guarded. There was tension in the air, something between the two that you couldn’t quite decipher. 

“Did you bring anything?” Kalim asked excitedly and you realized he was remembering the donuts from last time.

“I’m afraid not. I was going to bring curry but I didn’t have time to make it.”

Kalim made a disgusted face, “Why curry? Curry is gross!”

Jamil’s eyes flashed with irritation and he gave Kalim a fearsome glare, “Because that is my favorite.”

The tension between the two crackled like electricity and you quickly intervened, “I’ll bring some next time, Jamil. Kalim, can I bring you anything?”

Kalim looked puzzled as he tried to think of what you could bring. He finally smiled brightly and shrugged, “Anything but curry!”

Jamil continued to glare at his roommate as he said lowly, “Thank you, (Y/n).”

“How have you both been?” you asked.

Jamil opened his mouth to respond and was immediately cut off by Kalim, “I missed you soooooo much!”

You laughed, “I missed you too.” You looked at your watch and with a pang you realized you were running low on time already, “Have you been up to anything exciting?”

Kalim’s grin widened, “After you left, I cried. Then, I shed my skin. Then, I rested. Then…”

Kalim gave you a play-by-play of everything he had been up to since your previous visit. You watched as the seconds ticked by on your watch, fighting off boredom.

Finally, you realized you couldn’t stay any longer if you were planning to see the tigers and panthers today. You hesitantly interrupted Kalim’s droning and said, “I’m so sorry, guys, but I need to head out.”

Kalim’s eyes widened and he wrapped his arms around you once again, “Please, stay longer.”

“I can’t, Kalim. I promise I’ll be back soon,” you said, gently disentangling yourself from his grasp.

Kalim’s eyes filled with tears, “You’re always leaving! It’s not fair!”

“I know, and I’m really sorry. But I’ll make it up to you next time, okay?” you reassured him, reaching out to give his head a gentle pat.

Kalim’s sobs followed you out the door of the enclosure. You felt like a heartless monster as you closed the door, but you knew you couldn’t stay and now had to run to make it on time. 

Behind the closed door, Jamil hissed at Kalim to shut up and the boy stopped crying almost immediately. Then, his eyes lit up as an idea crossed his mind…

Meanwhile, you had finally arrived at the panthers and tigers exhibit. You hurried into the exhibit and stopped dead in your tracks. To your surprise, it wasn’t just Silver and Sebek standing near the employee entrance but, for the first time, Malleus and Lilia as well. 

Before you could question the sudden welcome, Lilia skipped up to you and linked his arm with yours, half-walking, half-dragging you over to the others.

“You’re late!” Sebek yelled.

“Sorry about that,” you winced at the volume of his voice and waved to the four halflings sheepishly, “How are you all?”

Lilia brought you closer to the other three and Malleus reached out and gently grasped your chin. He redirected your face to look at him and you frowned at his serious expression.

“Crowley,” Malleus said softly, “You cannot trust him. In fact, you cannot trust anyone here.”

“What do you mean?” you asked, suspicion spiking immediately. Sure, Mr. Crowley was eccentric, but to not be able to trust him? Wasn’t that going a bit far?

Malleus’s frown deepened, “He will allow anything to happen to you, if it is for the better of the zoo.”

You shook your head and let out an awkward, humorless laugh, “I don’t think that’s true…”

“A storm is coming, (Y/n),” Silver said softly.

“You can’t trust anyone,” Sebek affirmed.

“Least of all us,” Lilia said with an eerie smile.

[zhelin-thames]

Coffee, Chaos, and the Red Hood

prompt idea for @silverblueglitter

Danny sat hunched over a half-empty coffee cup in the corner of the small Gotham cafe, the flickering overhead lights barely doing anything to lift the oppressive gloom hanging in the air. His textbook lay open in front of him, the numbers and formulas nothing but a blur of nonsense. He'd barely slept the night before, cramming for a test that was in less than 30 minutes. All he wanted was a quiet moment—just a sip of coffee, a few minutes to breathe.

Then, the door slammed open, and a masked man with a gun stormed inside. The entire room went cold with panic.

"Everybody on the ground, NOW!" the man shouted, his voice a raspy echo in the dead silence.

Danny froze, the world going hazy as his mind tried to comprehend what was happening. He looked at his watch. Thirty minutes. Thirty damn minutes. He could feel his pulse quickening, the raw edge of exhaustion settling deep in his bones.

Tears welled in his eyes. "Why?" he whispered. "Why does the universe hate me?"

His voice cracked with the frustration of it all. The test. The sleepless nights. The constant grind, the fear, the never-ending cycle. The guy with the gun was yelling, barking orders, but it felt like his voice was coming from miles away. Nothing mattered. Nothing made sense. The injustice, the senselessness of it all—he just wanted a moment to himself.

But that was it. Something snapped.

Before he could even think, his body moved. He lunged at the gunman, faster than he realized. His hands gripped the guy's wrist, wrenching the weapon from his fingers in a flurry of desperate anger.

"I'm JUST TRYING TO GET COFFEE!" Danny screamed, the words torn from the depths of his soul. "I HAVE A TEST IN 30 MINUTES. SHUT UP. LET ME FUCKING LIVE, MAN!"

In that instant, it was all rage. Raw, untamed, the world around him disappearing as his hands took over. A punch. Another. The sound of bones cracking under his fists filled his ears. He didn't care. He didn't care about the gun, the robber, or even the chaos around him. All that mattered was the pounding of his fists, the overwhelming fury of a world that had pushed him too far.

And then, just as quickly as it began, it stopped. The man crumpled to the floor, blood streaming from his broken nose and mouth. Danny's hands were slick with it, his breathing heavy and ragged.

From the doorway, there was the distinct sound of a voice that made his heart freeze.

"Nice form."

Danny turned, eyes blurry from tears and adrenaline, to see a figure standing in the shadows—tall, armored, and unmistakably dangerous.

The Red Hood.

He stood with arms crossed, his helmet giving nothing away, but the nod of approval was clear. "You’ve got some real rage in you. Gotham needs more people like you."

Danny blinked, his heart still pounding, his hands shaking. It didn't feel real. He didn’t even care that the Red Hood was there, didn't care about Gotham's underworld or the crime scene. Maybe it was a good day after all. He had just fought off a robber with nothing but his bare hands, after all.

"Yeah," Danny muttered under his breath. "Maybe."

There was an unspoken understanding between them. Gotham was a place where people broke, bent, and sometimes, the only thing that saved them was a release of rage. Danny felt like he had just tapped into something darker, something deep inside of him that had been bubbling under the surface for so long. He didn’t know if it was strength or just desperation, but it had worked.

Before Danny could say anything else, the door to the cafe creaked open, and a few uniformed officers stepped in, their eyes immediately landing on the scene. Red Hood didn’t flinch; he just gave Danny one last look, a silent nod of approval, then turned toward the back exit.

"Good luck, kid," he said, before vanishing into the shadows.

Then, as sirens wailed in the distance, he let out a long, shaky breath and slumped back into the chair. Gotham had a way of ruining your day. But sometimes, it had a way of giving you something you never expected, too. Even if that something was just a quiet moment of crazy, bizarre, Gotham-style peace.

Minus the burgling, of course.

Danny didn’t even get the chance to respond. The officers started moving toward him, questioning him, but it didn’t matter anymore. He could hear the chaos of Gotham creeping back in—the sirens, the sounds of life—and for once, it didn’t feel like it was drowning him. He was a part of it now, whether he liked it or not.

As they cuffed the robber and started making their report, Danny took a long, shaky breath and muttered under his breath, "Maybe Gotham’s not so bad after all."

And maybe it wasn’t. Not today, anyway.

[lamentationsofalonelypotato]

Chapter 12: Skip The Bagel Next Time

Pairing: Soldier Boy x f!reader, Reader POV, Soldier Boy POV

Summary:  When you decided to work with Butcher and his merry band of supe hunters to take down Homelander, you neve expected to be saddled with a sullen, grumpy, jerk like Soldier Boy when the job was done. The more you're around him the more you hate him, but you can't help but wonder, is he really as big a jerk as you think? Reader is a supe with plant powers. This takes place in an AU about a month after the end of The Boys Season 3, in which Butcher has let Soldier Boy continue to work with him on his team.  (I'm real bad at summaries, please forgive me!)

Tropes: Enemies to Lovers (Not in this chapter), Slow Burn, Age Difference (Reader is in her 20s), Soft Ben/ Soldier Boy, Protective Ben/Soldier Boy

Word Count: 11.7K (I know it's a big boi, but so much happens)

Warnings: I'm going to label this 18+ because Soldier Boy (he's a warning and everyone knows it) and because there is an ATTEMPTED SEXUAL ASSAULT that the reader stops. Swearing, Mentions of Sex, Sexual Innuendo, Dark Themes, Dark Thoughts,  Kidnapping, Torture, Blood, GRAPHIC DEPICTION OF DEATH, DEATH, BLOOD, GUTS, Threatening, Denial, A whole lot of denial,  Manipulation, Self deprecating thoughts, Talks about weed, Super Manipulative Creepy Trash Man, Sexist Comments, Kinda awkward situation, Ben/Soldier Boy might be a little bit OOC.

Note: This is told from Reader's perspective. Any references to the reader is made using you or your. There is minimal use of y/n. I tried my best to proofread, but nobody's perfect. If you don’t like, don’t read, but if you do like, you’re my favorite!

A/N: I'm serious y'all this one is BLOODY, the show is too, but really this one has got A LOT. There is an attempted SEXUAL ASSAULT and there are SEVERAL graphic deaths. If you do not like that or if that will hurt you, please don't read this. I love you all and I don't want anyone to be hurt from this.

Internal monologue is in italics and is in first person.

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READER POV

The cold was oppressive, seeping through flesh and bone and scratching along your soul. A chill travelled along the bare plains of your face and fingertips to freeze whatever it could, clawing at your clothes to find the skin hidden beneath. You'd never known cold like this, even in the winters when the snow drifted and swirled overhead, glinting in the streetlights as you shuffled home after a long day you were able to keep it at bay, but now there was little you could do to protect yourself.

For you, cold was deadly, just like the early frost that crept along greening leaves in winter, you too felt the effects of the temperature when it dropped.

You thrived in the sunshine and absorbed the rays like a tree raising it's arms to worship the rising sun, but in the cold you were hollow, like the weathered trunk of an old oak long lost to frost and snow.

The dark and cold surrounded you in a shroud of chill and ice, making you feel tired and alone. And this time you didn’t know how much longer you could go on before you succumbed to the frigid embrace.

You didn't know how many days had passed since Darren left you with Elijah, there weren't any windows in the freezer and no way to tell the passing of time.

That's what you decided to call it.

There was no light in it, but you'd walked the perimeter on shaky legs feeling along the ice covered walls while trying to avoid the pieces of meat hanging from hooks above you.

At least, you hoped it was meat. There was something else that seemed too dark to consider, but after being in here as long as you had, your mind began to inch along the edge of the cliff that beckoned you to leap into the churning water below.

No one had come since you woke up in the darkness and you’d given up counting seconds.

No Elijah, no Darren, no team, and no Ben.

 hat last one you weren't sure why you added it to the list or why you separated it from thoughts of your team, but you were starting to believe what Elijah said to you in his office, that Ben hated you and now he wasn't going to come help you.

He said he didn’t care, of course he's not going to come.

The thought wasn't unfamiliar, but it was just as unwelcome. You wanted to believe that your team would come for you or at least Annie. She was your best friend and you knew that she would figure out something was up, but you were worried that Darren had figured out how to keep everyone off his trail. He did have your phone and he was your brother which meant he knew most of what to say if someone texted you. But you tried to remain optimistic that Annie would be able to smell the imposter.

You’d tried talking and shouting at the frozen walls for someone to hear you, screamed yourself hoarse, but there was no one to answer.  There's a dull throb in your limbs that won't leave and a hollow in the pit of your stomach. No one had brought food or water, and you'd taken to relieving yourself in the opposite side of the cell.

I guess that's what this is. Elijah put me a cell.

You couldn't hear anything outside, no rumble of the expressway, no splash of water against the rocks, no honking of traffic, and no low murmur of people speaking outside.

It was just you alone in the darkness waiting for whatever came next.

The shudder that works it's way down your spine has nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with Elijah. What he said to you in his office worried you. You weren't one to give in, but the superhuman strength he possessed in was troubling you. And without plants nearby you weren't sure you could fight off someone who was so much stronger.

Not to mention you could feel the weakness of your body beginning to close in on you. Being in the cold was quickly becoming unbearable and you weren't sure how much longer you could take this before it caused permanent damage.

You would cry again if you had anything left. You couldn't believe that Darren would do something like this, that he would allow Elijah to take you and that your brother was so desperate to pay off a debt that he used you as a bargaining chip. You wondered if Darren knew what Elijah would do to you or if he didn't care as long as it settled his debt.

After all these years of me paying off his debts, he probably thought that I'd be happy to do something like this. I've been giving up parts of my life so he could go off and live his. I never said no. I never turned my back on my brother and look where it got me.

You'd thought that you were showing your brother how much you loved him by bailing him out as many times as you did, but now you felt stupid and used. You now saw that your brother didn't care about you, the only thing he cared about was how willing you were to give him money and support him for nothing in return.

You huddle further into a ball in the corner of the room, your back pressed against the frozen wall trying to reach out for some kind of plant energy, but there isn't anything. There wasn't a single seed, vegetable, or piece of plant in the freezer or anywhere nearby and it made all of this worse. It made you feel unsettled being away from them and you're reminded of the cruise Annie and you spent together where you were isolated from land in the middle of the ocean and couldn't leave the cabin.

You couldn’t even feel the sickness of the marijuana plants anymore. That was the only welcome part of all of this, that you couldn't feel them anymore, not when it made you dizzy to be that close to them.

Then again, I'll take what I can get. If I get out of this I'm going to start carrying seeds in my pockets everywhere.

You press your lips together, feeling the chapped flesh that was dry and flaking flushed red. Your cheeks and the skin of your face were the same way. You felt tired and you knew it was your body telling you to shut down, slowing your heart rate to save your life, but you fought it.

At first you'd tried to keep moving around the cell, rubbing your left arm up and down your right to keep warm the best you could, while avoiding the large pieces of meat hanging from the hooks above, and distracting yourself with how bad it smelled instead of the cold. But you gave up walking around and decided to conserve as little heat you had left by crouching down and shivering in the corner. Your could feel your mind going a little bit cloudy, as if you couldn't focus on anything. You hadn't slept and you weren't sure if that was why you were confused or if it was your body beginning to shut down.

It scared you to think that if you fell asleep, you wouldn’t wake up again.

Of all the things that Darren had done this was the biggest betrayal, that much was obvious. Telling Elijah that you were a supe who could control plants was one thing, but telling Elijah that you don't do well in the cold was unforgivable, especially because Darren knew how dangerous it was for you to be in cold for a prolonged time.

I wonder if he ever cared for me, or if this has all just been a game to him from the beginning since our parents died.

You had thought that you were doing what your parents would have wanted you to do in supporting your brother, thought that you were showing him the love they would have given him, but now you wished that you'd turned your back on him years ago. 

You move slightly, but wince with the pain that comes streaking down your right arm. It was a bad break and you knew that it probably needed to be set, because it had swollen up beneath your sleeve and was now an ugly purple color in certain places. You couldn't straighten it at all without screaming so now you kept it contracted and against your chest. You would have made a make-shift sling for it, if you didn’t want to keep as much skin covered from the cold.

Maybe the cold is helping it.

You think to yourself gently probing along your right sleeve, but wince when you get to your forearm and lean your head back against the wall while gritting your teeth together to keep from screaming. You had left your hair down as a way of protecting your ears and the skin of your neck, but now the strands were dry and brittle. You worried that they would snap off at any second.

Fuck, Ben where are you?

The thought was surprising. You hadn’t meant to think of him again, hadn’t meant for your mind to drift to him, but it did. You’d be lying if you didn’t imagine Ben barging in and saving your life. When you imagined your team doing a big rescue, Ben was always leading it with Annie close behind him.

You would kill for a hug from him right now, he was always so inhumanly warm and it was such a comfort. The memory of him laying on top of you comes back and you imagine it, feeling the weight of his body, feeling the warmth that curled through him and into you, but then you remember what you yelled at him.

Are those going to be the last things I say to him? All those terrible things about his team and his son?

You frown at the thought. You didn’t want it to be. Now you were more upset that you hadn't listened to him about Darren, that you hadn't seen the things that Ben had. If he were here you might even let him say "I told you so." 

Maybe, and only once.

You wondered if this was how Ben felt when he was trapped in Russia for forty years, if every day he waited for someone to come get him who never would. If every day he remained hopeful that Countess would break down the door and save him. It was cruel of her to leave him there with that hope and you could never imagine doing that to him. You could imagine how alone he must have felt, how small and helpless he did, and how much it probably broke him when he figured out that she wasn’t coming for him.

He's not going to come save me. You think to yourself remembering what he yelled to Darren before he slammed the bathroom door. He doesn’t care about me. Everyone else will come, but he won't. 

The thought made it feel like you were going to cry. Then again you kept having that feeling come surging up, but it never brought any tears. The only way you hadn't dehydrated was that you kept having to break some of the ice off the wall and sucked on it, trying not to ignore how much colder it made you.

But if he didn't care, then why did Ben try to warn me about Darren?

It's not the first time you’d thought that. It was the truth. You didn’t understand why Ben was acting like he cared and yet he said those things to your brother, why Ben shouted things just as bad at you that you'd shouted at him.

He called me stupid. He insulted me. He's just always so damn stubborn and rude and annoying and-

You sigh and press your head into your knees. It doesn’t matter now. Nothing does.

The door handle jingles as if someone is trying to open it and the lights of the freezer flare to life, temporarily blinding you. You blink to clear your vision, squinting at the two large men dressed all in black who enter. One of which you identify as Joe, the man who had been outside at the gate, the other you have no idea who he is, but suspect that he's probably another part of Elijah's security team.

Standing seems like too much effort, so all you do is glare at them from your seated position.

"Come here often?" You cough out a laugh, your voice more of a rasp.

Neither of them laugh.

Annie would have laughed. Maybe Ben.

Joe grabs you by your left arm and hauls you up off of the ground, the motion of your body bending feeling like each joint is creaking and cracking, breaking through ice as they move.

He practically drags you from the room and you don't fight him. If anything you understand that you’re going to need to conserve your strength for wherever it is that you're going.

Your legs don't really work as he hauls you down the hallway, your feet stumble and try to catch against the solid ground, but not quite correctly.

You can feel your skin flaking away under your blouse where Joe is holding you by the arm, the other man following silently behind with his hand in his jacket as if prepared to pull out a gun. You figure that Elijah sent two men as a precaution if you had found some kind of plant in the freezer.

Maybe I should be flattered that he's not underestimating me. You frown. Yeah, no not gonna do that, the asshole locked me in a freezer.

The warm air in the hallway is a welcome change from the freezer, but it almost hurts for your body to be abruptly put in a place so different than the place you'd been inhabiting for who knows how long.

Joe shoves your body forward into a door in front of you and as you move towards it, the door opens and you fall onto the floor directly onto your bad arm.

This time you do scream when the white hot stab of pain shoots through your right arm as it makes contact with the floor. And Joe laughs.

"For a supe you're pretty wimpy." He chortles to himself, yanking you up from the ground again by your left arm. "Then again what a waste of a power, making the flowers grow."

Your teeth grind down. "Keep talking and I'll shove some of those pretty flowers up where the sun don't shine."

"I don't think you're in the position to make threats." Joe smirks. He shoves you deeper into the room and your body stumbles back, but you catch yourself on a plush highbacked navy armchair.

"Oh really? How do you know this hasn't been my plan all along? To get you and tweedle dum over there alone." You clear your throat glancing around the room for something you can use as a weapon.

The room is smaller than the office was, more intimate. With two navy high backed arm chairs, a leather couch that looks more decorative than comfortable and a fireplace where a fire roars, sending a wave of heat through the back of your shirt.

You scramble forward to try and melt your frozen fingertips, but keep the two men in your line of sight.

"I'd be nicer if I were you sweets. When the boss is done with you and he gives you to me, maybe I'll be a little gentler than he is." Joe's eyes trace down your body, making revulsion rise in the back of your throat like bile.

You were already feeling a little better, but you still couldn’t use your right arm and there were no plants that you could draw from. The good news was that these two men weren't supes, which meant that you might be able to take them with just your strength, but your arm was the problem.

"Joe." Elijah sighs as he enters the room behind the two men. "Are you being rude to our guest?"

"Just telling her how it is boss."

"Hmm." Elijah looks you up an down with a sad smile. "You look tired honey. You didn't find your vacation relaxing?"

"Oh it was paradise darling." You seethe, standing up from the floor. You refuse to back down from him.

If he's gonna do something he might as well do it. I'm sick of this tough guy mafia bullshit.

You could sense what was coming, it thrummed through your veins, and sent electrical impulses over every synapse of your body as you prepared for the coming fight. The fog was still hovering in your mind, but the adrenaline beat it back with a stick.

"Usually the cooler makes people more docile. I see it's made you more heated." He looks pleased, and makes a motion with his hand to Joe and the other man, who leave as soon as they see it. "Good. It’s always more fun that way anyway."

The energy in the room shifts for a moment as Elijah approaches you before he runs his large hand over the back of the high backed chair drawing your eye to the thick steel ring on his right fourth finger. It catches in the light of the fire, but you longer feel the warmth of the blaze. It’s worse now that it's the two of you alone, not to mention with Elijah being a supe and no plant in sight, your odds of getting out of this went from 50/50 to 40/60.

Fuck.

You fight the shudder that threatens to shake through you when you see the glint in Elijah's eye, hoping and praying that you have enough energy to take him down. Butcher had made you spar with him every chance you got so it wasn't that you weren't trained, it was that you could feel what little energy you had left draining from your body.

But that didn't mean you weren't going to back down.

"I'd be happy to show you just how wonderful it is to be locked in a freezer with no light. Just say the word." You take another step back eyes searching the room for something to use as a weapon.

"Tempting." His head tilts to the side. "But I can think of more fun things the two of us could do."

"Chess?" You gesture to the board on the coffee table in front of the couch.

"You could call it that." His smile turns more into a smirk.

Elijah flashes forward so fast your didn't see him move, knocking you backward onto the uncomfortable couch. One of his hands is fastened to your throat, the other pins your good arm above you head as his entire weight knocks the wind out of you. Nothing about his weight is comforting or is anything like how Ben laid on you the other night. It's oppressive and heavy, and the thick cloud of his cologne stings your nostrils as you gasp for breath. Everything in your body screams WRONG as you feel his hand squeeze down on your throat so tight you’re sure that it's leaving a mark.

His lips bite against yours, teeth cutting through the thinly chapped and flaky skin. You scream into his mouth and bite down hard until you taste blood wiggling beneath his weight. Elijah roars, the sound of his crescendo vibrating through your body and he backhands you so savagely you see stars.

"You'll pay for that." His eyes are wide and dark like two soulless pits that wish to drag you under and his teeth are bared in a snarl more animal than human. It reminds you of a rabid dog that rips and tears in a savage rage.

Your eyes drop to his mouth.

Is that what I think it is?

The pull is there, small, just barely a throb, but it's there, because between Elijah's two front teeth is your salvation.

"You really should floss more." You spit into his face, feeling your eyes shift to green focusing on the poppy seed caught beneath his gums. You assume he ate a bagel earlier and forgot all about it, but you don't give yourself time to speculate on exactly why it's there, only that it's your chance.

"What are you-"

Elijah doesn't finish his sentence, instead he gags as the stalks and roots begin to pour from his mouth. Poppies bloom from the outstretched stems that hang daintily past his full lips. He coughs and stumbles back from you, blood dripping around the flowers, as the roots begin to thread themselves into the soft skin on the inside of his mouth and twist and tangle down his throat.

Elijah's screams are muffled into the buds and leaves that sprout from his open mouth, eyes wide and staring at you with a mixture of horror and pure hatred. The vessels in his face burst until the blood flows from his eyes and skin freely and the roots breach through bone, vein, and flesh as if searching for earth outside of his body. The plants suck every nutrient they can from what you've given them, breaking Elijah's body down into what they can and cannot use.

The flowers do not hear his screams, the petals do not show remorse and the gentle bend of each bud before it blooms is not sinister, but beneath your hands they are deadly.

Turning someone into a tree you'd never done, sure you'd threatened it, but you’d never done it. You'd locked Newton your ex-boyfriend into a tree years ago, but that wasn't a transformation or a death, that involved the tree cocooning him inside, but it was nothing like this. You stand from the couch watching Elijah writhe in pain and confusion, trying to stop the plants that continue to feast on him.

His hands grasp at his face, ripping away the flowers that sprout from his lips, but he tears away pieces of flesh loosened by the roots away from his skull until chunks of muscle and tissue are mushed into the rug at his feet. There's a terrible snapping sound as the roots continue to expand outward and the flowers stems and stalks continue to unfurl beneath his skin, shattering through bone. Elijah's hands scramble down his chest, tearing away his shirt, the scream in his lungs lost to the crimson blooms that block air from coming in to his chest. He claws at his skin, falling to his knees, the inky black of the tattoos that cover his chest vanishing beneath the roots and stalks the peel away from his flesh and burst from his ribcage, the poppies the final bouquet laid on the casket.

And as you stand there, your un-ruined arm outstretched towards him, feeling the healing ebb and flow of energy from the poppies strengthening you momentarily, you have no remorse. Elijah Black is the first man you've ever essentially killed outright with your powers and yet you feel nothing. The men on the street the night that Ben saved you would have done the same thing to you, you'd spared their lives, but this time you didn't spare his.

He makes one more attempt to scream, the blood from his chest spurting upwards in an arch and splashing against your body, but then he falls silent. The poppies spreading along the plush rug at your feet covering his body, burying it beneath their beautiful petals, smiling at you.

He deserved this.

The little voice at the back of your mind whispers and the feeling of him on top of you comes roaring back, sending revulsion through your body. You didn’t want to think about what almost happened, what would have happened if he hadn't eaten the bagel.

You stoop down to pick one of the flowers before you lay it against your right wrist and manipulate the vines and roots to form a make-shift sling for your broken arm. The exhaustion was back, tugging at your body, but this time you ignore it, knowing that you had a long way to go before you earned your freedom.

At least now my arm is stabilized. You think to yourself. How the hell am I going to get out of here?

"Hey boss are you done yet-" Joe says as he enters the room, but he stops mid-sentence. His eyes trace your body again, but not in the lewd way he'd done earlier, instead you see horror flash in his gaze when he sees the blood flecked across your cheeks and the bits of flesh and muscle that sit in clumps, smashed into the plush rug at your feet.

You feel your eyes shift to green once more, the poppies that cover Elijah's body begin to stir as if an unnatural wind has begun to wisp into the room. "You should have been more worried about getting on my good side Joe, because the flowers might be pretty, but you won't enjoy them as much as they'll enjoy you."

He tries to draw his gun, but it's too late. They'll be nothing left of him or anyone who stands in your way.

Soldier Boy POV

Blood stained Ben's ungloved hands, soaked into his supe suit, and splashed across his cheeks, but he didn’t care. He would bathe in it every day until he found you if that's what it took.

He didn't understand why he felt this way, felt unsure and antsy at the thought of you being trapped somewhere, but he did, and it was almost too much to bear. With each passing hour on the long drive from Boston to New York, Ben could feel himself slipping further and further into a feeling that he couldn't place, a feeling that he'd never felt before in his entire life. His hands had curled into fists where they rested on his thighs with each mile that the car inched closer to you and to whoever the fuck had hurt you. He hadn’t spoken since he threatened Butcher at the motel, well, except for the occasional "Can you drive any fucking faster?" he shouted at Butcher every few minutes.

Even Annie seemed unnaturally quiet where she sat beside Ben in the backseat, her hand clasped tightly in Hughie's. She had been upset since she figured out what Darren had done and Hughie was trying to comfort her. Hughie had his arm wrapped around her shoulders and was whispering gentle things into her ear while she leaned into his chest and hugged him.

It annoyed Ben.

In the past Ben would have mocked a man for doing that, would have made an offhand comment about the man being pussy whipped, but as Ben sat there and listened to Hughie try his best to bring Annie some peace, Ben couldn’t help but remember the night you had a nightmare.

The scream you'd let loose was what jolted him into consciousness. He'd never heard you scream like that before. In that moment he hadn't cared about what you'd said about him not going in your bedroom, all he knew was that he had to be in there and he had to make sure you were okay. When he'd found you sitting on your bed crying and gasping for breath he hadn't wanted to leave you, for the first time in his life Ben had wanted to do exactly what Hughie was doing for Annie. Ben didn't know the first thing about how to do that, but he'd wanted to sit there with you until you calmed down.

He'd never done that for anyone before. Countess had been distressed once because she'd lost an earring her mother gave her, but Ben had just told her to "get the fuck over it."

You were different and as much as Ben hated to admit it to himself, he was starting to realize that as well. He just didn't know why.

When Butcher finally crashed his car through the front gate that surrounded the warehouse Ben jumped from it while it was still in motion, leaving the rest of them to squawk and squabble over a plan like a bunch of fucking chickens.

Ben had a plan, save you. He didn't need to hear Butcher come up with a plan of action when Ben was a man of action.

"Where is she?" Ben snarls to the man he's pinned to the wall of the cool concrete hallway, his voice shaking the foundations of the building.

The dim lightbulbs that line the hallway flicker and flash a yellowed light that curves cruelly over the sharp edges of Ben's face, but he does not back down from the man he has pushed against the wall. The bodies of the other men who stood in Ben's way lay in a trail of blood and bone behind, and the man in his arms would join the fray for wasting his time.

"Go to hell." The man spits in Ben's face.

"You'll go first." Ben says in a murderous growl as he pulls apart the body easily as if the man is made of tissue paper, the sound of the man's screams no more than a memory as they ring down the desolate hallways.

Ben trudges on through the dim light with the sticky smell of blood following behind him. He was hoping that he wasn't too late. Sometimes he forgot how fragile other people were, how easy it was for an accident to occur and for someone like you to get hurt or killed, but Ben didn't want to think about that. He didn't want to consider that possibility.

It's only been 4 days. Ben's jaw clenches together. It would have been no days if she had just fucking listened to me!

Ben frowns. Or it would have been no days if I had followed her.

Ben didn't know why he felt guilty, just that he didn't like it. A part of him kept flashing back to the years he spent in Russia, when he hoped that Countess would come get him, when he thought she loved him as much as he loved her, and when in reality it was her that put him there.

After that happened Ben had decided that it was stupid and unmanly to care about anyone, to love anyone, because it only fucked everything up. But Ben didn't want you to go through what he had. You were so different than he was, softer, kind, and way too trusting. Sometimes he didn’t like that you were doing this kind of work. It didn’t seem like you. When he saw you in the plant shop working it was different, you seemed to be in you element.

But he didn't want you to think that no one was coming to save you, because he was and like hell he was going to let anyone stand in his way.

This is taking too long.

The hallways were twisting and turning and Ben hadn’t seen another soul in at least two minutes. He listens with his hearing hoping to hear you talking or someone talking about you, but he doesn’t all he hears is a heart beat. It's faint, but it's there. The room where it comes from is torn to bits, chairs are laying on their sides stuffing falling out onto the blood stained carpet and covered in a field of red poppies, the smell of blood is thick in the air, and the bodies that lay on the ground are cleaved open with the plants tangling in the organs within, spilling out onto the floor.

Truthfully, Ben hadn't thought that your powers could look like this. Sure, you would make an offhand comment about turning him into a tree or shoving a watermelon up his ass, but he didn’t actually think that you would ever do it. Again, Ben didn’t see this side of you very often. He did piss you off and annoy you, but Ben didn’t actually think you’d ever try to attack him.

Not to mention that Ben thought that being able to make flowers grow seemed like a woman's power, and truthfully he liked watching you walk to work and place your hand on a bouquet or a small cluster of flowering plants to make them perk up, or watch you move around the apartment and see how the plants seemed to turn towards you, but this was surprising. He didn’t think that you could do something like that to someone's body and he wasn't disgusted, in fact he was a little impressed.

Ben raises his gaze from the bodies to see you.

You're on the ground, curled into a ball to protect your right arm that's also covered in poppies, but Ben can tell that it's broken, by how swollen it is.

Your breath is coming in shallow gasps and you heart beats faintly. You're covered in so much blood that Ben is worried that he's too late.

"Petals?" Ben drops to his knees beside where you lay, gingerly picking you up off the ground so that your left arm is resting against his chest. "Petals?" Ben says again, his heart seizing in his chest, throat thick. His hand gently pushes back the hair that sticks to your bloodied cheeks as he checks you over for wounds. Ben feels his jaw tighten when he see the bruising handprint around your throat, the blaze of heat from his anger coming back when he realized that someone had touched you.

"Come on Petals wake up." Ben murmurs, as he brushes your hair back. The strands are dry and brittle against his fingertips. "Come on sweetheart, say something annoying."

"Ben?" He hears you murmur, it’s more of a shallow breath than his name, but it’s something.

Ben exhales the breath he didn’t know that he was holding. "Yeah it's me."

"You came." You whisper and turn your head into his chest, weakly pressing your fingertips over his heart the motion making something stutter inside of him.

Your skin is flushed, veins shimmering beneath, body colder than Ben has ever felt it and he can see the flecks of skin that flake from your lips. Ben’s gaze falls on the mark over your right cheekbone that has already begun to bruise and drop back down to the handprint around your throat. Ben feels the tendrils of his rage beginning to spill over into the cavity in his chest screaming for blood. Ben's eyes flick to the bodies in the room momentarily hoping that they suffered for what they did to you and regrets not getting here sooner to make them suffer for touching you.

"Of course I came Petals." Ben replies his rough hand gently tracing along your cheek. "Did you think I was gonna leave you behind?"

"Thought you were mad." You breathe not opening your eyes. "I'm sorry for-" Your voice breaks as if it’s too much effort to finish the sentence, but he understands what you're about to say.

The feeling in Ben’s chest is not unfamiliar. It was the one he’d felt when he was in Russia every day, the loneliness that drove him mad.

Ben wonders if that's all you’d thought of the past four days. If you really believed that he wasn't going to come save you because you'd yelled at him and said what you did.

What I said wasn't better.

He remembered shouting at Darren that he didn’t care and he felt a twinge deep down when he realized that you must have been thinking that he was going to leave you in all this shit because of it.

"You can make it up to me later sweetheart." Ben stands with you close to his chest, but accidentally jostles your broken arm.

You whimper in pain and Ben freezes, adjusting his left arm under your knees and his right around your waist to secure you to his chest. "Shh it’s okay. I'm going to get you out of here." He reassures and takes a moment to press a kiss to the top of your head at your hairline where your head is turned into him. Ben clenches his jaw together and swallows. He hadn't meant to do that and didn't know why he did, just that he didn’t have the ability to touch your face with his hand and it seemed like the next best thing.

His mind flashes back to Hughie in the car with Annie, the things that Hughie said to her the way Hughie held her close and kissed her head to make sure she knew he was there.

"Okay." You breathe, cuddling further into his chest and pressing your face into his collar bone with a soft sigh as if you don’t know what he did.

Ben was glad, because the last thing he wanted was for you to accuse him of coping a feel when you weren't up to snuff.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

Reader POV

A rhythmic beeping noise lulls you from sleep as you sigh softly, but you don't open your eyes. It feels like you’re swimming through tar, as if your limbs are being bound to the soft bed beneath you with cement. Everything hurts and yet you're here and you're alive.

Well, I think I’m alive.

You blink your eyes open, squinting in the oppressive unbroken sunlight that bathes the entire room in a brilliant glow from the un-curtained windows to the left of the bed you're laying in. The room is white, a blank slate,  and unfamiliar. There’s teal couch underneath the large left window and a small cabinet pressed into the corner between the couch and the opposite wall, a tv mounted on the wall across from the bed and a large pale blue curtain hanging to the right of your bed behind a collection of monitors that beep and squabble with one another. The room would be unremarkable if not for the plants.

There are buckets of monstera that unfurl leaves as big as your face jammed into the corners of the room and tangles of jasmine hanging from the top of the cabinet. Cacti line the windowsill absorbing the healing light from the sun, while a cart of honeysuckle, lavender, rose, and more flowering plants than you can name sits at the end of your hospital bed. The smell of gardenia is strong, floating lightly through the air to kiss you on the tip of your nose and you look to your left at the small bedside table to notice the gardenia plant you had on your bedside table back at you apartment blossoming in the warmth of the room.

Bouquets of flowers are shoved onto all other possible surfaces, some big some small, but all of them colorful and beautiful to look at. The healing energy of the plants is everywhere, absorbing into your body and strengthening you, the sweet smells of the flowers masking the stale clean smell of the hospital, and making you feel at home for the first time since you left your apartment with Darren.

Your eyes shift to the teal couch under the window and see that it's not empty, Ben is laying there on his back, his arms crossed over his dark t-shirt, sound asleep. His soft snores a comfort over the sounds of the beeping monitors so close to your bed.

The memories of what happened however long ago come back muffled and slurred through the haze of the drugs the doctors have given you, but you remember the final ones you had before you fell into the abyss.

You remember feeling Ben pick you up and hold you close to him, begging you to answer him, while the warmth of his body was like a soothing soak in a hot bath after a cold day. All you could do was cling to him and try to get as close as you could to absorb some of the heat. You didn’t believe that he would come for you and he did.

Tears glaze your eyes while you watch him sleep, all the sharp edges of his face smoothed in his slumber, all the frown lines you knew all too well no longer there while he slept. He looked different like this, peaceful.

You could feel your heart warming to think that Ben actually did care about you and that was why he came to get you.

"You’re awake." A familiar voice says.

Diana Moore, your grandmother, looks cheerfully at you from the teal rocking chair to the right of the bed, working on a purple knit blanket in her lap.

"Gran?" You clear your throat as you adjust yourself to sit up. "What are you doing here?"

She stands and nears the bed, tucking the granny square blanket she must have covered you with, further under you as she does. "Annie called and said you were hurt in some sort of accident." Your grandmother frowns. "And when I got here she told me what happened."

"Everything?" You say with a grimace.

"Most of it." Her frown deepens around the edges of her mouth. "But it was easy to fill in when she mentioned Darren."

Your grandmother knew everything about your life, there were no secrets between the two of you, and as much as she discouraged you working with Butcher, she pretended that she didn't care. Despite you being a supe, she always seemed to want to keep you away from the hero lifestyle. That was always odd to you, especially when you saw how proud Annie’s mother was of her abilities. Your grandmother although supportive of your abilities, never wanted you to become a hero. Whenever you’d ask her why she’d always say that “the grass looks greener on the other side.” It wasn’t an answer, but you never pushed her for one.

"I'm-"

"What your brother did is not your fault, and if the next words out of your mouth are an apology I will pack up everything you own and make you move back home." She raises an eyebrow.

It was an empty threat, you loved being in Illinois with her and you both knew it, but you let it slide.

Your grandmother looks the same way she did as when you first went to live with her when you were twelve. Not to mention for someone who was just over eighty years old, she looked pretty good. Whenever someone mentioned that to her she’d only say that “time had been good to her.”

Her gray hair is wavy and pinned back away from her face in an elegant twist that makes her look classic and poised. Her clothes are stylish, clean blue-jeans with a floral blouse that is covered by a thin cream colored sweater she knitted herself and a pair of black flats.

She was the reason you started knitting and crocheting. The love she instilled into each handmade item she delivered to her neighbors, made you love your grandmother's gentle spirit all the more. She'd always been like that, a shoulder to cry on, the person who always baked and filled the house with warmth, the person who took care of her neighbors when they were ill and made sure that they were well fed, and all the people back home loved her almost as much as you did.

She became the mother you’d lost and you didn’t realize how much you’d missed her until this exact moment.

Tears burn against your eyes as the events of the past few days surge up in a lump at the back of your throat. The memories of Elijah said and did, the freezer, the deaths, and the betrayal from your brother all too much to bear.

"Oh sweetie." Your grandmother whispers gently sitting on the edge of the bed and lets you hug her. You cry into her shoulder, holding her tight, the smell of her perfume familiar. "It's okay." She rubs your back. "Let it all out."

You do. It's the hardest you'd cried in weeks, but she sits there with you and continues to hold you close to her the way she'd done since you were twelve.

"Better?" She cups your cheek, her blue eyes tracing your face. They were the same as your father's and it made you miss him more.

"Yeah." You sniffle.

"Good. I brought you some fudge."

"What?"

"And some meat-pies and I stopped by your apartment and put a few frozen lassagna's in there for later. You look thin. Have you been eating?"

"Yes I have." You roll your eyes, but smile, because even when you thought you were all grown up she was trying to take care of you.

"Hmm." She presses her lips into a tight line looking you up and down.

"Fine, sometimes I skip a meal." You admit.

"You shouldn't. Especially with how often you use your powers." She squeezes your left hand because your right one was now in a bright green colored cast.

You wonder if they chose that color randomly or if Annie told them to pick that.

"I know Gran. Where's Annie?" You ask. It kind of hurt that she wasn't here when you woke up, but you couldn't fight the happy feeling knowing that Ben was here. That one also hurt a little bit, especially when it filled you with the hope that Ben wanted to have a relationship when you knew he didn't.

"She just went to get some dinner with Hughie. He's a nice boy, good manners. A lot like your boyfriend." She gestures over to the couch where Ben is snoring.

Ben having good manners? She's kidding right?

"He's not my boyfriend-"

"No?" Your grandmother gives you a knowing look. "He sure seems like it."

"He's my roommate. And well-" You bite the inside of your cheek feeling your cheeks flush bright red in embarrassment. "I think we're friends."

I mean he carried me out of the warehouse that's gotta be a friend thing right?

"He hasn’t left that couch since I got here. Not to mention he keeps harassing the doctor whenever he comes in, keeps asking him when you're going to wake up. Made one of the nurses cry-“

"He what?"

"You didn't tell me you knew Soldier Boy."

You pause looking up at your grandmother. "What?"

"He's Soldier Boy." She says it matter of fact.

"How did you-"

"He looks just like him." Your grandmother examines Ben's sleeping face again. "Plus I met him a few times before, but that was a long time ago."

Your mouth drops open. "You met Soldier Boy. When?"

"Story for another time dear."

"Oh please tell me that you didn’t go out with him." Sometimes you forgot how old Ben was and the thought that he and your grandmother had a thing made you feel nauseous.

I swear if Ben and my grandmother fucked or made out I am going to go crazy and I'm taking him down with me.

"No of course not." Her cheeks flush. "I was dating your grandfather when we met."

"Oh."

I guess that's a little better, but still weird.

"But he was certainly trying his best." She snorts.

"Please no more." You cringe back from her trying not to imagine Ben hitting on your grandmother.

"I'm just teasing sweetie." She kisses you on the forehead with a smile. "Not really."

"Oh my sweet goodness, please do not tell me anything else." You groan blocking out the mental images of Ben with your grandmother.

She sits back down in her chair with her knitting smiling to herself, the subtle scrape of the needles together reminded you of the quiet nights the two of you spent back home sitting in the living room and watching TV.

Guess I won't be able to crochet for a while with this thing. You frown at the cast on your right arm more disappointed at the prospect of not being able to crochet than what had happened to you.

"He was with Crimson Countess anyway." Your grandmother rolls her eyes when she says her name.

"Wait a minute, you knew Ben when he was with Countess?"

How in the fuck did I not know this? Why didn’t she tell me that she knew famous supes? Why did she know them?

She nods not looking up from the purple mass in her lap. "She was a real piece of work, very callous, and uncaring whenever the cameras weren't flashing." You watch her eyes slide to where Ben is laying. "I always hated the way she seemed to treat him. She was manipulative, very good at getting whatever she wanted. She was possessive when it came to Ben, fiercely jealous of anyone who got near him. Weird given the relationship they had" The thought makes her frown and for a moment you see something slide across your grandmother's face that was unlike the woman who'd raised you.

"But why were you around them in the first place?" You ask her.

Your grandmother had never said that she was around supes, never said that she was a part of any of that. All you knew was that she met your grandfather who was a retired veteran turned doctor and settled down in Illinois so he could open a private practice, but to know that she knew Ben was making your head spin.

"Another time. You need rest."

"But-"

"Please sweetie. I don't want to talk about the past right now. Not when you need to sleep."

“But-“

She looks up at you with the same matronly look she always had when she told you to go to bed and you were being unruly.

“Okay.”

The doctor walks into the room, his smile brightening when he notices that you're awake. "Hello, I'm Dr. Martinez. How are you feeling today?"

"Good I guess." Your eyes were still focused on your grandmother who has begun to knit innocently as if the last few things that she'd mentioned hadn't happened.

"Well it’s reassuring that you're awake." His eyes skate to where Ben is sleeping and you see just a glimmer of fear behind them. "We were all eagerly hoping that you would wake up soon-"

Did he threaten the doctor with bodily harm? Because that feels very Ben-like.

"How long have I been asleep?" You ask taking a sip from the cup of ice water on your tray.

"Three days."

"Three what-" You shriek, spewing water all over the bed.

Ben jolts upwards from sleep to his feet, looking around the room with narrowed eyes like he believes that someone is in the room about to attack you.

"Ben it's okay." You say with a cough to clear the water that came out your nose. Ben's gaze flicks to where you're laying in the bed.

You weren't prepared to see the tension leave his shoulders and to see relief flash through his eyes, before they harden once more to his usual expression.

Was he worried about me? I mean my grandmother said that he hasn't left the couch and that he's been harassing the doctors…

"Yes." Dr. Martinez looks at where Ben is now standing over your bed, but Ben hasn't looked away from you. In fact you see his eyes shift over your face, down to your throat, then to the cast on your right arm and see his frown grow by the minute.

"Sorry I wasn't ready for that." You clear your throat with a forced smile.

"It's alright. But the good news is you're awake-"

"No shit sherlock." Ben snarks. "Did your big fancy degree tell you that?"

“Sir-“ Dr. Martinez starts, but Ben interrupts him.

“Because-“ Ben begins to say something else but you reach out and touch his arm with your left hand before you can stop yourself. His gaze focuses back on you.

“Ben, it’s okay. I’m okay. Let him talk.” You squeeze his warm forearm to reassure him.

His green eyes flick back to your face, something flashing through his eyes that looks very different than the man you usually saw. He doesn't apologize, but he nods his head in the direction of the doctor to let him know that he could continue. Ben also doesn't move your hand from his forearm, in fact, he steps a little closer to you.

You miss the smile your grandmother hides behind her hand when she sees Ben’s reaction.

"As I said you're awake and it looks like you're doing much better now that we've given you fluids. You were dehydrated when you came in and had a touch of hyperthermia which is unusual given how warm it's been lately." Dr. Martinez gestures to the sunny day outside. "Your right arm is broken, but we set it and it should be about 6 weeks until you're fully healed. As for the black eye and the-" The doctor clears his throat, eyes looking to Ben for a moment. "Marks around your neck, those should be gone within a few weeks or so."

Does he think Ben did this to me?

The thought makes you angry. As mad as Ben had gotten at you in the past, you didn’t believe that he would ever hurt you. Sure he'd hurt you the first day you'd met, but you weren't afraid of him, you couldn’t be. Even when his temper flared you didn't fear that he would hurt you. Yeah he had a bad temper, but Ben always seemed to stomp away when you pissed him off, not attack you.

"And how long do I have to stay here?"

"Well, now that you're awake I want to keep you one more night for observation and do blood work again, but I'm not worried about sending you home." Dr. Martinez looks at Ben again before he looks at you. "Unless you want to stay longer?"

"What the fuck are you trying to say doc?" Ben growls, realizing exactly what the doctor is insinuating.

Your hand skates down Ben’s arm and entwines with his fingertips. Ben looks at it surprised.  “I'd like to go home with Ben as soon as possible." You say it to the doctor with a frown, not liking what the doctor is trying to say, but then you realize exactly how it sounds.

It wasn't a lie, you wanted to go home with Ben, wanted to go back to your everyday life and forget that all of this happened. You didn't mean to hold his hand, but it just seemed like the only way to get your point across.

"Alrighty then. I'll just have the nurse come in and take a little more blood." The doctor replies and backs quickly out of the room, casting one more look at Ben.

The three of you sit there for a moment in the silence that follows, Ben's eyes still on you, your hand still holding on to his. You quickly let go.

“I'm going to go down to the cafeteria before it closes. Do you want anything Ben?"

"No thanks Di. I'm good." He replies rubbing the back of his neck as if he's unsure what comes next.

"Di?" You turn to look at your grandmother with a frown.

"Do you want something sweetie?" She doesn’t look phased at Ben's use of the nickname.

"No I'm fine Di." You emphasize the nickname, but she doesn’t react.

"I'll bring you back some tea. That always seems to help you relax." She winks and places the mass of purple yarn onto the chair before she leaves the room with an elegant flourish.

The silence grows.

"Please tell me that you didn't fuck my grandmother. Because that wasn't on my bingo card this year and I really don’t want to have nightmares about the two of you."

Ben snorts. "Jealous Petals?"

"Oh fuck, just get out of here." You cover your eyes with your hand. "I can't even look at you right now. You're such a slut Gramps."

Ben only laughs at you and sits down on the side of your bed. His fingers gently pull your hand away from your face so he can look at you again.

"I didn't fuck your grandmother. We knew each other forever ago." He's still holding on to your wrist, his thumb smoothing against the soft skin on the inside of you arm. "But I will say that she is just as beautiful now as she was then. Really aged like fine wine-“

"You're not making this better."

"You look a lot like her." Ben says quietly.

Did he just call me beautiful?

You sit there for another minute, eyes focused on where Ben is holding your wrist. “I’m really sorry for what I said about Homelander and your team. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“You already apologized.”

“When?”

“When I found you.” His jaw tightens at the memory. “You apologized.”

“Oh.”

“Are you-“ He clears his throat, eyes raising from your wrist to look at you. “Are you feeling better?” You watch his eyes trace the bruises around your neck, the black eye, and the cast again.

And for a moment he almost looks guilty.

Why is he guilty?

“Yeah. All the plants are really helping. It always makes me feel better to be surrounded by so many.” You smile at him, but Ben doesn’t return it.

“Plant boy brought them by.” Ben grunts. “You probably should call him. He was fawning all over you like a fucking pussy, thought he was going to cry.”

You thought that was ironic given that your grandmother had just told you that Ben hadn’t left the couch since you were brought in, but you didn’t want to tease him about that. Not now anyway.

You look at the gardenia on the small bedside table, the one you know that’s from home. “Not that one.” You glance back at Ben.

“No. I told Annie to bring that one.” Ben says as if it’s difficult for him. “I figured if it was on your bedside table in your room it must be important.”

“It’s my favorite. Thank you.” You squeeze his hand with your good one. “Really Ben, thank you for everything.” 

“Sure.”

Ben isn’t really holding your hand, your left is laying on its back cradled in his right where his thumb continues to rub along the thin skin of the inside as if he wants to trace along the veins.

“How long was I with Elijah?”

“Four days.” Ben grits his teeth together.

It was a surprise to hear how long you’d been there aloud, but a part of you knew in your heart how long it had been. 

“That feels about right.”

“I should have come sooner.”‘Ben murmurs it more to himself than to you. “I shouldn’t have let you go-“

“You tried to stop me remember? I should have listened to you instead of insulting you. I just-“ The tears were coming back. “I wanted to believe Darren. He’s my brother I thought-“ Your voice breaks. “And then Elijah-“

The memories of everything that happened were coming back tenfold now, worse then they had when your grandmother was there. The monitors to the right of the bed are beeping frantically now as your heart rate begins to spike and you begin to sob.

“Fuck.” Ben says under his breath. “Look Petals it’s okay. It’s alright-“

“No it’s not. My brother sold me to Elijah because he had fucking poker debt and Elijah wanted me to fix all those fucked up plants and then he-“  Your can't finish the sentence. You pull your hand from Ben's grasp to rub at your eyes, trying to make the tears stop but they don't. Memories of Elijah holding you down against the couch come surging up followed by the anxiety ridden question "What if?"

Ben's entire body goes stiff. "What did he do?"

You level your gaze at your left hand where it lays in your lap not wanting to answer. Ben's hand comes to cup your chin raising your eyes back to his. His green eyes have hardened, a murderous fire burning behind them that makes you worry about anyone who would ever get in his way. You'd never seen him so mad before, not even at you when you pissed him off.

"What did he do?" Ben says again in a low growl.

"He broke my arm-" You swallow the sob. "And then he put me in a freezer for a few days and when he took me out he tried to-" The memory of his oppressive weight and expensive cologne fills your nose, followed by the feeling of his hand fastened around your throat.

"He touched you?" Ben spits.

"I stopped him." You say in a whisper.

"How?"

"He had a poppy seed in his teeth."

The look in Ben's eyes shifts to surprise. "Really?"

You nod with a sniffle as another round of fresh tears comes out of your eyes.

"I saw the aftermath of it." Ben sighs retracting his hand from your chin. "Didn't think you could do something like that."

"Me neither. Guess it was a "desperate times desperate measures" sort of situation." You swipe the back your hand across your eyes. "But I really do want to go home, forget any of this happened-" Your voice cracks a little.

Ben's hand comes down on your shoulder in an awkward patting motion. "It's okay, Petals."

It enough to make you cough out a laugh. "What are you doing?"

"I don't fucking know. I just-" He drops his hand from your shoulder looking angry. "I don't like it when you cry." Ben says it more to himself than to you, as if he's ashamed he admitted it.

The admission makes something flicker to life in the center of your chest, a pilot light to some furnace that you'd blown out a long time ago.

"And I don’t fucking know what to do when women cry! Because y'all are always so damn emotional and-" He continues looking frustrated.

When you pull him into a hug, Ben stops mid-sentence. It's difficult with one arm, but you try your best. It's the first one the two of you have ever shared, given how much Ben hated showing affection that made sense, but you wanted to hug him. He had saved your life and maybe you could be friends despite everything else.

And you wanted to hug you because even though it made Ben uncomfortable, he had tried to comfort you. You weren't sure why, all you knew was that it made you smile.

Ben doesn't move, he goes completely tense in your arms, not accustomed to this and unsure what to do next. A part of you thought it was kind of cute how awkward he was when it came to something like this, but another part felt bad for him. You liked hugging people and were accustomed to doing just that, but it hurt you to think that Ben hadn't had any experience with someone giving him a hug that wasn't attached to anything else.

"Thank you, Ben." You whisper, pressing your face into his t-shirt. The smell of his spicy cologne burns your nose in the best way, the feeling of his warmth taking away the residual chill you feel when you think of the memories from a few days ago.

This is better than I remember.

You think, remembering how it felt to wake up in his arms and feel how his body molded around yours as if he was made for you.

"You're welcome, Petals." He says tightly, the pleasant rumble of his words vibrating against your cheek. He's not hugging you back, but you didn't expect him to. Not when he was awkward when it came to things like this.

You pull back from him, wiping your eyes again with the back of your hand. The longer you sit there together, the longer the silence grows between the two of you, but it's not uncomfortable. It's filled with an energy that you can't describe, hovering in the space, alive and charged.

Ben slowly raises his hand to your face, brushing back a strand of your hair with a surprising gentleness, the roughness of his hand is a comfort and you weren't prepared for how his touch burns against your skin.

“Did you really think I’d leave you there?” Ben murmurs, his eyes are a light green in the sunlight, like the budding grass on a summer day.

“You were mad at me. I-“ You look down at your lap.

“So?" Ben raises your chin with his hand.  "I said some shit too."

It wasn't an apology, but you were sure it was as close as he was going to get. What was weirding you out a bit was how often he was touching you and how gently. Not that you thought he would hurt you, just that he'd never tried to be this open to touch before. 

“Yeah, but it’s different. You might have pissed me off but I would have come to get you anyway because I know how much what happened in Russia hurt you.” It was the truth. You wouldn't have let anyone stop you if you knew that Ben was trapped somewhere, even if the two of you had been in a fight. He was your friend, sort of anyway. And you took care of your friends.

Ben’s body tenses at the mention of Russia, the memories that flash through his eyes are not pleasant. “Then don’t you think I’d want to come get you if I understand how fucked up that is?”

You blink at him surprised. "I didn't think about that."

Ben smirks. "And I thought you knew everything Petals."

"Sorry to disappoint you."

"Never." His hand is still cupping your cheek, his thumb brushing just barely over your cheek.

Electricity charges through the air and you feel your lips begin to tingle. You want to kiss him so badly, to pull him close and allow yourself to finally fall into him. The memory of the two of you on the couch the other day resurfaces when he almost kissed you, when he looked so different than he usually did, when he looked at you differently in a way that you weren't sure what it meant, the same way he was looking at you right now. The gardenia plant on the bedside table explodes with fresh blooms and Ben glances over it with a chuckle. It was embarrassing that he knew your deepest darkest secret and it caused a flush to creep into your cheeks.

Ben smiles the same way he did the morning you were curled up against his chest on your couch. His thumb dips to brush along your bottom lip and you inhale in surprise. It seems to jar Ben back into reality.

"I'm going to go feed Bean." Ben drops his hand and stands from the bed, but he's still smiling at you the same way he was a few seconds ago. "I'll be back in an hour."

You try not to feel the loss of his skin against yours and try not to focus on how good it felt for him to touch you so tenderly.

"You don't have to come back." You begin to say, trying to make the flush fade. "It's only one more night and-"

"It's not that bad." Ben shrugs. "I mean my butt isn't as comfy on this couch as the one at home." He cracks another smile repeating what he said when you took him to IKEA, but then something flashes in his eyes. "Besides, the apartment's too quiet without your bitching. Rather be here and witness it first hand."

Is he trying to say that he misses me? No. There's no way that he'd ever admit that.

"Get out of here, you ass." You try to push him, but he catches your hand.

"Be careful Petals, you don’t want to break the only arm you have left."

"I'm gonna break my foot off in your ass if you don’t get out of here." You groan rolling your eyes.

"Didn't think you’d be into that, but I'd be willing to try whatever you want Petals. As long as I get you all to myself" Ben is still holding on to your hand. "Do you-" His smirk shifts into something softer and he swallows. "Want me to bring you anything from home?"

You imagine that his voice changes when he says the word "home." But you don't imagine the way it sticks in your chest when he does.

"No, I think I'm okay." You frown down at your cast mournfully. "I'm never going to be able to finish any of my crochet projects with this thing."

"Yes, because that's why most people are upset when they break an arm."

"I thought you'd know by now that I'm not like everyone else."

"Trust me I noticed." Ben chuckles with a smile that makes your heartbeat stutter.

"Don’t knock it til you try it Gramps. I thought you'd be old enough to appreciate the quality of handmade goods. Didn’t your generation still do that or whatever?"

Ben rolls his eyes, but then he squeezes your hand so quick you think that you imagined it. "I'll be back. Try not to give your grandmother a hard time while I'm gone."

"You think that me giving her a hard time will ruin your chances with her?" You snort.

"I already tried years ago." Ben shrugs. "Then again she might give me another chance. It's been a while"

"You couldn't handle me then Benjamin and you can't handle me now." Your grandmother says as she re-enters the room holding a steaming cup of tea for you and a cup for herself. "But hurry back. I want to beat you at poker one more time before I go back to Illinois."

"I let you win." Ben grouses.

"Whatever you say sweetie." She sits back down on the chair to resume knitting, but you catch a glimmer of her smile quirking the ends of her lips.

Ben only rolls his eyes and throws you one last look filled with an emotion that you can't place before he vanishes out the door. And you try not to think about how empty the room is when he's gone, how the hell he knows your grandmother, and why your heart was skipping like a kid frolicking in a field full of sunflowers.

A/N: I know Darren didn't get got in this chapter, but he is going to come back into play next chapter. But this one was definitely bloody... Kinda was horrified with the place my mind went when she was killing those men with those poppies, but I like to think that people really do underestimate what she can do because they think she "just makes the plants grow" when in reality it's more complicated and way more powerful than people think. And I know, a lot of more denial, but we are starting to see the walls beginning to crumble and the unraveling between the two of them as they both begin to come to terms with their feelings.

As always thank you so much for reading! Reblogs, Likes, and Comments are not required, but are always appreciated. I love to hear what y'all think! If you'd like to be added to my taglist for this series please let me know :)

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[strnilolover]

security guard!chris x mall employee!reader

use of y/n

you had managed to land a job at this pretzel place about a year ago, looking for something simple to do that paid good money. luckily enough, they were looking for multiple people and you just so happened to fit what they were looking for.

working at the mall wasn’t something that was fun most days. kids constantly screaming and running around — the food court buzzing with people. which meant that your job was all the more slammed when it was those packed days.

currently, you were leaning against the counter — your hair tied into a messy bun, and your apron covered in flour. today hadn’t been a particularly busy day, a normal Wednesday like any other. mostly older couples or parents with their little children.

your co-worker, Jenna, was finishing up some fresh cinnamon pretzel bites — the sweet aroma filling the space and filtering out into the food court. you groaned at the smell, closing your eyes as your mouth practically watered.

“Jenna, you’re going to make me hungry if you keep waving those around.” you say, a hand coming up to rub your stomach as it growled slightly. she chuckled, waving the fresh pan in front of your face.

“oh yeah? well try not to eat these, yeah? they’re supposed to be for the customers, not us.” she teased, a shit eating grin plastered on her face. you rolled your eyes, hand reaching out to punch her arm softly as she set the tray down to cool.

jenna shot you a glare, her hand holding the spot you had punched. you just smirked at her, sticking your tongue out playfully as she shook her head.

there was a few moments of silence. the playful banter coming to a stop as you both just stood there staring at nothing. the silence becoming a little awkward, you decided to break it.

“girl i’m so bored. i hate slow days like these.” you groaned, tipping your head back as you started to shift the weight on your feet. jenna nodded, grabbing the now cooled pretzel bites and putting them in their respective place.

“i know, i know — i do too, but at least we don’t have to do much? we’re already stocked on everything and there really isn’t any cleaning to do.” she states, walking to the back to place the pan in the sink.

you frowned, you knew she was right. sighing, you turn your body to look out in the food court, watching as all the people walked by — stopping at every other place that wasn’t yours. your gaze wandered until it had come to a stop on something, or rather — someone.

the first time you noticed him, it was like the air in the mall shifted. his security uniform was pressed and clean, the navy fabric snug around his broad chest and shoulders.

his hair was tousled, a shade of sandy brown that caught the overhead lights just right. he moved with quiet confidence, his eyes scanning the crowds, a radio clipped to his belt.

“still drooling over security hotshot, huh?” jenna teased from beside you, elbowing you in the ribs. you jumped, quickly averting your gaze and pretending to rearrange a pile of napkins.

“i don’t know what you’re talking about,” you muttered, but the heat in your cheeks betrayed you.

“oh, come on,” jenna smirked, following your gaze. “you’ve been staring at him for, what, a week now? if you’re not gonna shoot your shot, at least let me.”

“don’t you dare,” you shot back, though the thought of jenna approaching him made your stomach twist. “i… i’m just curious, okay? he’s new.” you muttered.

“right,” jenna drawled. “and super hot. i mean, look at him.” her hand coming out to gesture toward the attractive man.

you didn’t need her encouragement — you were already looking. he had stopped near the center of the food court, talking to another security guard, nodded at whatever his coworker was saying, but his posture stayed alert, eyes constantly roving.

“what’s stopping you?” jenna asked, leaning on the counter next to you. “go over there. Say hi. worst-case scenario, he’s taken.” she deadpans, her own gaze watching him as well.

“i can’t just walk up to him,” you said, chewing on your lip. “what if he thinks I’m weird?”

jenna snorted. “trust me, you’re not the first person in this mall to flirt with a security guard.” her brows wiggled slightly, making heat rise to your face.

for the next hour, you stole glances whenever the crowd died down. he moved through the mall with an easy grace, his uniform somehow making him look both professional and approachable.

he stopped a couple of teenagers from running through the atrium, nodded politely to an elderly woman who waved at him, and even helped a kid who had dropped their ice cream cone.

“you’re hopeless,” jenna eventually said, snapping you out of your trance. “just go talk to him for crying out loud, please.” she practically begs, this whole scene hurting her own heart.

“yeah, right,” you scoffed. “what am i supposed to say? ‘hi, i’ve been awkwardly watching you for days. can I have your number?’ that’s not weird at all.” you grumbled annoyed.

jenna laughed. “honestly, it’d probably work. have you seen yourself? you’re cute, and he’s definitely noticed you.” she urges, trying to push you to finally go talk to this guy.

you frowned, stealing another glance at him. he was stationed near the entrance, leaning casually against the railing. his arms were crossed, the sleeves of his uniform snug around his forearms.

he seemed focused, his eyes scanning the crowd, but then, as if he felt your gaze, his eyes flickered toward you. for a split second, your eyes met, and your stomach flipped. he looked away first, but not before the faintest hint of a smile crossed his lips.

“he looked at you!” jenna whispered, slapping your arm excitedly. “shut up!” you hissed, your cheeks burning. “it was probably nothing.” you say, trying to brush it off as maybe a coincidence.

“nothing? girl, stop overthinking and just do it or so help me.” your heart pounded as jenna’s words echoed in your mind. could you really just walk up to him?

minutes passed. jenna was busy finally handling customers, leaving you alone to argue with yourself. you twisted a loose thread on your apron, sneaking another glance. he had shifted his stance, now leaning one shoulder against the railing, his hands resting casually in front of him. he looked so approachable, yet so intimidating at the same time.

finally, you took a deep breath, yanked off your apron, and muttered to yourself, “screw it.”

your legs felt like jelly as you crossed the food court, weaving through tables and dodging strollers. he noticed you before you got to him, his eyebrows lifting slightly in surprise. when you stopped in front of him, he straightened up, his full attention now on you.

“hi,” you said, your voice wavering slightly. you cleared your throat, trying to sound more confident. “um, you’re new here, right?” he smiled, his expression softening. “yeah, been here about a week. i’ve seen you around though.”

your cheeks heated at his words. he’s noticed you too? “oh, well, yeah. i work over at the pretzel stand,” you said, gesturing vaguely behind you. “it’s not exactly thrilling, but, you know, it’s a job.”

he chuckled, and the sound sent butterflies through your chest. “better than chasing teenagers who think it’s funny to mess around in stores,” he said with a grin. “i’m chris, by the way.” he says, sticking his hand out.

you look down, slowly taking his hand in your as you shake it. “y/n,” you replied, smiling nervously. “um, i don’t usually do this, but… i think you’re really cool, and i was wondering if maybe… we could, like, talk sometime? outside of, you know, the whole mall thing.”

chris’ grin widened, and he tilted his head slightly, clearly amused by your rambling. “are you asking for my number?” he asked, a playful edge to his tone.

your stomach dropped. “i mean, only if you’re okay with it,” you blurted. “if not, that’s totally fine. i’ll just—”

“i’m okay with it,” he interrupted, pulling his phone from his pocket. “here, give me yours, and i’ll text you.”

relief and excitement flooded you all at once as you recited your number, watching as he quickly typed it in.

“there,” he said, slipping his phone back into his pocket. “i’ll text you after my shift. don’t worry — i’m not a ghost texter.” you laughed softly, the nerves in your chest finally settling. “good to know.” you said, nodding your head.

you quickly said a good bye, turning around to walk back to your job. as you walked back to, you felt his gaze lingering on you. when you glanced over your shoulder, chris was still watching, his smile just as warm as before.

a/n : thinking of making this into an au possibly 👀