#is this mostly me joking yes but is there truth to this. well. yes! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

toiletclown · 4 months ago

Text

reciprocation.

spencer agnew x f!reader, enemies to lovers for anon.

mostly fluff, but there is angst (in my opinion)

summary: it started innocuous. a well-meaning question from your best friend. it all spiraled from there.

there are some things in life that are universally true and agreed upon. the sky is blue. the grass is green. and you and spencer agnew hate each other. when your closest friends grow tired of this nonsense, they hatch a plan. it's unlikely, silly, even. but it works.

word count: 13.6k (yes i'm posting this as a one-shot, not multi-chaptered, sorry lol)

────୨ৎ────

"does the whole 'hating spencer' schtick ever get tired to you?" angela asked one day, while the two of you were out to lunch.

it was a sunny day, as usual, and you started sweating through your tank top just a little harder. perhaps the sun came out from behind a stray cloud.

"i'm sorry?" was your response, followed by a forkful of pasta.

"y'know, this weird bit you guys have going on." ang stared at you, analyzing your face, looking for a reaction.

all she saw was confusion. "i'm not... sure what you mean? we don't have 'a bit'. we aren't friends. kind of hard to have an inside joke when you only spend time together on camera. and half the time i drown him out anyway," you shrugged. neither of you liked each other, and that was fine. you were used to it, and the familiarity was nice. smosh was a very busy and ever-changing job. being able to rely on that was kind of nice. you were never a fan of change, anyway.

"wait, so you and spencer actually dislike each other? like, for real?" your best friend looked genuinely taken aback. you weren't sure why, you had thought it was fairly obvious that the two of you didn't get along.

"yes, we actually dislike each other 'like, for real', angela. i thought that was clear, you've seen the way we interact." you were gathering up another forkful of pasta, and angela started laughing. "why the fuck are you laughing?"

"because it's comical? i thought it was a bit! i thought you two were friends and it was just, like, a long, drawn-out joke, honestly."

"why on earth would you think that it was a bit, ang? i'm a good comedian but i'm not that great of a liar. i wouldn't be able to keep up a conspiracy like that. i fear that’s too much work for me." you ate your forkful finally. angela was still looking at you in disbelief, a few small cackles escaping her now and then.

"yeah, that's fair. crazy bit to commit so hard to, i guess. wait, so why don't you like him?" the brunette had abandoned her pasta at this point, bowl pushed slightly out of the way so she can gesticulate with freedom. "and why doesn't he like you? are you secretly middle school rivals? rivals in some niche video game scene? did he outbid you on a guitar on ebay and now you've vowed to ruin his life?"

you rolled your eyes, lovingly. your favorite thing about angela was how far she could take a joke. picked it up and ran with it. you leaned in, your voice barely audible. "you want to know a secret?"

her eyes widened, leaning in and matching your whisper, "yes, please spill!"

you shifted your eyes from left to right, as though looking for someone who could overhear and ruin your life. you took a deep breath in, preparing to spill… the truth.

"i don't actually know why we hate each other," you whispered, shrugging before sitting back in your chair with an air of finality.

"what?!"

"shh, oh my god, shut the fuck up--"

"what do you mean you don't know?" angela was moving her arms wildly at this point, "why do you still hate him then? does he know? what the fuck?"

"babe, i need you to calm down, we are still very much in a public restaurant--"

"and? spill, bitch, or you're paying the full bill."

"fine! god. i genuinely cannot tell you why we hate each other. yes, we do really hate each other. yes, he knows i hate him, and yes, i know he hates me. that has been the only thing we have ever agreed upon in our entire time at smosh. no, we aren't secretly hate fucking. no, i don't have his number, we only talk at and about work so we use slack. no, i don't know why the hate is mutual, i just know that it is. no, i don't plan on trying to change that any time soon. happy?"

before she could respond with what was likely another barrage of questions, your server came to the table and sat the bill down in front of angela.

"they always assume that i'm paying, what the hell?"

you were glad for the distraction.

✰ .ᐟ

"hello and welcome to you posted that? you posted that is a show where we embarrass our guests with their old, cringy, insane social media posts!" the room filled with cheers as ian intro'd the show, and you were so excited to finally be on it. but you also were nervous to see what they dug from the depths of your twitter.

"joining us today..." ian faked a drumroll on the podium, "our first guest is trevor evarts!"

"please don't bring up any of my rhett and link tweets," he said with a wave.

ian drumrolled again, "second up, we have shayne topp!"

"glad to be here, steve."

"and last but not least, y/n!"

"i am terrified." you said, being sure to stare down the camera, a look of anxiety on your face. you were playing it up, but it was definitely real to a degree. you had said a lot of cringy shit in your younger years. not to mention the not-so-uncommon complaints about a certain coworker. ian wouldn’t do that to you, though. right?

"terrified?” ian scanned the contestant's faces. “is anyone else feeling terrified?"

"not really, steve. i'm proud of what i've done and said and i'll stand by it no matter what. if i don't stand up for myself, who will, you know?" shayne said, clearly doing a character. a slightly intoxicated, far too excited game show contestant. you kind of loved it.

"my name is ian, and i think you know that, shayne. why are you terrified, y/n?" ian turned to you, egging you on.

"i was a shit head as a kid, i don't know how far back you dug!"

"alright then, let's get into the first round." ian explained the rules of the round, and each of you listened intently despite knowing them well.

"trevor. you tweeted, 'my two [blank] need to [blank] before i [blank blank blank].’ and i will give you a hint, this was a tweet from about a year ago."

"why does he get a hint right away!" you called out.

"he's not very bright, y/n, i'm sure you understand." ian replied, prompting trevor to make a few noises.

"be nice to me?"

ian turned back to trevor, mischievous glint in his eye. "y/n's not very bright, trev, i'm sure you understand."

"be nice to me?" you all started laughing, and once it died down trevor made his guess.

"okay, i'll take 'my two coworkers need to fuck before i explode them both' for five points, alex!"

"i remain ian, but let's reveal that tweet!"

"holy fuck," you said under your breath, realizing he got it right on the money. "how did you manage to remember the exact wording? i don't remember what i had for breakfast yesterday. oh my god, i'm gonna lose so hard at this!" you weren’t even playing it up now, you were actually getting worried. you were going to lose, and by a lot. hopefully you can attribute your lack of skill to the now-infamous gas leak.

"because these two coworkers still haven't fucked and i still want to explode them, honestly," trevor breathed out, seemingly annoyed at the two coworkers in question.

ian giggled behind the podium, a strangely worrisome sound, and you and shayne glanced at each other in shared horror. "trevor,” ian paused, multiplying the level of suspense you were already feeling. “for an extra fifty points, do you want to tell us who the coworkers are? we'll bleep it."

"fifty points?!" shayne yelled, playfully incensed by this rule breaking.

"just take me out back like ol yeller, i beg." you set you head on the podium, which wasn't exactly a comfortable angle, but this wasn't going to be as fun as you thought if ian was going to play dirty the whole game.

the room erupted in laughter as trevor pondered his choice. "no, i won't. i don't want to start anything, fifty points is nothin' compared to my pals at smosh!"

you all booed him, lovingly, and ian giggled again. "shayne, for an extra fifty points, can you guess the coworkers trevor's tweet is about?"

"do you know who it's about?" shayne asked, confused.

"oh, i think everyone in this room does," ian's grin was devilish, relishing in the chaos he was causing. he's been watching too much game changer.

"okay, i'll guess for fifty points. is it angela and amanda?" the room erupted once more, angela's laugh heard loud and clear on every mic.

"incorrect! okay, let's see your post, shayne!"

"wait, i don't get to guess?" you cut in, feeling a little bit excluded from the joke.

"would you like to?" ian asked, earnest, though that devilish smile was still fixed to his mug.

you thought about it for a second. "actually, i'm good. i think my choices are too controversial. y'all aren't ready for my vision."

everyone laughed, and the game moved on.

"shayne. your tweet says: '[blank] is overrated. [blank] is cooler.'"

shayne's silence dragged on, and ian asked if he had a guess. after a beat, shayne stood stock straight up, ready to answer.

"steve, my answer is. 'steak is overrated. chicken is cooler.' for five points."

"let's see..."

ian revealed the next slide, and a slide whistle sound effect played. “oh, that’s too bad shayne. the correct answer was ‘penis is overrated. dick is cooler.’ so close, so close. alright, y/n, it’s your turn!”

you were feeling a little better now that shayne had gotten his wrong. maybe trevor would win, but it didn’t have to be a huge blowout, right?

“y/n, your tweet says ‘i need [blank] to [blank blank] or i will [blank] in [blank blank].’ this seems evil, y/n, if i’m being honest.” ian’s wicked smirk was still firmly planted; he was playing dirtier than you ever thought him capable of.

“what’s genuinely crazy is i’ve been so worried that i would not remember anything i’ve ever tweeted, but i actually do remember this one!” you laughed hard and loud, but then you remembered you did in fact have to tell everyone what it said. you could lie, but they’d just reveal it after anyway, and you had made a big stink about knowing it now… all you could do was fill in the damn blanks. “okay, it says ‘i need noomf–”

“you need what?” shayne asked, incredulous.

“noomf, it means ‘not one of my followers’ instead of oomf, which is ‘one of my followers’. anyway, ‘i need noomf to fuck off or i will piss in his kickstart’.” you covered your face with your hands, genuinely embarrassed. this would all be a good laugh after shooting wrapped, but in the moment you just wanted to scream a bit.

ian decided to go full little shit mode and not even make a comment, just click to the next slide showing that you were correct. every word. “five points for y/n!”

“oh, fuck, i forgot i was getting points for that. i’ll stop moping now!” you laughed, pushing yourself back into your camera persona, bright and light and happy. you could feel spencer’s daggers in the back of your skull all the same.

✰ .ᐟ

everyone broke for lunch after the finishing the shoot, and angela and courtney were the first to harass you.

“bro, you tweeted that you would piss in his kickstart?” courtney started.

“you guys don’t follow each other on socials?” angela then asked.

court took another turn next, “do you guys not talk outside of work at all?”

“no! they only talk about work so they always talk through slack!” angela was kind enough to explain your point from lunch the other day.

you stood there, tapping your foot. a bit comical, but a flair for the dramatic never hurt anybody, especially not in this industry. “are we done here? can i go get my food now?” you asked, no venom. “here, let’s just eat together and you can ask all your silly little questions. can’t promise i’ll have an answer for everything, but i’ll do what i can.”

you all lined up at the catering tables and grabbed some food, then found your way to an empty table to start this awful discussion.

you decided some rules needed to be put in place, because as much as you loved angela and courtney, you really didn’t want this to blow up into some ‘big thing’. coworker feuds happen in every office setting, it’s inevitable. it doesn’t need to be a whole situation, in your opinion.

“okay, before we start i’m going to lay some ground rules. you can ask whatever questions you want, but i’m allowed to not answer certain ones. whatever is said at this table, remains at this table, forever. and finally, i beg y’all to speak at a normal volume and not freak out for no reason. i do not need the whole company knowing my business. i’m sure you understand.”

they both nodded, and you decided to get courtney up to speed in case they had a question angela had asked you at lunch the other day, which was likely. now that you thought about it, angela was the only person you had really talked about it with. no one else you worked with seemed to mind, or care, so you didn’t think you’d ever need to answer any questions about it.

“court, before we start, angela actually ambushed me about this the other day so i do already have a few frequently asked questions answered. no, it isn’t a bit. we don’t have any friendship at all. we do not speak outside of work. i’ve never seen him outside of work. we do not have each other’s numbers. we do not follow each other on social media. we aren’t secretly dating. yes, we do hate each other, and, yes, it’s mutual. but… no, i don’t have a reason why.” you were fairly out of breath by the end of your rant, and courtney gave you a moment to catch back up.

“you don’t have a reason why? how can you both hate each other for no reason?” their voice was soft, caring. it burned.

a sigh escaped you. “as far as i know, neither me nor spencer have a ‘reason’ for hating each other. but it’s just a truth at this point. we hate each other, so we don’t interact outside of work. we play nice for the camera, but only because it wouldn’t really be entertaining if we didn’t. some truths are just truths. the sky is blue, the grass is green, and me and spencer hate each other.” you took a few bites of the salad you grabbed from the line, surprised at how good the dressing was. “holy shit, this dressing is fantastic,” you mumbled, hoping, in vain, to prompt a conversation change.

“like i said, i thought the bickering you guys did on camera was an inside joke. i didn’t know there was real anger behind it,” angela said, seeming a bit sad at this revelation.

you realized once again that you hadn’t actually had an honest conversation about this with anyone. you had never taken the time to flesh out this charade you were playing. “i’m not even sure the anger is real.” you said solemnly, quiet as a mouse. “i think it started as a bit. i’m not sure when it turned real, but it is. i guess.”

angela put her arm around you, sensing your mood drop. “hey, hey. it’s alright. you going to be okay, babe?”

courtney put their hand on yours, which you held. you felt like you were naked on a stage – feeling too vulnerable all too suddenly. after a second longer, you pulled yourself away from both of them. “i’m okay, it’s okay. can we change the topic, though? i… guess i’m not ready to talk about it, or something.”

you zoned out for the rest of the conversation.

✰ .ᐟ

when the day had finally ended, you felt the most immense relief you’ve felt in all your damn life.

finally. time to go home and dick around on your guitar. today provided a lot of feelings for a hopeful writing session.

everyone at smosh knew you played guitar, but no one knew you wrote original music too. it was the easiest way to process what you were feeling. and if it sounded bad, then it sounded bad. at least you felt better afterwards. you never recorded anything you wrote, because it was a form of therapy for you. you let it all out, you cry, you scream, whatever. then you worked on healing. this was your process, and you loved it.

you were planning out some verses mentally when shayne caught up to you on the way to your car. “hey, y/n! i have a strange question.”

you turned, surprised by his appearance. “sure, shayne. what’s up?”

“are you seeing anyone right now?”

“why, are you and courtney looking for a third?” you raised an eyebrow, which had shayne giggling. you continued, “no, i’m single. why?”

“no reason!” shayne yelled, and promptly sprinted away.

“okay, see you tomorrow, i guess!” you shouted after him, knowing he probably couldn’t hear you. for such a small man he had a seemingly large stride. he was already halfway across the parking lot when you finished your sentence. “what the hell is this job, anyway?” you muttered, trying to find the melody you had thought of earlier in the day as you drove home in blissful silence.

✰ .ᐟ

alex: yoooo

spencer: what’s up?

alex: kiana’s friend is so your type it’s criminal

spencer: ok?

alex: i’m serious dude she’s like your dream girl!!

spencer: ok?

alex: hi spencer this is your best friend kiana, you have a date with my friend tomorrow at 7pm at our fav chili’s, ok love you!

spencer: i’d rather not

alex: she said shut up and be there or she’s dumping your kickstart stash

spencer: you are both evil.

alex: <3

✰ .ᐟ

you slept like shit last night. again. the past few nights were just not kind to you, and you could tell it was obvious.

“whoa, y/n… do you need to borrow some concealer?” courtney asked upon seeing you in the kitchen this morning. “i’m sure someone has a shade match in the building.”

“gee, thanks, court.” you laughed weakly to yourself, knowing she had nothing but good intentions. “i’ve been having trouble sleeping lately, not sure what’s going on.” you turned around and sighed into your coffee mug, exhausted. “maybe my body is trying to tell me something.”

courtney smiled, then came to lean against the counter next to you.

“you’re single, right?” they questioned, eyes bright.

you sighed again. “yes, just like i told your husband yesterday, i am single.”

“do you have plans tonight?”

“other than sitting on my couch with my guitar, probably not. perhaps i’ll watch a movie. who’s to say? the world is my oyster.”

they rolled their eyes at you, but leaned in closer to whisper. “our favorite chili’s, tonight, 7pm. you’re going on a blind date with someone i know very personally, who is perfect for you.”

she was out of the kitchen before you could pick your jaw up off the floor to protest.

✰ .ᐟ

you stood in your bathroom, staring at yourself in the mirror. what the hell was going on. courtney had sent you a text fifteen minutes ago, a reminder of why you were standing in your bathroom, staring at yourself in the mirror. you had a blind date at chili’s in 45 minutes. what the hell was going on.

if you were in an alternate universe, perhaps all the dots you were connecting in your brain would turn out to be correct. you felt like that bit in buzzfeed unsolved.

i’ve connected the dots.

you haven’t connected shit!

in an alternate universe, your friends beating the truth out of you about your feud with spencer, then turning around and orchestrating a blind date for you would mean something. and it would mean they were setting you up with spencer. just for a moment, just a sliver of a second, you imagined that universe.

you imagine it all working out.

but then you pull yourself out of it, and start actually getting ready for your date.

he was probably just another improv actor with a nose ring. and he was probably nice. cute, even. but you couldn’t stop thinking about brown curly hair, piercing eyes, a hydroflask full of kickstart.

a green smosh hat. a carhartt jacket. stubble. glasses. you loved his glasses, and secretly cursed him when he would wear his contacts. spencer.

your phone vibrated against the counter, painfully reuniting you with reality. “shit.”

you fumbled to answer the call, still feeling lost in the syrupy haze of that alternate universe of yours. “hey, court.”

“are you on your way? find my friends says you’re still at your place!” they rushed out, and you pulled your phone away from your face to see you had less than 15 minutes to be ready and out the door.

“shit! sorry, i didn’t realize how late it got. i’m finishing up now, i’ll be on my way before you know it.” the silence on the other end was deafening. “i promise! but i have to get off the phone to get ready, okay?”

“fine. please send me a photo of your outfit before you leave. i love you! bye!” courtney ended the call, and you sighed.

“let’s get this over with.” you mumbled to your empty bathroom.

✰ .ᐟ

spencer was pissed. if his friends didn’t suddenly decide to meddle in his love life, he wouldn’t be on a random side street, a mere three miles from chili’s, replacing his flat fire. at 7:08 pm. he didn’t even want to go on this date, but he also didn’t want to be a dick and show up late. alex and kiana didn’t share any info about this mystery girl so he couldn’t text her to let her know. he decided to call alex as he was getting ready to hoist the spare tire out of his trunk.

“aren’t you on a date right now?!” alex shouted down the phone, no greeting. spencer rolled his eyes.

“chill, i got a flat tire. i’m down the road, like eight minutes max if traffic is kind to me. can you please let my date know i’m not standing her up, i just have to throw the donut on my car really quick.” he was fiddling with the tire iron while he spoke, suddenly nervous and upset at the prospect of hurting this mystery girl’s feelings. he shoved the emotion down and nestled the phone between his ear and shoulder, a smidge tighter than before. “please just let her know.”

“okay, okay.” alex took a breath in, and spencer could tell they’re relieved that the date isn’t a disaster, but only getting there kind of is. “i’ll let her know.”

they said goodbye, and spencer got back to work on the tire.

elsewhere, alex texted courtney.

alex: hey spencer got a flat tire. should be there in like 10-15

courtney: ok i’ll let y/n know!

alex: he called me and i nearly shat my pants

courtney: understandable lol if she called me 10 mins in i’d also be panicking

alex then texted kiana.

alex: spencer is late bc he got a flat tire i’m gonna bomb him

kiana: now, now!! it will work out in the end, grasshopper

alex: dont be weird

kiana: says u

✰ .ᐟ

you looked at your phone again. 7:20. you were on your second glass of water, munching on your chips and salsa and sighing. people were starting to stare at you. look at that poor girl, sipping her water, waiting for someone who isn’t showing up. surely she knows, they thought, surely she knows he’s isn’t coming.

unfortunately, you were still holding out hope. for some reason. you didn’t even want this, your friends just dropped it on you. but now that you were here, you felt hopeful.

most people who know you wouldn’t exactly call you a romantic, but somewhere buried deep inside you, you longed for companionship. everyone did, to some degree – it was human nature. so you decided that at 7:30, you’d leave.

even if tearing yourself from the booth would burn like wildfire.

you looked at your phone once more. 7:22. you’d been brooding in silence, alone at this table, and alone in this world. a vibration startled you out of it.

courtney: hey he’s almost there!!! he got a flat tire he should be there in about five mins, ok?? i’m so sorry and so is he!!

your heart rate picked up, that hope reigniting and spreading a warm fire throughout your body. you weren’t being stood up. good.

y/n: ok! thank you for updating me <3

courtney: of course bb i love you sm! have fun! text me all the deets!

as you smiled and steadied your fingers to type a reply, an all too familiar voice rang out. “are you being stood up at chili’s?” it asks.

you involuntarily rolled your eyes, all too easily sliding into this role you play. no one could say you weren’t a good actor. because here you were, slipping under that mask that fit so comfortably. playing a character. because an hour ago, you were hoping it would be him. you wanted it to be him. but now, he was here. which meant you had a role to play, and you would play it well. you’d give him an oscar award-winning performance.

“please explain how my activities outside of the office are any of your business, spencer.” you deadpanned. it didn’t hit like you wanted it to. “he’s late.”

“scoot. i’m hungry.” he says, and you stare at him.

“i’m sorry?” you admonished.

“scootch over. have you ordered yet?” he asks, casual as all get out. like this was normal, or reasonable.

you both know your roles. you know your lines. you’ve been off-book for years. what was he doing? he was going so far off script, ad-libbing, completely disregarding the words written for you, the ones you’d both studied and memorized. you were an improv comedian, and yes and-ing was never something you struggled with. but this wasn’t supposed to be improv. this was scripted. heavily. this was not reality tv, this was not whose line, this was a 40-minute sitcom with strict character archetypes, and you both knew your roles.

while you waited in vain for the non-existent director to yell ‘cut!’, you found yourself moving over and letting him slide into the booth. it didn’t occur to you to just tell him to sit on the opposite side, which was empty.

despite the warmth of the evening and the restaurant, you felt a shiver up and down your spine.

your server, carissa, came back to the table, and she looked relieved that your ‘date’ had finally arrived. she was probably about 20 years old, and her whole vibe said, “if he doesn’t show up, i’ll kill him for you.”

“took you long enough, dude,” was her greeting of choice. spencer looked surprised, which caused a laugh to escape you. “what would you like to drink?”

spencer seemed a bit lost for words, but managed to say “just a water, please,” after a not-entirely inaudible swallow.

carissa turned her attention back to you, “did you want to order now? or does mister late as fuck need some more time?” she gestured at spencer with her pen, her voice full of humor. it was entirely opposite of the darker voice she used on spencer.

you loved this girl. “easy on him, carissa. i’m sure he has a good reason.”

spencer looked at you, and you realized you probably should have specified that he actually wasn’t the person you were waiting on. your mind drifts back to that slice of an alternate universe, the one you wanted to slot yourself into for longer than just a fleeting moment. your heart quickened its pace once more, and you silently willed it to calm down.

he doesn’t like you, you thought, solemnly. he likes chili’s. he’s probably here to meet kiana or something. the thought of kiana joining you at dinner was a happy one, usually. you loved her. she was bright and bubbly and she was incredibly smart. you loved listening to her talk. but right now, it almost felt like that little alternate universe and the universe you’re currently stuck in were overlapping for a moment. you wanted to keep this feeling. hold it close.

you zoned back in when spencer started talking, both of you unsure how long you had been looking at each other for. it might have been the first time you both really looked at each other. the glancing and the glaring around the office was short lived. never more than a few seconds. this look felt like it stretched on for years, unending. this wasn’t just the first time you both looked at each other, it might also be the first time you really saw each other.

and, if you were just a bit more unhinged, you’d have said that it felt like home.

“i had a flat tire. i was right down the road but i had to put the spare on, so i’m much later than i wanted to be. i try to be early to dates, but it seems like the world was betting against me tonight.” spencer looked at his lap, sheepish, all of the sudden. it was cute. a soft expression you had no clue he was even capable of. it suited him, emotion. or, emotions other than anger.

“see? that’s a perfectly reasonable excuse,” you replied, which prompted a gasp from spencer.

you find the roles shifting, no longer are you and spencer coworkers trapped in an office, glaring at each other and attempting niceties on camera. now, you were stepping into the roles of love interests in a rom-com with 80s flair. the quiet, misunderstood girl, and the edgy yet likeable boy. fake dating for some reason or another, only to fall in love for real in the end. the it was always you trope.

you could play this character just as easily as you could play the hateful coworker. maybe this role would win you a sag award. you set it next to your academy award on your imaginary awards shelf.

“it’s not an excuse! it’s a reason. an explanation, if you will.” spencer said, faux-horror in his voice.

“and i will.” you shot back, playing into it. you could fit so comfortably here.

carissa faked a yawn, and you ask her for a triple dipper – mozzarella sticks, big mouth bites, and chicken tenders. spencer had no comment on this, which made you quite happy, oddly enough.

once carissa had walked away, spencer turned his body to face you a little more, and you felt closed in in the best way possible. he was suffocating you with his presence, but it felt good. safe, even.

you settled into the booth, a little taken aback by his sudden attention. honestly, you paid more attention to him around the office than you would ever admit to anyone. you both had desks in the same pod so you were in proximity at all times, and you looked. a lot. and maybe you pined. maybe… just maybe, you had been pining this whole time.

“what’s goin’ on up there?” spencer asked, nodding toward you.

“i don’t know,” you replied. it was the truth. you weren’t sure what was going on in your brain, just that you had no urge to stop it. more like an urge to give in.

carissa reappeared with a glass of ice water for spencer. he whispered a soft “thank you” in her direction, but his eyes never left yours. she walked away without a response.

“y’know, i was actually supposed to meet someone here tonight. i should probably tell alex what’s going on.”

your ears perked up at the mention of alex. “why would you tell alex?”

“they’re my best friend?” spencer said, eyes now on his phone. “also, it was a blind date. i don’t have her number,” he explained, frowning. “or her name.” his thumbs were flying across the keyboard, and you watched in silence. you were suddenly enraptured by his hands.

then, it clicked. “oh my fucking god!” you groaned, which caused spencer to turn his focus back on you.

“what? what’s wrong?” there was genuine concern in his voice, something you had never heard from him. it stoked the fire inside you, pulling it back up to a dangerous roar. this chili’s would erupt in flames if this continued on for much longer.

in lieu of a response, you simply grabbed your phone off the table, calling courtney and putting the call on speaker.

“hey! how’s it going?” courtney asked, speech stilted with nerves.

“what’s my blind date’s name, courtney?”

you heard spencer mutter something under his breath.

“you’ll know him when you see him! like i said, he had a flat tire. wait, it’s been, like, forty minutes, why isn’t he there yet?” their sentence got quieter as they moved through it, processing in real time.

spencer leaned in, clearly only getting closer to the mic so courtney could hear him, but you’d like to think he wanted to be closer to you, too.

“i’m here, courtney.” was all he said.

“neither of you sound happy…” they moped.

you rolled your eyes affectionately. they meant well, and you said as much. “i know you meant well, honey, but me and spencer have absolutely no chemistry.” there it was again. you switched back to your original role, the one you had spent far too much time in, the one that was closer to home. “this wasn’t a good idea and i think you know that.”

you dared to peek at spencer, who was looking right at you, forlorn. “yeah, court. i appreciate the team effort, but unfortunately me and y/n are just not compatible.” his voice was tight. angry. and just like that, spencer was also back in his original role. perhaps it felt like home to him too, and he also didn’t care for change. some things are just true. the sky is blue, the grass is green, and you and spencer agnew hate each other.

for once, you found yourself wishing it wasn't true.

✰ .ᐟ

once you and courtney hung up, you asked carissa for the triple dipper to be to-go, and you and spencer went your separate ways. the whole drive home, the car was silent and so was your brain. normally you’d be crafting melodies and writing bridges, ever the artist. but tonight your brain was turned off. you had to keep it that way, purposefully silencing the thoughts that threatened to burst through. you couldn’t think about the looks spencer gave you. you couldn’t think about the smell of his cologne when he leaned close to talk to courtney. you couldn’t think about the way he apologized.

i’m sorry about this, y/n. i know that we don’t like each other but i wouldn’t wish this on anyone.

this?

the whole, blind-date-with-my-enemy thing.

spencer, why are we enemies?

i don’t know, y/n. but i think we both know it needs to stay that way.

it seemed like he had been mentally policing his word choice. careful, stoic. there was emotion in his voice, but not in his face. his jaw was tight. spencer felt bad. despite it all, he didn’t want to hurt you. this was a rejection, plain and simple, but he was being merciful. though, it also felt forced. like this isn’t what he really wants, but it’s how things have to be. a law of the universe, at this point. an intrinsic truth. we can’t be anything other than coworkers and enemies. anything else would be disastrous.

you felt silly, catastrophizing like this.

as you turned your key in the lock of your front door, your guitar called to you from the corner of the living room.

let it out, it seemed to say, feel your feelings, so you can move on.

and so you did. you changed into some sweatpants and an old crewneck, sat yourself on the floor of your apartment, and got to writing.

perhaps you would one day add a grammy to your little imaginary awards shelf. an academy award for your coworker enemy character, the breakout role. the sag award for your little lovesick puppy character you got to play tonight, at chili’s. and a grammy. for you. no character, no facade, just you.

but you’d have to record yourself to achieve that. and now wasn't the time for bravery, now was the time for processing and moving on.

✰ .ᐟ

the next morning, you woke up to a small barrage of messages. mostly courtney apologizing. an apology from shayne as well. a text from ang asking if you were okay. alex, kiana, and amanda also messaged you, but you couldn’t bring yourself to keep scrolling. until your eyes caught on something new. an unsaved number, who had texted you a mere minute before you woke up.

unsaved: hey. sorry again about last night.

your heart leapt into your throat, and that fire under your skin was back. you put your phone face down on your nightstand and promptly took a shower.

upon your arrival at work, you were reminded of how fucking gossipy this damn office was. people were throwing you apologetic looks all day, clearly informed on the situation. thirty minutes before your first shoot, ian pulled you to the side.

“hey, y/n. um, is there anything you wanted to talk about? or let me know about?” ian asked, clearly uncomfortable.

you looked at him in confusion, head tilted to the side. “i… don’t think so?” you said it like a question, because it kind of was one. surely one blind date arranged by other coworkers that didn’t even result in a relationship wasn’t cause for concern, right?

“okay, i’ll just ask then. are you and spencer in a relationship? it’s okay, if so, but there’s a lot of paper–”

you cut him off, astounded he even thought to ask such an insane question. “whoa, whoa, whoa. me and spencer are not dating. why on earth gave you that idea?”

ian blushed, and it was quite cute. he clearly felt a little out of his depth, which is silly considering the amount of coworker relationships at smosh. he’s done this at least three times, you think he’d be better at it.

“well i've heard whisperings around the office that you two went on a date last night,” he said.

“and you thought that a date between us would end well?” you asked, a bit astounded. “i'm not even sure why court and them even set it up, it's fairly well known that we don't like each other in the slightest.” internally, you were thinking about the low tone spencer had when he was next to you. boxing you in, commanding your attention. maybe you had been pining this whole time. but that was not anyone else’s business, so you would continue to keep those feelings behind a quadruple-padlocked door, far in the back corner of your brain.

“y/n, can i talk to you as a friend and not as a boss or coworker?” ian dropped his voice, a soft smile on his face.

“of course, ian.”

“i think you know damn well that you and spencer are made for each other.”

“i–”

he cuts you off. “you might have everyone else fooled, and you might even have yourself fooled. but to a degree, i think there’s a part of you that wants that. and it’s okay to want that. to want spencer. it’s okay to want. but if you ask me–”

“i didn’t–”

“but if you ask me,” he bulldozes, committing to saying his piece. “i think it’s also okay to have. it’s right in front of you for the taking, and as much as you can deny it, i think you also know that.”

you were quietly stunned by this emotional, introspective, hopeless romantic version of ian. “i know i can want, ian. i know more than well enough what wanting feels like.” a sigh escapes you, suddenly exhausted. “but i can’t have. not this time, not this one. i can have something else, later down the road. but i can’t have this. i’m not allowed to have this.”

“why not?”

you stayed silent. you hadn’t thought about the why not of it all. it was another one of those things. spencer was an enemy. spencer was off limits. he was forbidden. prohibited. a thing you could want, but never, ever have.

“i just can’t, ian.” you sighed, resigned. you were getting tired of fighting this battle, but it wasn’t like you had a choice.

“okay, y/n.” his voice is soft, and he puts a hand on your shoulder. “well, when you can, i’m sure he’ll be waiting for you.”

“i’d never ask that of him.”

“you don’t have to.” ian wrapped you in a hug, and then walked back to whichever office he came from, leaving you in a pile of emotions at the end of the hall.

“what the fuck is happening,” you whispered to yourself. the world was turning upside down, and you were starting to get quite motion sick.

you sat down on a nearby sofa, checking the time. you had to get your mic pack set up in about five minutes, so you tried to use that time to regulate your breathing. in, two, three, four. out, two, three, four. you knew you were shooting a pit video, but you couldn’t remember what it was or who was going to be in it with you. was it a reddit stories today? no, that was thursday…

“y/n?” erin dougal called. your head snapped up, your thoughts finally simmering to a normal volume. a distraction was welcome, and erin was always up to something.

“yeah, what’s up?” you replied, hoping for some sort of insane tiktok pitch that tommy dreamt up, or some gossip about the caterer she had a thing for.

“ready for the shoot?” right, your job. guess those five minutes passed faster than you thought. at least you had calmed down substantially.

“oh. yeah, sorry. what are we shooting again?” you hoped she wouldn't rag on you too much for forgetting your shoot schedule. surely she was aware of your current goings-on.

she gaped at you in response. “seriously? we've only been gearing up for this shoot for, like, two months.”

fuck. today was courtney’s hide and seek shoot. fuck. you had been so wrapped up in the bullshit of this week you had forgotten to even plan a place to hide.

“oh! right, sorry. not sure how i forgot that.” you stood up, trying to collect yourself, embarrassed.

you followed erin into the small parking lot right outside the office, where everyone was waiting to be let inside. she debriefed you on the general rules, which have been the same since the first hide and seek video. you nodded along, and tried to figure out where the hell you were going to hide.

before you knew it, everyone was rushing inside. you decided to go up into the weird little attic space duran usually hides in, knowing he wasn't set to be in the video. it was a guaranteed easy find, and you didn't really want to be alone with your thoughts for very long. you had a history of being found extremely early on, and you weren’t planning to break that streak. especially not when you had so many other things to deal with right now.

but the universe was never on your side. you climbed up the slightly unstable ladder, using your phone’s flashlight to look for a spot, when you saw him. spencer was already up here, because of course he was.

“no.” was all he said.

“c’mon, this week has been shitty enough. i don't have any other ideas.” you whispered, knowing there wasn't much time left. “i can't find another spot, there's only, like, 20 seconds left.”

“no, y/n.” he was firm in his answer, but you were just as stubborn.

you gathered a bit of courage, and made your way over to him, ducking in the tight space. you sat down right next to him, a fraction of a fraction of a centimeter between you. “yes.”

he rolled his eyes and rested his head on the painted cinder block wall behind him, lids fluttered closed, too tired to fight. you understood that feeling all too well. “fine.”

✰ .ᐟ

turns out, courtney miller is exceptionally terrible at hide and seek. you’d both been waiting in silence to be found for over thirty minutes. if you had known how long you’d have to sit in such close proximity to spencer, you’d have made several different choices. starting with calling out of work today.

“jesus, court.” you whispered. then, turning to spencer, you spoke just a tad louder. “we’re supposed be recording confessionals, you know.”

“i'm aware,” spencer said. no malice in his voice, though you could tell he tried. his mask was slipping.

you pulled out your phone and clipped your little selfie light onto it. “hey guys, y/n and spencer here. it’s been over thirty minutes at this point, and i don't think courtney’s even entered the kitchen, let alone this fuckass room.”

“fuckass is crazy,” spencer says, in that giggly, drawn out way he always does. you always liked when he did that. it made your stomach do somersaults, for a reason you could never pinpoint.

“are we allowed to hide together? i know lisa and jeremy technically did in shayne’s hide and seek video.” you ask, purely for the content of it all. you couldn’t care less about any of the rules right now. you were next to spencer, and it felt right. fuck the rules.

“i'm not sur–” a noise erupted from the kitchen, and spencer paused. “they’re hereeee,” he singsonged. he was disgustingly cute.

“gotta go!” you said, quickly ending the recording and putting your phone away.

spencer looked at you, and you looked at him. faces mere inches apart. you both heard the door to the kitchen closing, signifying courtney’s exit. you were both safe, for now. no need to stay quiet. but neither of you spoke.

the silence carried on, seconds to minutes. you started to really look at spencer, dissecting his beauty.

the shine in his eyes, even in this dim, unflattering light. the ghost of a smile on his face. he's the first to turn away.

“y/n,” spencer near begged. “please.”

“what?” you asked, genuine.

he looked back at you. then he leaned in, so close you could feel his breath when he spoke again. “you're killing me, y/n. you know what you're doing.”

you angled your face, just so, closer than you've been to anyone in a long time. closer than you've ever been to spencer agnew. “oh? what am i doing, spencer?” you batted your eyelashes at him.

he inched closer, prompting your noses to touch. it sent a shooting pulse of sparks through your blood. “tell me to stop, y/n.” he whispered, borderline tremulous.

“why?” you didn’t retreat, and you certainly didn’t oblige him.

“please, tell me to stop.” he was still staring into you, through your eyes and deep into that corner of your mind. the quadruple-padlocked door. he held every key, and you could see it all play out: him unlocking every single one with ease. blatant disregard for the consequences of his reckless actions.

you let him. no, you encouraged him. “why can't you stop yourself, spencer?”

you knew full well courtney could burst in at any moment. you're acutely aware that you're both at work right now, in the middle of a shoot. you couldn’t seem to find the strength to give a fuck.

“because you're in charge, y/n. you always have been. i’ve been following your lead since day one. so tell me to stop.”

you moved your eyes to his lips, finally tearing away from that gaze. “go,” you whispered.

that was all he needed to crash his lips into yours.

it’s not a great kiss. it never is when you're both this pent up. it's either too aggressive or too soft, never exactly what you're expecting, or wanting. but it enveloped you in that now familiar fire, and you didn’t even care. this could be the worst kiss of your life and you would still think of it fondly years down the line. because it's spencer. and you wanted spencer. and he, seemingly, wanted you too. so you want. and you have. just for a moment.

your brain finally rebooted and you immediately started kissing back, forceful. spencer’s hands found your body, and they wandered. he set them on your hips, then moved one to your neck. then one in your hair and the other on your face. you only pulled back from lack of oxygen. out of pure necessity.

as you both sat there, foreheads pressed against each other, chests heaving, you started to think about what you've done. he didn't just unlock that door, he blew it off the hinges. you weren’t sure you could ever deny yourself the feeling of kissing spencer agnew. not anymore, not now. you've become addicted on the very first hit, and you couldn’t find it in yourself to care.

a loud bang on the opposite side of the wall had both of you separating. only an inch or so between the two of you, knowing you're about to be caught. you willed your heart rate down. trying to breathe slow, deep breaths. “time to be found i guess,” you whispered.

spencer’s head finds its place on the back wall again. he seemed defeated. tired. but happy. “yeah.”

✰ .ᐟ

two months passed and neither you nor spencer spoke about what happened during courtney’s hide and seek shoot. there's still animosity all around, and you expect that your oscar will be stripped away due to your performance. it’s exhausting, keeping this fucking thing going. you had the one thing you always denied yourself, for just a moment, and that’s all you’ll ever have. you’re well aware of this, and were doing what you could to fully come to terms with it.

but spencer. he seemed so unbothered. like it was nothing to him, like you were nothing to him, like this was all just an elaborate prank. cut the fucking cameras.

tell me to stop, y/n. please.

christ. your alarm had been turned off five minutes ago, but you remained in bed, under the covers. showing up at work was never a thing you dreaded. you fucking loved your job. and all your coworkers, who were now your friends and your family. you even loved the fans, deranged as they are.

but these days, it was weighing on you. getting up, going in and pretending you don’t know the taste and rhythm of spencer agnew’s sinful fucking mouth. it was hell. you wanted more, and he wanted nothing to do with you. and maybe you should have expected that. maybe this was all on you, for getting your hopes up for even a moment.

you’re in charge, y/n. you always have been.

you pulled yourself out of bed and into the shower. you turned the water as hot as it could go, grateful to experience a different kind of pain for even a few minutes.

i’ve been following your lead since day one. so tell me to stop.

once your skin had been sufficiently burned, and your actual shower duties were complete, you decided to dress a little nicer today. even though you knew the only plan you had was answering emails, editing scripts, and some social media stuff.

the shower really helped. the day seemed different, brighter. you felt a little less trepidation about work. you weren’t sure what magic was doled out by your rinky dink shower head, but you were thankful for it all the same.

✰ .ᐟ

pretty much every cast member greeted you at the door. suddenly, that trepidation was back. “what’s going on?”

“did you not check your phone?” shayne asked, a laugh tumbling out of him.

you thought about it. you hadn’t, actually. you turned your alarm off, showered in silence for the first time in a long time, then drove to work in silence as well. “i guess not. why? is everything okay?”

angela let out a gleeful scream. “you and spencer have the fandom in a tizzy!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands with joy.

your brain went all fuzzy. “me and… spencer?” your mind drifted back to the kiss, and you felt the heat rising on your face. that was embarrassing. everyone was here, and they were all looking at you, and you knew that your blush was violently visible.

“from the hide and seek video!” chanse added, as though there were any other point of reference.

you started to get a bit light-headed, and you sat down. “i’m confused.”

“why?” courtney asks, coming to sit next to you. it seemed everyone could sense your discomfort, so they dissipated, leaving courtney to work their magic.

“why would anyone care about me and spencer?” you asked. in your defense, you hadn’t watched the video. you couldn’t. you didn’t even watch back the single confessional you recorded, just sent it over to andre. you didn’t delete it though. it sat in your camera roll, heavy on your mind, and taunting you every time you opened your photos app.

they laughed, a soft sound, reassuring. “babe, i need you to watch the video.”

you groaned in response, feeling like a petulant child. like you were going to stomp your feet and cry if you didn’t get your way. “i don’t want to, courtney. i don’t need to see how fucking red was my face was. i don’t need to see how pathetic i look.”

you hadn’t told a single soul what happened in that little attic crawl space. you didn’t want to – it was a blissful secret. it was easier to hold it in, the truth that you kissed him and it felt like flying and dying and living and breathing and everything all at the same exact time. because if you ever admitted that out loud, you think you’d pass away from the sheer amount of love in your voice when you say it. he was turning you into a hopeless romantic, and you’d barely said seven words to the man since he completely ruined your life.

because that’s what he had done, wasn’t it? you were ruined for anyone else. how could you move on, how could you kiss someone else when spencer agnew made alpha centauri appear behind your eyes. a star system, exploding to life. and you knew, somewhere inside, that that was the only time in your life you’d ever be able to feel something like that. you weren’t even sure you’d want to feel it again. it’s been nothing short of agonizing.

“y/n, can i ask you something?” they questioned, ever patient.

“yes.”

“why do you keep denying yourself good things?” her hand was on your thigh, a soft comfort to offset the sting of her question. “please, i'll show you the clip right here, and i’ll be next to you the whole time. if you want me to turn it off, i will. but will you try for me? please?”

you had never struggled with watching the videos you were in. granted, you usually could just focus on someone else in the shot. this was just you, and spencer. courtney would be there in the background, maybe brennan. but mostly it was you and spencer. and if you didn’t look at yourself, you’d look at him. you weren’t sure which was worse, but you agreed.

“rip the fucking band-aid off already, i beg of you.”

she let out a small squeal of excitement, opening her phone. you were only mildly surprised to see the clip was already pulled up.

courtney pressed play on the video, and they handed you the phone. you watched, captivated. you decided to look at yourself. your blush was evident, and once you noticed that, you couldn’t bear to look any longer, so you looked at spencer. he was staring at you, while you stared ahead, giggling at whatever courtney said. his eyes were fixed on your profile, a smile bursting at the seams of his mouth, threatening a chelsea grin. he was smiling. he begged you to stop him, to stop this. spencer begged you not to feed the fire, but you had thrown gasoline right into it.

the thought… excited you.

“oh, hey,” courtney chirped happily, causing you to tear your eyes away from the screen of her phone. she paused the video and slipped her phone back into her pocket. “i’ll leave you to it,” they stood from their chair, pushing it in and giving you a look of hopefulness. you smiled back, halfheartedly.

“hi, spencer.” you murmured, finally meeting his eyes.

“hi, y/n.” he parroted, walking slowly toward you. he seemed hesitant, but… hopeful? maybe you felt the same way. “can i talk to you for a moment?” he gestured to the recently vacated chair on your left, and you nodded. you couldn’t trust yourself to talk at the moment.

he sat down next to you, entirely too casual. he’s slouched in the chair, hands in the pockets of his jacket. “seems like we did a number on a few people, huh?” he started. still too casual. you braced yourself for impact: we still can’t do this, though. we’re not friends. let alone lovers.

what he actually said, though, hit you harder than 400 asteroids. “you certainly did a fucking number on me.”

“uh, what?” is all you could muster, confused, adrenaline pumping through your veins.

he sat back up, then leaned into your space. again. he likes to do that. normally, you’d feel too caged, too claustrophobic. but for some reason, it felt like a blessing. a near-familiar comfort in this whirlwind you were caught up in. “y/n, do you remember our first date?”

your defense mechanism, sarcasm, clicked on in your brain. “if you call that a date, i’m embarrassed for you, spencer.”

“so you do remember it.”

“yes, spencer. i remember when you accosted me at chili’s.”

he laughed, and you know that it’s such a beautiful sound, but it still hurt. “and do you remember what i told you at the end of the night?”

“you said you didn’t know why we were enemies, but that we both knew it needed to stay that way.”

“exactly. y/n, do you know why i refuse to sit next to you in videos? or why i very frequently cut you off when you’re talking? or why we’ve never been the guests on reddit stories together?”

“no,” you breathe out, honest. “no, i don’t know why.”

“it’s because of what happened in that godforsaken hide and seek video. because i knew, given the proximity, i’d do that. i’d stare at you, zoned out of whatever conversation was happening around me. smiling like a fucking idiot.”

you didn’t speak, feeling overwhelmed at his sudden confession.

“i have a cool guy persona that i try quite hard to keep up, and i didn’t want millions of people seeing me, fucking, splayed out like that. all my feelings on display in 4k. since the day you walked in that fucking door, i’ve been forcing myself to hate you, forcing myself to be your ‘enemy’, playing along with this stupid fucking charade we both seemingly crafted out of nowhere. being that close to you, it makes that whole game a lot harder to play.”

“spencer,” you said, attempting to alleviate some pressure. “you don’t have to–”

“i’m serious, y/n. i’m not mad, i’m not even upset. frankly, i’m relieved. it’s out there, people have seen it, and i’m happy about it. i’m tired of this stupid cat and mouse game, y/n. this shit makes me feel like sisyphus. i’m tired of pushing the stupid fake hatred boulder up the mountain. and i think you are, too. i’ve seen it. i’ve felt it.” he whispered the last part, like it was meant just for him. he was thinking about the kiss. reliving it, the tension, the heat, the closeness. his lips on yours, his hands in your hair. he was thinking about it, and he wasn’t thinking it was embarrassing or gross. he didn’t regret it. he didn’t regret you.

you leaned into him, bringing your nose right up to his, face closer than need be for a conversation between two people who claim to hate each other. “tell me to stop, spencer,” you tried.

he looked at you, eyes wide and shining again. his gaze flickered down to your mouth, then back to your eyes. “fuck it,” he stated, and then his lips were on you.

you were once again kissing spencer agnew, and you were once again doing it at the fucking office. but you didn’t care about that, couldn’t care about that, because he was kissing you, and this time it was different. it wasn’t nearly as clumsy, or aggressive. the angle was perfect, and his hand was resting on the back of your neck, a soft cradle. your brain didn’t need to time to load, or reboot, and for once it didn’t even blue screen. you immediately kissed spencer back, with more fervor than you thought you had in you.

a small moan slipped out of your mouth, and you didn’t care about that either. you knew your coworkers were probably watching you both from around the corner, phones out to record the momentous occasion, hushes being thrown at others who dared to speak.

but right now, the only thing you cared about was making sure spencer knew you weren’t going to play this fucking godawful game anymore. you kissed him like you were serious about it, because you were. you were serious about spencer agnew. as serious as a heart attack, which you felt like you were on the verge of.

you attempted to pull back for a moment, but spencer wouldn’t let you go. he’s starving, and you are a delicacy he intends to gorge himself on, gluttonous. you gave in, and continued to kiss him back. it’s the most blissful feeling, reciprocation.

no more games. no more lies. no more feuds.

no more enemies, or hatred.

some things in life are universal truths. the grass is green, the sky is blue, and you and spencer agnew loved each other. you always had, and both of you were equally tired of pretending otherwise. pushing back against the universe was always a losing game.

so you both gave in.

and it was heavenly.

“please, y/n,” spencer pined, pulling back but still staying close. “don’t make me wait another two months to do that again.”

a laugh surged out of you, loud and honest. “have you been thinking about doing it again?”

“constantly. it’s a problem.”

you bit your bottom lip, unsure of how you got here. “oh my god,” you put your head in your hands, remembering your first tweet from you posted that. “i’m sorry i threatened to piss in your kickstart.”

this time, spencer was the one who laughed. hard and loud, honest, just like you, a moment ago. like you were still doing, because hearing spencer laugh made you laugh. a contagious happiness pouring from his lips, filling your very atoms.

“it’s okay, i understand. i wanted to piss in your lattes.” he set his forehead against yours, a form of intimacy he seemed to love. just like two months ago, he was invading your space and you couldn’t get enough of it.

“i’m sorry it took so long to get my head out of my ass,” he spilled, remorse heavy in his voice. “to think we could have been doing this so long ago…” his sentence faded away, and you couldn’t help but smile even harder.

“hey, my head was also up my ass. it’s okay. we have time.”

“yeah, we do.”

✰ .ᐟ

the remainder of the week went off without incident. you told ian you would fill out any and all paperwork, but not until you and spencer were ready. not until he formally asked you to be his girlfriend. it was still the very early days, and while you were beyond happy, you didn’t want to jinx it. watching this love grow was a privilege, not a right, and you intended to keep it.

you both graced the infamous white reddit stories couch, the episode themed around coworker drama. it was nice to be able to laugh with him openly, and it was nice to hear his thoughts on the stories. spencer was incredibly well articulated when he wanted to be, and it was incredibly sexy to watch him be so emotionally mature and vulnerable. he was more understanding than you would have ever expected, and it only made you want him more.

you hadn’t had a real, formal date yet. that was tonight, once shooting wrapped. he refused to tell you anything about it, just insisted you dress comfortably.

and you were comfortable, here on this couch, with spencer. you both had to be reminded not to sit so close together, several times now. shayne and courtney ragged on you a bit, but they promised to give you tips on hiding the relationship if that was what you chose to do. that was a conversation for another time, but it was nice to know everyone at smosh would always be in your corner.

you pulled yourself out of your head to concentrate on shayne’s voice, and you even threw in a few comments mid-narration. you didn’t like doing that often, it felt rude to interrupt. but hearing spencer break out in a fit of giggles at a shitty joke you made only pushed you to be more confident.

✰ .ᐟ

“where the fuck are going, spencer?” you questioned for approximately the fifteenth time. once shooting had wrapped, everyone bid you and spencer farewell and good luck on your first official date. you went to the bathroom to change into your favorite sweatpants and an old hoodie, and when you reappeared spencer was holding a blindfold in his hand.

without thinking, you had popped the first joke that came into your head. “oh, we’re already getting freaky?”

he had laughed, and insisted it wasn’t anything like that. “but it can be, eventually.” he raised an eyebrow, suggestive and suave.

well, fuck.

as spencer directed you through the office – presumably to take you to one of the stages? – you let the lack of sight relax you. he wanted to surprise you, which means that he planned something. or set something up. you were rapidly falling in love with this man, and you weren’t sure if that was scary or exciting. probably both. you were free falling out of a fucking airplane, the cords on your parachute stuck, but it felt good.

“okay, you can remove your blindfold,” you heard his voice from behind you, as he finally brought you to a stop.

you slowly reached up to pull the blindfold off, and you couldn’t stop the tears that started to form.

spencer had set up a place for you to record music. he had moved a bunch of props and furniture around on the games stage, and set up a tiny little nook with pillows and blankets and bean bags. somehow, your guitar was there, propped next to an amp. there were several pedals splayed out, a wide array of effects for you to choose from. it was all hooked up to your macbook, which had fl studio pulled up on it.

“spencer…” you whined. the tears were silent, but they fell in waves.

he moved to stand in front of you, and you knew you would never get tired of being able to be this close to him whenever you wanted. he was yours to hold.

you tried to stop the tears, tried to speak, tried to thank him and apologize. all you could do was let the small, silent sobs wrack your body.

“y/n, please please tell me that these are happy tears,” spencer pleaded with you. his hand wiping a tear away from your cheek.

you nodded furiously, and found your voice again. “y-yes. yes. they are happy tears.” you took a deep breath in, stinging in the best way. “thank you so fucking much, spencer. i don’t know what to say other than thank you.”

“i know that you write music, but i know you never record it. i didn’t know if that was because you were worried about it not being good enough, or if it was simply the inability to record. either way, i can keep all of this set up here for you. whenever you want, as long as the stage isn’t needed, of course. i was hoping we could have a little jam sesh.” spencer laughed, light and airy.

you surged forward, wrapping your arms around him and hugging him tightly. “thank you,” you said again.

✰ .ᐟ

you and spencer spent three hours holed up on the games stage, playing around with different effects pedals and different fl studio presets. the time flew by, and you hadn’t even actually recorded anything, but you didn’t need to. you’d remember every second of this night for the rest of your life. you didn’t show spencer any of the songs you’d written these past few weeks, all of them about him. you would one day, when you were ready, but right now all you wanted was to be in this moment with him.

“it’s crazy how far we’ve come in such little time,” spencer said quietly, once the instruments had been retired and you were both stretched out on the extra large bean bag.

you smiled, agreeing. “yeah. it sucks that we lost out on so much time, but i’m grateful that i get to have you at all.” it was more vulnerable than you had meant to be, but spencer didn’t let it linger in the air too long.

“you have me for as long as you want, babe. i’m not leaving until you kick me out.”

a soft laugh, “i can’t imagine a world where i’d ever kick you out, spencer.”

“it’s like i told you. you’re the one in charge, y/n. i’ll follow your lead wherever it takes me.”

“even if it takes you off a cliff?” you japed, adding some levity to this conversation you weren’t quite ready for.

“yes,” spencer replied, no hesitation or thought. “wherever you go, i’d like to be with you. if you’d have me.”

you turned fully onto your side so you could look at him again. his hair had gotten so long, and you were hoping he wouldn’t cut it yet. you liked how wild and windswept it looked at this length. you also wanted to pull it.

“what are you saying, spencer?” you were egging him on.

“will you be my girlfriend, y/n? we can go as slow or as fast as you’d like, we can do it all at your pace. we have time,” he assured you. “i know this is only our first date, and normally this might seem like jumping the gun a little bit.” spencer sighed, but it was wistful, not sad. “but i’ve been sure about you for years now, and now that you’re finally giving me the chance, i don’t want to wait. i don’t want it to slip out of my hands.”

you let out a breath you didn’t notice you were holding. this side of spencer – no, just spencer – you were so unaware of him and everything he had the capacity to be and do and feel just a few months ago. sure, you’d been pining for awhile, and you’d been watching him for a bit. not in a creepy way, just observing him when he wasn’t putting up the goddamn shield he always forced up around you. seeing spencer for who he was, as he was. you had no idea that he could be so eloquent, so romantic, so fucking perfect.

“christ, you’re going to kill me, charles spencer agnew.”

“is that a yes, y/n? don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind already!” spencer laughed again, and you realized just how often you made him laugh. almost like your specific brand of comedy was tailor made for him. maybe it was.

“yes, spencer, i will be your girlfriend.” you smiled at him, a toothy. unabashed grin. “thank you for this.” you gestured around the nook. “seriously, this is so fucking sweet of you. i really, truly appreciate it.” most people didn’t put so much effort into the first date. this would, normally, be a fifth date kind of thing, probably. not that you had much practice. but it was your first real date, and spencer did all this work just to spend a few hours making shitty hyperpop mixes out of the silliest guitar sounds you could manage.

“don’t get used to it, this was a lot of work.”

your smile dropped instantly, a cold rush hitting you. fuck, was he making fun of you? you felt tears well up again, this time decidedly unhappy tears.

spencer shot up in an instant. “hey, hey. it’s okay, love. can i touch you?”

you cried harder, realizing that not only was spencer not making fun of you, but that he was listening. he always was, he always had been. because he knew not to touch you when you were crying, he knew to ask. and you had never told him that.

you had said it in a reddit stories video once. the story had to do with panic attacks, and you felt like you had to give your two cents, daring to be vulnerable on beyoncé’s internet.

“i actually hate being touched when i’m upset. people always jump straight to hugging me or patting my head or some shit. bro, i’m fucking freaking out, please do not touch me!”

courtney laughed, agreeing with your sentiment. “no, exactly! like, i’m crying all over myself and i’m snotty and gross. please get your hands off me. you can clearly see i’m overwhelmed, why is your first thought to add to that?”

it was refreshing to be understood by someone.

“i have never once seen someone in emotional distress and thought, ‘hmm, i should hug them super tight! that’ll help!’ like, what the fuck are we doing, guys? however, i do remember one time i started having a panic attack, and my friend looked at me and held her hands up, then asked ‘can i touch you?’ which, like, just broke me out of it. i was so thankful that she asked to touch me instead of just doing it that i was immediately calmed down. she’s great.”

the emotions were a sudden flood, and you shook your head no. spencer sat still in his spot, respecting your decision. for some reason, this only prompted you to cry harder.

basic respect had you sobbing. this was fucking embarrassing.

“i’m so sorry,” you said through tears, trying to explain yourself.

spencer was patient, and you knew he would wait for you to collect yourself. it was a small gesture but it really did mean the world to you. this meant not only did he listen to you when you were talking on set, but also that he watches the videos that you’re in. he wasn’t on that shoot, he had a con to go to. he wasn’t even in the state of california when you had said that. you had said that nearly a year ago, and he had watched the video when it came out. then committed that piece of you to memory.

“spencer?” you let out softly. “i have a question.”

your voice was small, almost upsettingly so. you didn’t mean to sound so timid, but projecting your voice when you’re feeling this many emotions was something you could only do in front of a camera or a live audience.

“yes?”

“how long have you known that you didn't… y’know. hate me?” you sighed, glad to have the weight of the question off of your shoulders, but worried about how heavy the answer might weigh on you.

“i never hated you. i never even disliked you, y/n. i thought you were smart enough to figure that out.”

“are you negging me, babe?” you asked him, trying out the pet name. it felt nice, especially because you meant it. and because this time, you knew he wasn't being mean. he was just being spencer.

once again, spencer’s laugh graced your eardrums, and you knew you’d never tire of the way it made you feel. unstoppable. like if you could make spencer agnew laugh like this, you could do anything in the world. maybe even be brave.

“can i show you something that i've been working on?” you asked, your eyes trailing up to meet his, which were already fixated on you. as always.

“of course.”

you grabbed your guitar, turning ever so slightly to the side. you didn't want to hide, but you also didn't want to be on full display. spencer understood your movement immediately; he looked down at his hands for a moment, silently reassuring you that it was okay, that you were safe.

it was refreshing to be understood by someone.

you plucked the chords you had burned into your brain at this point. you had written this song the evening of the hide and seek incident (trademark pending).

you let your eyes fall shut, playing from memory, as easy as 1-2-3. as you began the first verse, you dared to glance at spencer. he was looking at you, but through his periphery. still trying to give you that space, but unable to deny himself. it made you burn bright with pure, radiant joy.

you glided into the chorus, your eyes fully open at this point. spencer had long since abandoned his resolve, and he was watching you intently. instead of being scared, or nervous, or overwhelmed, you just felt seen.

in every sense, you felt seen. he was looking at you, into you, and not through you. he was seeing your heart on your sleeve, stitched permanently on every cardigan you owned. he was seeing all of your emotions, all the anger, all the sadness. and he understood your emotions, because he had felt them, too. he had gone through it all, too.

how lucky you were, to be loved by someone so observant. and maybe it wasn't love yet, but you knew the potential was there. you knew, as you finished up the bridge and moved on to the outro, that the seed had been planted. you would be sure to water it diligently.

“can i kiss you?” spencer blurted out, as soon as the final note finished ringing out in the otherwise silent stage.

“always.” you met spencer halfway, another crashing, aching kiss. his hands immediately found your hair, as they always did. your arms fell around his shoulders, a loose hold.

after a moment the kiss was less crashing and danger and speed, slowing naturally to a sensual pace. lightly pulling and pushing, his hands now gripping your hips. not angry, not painful. it was a tight grip, but it wasn't mean. it felt scared, almost, like if spencer didn't hold on to you, you’d be gone.

you think you liked that feeling. the feeling that your partner wanted you all the time.

you spent another hour lazily kissing, and ended up falling into a blissful sleep.

✰ .ᐟ

you woke up about an hour after you had crashed. you hadn't meant to, you were just so fucking relaxed and happy. with the way your sleep had been, you weren’t going to turn down a nap.

spencer mumbled something, and you were suddenly hyperaware of the fact you were still in the office. you groaned, unintentionally.

“you okay, y/n?” your boyfriend – you loved that – asked, his voice soft and scratchy from the nap.

you smiled down at him. “yeah, sorry. i just realized we've only ever kissed at the office.”

you watched in amusement as the cogs turned in his head. “oh, jeez. well, that’s just unacceptable. hey, apropos of nothing, i'm out of kickstart. do you want to run to the corner store with me?”

spencer held out a hand, as if to say ‘join me on this adventure?’ and you weren’t sure how you could decline his offer.

♡

#richie txt #richie writes #spencer agnew x reader #smosh x reader

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ssentimentals · 6 months ago

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vernon + clingy/affectionate!reader

vernon knows his own quirks very well. he knows he spaces out a lot, is very aware that sometimes he can come across as standoff-ish or rude. he also knows that he's not very attentive and easily misses some details, but even he is not that oblivious or dumb to not notice changes in your behavior. if there's one thing that vernon got used with you is you being affectionate. caressing his face when he's close. dropping a kiss on his cheek in the passing. hugging him from behind when he's standing. running your fingers through his hair when you two are laying next to each other. and now all of it is... gone.

it's disturbing, to say the least. it's like the switch went off and suddenly he can't see a thing, everything is pitch black. vernon watches you closely as you walk around the room, throwing things messily on top of your suitcase. he didn't have any bad feelings about your two weeks trip back home before, but now he can't help but feel that with you leaving something is going to break. his eyes track every move of yours and he mentally counts missed kisses. you usually grin at him and always come over to kiss him or hug him while packing; sometimes he distracts you enough to have you forget about the clothes and choose getting with him under the sheets. but today is different and his forehead is pretty much stinging right now with desire to be kissed, while his hands feel empty without yours.

'babe,' vernon calls, unsurely. when you pause and turn to look at him, he nervously asks: 'are we okay?'

you blink at him. 'yes? i mean, yes, we are.' you frown, fully turning to him this time. 'why are you asking this? do you feel like we are.. not okay?'

vernon knows when you're lying mostly because you're shit at it; right now he can tell that you're telling the truth and it only confuses him even more. if you think that everything is okay then where are his kisses?! 'it just..' he starts, deflating. 'feels weird. that's all.'

you're up from the floor instantly, coming to sit up next to him on the bed. you look worried and vernon waits for your hands on him but you keep them tightly pressed to your sides and he is going to scream. 'why, baby?' you ask, looking at him with your beautiful eyes which are now filled with worry. 'what's wrong? why it feels weird?'

he waits. waits for his hands to be clasped in yours, waits for you to come sit a little closer, waits for your warm hug. vernon counts to ten and when nothing happens, he feels a little foolish for hoping. he also feels like he's about to cry. 'it's weird,' he comments, looking down at his hands. he opens his palms and then looks back at your hands. 'they are empty. it's weird not to have your hands in them.'

'uh-' you look unsure, frowning. 'i don't get it, vernon.'

'what did i do?' vernon asks, finally raising his head. emotions well up in his heart and he tries hard not to let them spill. 'just tell me. be honest. i- i will fix it. whatever it is, i promise i will fix it.'

'vernon, baby, what are you talking about?' you sound distressed. 'what do you want to fix? what is happ-'

vernon grabs your hands in his and squeezes them hard. 'this. i'm talking about this. why- why you don't touch me anymore? you don't hug me as often as you used to, you don't kiss me all the time, you-' he pauses, trying to calm himself. his voice wavers as he continues: 'i miss this. i miss your hands in mine, your random kisses and hugs, i miss it all. what did i do?' he kisses both of your hands. 'tell me, angel.'

pregnant silence fills the room. it's horrible, to be honest. it makes vernon want to crawl out of his skin, because he can't take this silence, not from you. did he make you feel like you cannot be honest with him anymore? how did he manage to majorly fuck up?

your hands squeeze his. 'i thought...' you take a deep breath. 'i thought you didn't like it. so. i toned it down.'

vernon blinks. you don't look like you're joking and it wouldn't have been a funny joke either way; he opens his mouth and closes. opens it again: 'are you serious?'

'you never really react?' you look so fragile, biting your lower lip and looking away. 'like, you don't push me away but you also don't show that you liked it so i thought maybe you were just tolerating it, you know?'

vernon thinks that maybe banging his head on the wall will cure him. make him less oblivious, more adapt on social cues. fuck, how did he-

'i'm sorry,' he rasps, taking your chin in between his fingers and making you look at him. 'i just received your affection and got used to it so much that only when you toned it down i realized how much did i love it. how much i relied on it. baby, you make me so happy with it, you have no idea.'

you look up at him with big eyes filled with hope. 'yeah? you don't think i'm like, clingy?'

god, vernon is going to kill himself for ever making you doubt this. 'i love it,' he assures you. 'how affectionate you are, how clingy you are. it's what makes you you and i'm in love with you. i'm sorry for not making sure it's clear for you recently. i'll be better.'

sun doesn't shine as bright as you do when you smile widely at him. you paint the prettiest picture when you look like this and vernon is ready to take all the blame, take any punishment from god for making you for a second think that he might hate this part of you. when you hug him tight, he hugs you back even tighter, burying his nose in your neck, breathing you in. 'i love you so much, you are my sunshine, my everything.' he whispers secretly.

you giggle a little and it's the best sound. 'i love you too, baby. i do.'

a/n: finally getting down to your requests :') hopefully you liked this one!! - nini

find my other seventeen works HERE

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luvtak · 8 months ago

Text

fade into you, lmh x reader

genre/tw est. relationship! suggestive, pure sugar cane fluff (like high fructose corn syrup fluff), minho only knows how to talk with his hands </3, gn!reader!! minho calls you kitty and honey <3!! seriously cavity inducing fluff be warned !! mostly unedited…

w/c 848

omg i haven’t posted a fic in so long nor have i written anything in months :(( but i’m finally a lot more settled after a busy drama filled couple of months! I hope you love this fic as much as i loved writing it. I’m not kidding when i say i wrote this in an hour on my phones notes app, don’t be afraid to tell me how you feel hehe 🩵

It’s cold outside your sleeping bag, frigid morning fog seeping into the once cozy tent. You shiver at Minho’s nose pressing into your neck, his face as cold as a dog who’s been outside too long.

You’re not sure why you let your boyfriend convince you to camp in the middle of autumn… less sure why he insisted it was just the two of you, but you could never refuse Minho when he asked you so nicely— hands easing sighs while his mouth asked the question; the only thing you could say was yes, over and over.

Unfortunately, the ecstasy of being asked was not akin to the actual experience.

Insistent rain stormed down from the second you arrived to the last minute before your eyes closed, Minho in all his excitement forgot the cooler and was forced to drive all the way back—leaving you to shiver in the tent alone. No, it was not the romantic getaway your boyfriend promised, but being here now—warm despite the wilderness’s wishes—you think it could be.

“Are you still cold, honey?” Minho asks, his voice just a whisper amongst the whistling trees.

With your eyes still closed, you can only imagine what he looks like… Soft with sleep, his eyelashes cascading shadows across the slopes of his skin, beautiful like hypnos after creating dreams. You can feel his breath against your neck and his hands clutching at your waist, so safe despite how strong he is.

“No, min, I’m just right” you say, and you can feel his laugh, rumbling through him, feel his smile against your skin.

You wish he knew how much you cherish him… how much you treasure these little moments with him. How you’ll think about this moment every time he’s away from you; rolling the memory around your tongue like it’s a piece of candy.

Sometimes, you’re sure you can see a cord running from you to him, wrapping around the two of you like cling wrap—like every moment you’ve ever had was crafted by the fates, your story weaved by the gods themselves.

“Just right huh?” he says, before he’s lifting his head to look at you, eyes open and beautiful. “Well goldilocks, look how pretty you are this morning.” His smile is mischievous and if you didn’t know better you may think he was joking, but his tone gives him away: too quiet to be anything but the truth.

“Minho!” you cry, embarrassed by compliments this early, “lay back down, I need you to keep me warm.” He smiles down at you, knowing you well enough to see that you’re flustered, it’s always too easy; one compliment, and your skin is hot, his kiss lasts a second too long and you’re pulling away shaking.

Minho doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of making your blood rush, enjoying the chase even when he has you.

When his skin gets closer to yours again, chest to chest/heart to heart, you find yourself breathing his air like you share one pair of lungs. He’s so close to you, searing your skin even as the sleeping bag pulls awkwardly around your legs, letting cool air settle around your figure.

His lips are so close to yours, one breath away from a kiss, so close you can feel his words flow into your open mouth.

“Are you warm now, kitty?” he asks, his eyes boring into yours before flitting down to look at your skin; miles and miles of it under his hands, valleys of skin that are his as much as yours.

“I’m warm, Minho, are you?” Just a whisper.

“just right.” A smirk.

One breath, two breaths, three, and then he’s kissing you. Lips urging gasps to flow out of you, hands grasping at his tension filled spine. You’ve shared many kisses, sweet and sultry, frantic and lust filled, but something about this hunger is foreign to you.

His kiss is filled with wanting yes, but it’s almost like he’s trying to tell you something but forgot the words. His hands on your thighs urging you to listen, please please please understand, they say, clutching at the muscle like he’s afraid you’ll never know.

But you do, and so do your lips and your hands and you try your hardest to speak his language; responding to every bite with a nip of your own, gasping when his hands ask, kissing away the sleep still in his eyes. You know what he’s saying, I love you, I’m sorry you’re cold, I’m sorry I made you come on this rain coated trip, I love you I'm sorry, I love you I love you.”

Your boy, always so embarrassed to tell you how he feels, but never afraid to show you.

When you pull apart, hands locked together still, eyes gleaming with an inside joke, a shared confession; you can see he wants to say something, see he’s trying to build the courage to split his heart open. Instead he flits his eyes up to the sky and smiles.

Look honey, the suns coming out”

And you understand.

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juleswritesstuff · 1 year ago

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Am I the only one who thinks most of the Marauders and the Slytherin Skittles would have the biggest praise kink in history ?

warnings: smut

James would have one because of his constant need to be perfect, to be what he thinks the others need him to be: the perfect son, the perfect friend, the perfect student. But he always has doubts ‘am I enough ?’, ‘am I doing enough ?', ‘will they like me ? ’, ‘what if they don’t ? what if they hate me ?’ He needs to be reassured that he is. He is enough, he is more than enough.

I feel like it would be more prominent while he is intimate with you. He is mostly afraid of not living up to the expectation he thinks you have of him. So you make sure he knows that he makes you literally touch the sky.

‘That was the best match i’ve ever watched ! Merlin, you were brilliant on that broom James’ after Gryffindor wins the last match of the year.

‘What do you mean ‘stupid’ ? They’re your glasses baby, they help you see. And you look really hot wearing them in my opinion’ after he overhears someone talking about another person and saying they look stupid with that specific pair of glasses.

‘Like that, baby. You’re doing so good’ while he is covering your neck with kisses and gentle bites.

‘Yes, yes, fuck, right there Jamie’ after a particularly deep and strong thrust leaves you breathless.

‘You look so good between my legs, love’ while he is eating you out messily and hungrily and so, so perfectly.

‘No one feels as good as you. No one could ever make me feel the way you do, James’ while he is still inside of you, catching his breath and looking at you with devotion.

‘Are you sure it was ok ?’

‘James, it was more than ok. My legs are shaking baby, that's a sign that it was pretty damn amazing’

‘Are you serious ?’

‘Apart from the very lame joke I am sure you’re thinking about, yes, I am. Actually, why don’t I show you how serious I really am ?’

‘What do you mean, baby?’

‘I mean that you’re gonna fuck me again and i’ll show you how much I always crave your lips, then a third time and i’ll make sure the entire castle hears how you can make me cry with just your tongue, then a fourth because that perfect dick of yours needs to be fucking worshipped, and, finally, a fifth to show you that you fuck me so good that not a single coherent thought processes in my head when you're taking me apart on your cock, Jamie’

Remus would have one because he has hated himself his whole life. He feels like a monster, like he doesn’t deserve all the love he is surrounded by, like all the good things people say about him are just lies. And he knows the truth, he knows he is nothing but an horrid creature and that he doesn’t deserve to be loved. Except that it isn’t the truth, and you tell him everyday.

With him I feel like it would be more out of the bedroom, and outside of sex, but not exclusively.

‘You’re really good at that spell Remus, mind showing me how it’s done ?’ after he gets a rather difficult charm right at the first try.

‘You look very hot today, Rem. Well, you look hot everyday actually’ which makes him blush from head to toes.

‘You’re the best, you know ? You really are’ after he explains a difficult concept that nobody else got, but him.

‘Holy hell, right there Remus. You feel way too good’ while he eases in and out of you with a steady rhythm, knocking the air out of your lungs.

‘You take such good care of me’ while he is going down on you, slowly, sensually and with a glint of hunger in his eyes, knowing exactly what to do to make you fall apart.

‘I love you, you know that right ?’

‘Yes, darling. You tell me everyday’

‘Well, that’s not enough. From now on, I'll tell you twice a day’

‘But why ?’

‘Because it’s true' and then you give him the sweetest kiss.

Sirius would have one because he has been told his whole life that he wasn’t enough. That he needed to be better, to do better, to be a better heir for the Noble House of Black, to be a better son, to be a better brother. He was told that he was worthless, that his parents had no use in having a son like him. He was a disappointment, a shame to the family. For them he didn’t exist anymore.

But for you he was the most perfect person to ever walk on earth. Your brightest star.

He would love it both inside and outside the bedroom. I feel like he would also ask you to tell him something that makes him feel good, especially when he is having a bad day. He has no problem being praised in public, but he becomes especially vulnerable when you’re intimate because he can finally let go.

‘Tell me what did I do to have the best boyfriend ever ?’ After he brings you flowers one day because he told you they reminded them of you.

‘It’s ok Sirius, you’ll get it eventually. You’re one of the best students, you just need a bit more time which is totally fine’ after the tenth time he tries to get one of the most difficult spells right, only for it to go wrong.

‘You’re worth it Sirius. You’re worth every single good thing that happens to you, never doubt that’ after he breaks down reading one of his mothers older letters, full of foul words directed at him.

‘You’re such a good boy, aren’t you ?’ after he listens to you so well, kissing every inch of your body.

‘Fuck, you should see yourself baby. You look so good, so perfect for me’ while you’re on his lap, riding him slowly to savor that sultry fucked out expression on his face that makes you go feral.

‘You’re so sweet, Sirius, do you know that ? So fucking sweet’ after you bob your head on his length, swirling your tongue around his head to suck gently as his taste coats your mouth.

‘Was I good ?’

‘You’re always good, Sirius. More than’

‘Are you sure ?’

‘Do you want me to describe in detail how good you are at splitting me open in every position known to man ? Because I can do that if you want. Might take three whole days though, a week if you want me to talk about that sinful tongue of yours, too’

‘I think we have enough time’ and then you both start laughing.

Regulus would have one because he’s been second his whole life. Second for his brother, second for his parents before Sirius left , sometimes he feels second even for his friends. He thinks no one cares deeply about him, he’s just there as a rebound. He’s never been anyone’s first choice, and he thinks he never will be.

You make sure he knows that not only he would be your first choice in every lifetime, but that he would also be the only choice for you, no one else would or could ever compare. He is the center of your universe after all.

I feel like he would blush like crazy and pretend he is annoyed by your words when you’re in public and you praise him even for the simplest thing, but his eyes would also warm up a little, just for a second, before going back to his blank and rather stoic expression. He would be a mess in the bedroom though, when he can finally let go and he allows himself to feel good about the sweet words that leave your lips.

‘You have the prettiest eyes I have ever seen’ after he catches you staring at him for a moment too long.

‘Your poems are literally art, Regulus. I can’t believe you can write like this, you know this is pure talent, right ?’ after he shows you his poems for the first time and you nearly cry because more than half of them are dedicated to you.

‘You were so good up there, Reggie. And the way you caught the Snitch ? Fucking incredible. You are incredible’ after Slytherin wins one of the biggest matches of the season thanks to Regulus catching the Snitch one minute from the end.

‘You feel so good, love. Stretching me out so well’ after his cock slides inside of you perfectly, filling you up so nicely.

‘Eyes on me, Regulus. They’re so gorgeous, I want them focused me while I make you cum, ok ? Be good and keep them open’ as you stroke his length up and down, feeling the velvety soft skin on your palm as you give his head a gentle suck, tasting him on your tongue.

‘You’re so pretty when you’re all fucked out, Reggie. You feel so good taking me like this’ while you’re riding him and he looks at you with hazy eyes, lust and pure bliss fogging his brain’

‘I’m yours Regulus. I’m undoubtedly, irrevocably and utterly yours’

‘Promise me’

‘I promise, I’m not going anywhere. I’m afraid you’re stuck with me forever, actually’

‘Mmh, it’s gonna be hard, but I’ll survive I guess’ while you’re still joined, one body and one soul as you kiss him slowly and sweetly, his tone sarcastic but betrayed by the smile that's progressively growing on his lips.

Barty would have one because his father never gave him his attention. He was never enough for him, never a good son, never a good student, never good. He was constantly ignored, and the few times his father acknowledged him was to tell him that he was a lost cause, a disgrace, a shame. He was just a stupid boy, too reckless, too careless, too unhinged, too much, and, at the same time, never enough. But it wasn’t like that. He was a bit impulsive, and sometimes he went a little bonkers, but he was a good person, and there were people who cared about him and his well being. You always made sure he knew that. He was your priority.

I have a feeling that he would be completely unashamed of being praised in public exactly like he is praised in the bedroom. Probably not in front of the whole school, but he wouldn't really care if people eavesdropped, his crooked grin widening when he notices their horrified faces. It is their fault, they could mind their own damn business.

‘Yes, Barty, you’ve been a good boy’ after he asks you if he has been good after getting an O in Potions.

‘Baby, we’re in public, I can’t just scream about how good you fuck me. There are people eating, for Merlin’s sake’ after he sees a guy talking to you before sitting at the table in the Great Hall. He asks you if you could tell him that he is the only one who could make you come with just his skilled fingers.

‘Don’t think like that ever again, Barty. You are not a lost cause, you aren't. You deserve good things, you deserve the best things, sweetie. You deserve to be loved, and I do. I love you so much Barty, don’t ever think you are not important to me because you are. You mean the world to me’ after he receives a letter from his father asking how a cretin like him was able to find someone who could love him. If he hadn’t begged you to stop after calming down a little you would’ve been in Azkaban with a murder charge by now.

‘Fuck, I love when you do that. Feels amazing, baby’ after he trails a path of kisses down your chest only to focus on the tender flesh of your nipple as he sucks gently, and grazes it with his teeth, teasing you.

‘Harder, baby. I know you like it like this’ while his thrusts become more erratic, stronger and deeper and you can hardly think.

‘You’re cock is perfect, Barty. Fills my mouth so nicely’ while you’re sucking him off, his tip hits your throat and you swallow as the loudest moan leaves his mouth.

‘I told Mulciber that no one can make you scream as loud as I do’

‘You did what ?! Barty !’

‘What ? Is it not true ?’

‘I- of course it’s true, but why did you have to tell him ?’

‘He was being rather cocky about the fact that he could make you scream like, and I quote ‘a bitch’. Then he started using other very disrespectful words to describe you baby, and at that point I had to punch him right in the face, because no one has to even dare to talk about you like that. He is actually lucky my Sectumsempra is not perfect yet, or he would’ve ended way worse. And then I added that little detail. I probably shouldn’t have done it, but I was furious. Do you want me to obliviate him ? I can do that if you want’

‘It’s fine, he needs some salt rubbed on his wounds’

‘Are you sure ?’

‘Yes, baby. And it’s nothing new, I'm sure the entire dorm hears me when you’re fucking me, I can't help it. Now come on my knight in bloody knuckles, let’s go to Madame Pomfrey to get those bruises checked’ you kiss him lightly before heading to the infirmary.

Thanks for coming to my Ted talk 🤭

And thank you for reading 💖

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goaskangel · 6 months ago

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dad's bestfriend!nanami x reader

a/n...had really good ideas 4 this and it kinda WORKED OUT??? i fu want more lmk!! im a sucker for older dudes (and ONLy them) nanami will save us all EEK. also i see hiromi as y/n's father, that's what i had in mind writing this!!! THIS HAS SLIGHT CORRUPTION STUFF, LIL GUILT STUFF, LOTS OF KISSIINGGG

you usually paid no mind to the people your father brought over. mostly colleagues or just a few friends to drink and converse with in your shared apartment. one friend he’d seem to bring over a lot had caught your eye. as if his ever-changing ties and snug khakis weren’t enough to make you grin, his mannerism was much too attractive. greeting you respectfully, listening and chuckling to your rare comments and jokes to their discussion over drinks in the kitchen. getting comfortable to just speak to you while your dad’s out or busy with something, always listening with intent.

it’s so sexy, you think, your hands up to your face as you lay to your side in bed. dreaming conscious thoughts of what his big hands would feel like on you, or the same breath he smokes out against your neck. your guilt no longer dragging you down after all this time.

once, you sit close to him, smiling and trying to make your staring of his ringless finger unnoticeable. he wonders, aloud, how don’t you have a boyfriend? you shrug, “jus’ not very interested.” you smile when he chuckles, most likely at your thought process. part of you hopes he doesn’t ask what you're looking for because you’d go straight to overworked suited-men. skip over the blonde and big traits just to seem more vague. of course you were interested, you were interested the moment he mentioned he had no family. no wife, no kids. just focused on his work and drinks, a few cigars and baked goods. the absence of your father to run a quick errand wasn’t helping, your eyes zigzagged down his undone tie and exposed blue button-up, his blazer down beside him. you’d thought about taking the garment or increasing the loft’s heater just to see him get all worked up and hot but being this close to him gave you the same thrill. the topic of marriage came up.

“you shouldn’t wait too long, i waited too long.” he says with sincerity.

“hehe. with all truth, mister, i think you’re doing it on purpose. you are handsome.”

he sits up at the title, a confused smile at his face, “yeah? i could say the same thing about you, pretty.”

god, if you were any worse, the first time he’d use that petname you would’ve pounced on him sooner. “dad says guys my age are after one thing and i agree. you wouldn’t disagree with my dad, would you?” your head tilts and waits for a response to your bratty remark. “well, i suppose your father knows a thing or two.” he nods, crossing his arms. your eyes trail again, watching the toned muscle flex casually against his rolled sleeve. you swallow the pool of spit in your mouth.

“he’s strict, though. haven’t you noticed?” you get up from your seat and walk to pour yourself another glass of water, “doesn’t ever let me have anybody over.”

“uh-huh.” his brown eyes stare at you intently to understand your point.

“it gets lonely, mister.” instead of sitting back down, you stand right in front of him. placing your glass on the glass table. his arms now rest out on the table as he traces delicate circles on the rim of his half empty cup of whiskey. “i obviously can’t tell my dad that so i’m telling you and i just know you’d understand.” your hand rests atop his and slowly curls under his big palm.

he clears his throat of the sudden nervousness, “well, yes. i know that feeling all too well.” you hum a response when he turns his body to face you better. you mumble gently, “my dad won’t be home.” your hand squeezes him tighter. you notice how his brows furrow just the slightest bit as he lowers his head down, letting out a small sigh. but he doesn’t oppose it. doesn’t move when you lead his hand down to your hip, the tips of his fingers riding up your shirt. so pliable, his other resting hand now being guided up, up, up your shirt. his warm palm against your much softer skin. “won’t tell anyone, nanami.”

his breathing is shaky and his eyes seem to have gotten heavier, but he scoots almost off the seat, to get closer. his vision glued onto the bump of where his hand is underneath your shirt, beneath the wire of your bra.

“i’ll let you do anything you want to me.” fucking hell, you made this so fucking hard.

“you’re damn irresistible.” he slurs through his teeth, swearing to himself that his mouth dried when you gripped his hand to squeeze the fat beneath your breasts. you feel dizzy, so good that he’s not resisting, that he can’t resist. he kneads and gropes the side of your hips and thighs, getting closer to your ass. impatiently, he stands and manhandles you closer to his bigger frame. you hear how his breathing’s stabilized but heavier, his expensive cologne finally hitting you when you lean up against his neck. he damn near groans when he gets his hands on you properly. dragging his hands on your back, pushing your body right against his much warmer one. your knees grow weak, if his grasp was any looser, you could’ve collapsed right on him. you take your arms and wrap them firmly against his broad shoulders and thick neck, moaning quietly against the veins under his ear. he feels his khakis getting tighter with every breath you take. a smile grows against your cheeks when you feel the slight stubble at his jaw, you kiss at it.

still moaning between kitten licks against his mature skin, he turns to press his lips to yours. quick little pecks between breaths, he savors each one and quickly returns for more. the sour taste of his bitter whiskey intoxicating you from his much sweeter mouth.

“been..wanting..this..nana–mi..!” you can’t contain your grown obsession to which he shushes you. nodding slowly against your mouth while he keeps your head in place. when you pull away, you take his hands and lead him into your open bedroom. the idea of your father coming home slowly fading the closer you got what you wanted. you got so eager when he sat you on the edge of your bed, standing between your hanging legs. your hands wanting to hold onto his belt, to slowly unbuckle it but he caught them beforehand, kissing and sucking on your soft wrists and forearms. his lips find their way to your neck and ear where he whispers.

“it's wrong, i know. so, so wrong, but my god…” he holds onto your neck and carefully grinds himself into your clothed cunt, making you arch your back and buck your hips into him, whining. you could cry from all the teasing he’s doing. “shouldn’t be doing this, sweetheart…dad can’t know, okay?” he keeps his now firm bulge against you. you moan another cry and kiss him again a bunch, nodding, rubbing tongues and messing up the gel in his blonde hair. the very open door reveals the sound of clinking keys and chains, doors opening and closing. too dizzy and much too dazed to even frown, you just stare into his soft brown eyes. they get farther away as he gently lets you go, kissing your temple for good measure before heading to the bathroom, leaving you with shaking legs. hopefully his plans of staying over stays the case.

masterlist

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seospicybin · 2 months ago

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EVERMORE.

CHAPTER II

Bangchan x reader x Hyunjin. (s,f,a)

EVERMORE MASTERLIST

Synopsis: When your daughter’s wedding weekend brings you, a former it-girl and Chris, a legendary rockstar back under one roof, the two of you must navigate old memories, unexpected feelings, and the chaos of family. As laughter, love, and a hint of scandal unfold, you're both reminded that some love stories don’t end—they just change shape. (25,6k words)

Author's note: Thank you for patiently waiting for the new chapter. Can't wait to read your feedback on it ♡

[EXCLUSIVE] Rumors Swirl Around Bang Theory Reunion—But It’s All About Love This Time June 20, 2025 — by Sky Kim.

The internet went into a frenzy this weekend when whispers of a Bang Theory reunion tour sent fans of the iconic '90s rock band into nostalgic chaos. The spark? A grainy video clip of frontman Chris Bang passionately performing on stage surfaced online late Saturday night—complete with pyrotechnics, a mic drop, and… a somersault gone wrong? But before fans could start petitioning for world tour dates, a little digging uncovered the truth: Chris Bang wasn’t reigniting Bang Theory for a tour. Instead, he was rocking out for a far more personal gig—his daughter Tigerlily’s wedding. Yes, you read that right. Sources close to the family confirmed that Chris reunited with his old bandmates for a surprise set during the wedding reception of his daughter. The performance was said to be “equal parts chaotic, emotional, and iconic,” with one insider joking, “It felt like the '90s again… until Chris faceplanted off the stage.” (He’s reportedly recovering well, and in true Chris fashion, already making jokes about it.) Despite the reunion rumors being nothing more than a wedding gift in the form of nostalgia and guitar solos, fans are still buzzing. Could this heartfelt one-night-only performance lead to something bigger? For now, it seems Chris is more focused on family than fame. But if this weekend taught us anything, it’s that you can take the man out of Bang Theory, but you can’t take Bang Theory out of the man. Stay tuned. And congratulations to the bride and groom.

The garden glows in soft amber light, wrapped in a golden haze as the sun begins to dip behind the trees. Strings of fairy lights flicker gently overhead, casting everything in a romantic shimmer. Laughter drifts through the warm air, mingling with the gentle clinking of glasses and the rustle of leaves dancing in the breeze. Guests settle into their seats at the long tables adorned with white linen, scattered florals, and glowing candles. It's the kind of evening that feels suspended in time—dreamlike, sacred.

Chris stands slowly from his seat, a champagne flute in one hand, the other smoothing down the front of his black suit. He clears his throat as someone passes him a mic, the subtle shift in attention moving toward him. He looks out at everyone, but mostly at her—his daughter, his Tigerlily—radiant in her wedding dress and laughing softly at something Julian just whispered to her. His throat tightens, but he starts with a familiar glint in his eyes.

“Well,” he says, the corners of his mouth twitching, “I just want to take a moment to call out a traitor.”

The laughter begins immediately, warm and curious. Chris turns toward Tigerlily, mock betrayal written all over his face. “You. Yeah, you. You promised me, when you were five and wearing light-up princess shoes and eating peanut butter straight from the jar, that you were going to marry me.”

The laughter swells. Tigerlily covers her face with both hands as her shoulders shake with amusement.

“I was your first love. You said no one else could compete. And now look at you.” He gestures dramatically toward Julian. “Running off with this guy.”

Julian gives a sheepish grin, and the guests eat it up. Chris shakes his head dramatically before he continues, voice growing softer even as the laughter fades. “But the truth is, I’ve been preparing for this day in my own way, probably since the day you were born. Even if I didn’t want to admit it.”

He looks at Tigerlily, and the air seems to still around him. “You were always magic, little cub. Even when you were tiny—especially when you were tiny—you had this energy about you. You lit up every room. I remember holding you on my shoulders during rehearsals, watching you bop around to the noise like it was music. I didn’t know it then, but those were the moments I’d keep in my back pocket forever.”

He turns toward Julian now, eyes still soft, but steady. “Julian, I know we joke—and I will keep joking—but I also want you to know… I trust her with you. And I trust you with her. Please, love her right. Because she’s my whole world.”

He pauses, emotion catching in his chest, but he swallows it down with a smile.

“To Tigerlily and Julian,” he says, raising his glass, voice bright with both pride and bittersweet joy. “May your life together be louder than a Bang Theory concert, but just as unforgettable.”

Cheers erupt across the garden, glasses clink, and Chris slowly sits down, heart thudding in his chest. He exhales quietly as he watches his daughter beam at the man she chose, her smile bright enough to carry him through the ache of letting her go. He then settles back into his seat, still feeling the ghost of the mic in his hand, the warmth of everyone's attention slowly ebbing away. The laughter, the applause—it all lingers around him like a soft echo. He catches you looking at him with that expression, the one he remembers from years ago, back when you’d watch him after shows, proud but trying not to let it show too much.

“That was a good speech,” you say, nudging his elbow gently. “You did good.”

Chris lets out a breath, almost a laugh. “You think so?”

You nod, a knowing smile tugging at your lips. “I know so.”

He grins and turns to the teenager next to him, nudging her with the same hopeful energy. “Hey, Riley bear. What did you think? Pretty solid, right? A little funny, a little touching?”

Riley doesn’t even look up from her phone. She just lifts a thumb in the air in response, eyes glued to her screen.

Chris stares at her in mock betrayal. “A thumbs-up? That’s it? My finest performance in years and I get a thumb?”

Still nothing so he slides his arm around her shoulder and leans in dramatically. “You know what? That’s it. As of this moment, you are officially not allowed to date. Ever.”

Riley lets out a loud groan without breaking eye contact with her phone. “Oh my god, Dad.”

You chuckle, reaching across the table to tug on his sleeve. “Come here,” you whisper, leaning close. He shifts toward you, and you murmur conspiratorially, “You know nothing about teenagers. The more you tell them no, the more they gonna want to do it.”

Chris leans back, eyes narrowed like he’s just been told a trade secret. “So you're saying… I should encourage her to date?”

“No,” you say through a laugh, “I’m saying be less obvious.”

He huffs. “Fine. I’ll just plant a tracker in her shoes.”

That earns him a full-bodied laugh from you, rich and unguarded, the kind he used to chase when you were still his. It hits him in the chest more than he expects. He missed that laugh. He missed you, in all the quiet, unspoken ways that sneak up on him like this.

You bump your shoulder against his, teasing. “Didn't you know, Chris? Love finds a way.”

He glances back at Riley, still firmly ignoring him, and sighs with an exaggerated shake of his head. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

But there’s no bitterness in his voice—just a tired kind of joy. A surrender to the passage of time and the impossibility of holding onto anything forever. Except maybe memories like this. Family, laughter, the sound of your voice next to his. That, he can hold onto a little longer.

The stage is small, a modest wooden platform strung with warm, golden lights and flowers, but as Chris strums the first few chords, it feels like home. It always does. His fingers remember every note like muscle memory, even though it’s been years since The Bang Theory played anything beyond a casual jam in someone’s garage.

The crowd at the wedding is electric with warmth—family, friends, strangers, all laughing, clinking glasses, swaying to the music. But Chris doesn’t see them. Not really. Not yet. He sings the words, not thinking too hard about them—just letting them carry through the air. His voice still holds. Maybe a little more gravel, a little more soul. Maybe that’s age, or maybe that’s just what happens when life keeps turning the pages faster than you can read.

He scans the crowd while his bandmates pick up the next chorus. Familiar faces drift past—Julian with his arm around Tigerlily’s waist, Maude and Riley taking a video on her phone, a few old friends from the label. But he’s still searching. His heart doesn’t settle until it finds you. Then, a moment later, he spots you. You’re making your way toward Tigerlily and once you're by her side, you’re both dancing, singing and laughing—his girls. Tigerlily, radiant in her dress, twirling with ease, her face bright with joy. And you, swaying with her, singing the chorus back at him. Not for the crowd. For him. It guts him in the best and worst way.

The memory hits like a wave. Another wedding. Another stage. Tigerlily in his arms, small enough to rest on one hip, clapping her little hands to the beat while you laughed beside him. She didn’t know the words back then, but she still sang them. Gurgled them, really. And now she’s here—grown, glowing, a bride.

Chris blinks through the swell in his chest. For a second, his voice almost catches. His bandmates keep going, none the wiser, but Chris has to turn his head and refocus on the strings under his fingers.

This is joy. This is what it looks like. Not stadiums. Not gold records. This. His daughter dancing in a white dress. You laughing beside her. This music, this moment, this life that somehow kept going even after everything cracked and fell apart. He takes a shaky breath and closes his eyes for the last chorus.

This one’s not just for Tigerlily. It’s for you, too. Because you’re still here. You’ve always been and that’s enough to carry him through the song. And this— This energy is addictive. Chris can feel it pulsing through his veins like a second heartbeat—music, laughter, the stomping of feet, the kind of wild joy that used to live in his bones back when stages were his second home. He didn’t realize how much he missed this—needed this—until the spotlight found him again, until the cheers roared like an old familiar friend.

People are shouting his name. Singing along. Phones are up. His bandmates are grinning like teenagers, feeding off the crowd. But none of it compares to the way Tigerlily beams at him from the dance floor, her hands up in the air, veil clipped to the side now, her cheeks flushed with happiness.

He points at her, chest swelling. “This one’s for you,” he calls into the mic. “My little cub, my Tigerlily.”

The crowd hollers. Tigerlily covers her face with both hands in mock embarrassment, but she’s grinning from ear to ear. It hits him all at once—how alive he feels, how proud, how the moment stretches so wide it could hold a lifetime. He’s never been good at sitting still, not when there’s rhythm in the air and the world’s spinning like a record. So he does what instinct tells him to do. What used to make fans scream in stadiums and what his knees warned him not to even think about anymore. He goes for the somersault.

The adrenaline makes it feel like flying for a second. The cheers spike. But the landing—oh, hell—the landing doesn’t come easy. His foot catches on a loose cable near the speaker. It jerks mid-air. His balance shifts. He hits the edge of the stage with a crack of bone and sound equipment.

The crowd gasps as his body lurches forward, his arms flailing to catch anything—but there’s nothing. Chris faceplants into the grass with a dull thud, mic still in hand, and the music cuts off with a horrible screech of feedback.

There’s a beat of pure silence. Then, all at once—shouts. Gasping. Someone screams his name. Tigerlily’s voice pierces through it like a blade. Feet scramble. Chairs screech. Phones drop. The stage, the celebration, the euphoria—gone in a heartbeat and then, everything blurs to white noise.

The fluorescent light above him hums low and constant. The antiseptic scent clings to everything, even the blanket draped over his lower half. His leg—he can’t even see it—rests stiffly elevated in a cast, bulky and awkward.

Chris exhales heavily, tilting his head toward the voices murmuring near the doorway. You and Tigerlily stand together, still in your dresses from the wedding, now a little crinkled from the chaos. The doctor finishes his long, clinical summary with a gentle smile.

“He’s fractured his ankle,” she says. “A clean break, but he’ll need to rest for 6 to 10 weeks. We’ll reevaluate for physical therapy later on. For now, minimal movement.”

The doctor excuses himself and leaves you two alone with Chris. He looks at you both, the guilt already gnawing at him. “I ruined it, didn’t I?”

Tigerlily gives him a look, arms crossed. “Well… yeah. You did a somersault at my wedding and faceplanted.”

“I was going to stick the landing,” Chris mutters.

You lean against the edge of the bed, lifting a brow. “And I was going to marry the Danish prince. Things change.”

He huffs. “I’m sorry. Both of you. I really—”

“As much as I enjoy seeing you in pain,” you cut in dryly, a glint of playfulness in your eyes, “you’re not allowed to die yet. You still have to live long enough to see your future grandkids.”

Tigerlily lets out a laugh, bumping your shoulder affectionately. “And spoil them rotten.”

Chris gives a sheepish smile, his eyes softening as he looks at his daughter. “Speaking of… where’s Riley?”

“She’s with Julian at home,” you reassure him. “Eating the wedding cake and probably laughing at your fall in 4K.”

He winces. “Great. Viral before I even leave the hospital.”

“Only because someone decided to stage dive without warning,” Tigerlily teases.

Chris reaches for her hand and holds it gently. “I’m really sorry, cub.”

Tigerlily leans over and wraps her arms around him, careful not to bump his leg. “You’re okay. That’s all that matters. We’ll laugh about it—just… not tonight.”

He closes his eyes for a moment, overwhelmed by the tenderness in the room, your presence steady beside him, and his daughter’s embrace warm and forgiving.

Chris is sleeping, finally. You sit quietly beside his hospital bed, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest. His leg is elevated, stiff in the fresh cast, and his face is slack with exhaustion—lines of pain and embarrassment still etched faintly into his features. Your mind drifts back to Tigerlily’s words earlier, just after the doctor broke the news.

“Mom, can he stay with you for a while? Just until he’s okay enough to fly home?”

There wasn’t even a moment of hesitation in your answer. Of course. Because Chris is her dad. Because back home, no one’s really there to take care of him, not the way he needs. And Riley—sweet, spirited Riley—is far too young for the responsibility.

You reach out and gently adjust the blanket covering him, letting your fingers linger at the edge before slowly pulling back. Then, quietly, you rise and slip out of the room.

The door clicks shut behind you, and when you lift your eyes, you see Hyunjin. He’s waiting by the wall, casual and calm, but the worry in his eyes gives him away. When he spots you, he straightens, and the moment you’re close enough, he wraps you up in a warm, wordless hug. “You okay?” he murmurs.

You nod, the scent of him—faint cologne and something undeniably his—settling your nerves. “Yeah. Just tired.”

He pulls back, brushing your cheek with his knuckles. He hands you a duffel bag and you peek inside to see clothes and a toiletry bag which you guess is packed by Tigerlily.

“Thank you,” you mutter with a soft smile. “How’s Riley?”

“Riley’s fine. Tigerlily and Julian are staying with her at your place.”

You nod again, and squeeze his hand in gratitude.

“Come on,” Hyunjin says gently, threading his fingers through yours. “Let’s get you some coffee.”

The café is empty except for some nurses and hospital staff fueling up for the night shift with loads of caffeine. You see Hyunjin returns from ordering coffee carrying a tray in his hands.

“Here,” he says, setting a cup of coffee in front of you and sliding over a small plate with a slice of cake and a few cookies. Then, without a word, he drapes his jacket over your shoulders. It’s still warm from him, and you sink into it instinctively, the weight of it grounding you.

He sits down next to you, close enough that your knees bump under the table. “How’s Chris doing?” he asks, his voice low, concerned.

You wrap your hands around the coffee cup, exhaling. “The doctor said minimal movement. A lot of rest. Probably physical therapy later.” You pause before adding, “He’s lucky it wasn’t worse.”

Hyunjin nods, sipping his drink slowly, eyes never leaving your face.

“And… it seems like he'll be staying at my place,” you say after a beat. “At least until he’s well enough to fly home.”

Hyunjin arches an eyebrow, but his expression is unreadable. “How do you feel about that?”

You look at him. “It’s fine, honestly. I want him to be taken care of. It’s just—” you exhale with a small smile, “—it means we’ll have to postpone the trip.”

A soft smile curves his lips. “That’s okay,” he says, reaching up to gently brush your hair behind your ear. “We’ll take that trip next time.”

You give him a grateful look, warmed by how easily he understands you. “Thank you,” you murmur.

Then you lean in and press a sweet kiss to his lips, soft and lingering. When you pull away, Hyunjin doesn’t miss a beat—he steals another kiss, a longer one, before finally letting you go with a grin.

You laugh under your breath and pick up your fork, digging into the cake, but just as you take the first bite, Hyunjin tilts his head and says with a playful smirk, “But are you sure that it's not some Chris's devious plans that he’s just trying to get back together with you by breaking his leg?”

You nearly choke on the cake as laughter bursts out of you. “Oh my god,” you say, dabbing your mouth with a napkin. “If that’s the case, you need a better plan than him.”

Hyunjin gasps, placing a hand on his chest in mock offense. “Excuse me. My plan involves far fewer hospitals and much better wardrobe choices.”

You both dissolve into laughter, and for the first time in what feels like hours, everything feels light again.

The car ride is mostly quiet but every bump in the road sends a dull ache through his leg, wrapped tight in a stiff cast and resting on the backseat. Julian’s driving carefully, like he knows every pothole could ruin what little comfort Chris has left.

Tigerlily turns from the passenger seat every so often to check on him, her brows furrowed in that particular way she used to do as a kid when she was worried—when she didn’t know how to fix something but desperately wanted to. “We’re almost home, dad,” she says gently.

Chris gives her a half-smile. “You act like we’re going to war.”

When they finally pull up to the house, he sees you and Riley waiting on the front porch. You’re in comfy clothes, hair tied up, and Riley’s already halfway down the steps before the car fully stops. There’s something so warm and familiar about the sight, and despite the throb in his leg, Chris feels a little less miserable. As soon as the car is parked, Tigerlily and Julian jump out.

“Okay, slow and steady,” Julian says, opening the door and helping Chris swing his casted leg out. Tigerlily grabs the crutches from the trunk, adjusting them before handing them over.

“I feel like an ancient rock star,” Chris mutters, gripping the crutches and bracing himself for the awkward maneuvering.

Riley runs toward him, arms wide, throwing herself into a gentle hug. Chris chuckles and hugs her back. “I should break my leg more often if this is what it takes to get you to hug me.”

Riley pulls back just far enough to punch him lightly on the chest. “Don’t even joke about it!”

He yelps anyway, rubbing his chest like she really did damage. “Ow! Abuse to the disabled! Unbelievable.”

And then his eyes meet yours, and there it is—that look. You’re grinning, arms crossed, that same sparkle in your eyes that’s always both comforting and dangerous.

“You’ve never looked this good before, Chris,” you say, eyes trailing down to the crutches. “Remind me again why we got divorced?”

Chris arches a brow, smirking. “Well, it only took a traumatic injury, mild public humiliation, and a hospital bill to get your attention again. Worth it.”

Everyone laughs, and for a moment, the pain fades behind the easy rhythm of being home. With Tigerlily and Julian flanking him, Chris hobbles his way toward the door, Riley skipping ahead to hold it open. Together, you all step into the house—something about it feels like slipping into an old song. Familiar, comforting, and maybe… just a little unfinished.

Lunch is simple but comforting—crispy sandwiches, soup in mismatched bowls, and a pitcher of lemonade sweating on the table. Everyone digs in like they haven’t eaten in days, the laughter already bubbling before the first bite is finished.

Tigerlily is the first to strike. She pulls her phone out, turns it toward the group, and presses play. Chris hears it before he sees it—the familiar chords of The Bang Theory mid-performance, the cheers from the crowd, and then, in glorious high-definition: himself soaring off the stage like a man possessed before planting face-first into the floor.

“Okay, okay—” he tries, holding up his hand, but it’s too late.

Julian’s laughing so hard he nearly chokes on a piece of grilled cheese. “You looked like a rockstar… for three seconds.”

Riley is cackling, phone in hand. “Dad, it’s everywhere. You're all over the fyp page. There’s already a remix version of it.”

Chris buries his face in his hands. “I was on adrenaline! The music took over!”

You’re laughing behind your hand, trying and failing to keep it together. “Honestly, if you hadn’t broken your leg, I would’ve sworn you were doing a bit.”

He glares at his soup like it betrayed him. “This is how you all repay me? A lifetime of music, memories—and you sell me out for a meme?”

Tigerlily leans over and kisses the top of his head. “We love you, dad.”

Chris lets out a huff, but he’s smiling. He can’t help it. This—this table, this meal, this stupid video on loop—is everything. Maybe he didn’t need a reunion tour. Maybe everything he ever needed was already right here. He reaches for his spoon, winces at the pull in his side, and mumbles, “Next time I want attention, I’m just faking a fever.”

You snort. “Next time, try doing it without turning into a trending hashtag.”

The laughter gradually softens into easy chatter, plates half-cleared and soup bowls nearly empty. Chris leans back, shifting his leg on the stool propped beneath the table, and glances at Tigerlily and Julian seated side by side—her fingers laced through his, their shoulders bumping gently every now and then like they’ve always belonged to each other.

“So,” he begins, swirling what’s left of his lemonade. “Aren’t you two should be on your way to your honeymoon? Or are you two just going to live here and keep mocking your injured old man for the rest of the month?”

Tigerlily chuckles, squeezing Julian’s hand. “We’re actually heading to the airport in a couple hours.”

“Somewhere warm?” he asks.

Julian grins. “Somewhere sunny. No signal. Just naps and fruity drinks.”

Chris smiles. “Sounds perfect.”

Tigerlily rests her chin on her palm, eyes softening. “You don’t need to worry about anything, okay? Just focus on getting better. You’re the only person I know who manages to break a leg mid-performance.”

“Gotta keep it interesting.” He turns toward you now, gaze warm. “Thank you, seriously. For letting me crash at your place.”

You shrug, reaching for your drink with a teasing glint in your eyes. “Don’t thank me just yet. I’m planning to ditch you the second your daughter’s on that plane.”

Chris laughs, the sound light and genuine. “Ruthless.”

You lean in a little, mock-whispering, “You better hope you’re still viral by tomorrow. Sympathy’s on a timer.”

Everyone chuckles again, but the moment softens between the cracks of laughter. Chris looks at his daughter—his newlywed daughter—and then at you, still wearing the faint shimmer of the wedding makeup, still hosting him like it’s no burden at all, and he feels the quiet weight of gratitude anchor somewhere deep in his chest.

Tigerlily glances at her phone, sighs gently, then looks over at Julian. He gives her a small nod, already reaching for their bags near the door. “That’s our cue,” she says, standing up and smoothing her dress. “We should head out before traffic gets crazy.”

Chris feels his chest tighten, even if he hides it with a casual shrug. “You sure you don’t want to delay it a day or two? Maybe wait until my other leg’s broken too?”

Tigerlily grins and walks over, bending slightly to give him a gentle hug around the shoulders. “No more falling, please.”

Julian comes around to shake Chris’s hand, firm and respectful. “We’ll call once we land.”

“Or don’t,” Chris says. “Go have your fun. You’ve earned it.”

Tigerlily turns to you next, wrapping her arms around you in a long, lingering hug. “Thanks again—for everything. And for letting Dad stay.”

You smile and squeeze her tightly. “Just enjoy your honeymoon. Your dad’s already threatening to take over the guest room forever.”

“Then you can start charging him rent,” Tigerlily jokes, pulling back. She turns to Riley next, who gives her a hug that’s more of a shoulder bump, the kind that says she’s too cool for sentiment but still means it. “Take care of them for me, okay?”

Riley nods solemnly. “I’ll keep him from trying to somersault in the living room.”

“Hey!” Chris hisses in protest and followed by more laughter. The good kind.

Then, after one more round of hugs and kisses, Tigerlily and Julian are out the door, dragging their suitcases down the porch steps. You and Chris watch from the entryway, standing side by side in silence as they wave one last time before disappearing into the car.

Chris lets out a quiet breath, his voice softer than before. “She is someone’s wife now.”

You glance at him, lips curling gently. “Yeah. She is.”

He leans a little on his crutch. “God, I’m old.”

You chuckle. “You’re not old. Just broken.”

He grins at that, and the two of you step back inside, closing the door behind you.

Later after dinner, the house is quiet in that peaceful, lived-in way. The clatter of dishes has faded, replaced by the soft hum of conversation and the occasional laugh echoing from the kitchen. Riley’s been helping dry the plates while you rinse them, the two of you slipping into an easy rhythm that makes Chris feel like something out of a memory.

Once the last dish is tucked away, Riley leans against the counter, drying her hands on a towel. “Hey, Dad,” she says casually—too casually. “Can I go hang out with Maude for a bit?”

Chris immediately frowns. “Aren't you flying home tomorrow?”

“C’mon,” she groans. “It’s not like I’m leaving tonight.”

“She has a point,” you say, stepping in beside her, your elbow brushing his. “She’s packed and everything. Let her enjoy the town with her friend.”

Chris looks between the two of you, instantly outnumbered. Riley with her pleading eyes. You with that soft, knowing look that says you already know he’s going to cave. He exhales. “Fine. But—”

“Since she’s staying at my house,” you cut in with a smirk, “she has to follow my rules.”

Riley straightens, hopeful as you turn to face her. “Home by ten,” you say.

Riley immediately groans, “Ten? Come on.”

Chris crosses his arms, backing you up. “Ten’s fair.”

Riley’s already scheming. “Eleven?”

You tilt your head. “Ten-thirty.”

And she grins, victorious. “Deal.”

She steps forward to give Chris a quick hug. “Thanks, Dad.”

Then she leans in and gives you one, just as quick, before darting out of the kitchen and up the stairs to get changed. Chris turns slowly toward you, brow raised. “You’re spoiling her.”

You only smile at him, utterly unapologetic. “Don’t act like you haven’t done the same with Tigerlily.”

Done with tidying up the kitchen, you help ease Chris down onto the sofa, one hand supporting his arm while the other steadies his casted leg as he shifts with a wince. The cushions swallow him up in familiar softness, and he exhales a long breath through his nose.

“I feel bad,” he mutters, adjusting the blanket you toss over his lap. “Making you take care of me like this.”

You shake your head, brushing him off with a wave of your hand. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’d do the same for me.”

Chris watches you for a moment, quietly grateful, quietly thinking. Then, with a little more caution, he says, “Is your boyfriend okay with me staying here?”

You glance at him, one brow lifting. “You mean Hyunjin?”

Chris nods, and his expression twists in confusion. “Remind me again—what does he do?”

You chuckle softly as you reach for the mug on the coffee table and hand it to him. “He’s a pottery artist. And yes, he’s fine with it. He gets it. He’s busy prepping for his next exhibition anyway.”

Chris sips from the mug and hums thoughtfully, then side-eyes you. “So… how far are you two?”

You shoot him a dry look. “We’re taking it slow.”

He nods, accepting that. “Good. I like seeing you happy.”

That makes you shyly smile. “And I like seeing you in pain.”

Chris groans, dropping his head back against the cushion. “When will people stop teasing me about this?”

You laugh, rising from your seat. “When it stops being funny.”

He watches you walk toward the hallway. “Where are you going now?”

“To get your meds,” you call over your shoulder. “So you’ll heal faster and be out of my hair sooner.”

Chris chuckles, sinking deeper into the cushions. “Brutal,” he murmurs to himself, but there’s no mistaking the warmth tugging at the corners of his mouth.

It takes a little while, but with your help, Chris eventually makes it to the guest bedroom—the one with the soft blue sheets and the window that catches the morning light just right. You move slowly with him, patient as ever, guiding him as he hobbles in on crutches, then helping him sit, then lie back, careful not to jostle his cast.

You fuss with the blanket, tucking it around him like he's not a grown man but someone still worthy of being taken care of. It makes something ache in his chest—something soft and unfamiliar.

Chris watches you adjust the pillow beneath his head. “Hey, can you check on Riley for me?” he asks quietly.

You smile as you sit at the edge of the bed. “I called Maude. She and Riley are already on their way home. She’s fine, Chris. You don’t need to worry.”

“I’m her dad,” he says, voice dry. “Worrying’s kind of the gig.”

You reach out and briefly brush his hair from his forehead in the same way you used to when he’d stay over during tours and couldn’t sleep. “I’ll worry enough for the both of us. You just sleep.”

He nods, the heaviness of the day settling into his bones now that the adrenaline is gone. You rise from the bed and head for the door.

“Goodnight, Chris,” you say gently, your silhouette framed in the soft glow from the hallway.

“Night,” he murmurs.

The door clicks softly shut, and the room falls into a comforting dimness. Outside, he can faintly hear the wind brushing past the window, and somewhere further off, maybe Tigerlily’s laugh as the front door creaks open.

For the first time in what feels like forever, Chris exhales and feels the tension ease from his chest. He’s not on tour, he’s not chasing time—he’s home, or something close to it. And for the first time in a long time, he feels at ease.

The morning light is soft, filtering through the pale curtains of Tigerlily’s old room. You gently push the door open and find Riley sitting cross-legged on the bed, her open suitcase in front of her, carefully folding clothes with a quiet focus. Her hair is a little messy from sleep, and the room still smells faintly of the floral shampoo she used the night before.

From the doorway, you clear your throat. “Hey, Riley bear. I think you're forgetting something,” you say, holding up the pastel slip dress she wore to the rehearsal dinner, draped gently over your arm.

Riley looks up, her eyes wide. “Wait—is that...?” She scrambles to her feet and gasps. “Are you giving me the dress?”

You nod, smiling. “It’s yours now.”

She beams as she takes it from you with reverent hands, smoothing out the fabric like it’s something sacred. “Thank you so much,” she says softly, folding it carefully and placing it into her suitcase.

You cross the room and sit on the edge of the bed. “Your dad called your mom and she’ll pick you up at the airport.”

Riley nods without looking up, adjusting something in her bag. “Is Dad going to be okay?”

You glance toward the window, your thoughts momentarily drifting to Chris snoring softly on the couch with his leg propped up on a mountain of pillows. “Of course. Don’t worry about him—just focus on your school, okay?”

She pauses and then glances at you with a knowing smile. “I’m not worried,” she says. “You’re taking care of him.”

You grin and slightly roll your eyes. “Obviously. I’m a world-class babysitter.”

She laughs at that, a bright, clear sound, and you pat the space next to you on the bed. Riley plops down beside you, and you drape an arm around her shoulders, pulling her in close.

“You can come here whenever you want, you know,” you tell her. “You can borrow more dresses—or hang out. If you don’t mind hanging out with an old lady like me.”

Riley leans her head against your shoulder. “You’re not that old,” she says. “And you’re cool.”

You gasp dramatically. “Coming from you? That’s a high honor.”

The two of you burst into laughter, and the sound fills the room—warm, bright, and easy.

Later that afternoon, you sit behind the wheel, hands resting loosely on the steering wheel as the engine hums softly. From the driver’s seat, you watch through the windshield as Chris leans against his crutches on the front porch. Riley stands in front of him, her bag already tucked in the trunk, her hoodie sleeves pulled down over her hands. They’re saying goodbye.

Chris wraps one arm around her in a hug, pulling her in with a gentleness that always catches you off guard. He leans his head down, murmurs something into her ear that makes her laugh through a tearful smile, and then he presses a kiss to her temple—tender, lingering.

And just like that, you’re back in time. A younger Chris, crouched down by the sidewalk with little Tigerlily in his arms. Her pigtails bouncing, her cheeks sticky from popsicle syrup, her tiny arms thrown around his neck. He’d done the same thing then—held her close, kissed her on the temple, whispered a promise into her ear before sending her off with you.

Now here he is, older, slower, but still her father. And Riley—well, she knows she's not his only daughter, but there’s something in the way she leans into him like she knows she can rely her life on him and that's special. Precious.

You glance away, giving them a private moment. A beat later, Riley climbs into the passenger seat beside you, her eyes a little glassy but her smile firm.

“All good?” you ask softly.

She nods. “Yeah.”

In the rearview mirror, you catch a final glimpse of Chris waving, his expression unreadable, before you pull away from the curb. As you drive toward the airport, Riley leans her head against the window, and you feel something settle quietly in your chest—warm and bittersweet. Some goodbyes never get easier.

From his spot on the living room sofa, Chris watches the way you move in the kitchen—fluid, relaxed, a wooden spoon in one hand, a faint hum in your throat as the scent of garlic and something rich fills the air. There's something quietly mesmerizing about the scene, the domesticity of it, the warmth.

“Need help with anything?” he asks, shifting his casted leg slightly on the ottoman.

You glance over your shoulder and smile, that soft kind of smile that’s always caught him off guard. “Yeah, you can sit there and look pretty. Maybe put on something good for me to cook to?”

Chris snorts. “So I’m the house DJ now?”

“That, and the broken mascot,” you tease.

He laughs, grabbing his phone and flipping through a playlist. “Alright. Your soundtrack is ready.”

A mellow tune begins to play—something old, probably something from the Bang Theory days because you’ve always had a thing for nostalgia—and you give a little sway of your hips as you stir the pot. Chris chuckles under his breath. “You always dance when you cook?”

“Only when I have a pretty audience,” you toss back, not even looking at him.

“Flatterer.”

You smirk, but before you can reply, the doorbell rings, cutting through the moment. You set the spoon down and wipe your hands on a towel before heading toward the door.

Chris stays put, listening. He hears the quiet murmur of exchanged greetings, too muffled to catch the words. Then footsteps—two sets—approaching.

You return a few moments later, and this time, you’re not alone. Behind you is Hyunjin, tall and graceful as ever, a fruit basket cradled in one arm and a polite smile on his face. Chris sits up straighter instinctively, caught a little off-guard by the sudden shift in the energy.

“Hey,” Hyunjin says with easy warmth. “Thought I’d drop by. Brought this for you.”

Hyunjin holds out the basket toward Chris and he manages a smile, nodding at the gesture. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

“No problem,” Hyunjin replies, settling into the space like he belongs there.

And maybe, Chris thinks, watching the way you smile at Hyunjin as you gently nudge the door closed, maybe he does.

Dinner is simple but delicious—roasted chicken, potatoes, something green that Chris can’t name but eats anyway because it tastes good and you cooked it. The three of you sit around the dining table, the evening soft and mellow, the lighting warm enough to make the moment feel like it’s been pulled from a memory he hasn’t made yet.

“So there was this one time,” Chris says, leaning back in his chair, “we were playing a festival in Brazil—middle of a thunderstorm, the power cuts out mid-song, and our drummer thinks, ‘This is the perfect time for a solo.’” He grins. “Dude went wild. People thought it was part of the act.”

You chuckle, eyes crinkling. “That actually sounds kind of iconic.”

“Oh, it was. We got soaked, the whole stage nearly collapsed, and we ended the night with someone handing us a baby monkey like it was a trophy.”

Hyunjin laughs—open and genuine, the kind of laugh Chris respects. “That’s a hell of a story. I feel like I’m not living enough.”

Chris raises his glass. “You’re dating her. That’s living dangerously.”

You roll your eyes as you reach over to steal a bite of Hyunjin’s salad like it’s the most natural thing, and Hyunjin just slides the bowl closer to you without a word, like he already expected you to do that.

Chris watches it all unfold—your subtle smiles, the way Hyunjin’s hand rests lightly on the back of your chair, your legs brushing beneath the table. It's not dramatic or flashy. It's quiet affection, the kind that speaks volumes without a single word.

You’ve always been soft with the people you love, but it’s been a long time since he’s seen you like this—content, calm, at ease. And even though there’s a dull ache in his leg and maybe a sharper one in his chest he doesn’t want to name, Chris finds himself smiling too.

Chris is in rare form tonight—witty, nosy, and clearly trying to establish dominance from the corner of the living room where he's lounging like some kind of injured rockstar king. You knew the moment Hyunjin walked through the door with that fruit basket that Chris was going to put him through something resembling a war trial masked as small talk and he doesn’t disappoint. You’re curled up next to Hyunjin on the couch, sipping tea when Chris starts his ambush.

“So, Hyunjin,” Chris says, swirling his water like it’s wine. “What are your intentions with our dear girl here?”

You groan. “Chris…”

But Hyunjin just smiles, unfazed. “Good ones,” he replies easily.

Chris narrows his eyes. “Define good.”

“Chris!” you scold, half-laughing, half-mortified.

Hyunjin glances at you with an amused glint in his eyes. “I mean that I care about her. I think she's incredible. I respect her. I’m not here to mess around.”

Chris pretends to be unimpressed, asking question after ridiculous question—about changing tires, knowing your coffee order, and even how he handles power tools. It’s ridiculous. But what surprises you the most is how calm Hyunjin stays. Charming, even. He doesn’t squirm. He doesn't falter. And he answers everything with a kind of quiet grace that makes your heart clench.

“You pay attention,” you murmur, impressed.

Hyunjin offers you a small smile. “Always.”

Chris blinks. You swear, for a second, even he’s impressed. Though of course, he hides it behind a grumble. “Barely passed.”

“Chris, you're scaring him away,” you say, nudging Chris’s foot with yours.

Chris shrugs. “Good. If he scares easy, he’s not worth it.”

Hyunjin laughs. “I’m not scared.”

Chris studies him again, then leans back with a groan, giving his approval in the most Chris-like way—by pretending to be annoyed. “Alright. Interrogation’s over. You can breathe again.”

You roll your eyes and grin, settling back against Hyunjin as the conversation shifts into easy territory—stories from Chris’s band days, the kind that are so ridiculous they don’t even sound real, and you’re not sure how much is fact and how much is filtered through nostalgia.

Still, the atmosphere is soft. Comfortable. Hyunjin’s arm is warm around you, his fingers gently tracing patterns on your arm. And Chris—even with his broken leg and sarcasm—is clearly enjoying the company.

It feels like something real. Something warm and human and a little chaotic in the best way. And when Hyunjin calls it that he's overstaying his visit, you let out a sigh of relief. Relieved because you can finally get Hyunjin away from Chris and the side effects of the painkillers he's taking.

Hyunjin slips his shoes on slowly, like he’s stalling—like he’s not quite ready to go yet. “Thanks for dinner,” he says, looking at you with that sweet, sleepy glint in his eyes. His voice is low, a little rough, like the night settled into his throat.

You smile at him, soft and warm. “You can thank me for it in another way.”

His brows lift, but the smirk that follows is immediate. He knows exactly what you mean. Without another word, Hyunjin steps closer, arms circling around your waist, drawing you to him until your bodies are pressed together. He leans in and kisses you—hard, deep, like he’s been holding it in all night. It’s the kind of kiss that leaves you breathless, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket.

When he pulls away, his voice is a murmur against your lips. “I missed you.”

You cup his cheek, brushing your thumb along his skin before kissing him back—this time slower, but just as full of everything you haven’t said out loud. “I missed you too.”

He doesn’t let go. His hands stay firm on your back, and you don’t try to move either. You just lean into the warmth of him for a second longer, until he breaks the silence again.

“Can I take you out this Friday night?” he pauses for a second, his eyes glint mischievously. “Or do I have to ask Chris’s permission first?”

You snort, lightly swatting his chest. “No, but I’d like to know what I’m getting myself into. I need to know what to wear.”

He only leans in, brushing a kiss against your lips. “Can’t tell you that. It’s a surprise.”

You roll your eyes at him, but it’s fond. “Fine,” you say, already knowing you’d say yes anyway. “I’ll go.”

And then he kisses you again—deeper, harder, with more heat and just enough tongue that when he finally pulls away, you’re gasping softly, blinking up at him.

“Goodnight,” Hyunjin says innocently, but his smirk gives him away as he slowly backs toward his car.

“Goodnight,” you manage, a little dazed as you wave, watching him drive off into the night.

Your lips still tingle from the kiss, and there’s a flutter in your chest that doesn’t quite settle even after the taillights disappear. Friday can’t come soon enough.

The water is warm, and for a little while, Chris almost forgets about the ridiculous cast on his leg, sticking out over the edge of the tub like some awkward decoration. He leans back, arms stretched along the sides, eyes closed, letting the steam ease the tension in his shoulders. Getting into the bath wasn’t easy, but he managed. Getting out, though… that’s a different story.

He stares at the edge of the tub, doing the math in his head. No grip, no proper leverage, one working leg. He shifts, trying to maneuver his body upright, and winces. Nope. Not happening.

“This is so stupid,” he mutters under his breath.

A minute passes. Two. His pride holds the line for as long as it can before it finally caves. “Hey!” he calls out, voice echoing slightly in the bathroom. “Can I get a little help in here?”

Footsteps approach. The door creaks open and you peek your head in. “Everything okay?”

Chris sighs, shoulders slumping. “I, uh… didn’t really think through the getting out part.”

You suppress a laugh as you walk in, crossing your arms. “Are you seriously embarrassed I might see you naked?”

He lifts an eyebrow. “You used to scold me for walking around the house shirtless. ‘Put a top on, Christopher, there’s a child in this house!’ Sound familiar?”

You smirk and hold out your hand. “Come on. Let’s get you out before you prune.”

He takes your hand, the other gripping the edge of the tub. With a grunt, he lifts himself—but pushes too hard. His wet body stumbles forward, crashing into yours. Water drips onto your dress as he presses against you for balance. “Shit—sorry,” he says quickly.

You snort at the way he holds you so tightly as he steadies himself. “Just stay hold on to me as I grab a towel for you, okay?”

He obeys, clinging to you as you reach for the shelf and grab a clean towel from the top of the stack. Once you get it, Chris slowly pulls back while grabbing the towel you shove at him.

You step away, but not before he sees it: your dress, soaked and clinging to you, almost transparent. His eyes widen and he quickly looks anywhere else. “I didn’t mean to—” he starts.

“It’s fine,” you cut him off, grabbing another towel for yourself. “Not the first time I’ve ended up wet because of you.”

Chris lets out a surprised laugh, choking on it halfway through. “Wow. Okay.”

You glance at him as you towel off. “Need help with anything else?”

He grins. “Well, if you’re offering… can you dress me too?”

Your towel lands on his chest with a thud. “Don’t get too comfortable, rockstar.”

You’re already walking out as he starts laughing, water still dripping from his hair. And even though he’s half-naked and slightly humiliated, he’s smiling.

Freshly dressed, Chris walks out of the bedroom, the soft thump of his crutch echoing down the hallway. He makes his way to the kitchen, and when he gets there, he pauses. On the dining table is a single plate, carefully prepared and still warm. Just one. He furrows his brows, glancing around. “Hey, why’s there only dinner for one?”

He fills a glass of water from the sink, and just as he takes a sip, he hears the sound of your footsteps descending the stairs. He turns toward the sound—and stops. You appear at the base of the stairs, dressed in a black dress, your hair swept up to show the curve of your neck. There's a light touch of makeup on your face, your lips painted a vivid shade of red. You look… radiant.

“Forgot to tell you I’m going out with Hyunjin tonight,” you say, adjusting the strap of your purse on your shoulder.

Chris stares for a second too long before blinking and offering a small, stunned smile. “Whoa. You look… incredible.”

A soft blush colors your cheeks as you give him a flustered laugh. “Thanks. And I’ll probably be home late, so don’t wait up.”

Chris nods, pushing down the little twist in his chest. “Have fun. Don’t worry about me.”

You’re already halfway to the door when you turn and smirk at him. “I’m not worrying. Not after you tried to stage dive at your age.”

Chris groans with a laugh. “I’ll never live that down, huh?”

You shake your head, heading for the door when he calls out, “Hey—wait.”

You pause, turning on your heel to face him.

“You should wear your hair down,” he says, his voice softer now, sincere.

You blink, confused for a moment, but slowly reach up, pulling out the pins and ties holding your hair up. It falls over your shoulders in gentle waves.

Chris smiles, the kind that reaches his eyes and lingers for a beat too long. “You’re more beautiful with your hair down.”

Your gaze lingers on his for a second, touched. “Thanks, Chris.”

He nods, and you quietly slip out the door. Just before it clicks shut, your voice drifts back in. “Goodnight.”

Chris stands in the kitchen, the soft echoes of your heels fading away down the path.

“Goodnight,” he says, but you’re already gone and suddenly, the room feels a lot quieter without you.

The restaurant is quiet, tucked away behind ivy-covered walls and glowing lanterns, the kind of place you’d only know about if someone had whispered it to you like a secret. The lighting is soft and golden, and your heels click softly against the floor as you settle into your seat across from Hyunjin. He looks good tonight—black button-down rolled at the sleeves, a silver chain catching the low light. His buzzed hair has grown longer and you like the way his eyes soften when they land on you.

You’re halfway unfolding your napkin when he leans forward, a quiet smile tugging at his lips. “Did Chris say anything about you going out tonight?”

You snort, reaching for your water. “What, do you think he’d ground me or something?”

Hyunjin shrugs, casual, but you catch the glint of something teasing in his eyes. “He lives with you. I just don’t want to get between the retired rockstar and his… babysitter.”

You roll your eyes, biting back a grin. “Chris is fine. He’s got a warm meal, his pain meds, and his laptop. He’ll live.”

“Which means,” Hyunjin murmurs, his voice dipping a little lower, “you’re all mine tonight?”

You arch a brow, leaning forward so your elbows rest against the table. “Aren’t I always yours?”

That makes his gaze darken just enough, his posture shifting ever so slightly before he mirrors your movement, leaning in until your faces are only inches apart. His lips meet yours in a kiss that’s warm and slow at first—but deepens fast. The kind of kiss that curls heat low in your belly, that makes you forget, for a moment, that you're in public.

When you finally pull away, slightly breathless, you catch the smudge of your lipstick staining the corner of his mouth and laugh under your breath as you reach for a napkin. “Hold still, potter boy,” you murmur while dabbing at his lips. “Can’t have you looking like you just made out with this old lady.”

Hyunjin grins, tilting his face toward your touch. “Which in my defense only makes it hotter.”

The taste of rosemary and lemon still lingering on your tongue from the appetizer as you swirl your glass of red wine, catching the way Hyunjin’s eyes fixed on you like you’re the most interesting thing in the room. “You’re being very mysterious tonight.”

Hyunjin raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Am I?”

You nod, leaning forward just a little. “You said this wasn’t the only stop tonight. Are you going to tell me where we’re going, or do I have to keep guessing?”

He chuckles softly, setting his glass down. “Depends. What’s your guess?”

You tap a finger against your lips thoughtfully, eyes narrowing in mock concentration. “It’s either something very artsy, like a pop-up gallery you’re secretly featured in… or something romantic, like a rooftop somewhere with fairy lights and dessert.”

“Both interesting guesses,” he says, his smile growing. “But no.”

You squint. “Okay, now I’m even more curious.”

Hyunjin leans in across the table, his voice low, playful. “I’ll tell you this much—it’s something I’ve been wanting to do with you for a while.”

Your heart flutters a little at that. “That’s vague. And mildly dangerous.”

He laughs again, then reaches for your hand, brushing his thumb gently over your knuckles. “You’ll like it. I promise.”

You glance down at your joined hands, then back up at him, letting a soft smile tug at your lips. “I already like this.”

And you mean it. Whatever he’s planned, wherever the night goes, it’s already perfect—because he’s here, looking at you like that.

Hyunjin parks the car behind a nondescript building, the kind of place that looks more like a storage warehouse than a destination for a Friday night. You glance around as he cuts the engine, confusion twisting your brows. There’s no sign, no line of people, nothing to give it away. Just a dim back alley and the sound of distant city life.

Before you can ask, Hyunjin shrugs off his jacket and gets out, circling around to your side. He opens the passenger door for you with that easy charm, his hand already extended for yours.

You take it, stepping out in your heels, eyeing him with growing curiosity. “Okay,” you start, suspicious, “are you finally going to tell me where you’re taking me?”

But Hyunjin just grins, lips twitching as he leans in close. “Trust me,” he says, voice warm, “just come with me.”

So you do as he leads you through a side door tucked into the wall of the building. The hallway inside is narrow and dimly lit, almost like a service entrance. Every step you take makes the mystery grow thicker. “You know this is the kind of hallway where people get murdered in thrillers, right?” you mutter.

Hyunjin only chuckles and squeezes your hand. The further you walk, the louder the music becomes—low, thumping, vibrating faintly through the floors and walls. You exchange a glance with him, eyebrows raised, but he still gives nothing away. Just that quiet smile. Then you push through a final door, and suddenly you’re hit with the dim light and pulsing energy of a crowded venue. You blink, your eyes adjusting to the haze and strobes overhead, taking in the press of bodies all facing one direction. A stage sits under soft red lights, still empty—but the crowd’s buzzing. Waiting.

Hyunjin wraps an arm around your waist, guiding you through the crowd until you find a decent spot near the side of the room. You’re about to ask what this place is—what kind of event this even is—when the cheers erupt. You snap your head toward the stage. One by one, people step into view: guitarists, a drummer, a keyboardist. And then—her.

It takes you a second to believe your eyes. She’s changed, older now, but unmistakable—her. Your favorite singer. The former lead vocalist of the band you practically worshipped as a teenager. The one whose songs you screamed into your pillow and played on repeat during every heartbreak. She steps up to the mic with a knowing smile and starts singing, her voice carrying years of history and grit and something raw that punches you right in the chest. You whip your head around, mouth parting as you stare at Hyunjin in disbelief. He’s already watching you, smiling like he’s been waiting for this moment.

“Are you serious right now?” you shout over the music, eyes wide.

He leans in, his mouth close to your ear. “You said you never got to see her live,” he says, like it’s nothing. “Thought it was about time you did.”

You don’t even realize you’ve grabbed his face until your hands are on his cheeks, kissing him hard in the middle of the crowd, your heart pounding like it’s synced to the bass.

He laughs into the kiss, then wraps his arms around you and sways with you to the music as your favorite song from years ago floods the room.

It doesn't take long to make you lose yourself in the music. The moment your favorite song spills from the speakers, something in you lights up. You’re dancing before you even realize it—arms swaying, hips moving, mouth shouting every lyric like it’s still 1994 and you’ve got posters on your wall and heartbreak in your chest.

And Hyunjin—God, Hyunjin—isn’t even pretending to watch the stage. He’s watching you. You can feel his gaze like a touch. Even in the shifting lights and the chaos of the crowd, you know he’s locked in on you, drinking you in like the music was just the opening act and you are the real show.

You spin around to face him mid-chorus, laughing breathlessly, and before he can say a word, you throw your arms around his neck and kiss him—fast, messy, a little off-center from all the movement, but so full of joy it makes your chest ache.

He laughs into the kiss, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other already sliding around your waist as the next song kicks in. It’s another one you love, and you turn in his arms, still moving with the beat, still singing at the top of your lungs as he pulls you close from behind.

Hyunjin sways with you, slow and lazy, despite the fast tempo of the music. He rests his chin on your shoulder, and you can feel the warmth of his smile against your skin as he holds you tighter and lets you scream every lyric like you’re sixteen again and nothing in the world hurts.

You’re not thinking about anything else—not Chris, not real life, not what tomorrow might bring. Just this moment. Just this music. Just Hyunjin, dancing with you under the haze of stage lights, letting you steal the spotlight without even trying.

The night air is cool against your flushed skin as you walk barefoot in Hyunjin’s shoes—your heels dangling from his hand while he strolls beside you in his black socks, not caring about it as long as you're walking comfortably next to him. You glance at him every now and then, both of you worn out but glowing, your fingers linked as you quietly head back toward the car. Your feet ache, your voice is raw from screaming lyrics, your cheeks hurt from smiling too much—and still, you feel like you’re floating.

Hyunjin breaks the silence first, voice low and soft, “Are you happy?”

You nod right away, not even needing to think. “I’m really happy,” you say, exhaling the words like a warm breath in winter. “Like… stupidly happy.”

His mouth curls into that sweet smile of his, the one that always melts you. “Then I’m happy too.”

You clutch his arm tighter and lean up to kiss the corner of his mouth, quick and playful, and he chuckles, the sound rich and fond, watching you like you’re his whole world wrapped in a black dress and someone else’s shoes.

When you reach the car, Hyunjin opens the door for you like he always does—gentle, thoughtful—but just as you’re about to get in, he asks, “Ready to go home?”

You stop and look up at him, something new sparking in your eyes. “I don’t want to go home,” you murmur.

Hyunjin blinks, brows lifting slightly. You pause, then add, with a soft, shy smile tugging at your lips, “I want to spend the night at my boyfriend’s place.”

His face warms instantly, that surprised grin spreading across it like sunlight. And before he can say a word, you lean in and kiss him again—slow, sure, a little deeper this time—like you’ve made your decision and now all that’s left is to feel the way he kisses you back, like he’s been waiting for you to say those exact words all night.

The two of you pushing through the door to Hyunjin’s apartment, tangled up in each other—lips crashing, breaths quick and heated. You're both laughing in between kisses, fumbling with shoes and jackets and anything that dares to be in the way. His keys clatter somewhere to the floor, forgotten.

Hyunjin backs you into the wall, his hands firm on your waist as his mouth finds yours again—this time slower, deeper, like he’s been holding this in all night and he’s finally letting go. His body presses into yours, solid and warm, and your hands slip under the hem of his shirt just to feel more of him, to anchor yourself to the heat of his skin. You gasp against his mouth when his fingers trail up your sides, drawing your body flush with his. Your leg hooks around his hip instinctively, keeping him close, needing him close.

He pulls away just enough to look at you, eyes dark and heavy with want, his lips swollen and parted like he’s struggling to catch his breath. “I don’t think I'd be able to stop,” he murmurs, voice rough.

You smile, playful and breathless. “Then don’t fight it.”

And he doesn’t. He kisses you again, this time deeper, more desperate. The world fades—just skin and sighs and the electric buzz between you. It's not rushed, but there's urgency, like you're both afraid the night might slip away if you don't hold it tight enough.

Hyunjin lifts you, carrying you through the low-lit apartment with ease, like he already knows exactly where he wants you, and your fingers find the back of his neck, holding on as your laughter melts into another kiss, dizzy and all-consuming. Next thing you know, you feel the cool press of the dining table beneath you as he sets you down on the edge, his lips never far from yours. The kiss deepens—hotter, heavier—and his hands grip your hips like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you.

“The way you looked tonight oh...” he murmurs against your mouth, each word laced with heat. “I couldn’t stop thinking about all the things I want to do to you.”

You let out a soft, teasing laugh, lips brushing his. “What things?” you ask, already knowing, already craving.

“Sinful things,” he whispers, and his smirk sends a shiver down your spine.

That makes you giggle, and you kiss him again—hard, greedy—playfully tugging his bottom lip between your teeth before letting it go with a soft pop. He groans at that, low and throaty, before grabbing your legs and wrapping them around his waist, pulling you flush against him. The kiss turns messier, hungrier. Your fingers tangle in his hair, his hands roaming your sides, your back—like he can’t get enough. You’re both breathless, laughing in between the gasps, and yet neither of you want to stop. The tension between you crackles like fire.

Hyunjin rocks against you slowly, his hips pressing into your heating core with just enough friction to make your breath catch. Your foreheads pressed together, looking into each other’s eyes—and it’s there, clear as day. Want. Need. The palpable desire.

“I want it,” you whisper, voice barely there.

His eyes search yours, heat smoldering in the way he asks, “Here?”

You nod, lips brushing his. “I feel like doing something reckless tonight.”

That’s all it takes for his mouth to crash into yours again, urgent and wild, as the world narrows to just the two of you. Your hands fumble impatiently at Hyunjin’s waistband, tugging at his slacks like you can’t bear to wait another second. He lets out a breathy laugh, helping you get them down just enough before his hands find the hem of your dress. With practiced ease, his fingers slip beneath the fabric, hooking onto the elastic band of your underwear. In one smooth motion, he pulls them down your legs, his eyes locked onto yours the entire time. The hem of your dress bunches up around your waist as he parts your legs, spreading you open before him—and the way his eyes darken, the way his lips part like he’s forgetting how to breathe, tells you everything. He's practically salivating at the sight of your throbbing cunt but something holds him back.

“What are you waiting for, mmh?” you whisper, your voice low and filled with desire.

Hyunjin hesitates, brushing his thumb gently against your thigh. “Is it okay… to do it without protection?”

You smile at that, your hand sliding down to wrap gently around his cock, hot and pulsating in your palm. He twitches in your grasp, his breath hitching as you slowly stroke him.

“I want to feel all of you tonight,” you say, kissing the hollow of his throat, your lips lingering there. Then, in a sultry whisper, “Don’t you want to feel all of me too?”

The look in his eyes is molten—his restraint slipping fast. You guide him to you, the heat between your bodies coiling tighter with every breath, every second. As you align him at your entrance and put just the tip inside you, letting him to do the rest. It takes a second until he finally caves, groaning softly as he pushes the remaining length into you, slow and deep, until he’s buried to the hilt. Your head falls back, his name a whisper on your lips and from there, there’s no stopping either of you—only the rhythm you fall into, lost in the feeling of being completely, recklessly consumed.

Hyunjin moves with desperate need, his hips driving into you with a hard, steady rhythm that steals the breath from your lungs. Your lips stay tangled in a messy, open-mouthed kiss—teeth grazing, tongues colliding, moans swallowed into each other as you cling to him like you’ll unravel without the anchor of his body against yours. You shift against him, angling just right so he hits that perfect spot deep inside you, again and again. Your moans rise with each thrust, echoing through the apartment, shameless and sweet and full of heat.

He grips you tighter, one arm around your waist, the other braced on the table to keep you steady as he drives into you with everything he has. The world feels far away—there’s only him, only you, only this fire burning between your bodies.

It's raw, it's messy. It's this pure, primal need for each other that brings the two of you to your highs, crashing over both of you fast and hard. You fall apart together, your back arching as you cry out his name, and Hyunjin’s grip turns bruising for a moment as he gasps against your neck. He barely manages to pull out just in time, and you both glance down at the mess he leaves on your thighs—warm, pearly white sheen of his seed painted your skin, undeniable evidence of how far gone the two of you were. You look back up at him, breathless and flushed, and the grin on your face matches the one tugging at his lips—satisfied, dazed, and completely smitten.

Hyunjin leans in, still breathless, and presses a slow, lingering kiss to your lips. “That was so hot,” he murmurs between kisses, his voice low and a little dazed.

He kisses you again, deeper this time, like he’s still not ready to let go of the moment. Then, with a teasing grin, he pulls back just enough to whisper, “I’m never going to be able to eat at this table without thinking about this.”

You laugh, nudging your nose against his. “Is that a complaint?”

“Not at all,” he says, his hands tightening around your waist before crashing his lips onto yours again, a little more desperate, a little more possessive.

When you finally pull back, your lips still tingling, you glance over his shoulder and eye the living room sofa. You arch a brow and say with a playful gleam in your eyes, “I just had a new idea where we can do it next.”

Hyunjin follows your gaze, then looks back at you with a slow, wicked smile that tells you he’s more than on board. You slide off the edge of the dining table, your legs still a little shaky, and pull Hyunjin in for another heated kiss. As your lips move against his, you begin walking him backward—slow, careful steps until the backs of his knees hit the edge of the sofa. With a playful smirk, you give him a gentle push and he drops onto the cushions with a surprised laugh, eyes wide and dark with anticipation. He barely has time to react before you're kneeling between his legs, your hands gliding up his thighs as you part them. Your smile turns sly, eyes twinkling with something mischievous as you reach for the front of his slacks.

“You're really not going to catch a break tonight,” you murmur, fingers already undoing his fly.

Hyunjin lets out a breathy laugh, his gaze locked on yours, heavy and full of want. You pull his cock free, your hand wrapping around him with a slow, teasing stroke that makes his breath hitch. You lean in close, your lips ghosting over the crest of his cock, not touching—just letting your warm breath tease him as your hand continues its lazy rhythm. His fingers tighten on the sofa cushions, and the way he looks at you—like he’s completely undone—only makes your grin widen. You glance up at him, lips brushing against the length of his shaft just enough to drive him mad.

“I want you to think of this whenever you sit on this sofa,” you whisper, voice low and sultry.

Your smile deepens as you lower your gaze, your fingers tightening just slightly around him. Hyunjin’s breath catches—his chest rising and falling a little faster now, his hands twitching like he doesn’t know whether to touch you or just watch. You lean in, placing a slow, teasing kiss on his abdomen first—just to tease—and then another, lower and closer to where he wants you this time. The tension in his body winds tighter with every second, and when you finally press your lips against his tip, his head tips back against the sofa with a soft, shaky groan.

You take your time, putting his length into you little by little, savoring every inch of him and at the same time, drawing a shudder out of him. Hyunjin’s hand finds the back of your head, not guiding—just resting, like he needs the anchor. You hum softly, letting him feel it, the feel of your mouth and how it's vibrating around him, and he mutters your name like it’s the only word he knows.

Every now and then, you glance up at him, locking eyes just long enough to watch him fall apart—his lips parted, his brows furrowed in disbelief at how good it feels. You know exactly what you're doing, and the satisfied curl of your mouth says it all.

Your lips curve around him with practiced ease, the slow rhythm you keep making Hyunjin melt deeper into the cushions beneath him. He’s breathing heavy now—chest rising and falling fast, hands gripping the sofa like he’s trying to ground himself, but it’s your name he whispers like a prayer. Then his fingers tangle in your hair—firm, maybe a little too much, but it tells you just how close he is. “Baby,” he gasps, voice ragged. “Wait—stop, please…”

You pull back, slow and teasing, your lips still curled in that wicked little smile. You look up at him, chest heaving, eyes dark and dazed, and swipe your tongue across your lower lip just to mess with him. “Too much?” you ask sweetly.

Hyunjin groans, swiping his thumb gently over your mouth, wiping away the last trace of your affection. “You’re too good at that,” he breathes, eyes flickering over your face. “I almost—God, I was so close.”

You tilt your head, playful. “So? What’s stopping you?”

He laughs, low and breathless, brushing the back of his fingers down your cheek. “Because,” he says, his voice rough with want, “I want you on my bed next.”

Your smile turns softer, more dangerous somehow, and you slowly rise to your feet, eyes locked on his. “Then what are we waiting for?” you murmur.

Hyunjin doesn’t say a word—he just sweeps you off your feet, literally, arms tucked beneath your back and knees as he carries you bridal style through the soft glow of the apartment. You giggle against his chest, your arms looped around his neck, heart fluttering with anticipation.

When he sets you down on the bed, it’s with a gentleness that contrasts the fire in his eyes. You sink into the plush bedding, propped up on your elbows as he straightens, standing at the foot of the bed. His eyes never leave yours as he slowly peels off his clothes—first his shirt, then his slacks—revealing skin and toned muscle, each movement deliberate, unrushed. You drink him in, quietly, your gaze tracing the lines of his arms, the dip of his waist, the way his chest rises and falls like he’s just as breathless as you are. Every inch of him, familiar yet thrilling, makes the knot in your stomach tighten with each passing second.

Hyunjin smirks when he catches the way your lips part slightly, your eyes trailing shamelessly. “You’re staring,” he teases softly, voice low and warm.

You bite back a smile. “Can you blame me?” you whisper. “You’re kind of… irresistible.”

His eyes darken just a little more at that, and as he climbs onto the bed, hovering over you, he murmurs, “Good. Because I only undress like this for you.”

Hyunjin hovers above you, his bare skin brushing against yours as his hands move with reverence, peeling away the last of what you’re wearing until you’re bare beneath him. The air shifts between you, warm and charged, and he pulls back just enough to take you in—his gaze drinking you in with quiet awe. His fingers trail gently over your curves, slow and deliberate, as if committing you to memory. “I want all of this,” he murmurs, voice thick with emotion, like the weight of what he feels is almost too much to say aloud.

You meet his eyes, your hand reaching to rest against his cheek. “It’s yours,” you whisper softly.

His breath catches. “All of this? Really mine?”

You nod, pulling him down to you. “Wholly. Completely. Yours.”

He doesn’t respond right away—not with words, at least. Instead, he lowers himself until your lips meet, and in that kiss, there’s nothing held back. Just the certainty of belonging, of devotion, of everything unspoken that now lingers between you.

The mattress dips under his weight as he turns you over until you lay on your stomach and then settles himself behind you, he's pulling you close until your bodies align perfectly. He uses his fingers to tease your already soaked cunt, running them between the folds and pushing two digits to milk more arousal out of you, getting you ready for what's coming next. You're unable to look but you know that he's using the tip of his cock now to tease your entrance, wetting it with your arousal before finally pushing it in, entering you and not holding back from whimpering at the overwhelming sensation of being wrapped in your warm, tight walls.

Hyunjin slowly lowers himself, his chest meeting your back, his breath is warm against the back of your neck, his fingers firm at your waist, and when he moves—slowly at first—it draws a quiet, desperate sound from deep in your throat.

The bed creaks beneath the rhythm he sets, steady and hard, just the way you asked for it. You grip the sheets and whisper his name between gasps, urging him on, asking for more. “Harder, Hyunjin, please, harder!”

And every time you do, Hyunjin answers—thrusting deeper, faster, his hand slipping under you to stroke at your clit with knowing fingers.

It doesn’t take long before you're unraveling again, your body trembling as the pleasure crashes over you. But even through your haze, you manage to breathe out, “Don’t stop.”

He holds you tighter, chest pressed to your back as he chases his own release. You feel the tension in him, the way his body coils tighter with every movement, and when you sense he's close, you hurriedly grab his arm and pull it across your front. Turning your head just enough to meet his eyes, you whisper, “Don’t pull out.”

His response is a kiss—deep, messy, filled with heat—and you both tumble over the edge together, your bodies stay tangled close as he spills into you, filling you with his seed with one hand gently rubbing at your abdomen. His plush lips brushes your ear as he mutters, “Yeah, take all of me, baby, it's all yours.”

In the next moment, the room turns quiet, the only sounds are the slow, steady breaths the two of you share in the afterglow. Hyunjin doesn’t let you go—not even for a second. He’s wrapped around you, arms firm yet gentle, as if he’s afraid you might slip away if he loosens his hold. His lips press against your shoulder, your jaw, the crown of your head, in soft, lingering kisses.

“Thank you,” he murmurs into your skin, voice hushed. “For tonight. For letting me meet the you from back then. The one who sang her heart out to her favorite band and danced like nothing else mattered.”

You smile lazily at that, eyes already growing heavy. “I think she’s back in her current version cause she feels so sleepy… It’s way past her bedtime,” you mumble with a teasing pout, nuzzling deeper into his chest.

Hyunjin lets out a soft chuckle, brushing your hair away from your face before kissing your temple. “Then I’ll make sure that she sleeps well and have the sweetest dream tonight.”

He presses one last sweet kiss to your lips. “Goodnight, angel.”

Your sleepy smile lingers as you whisper back, “Goodnight…”

As your breathing slows and your thoughts begin to blur, a soft wave of happiness washes over you—warm and weightless. You fall asleep feeling safe in his arms, your heart full, and a quiet joy humming in your chest… because tonight, you got to relive your teenage years. And you wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Slivers of sunlight spills gently through the curtains, painting soft golden streaks across the bed. You stir slightly, feeling the warmth of a body beside you before you even open your eyes. When you do, it’s to the sight of Hyunjin lying on his side, watching you with that quiet, tender gaze that makes your heart flutter. His fingers are gently brushing strands of hair away from your face, careful not to wake you—though you’re already awake, and the way his lips curve into a sleepy smile lets you know he’s noticed.

“Good morning, angel,” he whispers, pressing a soft kiss to your bare shoulder, the heat of it lingering on your skin.

You groan a little, half your face disappearing under the duvet. “Morning…” you mumble, voice still thick with sleep, self-conscious about your messy hair and morning breath.

Hyunjin chuckles softly and keeps stroking your hair, his fingers moving with a kind of reverence. “How’d you sleep?”

You peek at him through the edge of the duvet and smile. “Excellent. Like a teenage girl who just lived her dream.”

That earns you a grin. “I’m glad.” He pauses, eyes dancing. “So, what do you want for breakfast?”

You blink. “You’re cooking?”

He nods, brushing his knuckles down your cheek. “Of course. Why so surprised?”

Your smile grows wistful. “It’s been a long time since someone cooked me breakfast. A really long time…”

“Well,” he says, leaning in to nuzzle your nose, “that’s about to change.”

Your face lights up. “So I get to choose anything?”

“Anything,” he says, firm but playful. “After what you did last night? You deserve a five-star menu.”

At the mention of that, memories from last night flash in your mind—wild and sweet, messy and intimate—and your cheeks instantly heat. You cover your face again with the duvet, laughing quietly. “Don’t say it like that.”

He gently tugs the duvet back down so he can see your face. “Then tell me. What are you craving?”

You hum thoughtfully, then start listing things. “Pancakes. And eggs. A little fruit. Maybe hash browns? And coffee. Definitely coffee.”

“Coming right up,” he grins, cupping your jaw and brushing his thumb across your cheek. Then, with a lingering kiss to your lips—warm, unhurried—he slides out of bed. “Stay right here. Breakfast will be ready soon.”

You watch him head out, shirtless and tousled, your heart full and your soul wrapped in a kind of peace you haven’t felt in a long time. As he ordered, you stay lying on the bed, the sheets still warm from where Hyunjin had just been. The faint sound of him moving around in the kitchen drifts in from the other side of the apartment.

There’s a strange but comforting intimacy in it all, the kind you’ve only read about or seen in movies—the feeling of waking up in someone else’s bed not out of recklessness or mistake, but because you wanted to be there. Last night was wild, beautiful, tender, and real. And this morning feels just as special. The kind of morning where you could let the sun warm your skin, feel the softness of a stranger's sheets beneath you, and believe—just for a little while—that things are falling into place.

The weather outside looks gorgeous. Golden sunlight peeks through the curtain slits, dancing along the floor in quiet invitation. And you feel… good. Light. Like the day is already off to a perfect start. That is, until your phone buzzes on the nightstand.

You reach over lazily and grab it, blinking a few times as your eyes adjust to the screen. Several missed calls from Chris stare back at you, along with a stream of increasingly chaotic texts. You can almost see him in your head—shirtless in sweatpants, hair a mess, glaring at the kitchen as if it’s personally offended him, a wooden spoon in one hand and a phone in the other. He’s probably fine. Probably. Unless he somehow manages to set a pot of water on fire. Again.

Chris isn’t exactly known for his domestic abilities, and the fact that he didn’t pick up when you called back immediately makes your stomach twist. You try calling him again. It rings. And rings. And rings. Then goes to voicemail.

“Crap.” Your smile fades and you sit up quickly, suddenly wide awake. Another call—no answer. You swing your legs off the bed, grabbing your phone and starting to pace. The texts didn’t sound urgent, but they were spaced apart, and the last one was ten minutes ago.

That’s long enough to set something on fire, your brain unhelpfully supplies.

"Okay, okay," you mutter to yourself, heart starting to race.

You scramble to your feet, grabbing last night’s dress and tugging it on in a rush. Your heels are somewhere near the couch—you’ll find them later. You barely run a hand through your hair before slipping your phone into your bag and heading for the door, fingers trembling slightly as you try calling him again and still no answer.

“Please don’t burn the house down, Chris,” you murmur under your breath as you tug the bedroom door open. “I swear, if I walk in and the smoke detector's going off…”

The house is quiet. Too quiet. Chris hobbles out of his bedroom, his cast thumping against the floor with every step. “Hello?” he calls, voice echoing through the empty space.

No answer. He checks the living room, then the kitchen, peering down the hallway just to be sure. Still no sign of you. He sighs, reaching for his phone. A couple of missed calls, a few texts sent your way already. All still unread. It doesn’t take a genius to figure it out. You didn’t come home last night.

His thumb hovers over your name again, but he doesn’t call. Instead, he grabs the crutch and limps over to the kitchen. He’ll just make breakfast and deal with the radio silence later. Except—he doesn’t know where anything is.

He opens cabinet after cabinet, drawers clicking and clattering as he searches for the frying pan, the oil, the damn spatula. Nothing’s where he remembers it, or maybe it never was. The ache in his leg flares up the longer he stands, and when he finally locates everything he needs, he’s already drenched in frustration and sweat. One more step and a jolt of pain shoots through his knee.

“Forget it,” he mutters, grabbing the cereal box and slamming it on the counter. Milk. Bowl. Spoon. Fine.

He eats standing by the sink, crunching angrily through mouthfuls of cereal that taste like defeat. His leg throbs. His pride stings worse. All this because he couldn’t make himself a proper breakfast.

Chris pushes the bowl away and rubs a hand over his face, jaw tight. He feels useless. Pathetic even. Like he’s become a burden to himself. And with the house empty, your absence pressing on every wall like a bruise, that feeling only digs deeper. He doesn’t want to admit it, but he misses you and it’s barely 9 AM.

An hour later, Chris hears the front door open, followed by the distinct click of your heels on the floor and the rustling of something heavy in your arms. Then a dull thud as you drop a package on the kitchen island. You’re still in the same dress from last night, your hair tousled and windblown, cheeks flushed like you ran up the driveway.

“It’s for you,” you say, slightly breathless, nodding at the box. “Some music thing—I don’t know but it's from your label. The delivery guy left it on the porch.”

Chris doesn’t respond right away. His eyes scan you, lingering on the smudged makeup under your eyes, the wrinkled dress, the shoes dangling from your fingers. He doesn't mean to, but his frustration speaks first. “You didn’t come home,” he mutters, voice low but sharp.

“I know,” you say, taking a breath. “I’m sorry. I didn’t plan to stay over—”

“You should’ve planned better,” Chris cuts in, his voice rising. “You could’ve said something.”

Your jaw clenches as you glance away, blinking hard. “I tried calling you—”

“And where were you, anyway? With that potter boy?” He leans against the counter, not bothering to hide the bitterness in his voice. “You do know your boyfriend is like, what, ten years younger than you? You think he’s going to stick around when the novelty wears off?”

Your head jerks toward him, eyes narrowing. A cold, sarcastic laugh escapes your lips as you shake your head in disbelief. “Why did I even apologize?” you mutter, more to yourself than him. “Why am I explaining anything when I came back to my own house?”

Chris opens his mouth to speak, but you’re already past the point of listening.

“You know what?” you snap, your voice cold now, sharp. “I’m not responsible for your reckless decision to try and play acrobatic at your daughter’s wedding. It's not my job to take care of you. But I still rushed back. Still tried to make things easier for you. And this—this is what I get?”

You clutch your heels and purse in your arms like a shield, fury radiating off of you in waves. “I try so hard to be good to you,” you continue, voice shaking with emotion, “but clearly, that’s not enough.”

And with that, you storm past him, heels thudding against the floor. “Such a nuisance,” you mutter loud enough for him to hear.

Your footsteps growing louder as you stomp your way up the stairs and disappear into your room, slamming the door behind you.

Chris stays rooted in place, staring at the box on the counter and for once, he doesn’t feel triumphant for speaking his mind. He just feels... empty.

The silence that hangs in the house is deafening. Chris lies back against the pillows, staring blankly at the ceiling, the weight of silence pressing down on him like a second blanket. No faint music playing from your phone, no clinking of dishes from the kitchen, not even your light footsteps moving from one room to another. Nothing. Just stillness. And he knows it’s because of him.

After this morning’s blow-up, you’ve been avoiding him—steering clear like he’s radioactive. He can hear you downstairs sometimes, your movements careful like you're making sure you won’t cross paths with him. You’ve barely said a word to him. Not a glance. Not even a sigh in his direction.

Chris hates it. He hates how cold the house feels without your presence filling it. And more than anything, he hates himself for making it that way. He runs a hand over his face, jaw clenched tight.

“God, I was such an asshole,” he mutters into the silence. His voice is small, as if even he’s afraid of hearing himself admit it.

You didn’t do anything wrong. You didn’t owe him an explanation. You were kind. Thoughtful. Rushed back home when he didn’t answer his phone. And how did he repay that? By lashing out like a bitter, insecure idiot. He squeezes his eyes shut, every word he’d spat at you replaying on a loop in his mind, each one cutting deeper than the last. You’re too old for him. He’s just using you. What if he gets bored?

None of that was true. It was just fear. And jealousy. Ugly things that came out of his mouth because for one second, he felt helpless—because of a damn broken leg and a bowl of cereal. You were just trying to take care of him.

Chris lets out a long sigh and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. If he could punch himself, he would. Hard. So instead, he stays in his room. Keeps his distance. He doesn’t want to upset you more than he already has. You need space, and he owes you that much—no, more. He owes you a real apology. But for now, he lets the house stay quiet, even though it kills him.

But then, Chris’s stomach growls—loud and insistent, reminding him he hasn’t eaten anything since that sad bowl of cereal this morning. He sits on the edge of the bed for a long moment, listening. No sound from downstairs so he figures it’s safe to come out of his bedroom.

Chris pads quietly out of his room, careful not to make any noise. He knows you're still home—he heard the water running in the upstairs bathroom earlier. But the silence between you has stretched long and heavy, and he doesn't want to intrude on your space unless he has to. He makes his way to the kitchen, limping slightly, his crutches tucked under his arms. The plan is simple: grab something from the fridge—leftovers, maybe an apple—and head back to the safety of his room, but then he stops.

There, on the dining table, is a plate of dinner. His dinner. A warm meal served neatly, steam still rising from it, and next to the plate, a folded napkin, his pain meds, and a glass of water. No note. No fanfare. Just quiet care. The kind that breaks his heart more than any fight ever could.

Chris stares at it for a long second, his throat tight. He doesn’t hear you—he doesn’t need to. He knows you left this out after he locked himself away all day. He knows you did it without saying a word, not for thanks or acknowledgment, but because despite everything, you still care. A quiet curse slips from his lips, full of regret. “Damn it.”

He sits down heavily at the table, setting his crutches aside and running a hand through his hair before picking up the fork. The food is warm, flavorful, perfectly cooked, but it tastes bittersweet. Because all he can think about is how you still made him dinner—even when he didn’t deserve it and that thought stays with him long after he finishes every last bite.

That night, sleep doesn't come easy to you. You're lying on your side, staring at the wall in the dim light of your bedroom, the silence pressing down like a weight on your chest. You've tossed and turned so much the sheets are a mess around your legs, and no matter how many times you close your eyes, your mind keeps going back to this morning. To the things you said to Chris. The way your voice shook in anger. The sound of your heels stomping up the stairs. Did I go too far? Did I say something I shouldn’t have?

You replay every word, overanalyzing each line and expression, each moment of silence that followed. He was frustrating, yes, but you knew he was hurting. You knew he was struggling. And maybe… maybe you should’ve been softer, should've been more understanding. With a heavy sigh, you roll over and grab your phone, blinking at the time. It’s late. Too late. Hyunjin’s probably already asleep. Still, you tap his name and call.

He picks up after a few rings, his voice soft and raspy with sleep. “Hey, beautiful.”

You press the phone to your ear, your voice low. “Were you sleeping?”

“No,” he lies, and you can tell he’s smiling. “I was just lying here thinking about you.”

That makes you giggle, quiet and shy. “What about me?”

“About last night. And everything we did. On this very bed.” His tone dips slightly, playful but full of warmth, and it sends a tingle through your chest.

You bury your face in your pillow to muffle your laugh. “Hyunjin…”

“Don’t go all shy on me now,” he teases. “You were a lot braver last night.”

You sigh, smile lingering on your lips. “I’m sorry, by the way… for leaving in such a hurry. I didn’t even eat the breakfast you made.”

“It’s okay,” he says easily. “I’ll make you breakfast again. But—” he pauses, then grumbles, “—you didn’t even kiss me goodbye. I was robbed.”

That makes your smile falter just slightly, your thoughts drifting back to how rushed and frazzled you were this morning. “I know… I’m sorry.”

There's a beat of silence, then Hyunjin speaks again, softer this time. “Is something bothering you?”

You're just about to answer—to let it all out, to tell him how badly you feel, how heavy it’s been sitting on your chest—when you hear the unmistakable sound of your car engine roaring to life. You bolt upright. “What the hell—”

You jump out of bed and rush to the window, heart hammering. “Hyunjin… I have to call you back.”

“What? Wait—”

You hang up without answering, panic crawling up your spine as you see someone in your driveway turning on your car. Barefoot and breathless, you grab your robe and dash downstairs, not even bothering to tie it properly, just praying you’re not too late—

You burst out the front door, feet slapping against the pavement, robe fluttering wildly around your legs. Your heart’s in your throat as you rush toward the car, shouting, “Hey! What the hell are you doing?!”

The driver’s side door swings open—and your breath stumbles when you see who it is. Chris. Just sitting there, behind the wheel, completely nonplussed, with his casted leg awkwardly hanging out of the car and one hand loosely resting on the steering wheel like he’s about to take a casual Sunday drive.

You stop short beside the car, panting. “What the hell, Chris?”

He flinches slightly, then gives you a sheepish little grin, rubbing the back of his neck. “I… I wanted to drive somewhere.”

You blink at him, completely dumbfounded. “You wanted to drive? With a broken leg?”

He shrugs. “I thought I’d figure it out.”

You stare at him. “Figure it out? Chris, you can’t even stand for more than five minutes without groaning like an old man!”

“Yeah, well,” he mutters, eyes flicking away, “I got bored. The house was too quiet.”

You let out a long exhale, tugging the robe tighter around your waist. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I am kind of charming,” he says with an innocent grin, and that earns him a glare.

“Move,” you say firmly, jerking your thumb toward the other side. “Passenger seat. Now.”

Chris blinks. “What? Why?”

“I’ll drive,” you say, opening the door and gesturing for him to scoot. “Clearly you’re on a mission. Let’s go before you end up reversing into the neighbor’s mailbox.”

He hesitates, then sighs and hobbles over to the other side without another word. You slide behind the wheel, trying not to roll your eyes too hard as he settles in with a grunt. His cast bumps the dashboard, and he winces, but says nothing.

Once you start the car and pull out of the driveway, you finally glance over at him. “So… where exactly are we going?”

Chris stays quiet, hands resting on his lap as the streetlights painted soft orange patterns on the dashboard. The air in the car is still tense, but not sharp anymore—more like static, waiting to settle. He steals a few glances your way as you drive, noticing how your jaw tightens every time the silence stretches a little too long.

When the familiar glowing sign of a fast food chain appears, he mumbles, “Can we stop there?”

You don’t say anything, just pull into the drive-thru without comment, the tires crunching over gravel and painted lines. As the car rolls to a slow stop in front of the glowing speaker, you reach for the button to lower the window and say flatly, still not looking at him, “Go ahead. Tell them your order.”

Chris leans forward with an easy grin, eyes fixed on the menu board. “Okay, uh… one double cheeseburger with large fries, a six-piece nugget, a spicy chicken sandwich, oh—and a chocolate shake. Large.”

You shoot him a look, but he just shrugs. “I’m starving.”

Then he turns to you, voice gentler. “You want anything?”

You’re silent. Chris doesn’t press. He knows you’re still mad—and you have every right to be. Still, he tries. “C’mon… I know you can’t say no to a cheeseburger and fries.”

Your expression doesn’t budge, but then, after a beat of silence, you finally turn to the speaker and calmly add your own order—cheeseburger, fries, and a drink.

Chris grins, triumphant. “Knew it.”

You sigh like you’re annoyed, but the corner of your mouth twitches just enough to betray you. Turning to him, you arch a brow. “You’re paying for this.”

Chris stifles a laugh, holding both hands up in mock surrender. “Wouldn’t dream of making you pay for your own peace offering.”

The salty air stings a little as it whips past his face, but Chris doesn’t really mind it. He’s too busy chewing on a burger that tastes far better than anything he’s managed to scrounge up at home lately. The two of you sit on the hood of the car, legs dangling as the sea stretches out endlessly in front of you, glimmering silver under the moonlight.

It’s quiet—just the faint crash of waves below and the crinkle of fast food wrappers between you. He knows he should say something. The words have been brewing since you pulled out of the driveway, since he saw your shoulders tense behind the wheel, your silence stretching longer than it ever should between two people who used to be everything to each other.

“I, uh…” Chris swallows thickly, then clears his throat. “I need to say something.”

You glance at him, not saying anything but not stopping him either.

“I was a dick this morning,” he admits. “And I said some really shitty things about you and your boyfriend. That wasn’t fair. Not to him—and definitely not to you.”

The burger suddenly doesn’t taste so good. He sets it down on the wrapper in his lap, staring out at the water like it might give him the right words. “It’s just… this broken leg, the meds, being stuck inside—I’m losing my mind a little. But that’s not an excuse. I lashed out because I was frustrated. And insecure. I’m sorry.”

There’s a pause. He wonders if you’re going to stay silent. If he deserves it. But then you turn to him, your expression softer than he expects. “I accept your apology,” you say, voice gentle.

His eyes flick to yours, surprised. But you’re not done.

“And I’m sorry too. For saying mean things. For storming off like that.” You glance away, your voice quieter now. “You’re not a nuisance, Chris. I actually… like having you around.”

You actually like having him around? Before he can grin or say something stupid that might ruin the moment, you add flatly, “Don’t let it go to your head.”

He lets out a low chuckle, warmth bubbling in his chest. He picks up his burger again, the bite he takes somehow lighter, easier. “Too late,” he says with a smirk.

The ocean glows faintly ahead, but he’s not looking at it anymore. His gaze lingers somewhere between the horizon and the truth that’s been sitting heavy in his chest for weeks now.

“You know,” he says quietly, “I’ve been feeling like everyone’s leaving me behind.”

You turn to look at him, and he feels your eyes even though he’s still staring ahead.

“It started when Rowan and I separated. Even though it was mutual, it still felt like this… severing. Of everything. Of home. Of normalcy.” He lets out a breath. “Then Tigerlily got married. And don’t get me wrong, I’m proud of her. So damn proud. But suddenly she’s not just my little girl anymore. She’s someone else’s now, too. And it hurts more than I thought it would.”

There’s a lump in his throat now, and he swallows it down. “And Rowan’s been calling, trying to take Riley with her for a while. Wants her to stay with her. And I get it, she’s her mother, she has a right, but I just…”

He pauses. You’re listening. That’s what gets to him the most. You’re actually listening. “I feel so alone, most days. Despite the music, despite the name, the fame, all of it. It means nothing when you’re eating cereal in an empty kitchen with a broken leg and no one to talk to. I don’t know who I’d even be right now if I wasn’t staying with you.”

He finally turns to you. “I got really happy when you let me stay,” he says honestly. “Like, actually happy. And—” he chuckles softly, “I don’t know if this makes me a complete idiot, but… I’m kinda glad I broke my leg.”

You swat his arm, just like he hoped you would. “Hey! Don’t even joke about that.”

But he catches your eyes, holds them there with something real. “I mean it,” he says, quieter this time. “I’m happy I’m here. With you.”

It slips out before he can stop it. Raw and unfiltered. And for a second, he sees something flicker in your expression—something unspoken but shared. Then you laugh. “It’s really hard to take you seriously when you’ve got ketchup on your face.”

Chris blinks. “Wait, what?”

You’re already reaching over, grabbing a napkin from the bag and dabbing gently at the corner of his mouth. Your touch is careful. Familiar. Kind.

And as ridiculous as it sounds, that fluttering feeling—like something starting again inside him—rushes in all at once. It’s the same feeling he had when he first met you. But for now, Chris keeps it tucked away, tucked quiet in the center of his chest. For now, being here—sharing a quiet moment under the stars with you—is enough.

The afternoon sun casts golden streaks across the kitchen counter as you line it with bowls, measuring cups, and a fresh bag of chocolate chips. You hum to yourself while tying the strings of your apron behind your back, the scent of vanilla already floating faintly in the air.

After everything Chris shared last night, something settled in your chest. A quiet understanding. He’s been feeling stuck—helpless, in a way that doesn’t sit well with someone like him. Chris is someone who likes being needed, who feels most like himself when he can be useful. And though he's never said it out loud, you know his broken leg has been making him feel anything but.

You peek down the hallway and call out, “Chris! Come help me bake cookies!”

There's a beat of silence before you hear his voice reply with a spark of interest, “Am I seriously just got promoted from kitchen DJ to a kitchen assistant now?”

“Let's see how well you do in the kitchen first,” you playfully reply.

Soon, you hear his crutches tapping against the floor as he makes his way to the kitchen. He enters with his hair slightly messy and a curious look on his face, like he’s not entirely sure if you’re kidding or not. But once he sees the counter full of ingredients, his grin stretches wide. “Oh, we’re really doing this.”

You hand him a spoon and flick the speaker on, the sound of soft upbeat music filling the room. It doesn’t take long for the mood to lift—Chris is dancing awkwardly while stirring the batter, and you’re laughing as he keeps snacking on chocolate chips from the bowl.

“Chris!” you scold, slapping his hand lightly. “Stop eating them—we need those!”

He grins like a guilty kid. “Quality control. Someone’s gotta make sure they’re safe.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling as you finish mixing the dough and start rolling it into neat balls. Chris joins you, carefully shaping them with one hand while balancing his crutch with the other. You slide the first tray into the oven, then take out a warm, golden batch, setting it to cool by the window. The scent of melting chocolate and warm butter wraps around you like a hug.

“Okay,” you say, watching him as he sets the next batch on the tray, “I think you’re officially hired as my sous chef.”

Chris smirks. “Does that come with benefits? Like… extra cookies?”

You shake your head, laughing. “Only if you stop stealing from the chocolate chip stash.”

You move around each other with ease, bumping elbows, exchanging smirks and floury fingerprints. And in that moment—just the two of you in the kitchen, music playing, cookies baking—you feel it. The way things feel light again. Like maybe, just maybe, Chris is starting to feel a little less stuck.

After the first batch of cookies is out of the oven, you and Chris sit side by side at the kitchen island, each of you with a plate of warm cookies in front of you. The smell is divine, the chocolate chips still melty in the center, and every bite feels like a reward. Chris licks a smudge of chocolate from his thumb and hums in satisfaction.

“Okay, I’ll give it to you,” he says, leaning back with a content sigh. “These might be the best cookies I’ve ever had.”

You smile and offering your fist at him. “We made a great team!”

Chris chuckles before gently hitting your fist with his. He then gets up from his chair, pushing his plate aside and getting up. “I’ll get the milk. Cookies this good deserve milk.”

As he opens the fridge and grabs a carton, you check the oven again. The timer’s nearly up, and you watch the cookies through the glass like a hawk, not wanting to burn even a single batch. Just as you pull them out onto the cooling rack, your phone rings. It buzzes on the counter, right beside Chris’s, and before you can slip your mittens off, he picks it up, peeking at the screen.

“It’s Hyunjin,” he says with a mischievous grin. Then, into the phone: “She’s a little busy right now—in the kitchen with me. I'm tasting her cookie right now.”

You immediately shoot him a glare, snatching one mitten off. “Chris!”

He holds his hands up in surrender. “Kidding, kidding! Here.” He passes the phone to you with a sheepish smile.

You finally tug the other mitten off and press the phone to your ear. “Hey.”

Hyunjin’s voice is soft and familiar. “Hey. What are you doing?”

“Just baking some cookies,” you say, already smiling again.

There’s a pause. “Sounds like you and Chris are having fun,” he says, and there's something in his voice—light, but unmistakably tinged with jealousy.

You laugh gently. “He’s just on a sugar high from all the chocolate chips he’s been snacking. I’ve had to swat his hand five times.”

Hyunjin chuckles quietly on the other end. “Can I come over?”

Your smile grows. “Absolutely.”

“I’ll see you soon,” he says warmly.

“See you soon” you reply, heart fluttering just a little as the call ends.

You set your phone down and turn to find Chris already pouring milk into two glasses. He gives you a look as he hands one over, a raised brow and a half-smile like he knows something’s brewing beneath the surface. But for now, you sip your milk, munch your cookie, and let the warmth of the moment settle in your chest.

Chris licks melted chocolate from his thumb, leaning back in his chair with a soft exhale. The cookies are warm and gooey in all the right places, the milk is cold, and the soft hum of music mixes with the occasional clink of plates and your quiet laughter. It’s simple. Easy. And for the first time in a while, he feels like he can breathe.

He watches you from across the island—hair tied up messily, sleeves dusted in flour, a smudge of dough on your cheek. You look… peaceful. Happy. And God, he didn’t realize how much he missed seeing you like this. Seeing himself like this, too. It makes him wonder how the hell he ever let you slip through his fingers.

Your phone buzzes beside him on the counter, screen lighting up with Hyunjin’s name. Chris hesitates. A small, petty part of him wants to let it ring. Just one more quiet minute. One more bite of warm cookies before the real world knocks again. But instead, he sighs and taps “accept,” lifting the phone to his ear.

“Hello?”

There’s a pause. “Uh… Chris?”

Chris smirks. “Sure is.”

“…Where’s—uh, is she around?”

Chris leans back in his chair and tosses the words out casually. “She’s a little busy right now—in the kitchen with me. I'm tasting her cookie right now.”

Your head snaps up immediately, eyes narrowing into a glare. “Chris!” you say, voice low and warning, already reaching for the phone.

He holds up both hands in mock surrender, grinning as he passes it to you. “She’s all yours.”

You take the phone, mittens off now, pressing it to your ear like it belongs there. “Hey…” you say, voice soft, warm in that way that’s unmistakably for Hyunjin.

Chris turns back to his half-eaten cookie, chewing slowly. He tells himself it’s fine. That it’s nothing. That he’s being ridiculous. But watching the way you smile as you talk, hearing the way your voice dips into something just a little sweeter—it knots something sharp and jealous low in his chest. He hates to admit it, but it stings.

Hyunjin shows up not long after the call ends. He walks into the kitchen with that easy grin, kissing your cheek before helping himself to a cookie off the tray like he’s always belonged here. Chris watches the way you look at him—soft, familiar—and it pulls at something in his chest he’s not quite ready to name. He keeps it cool, making room for Hyunjin and even pouring him a glass of milk. They chat, the three of you, nibbling cookies and laughing at how many chocolate chips Chris stole before the dough even hit the oven. Then Chris’s phone buzzes this time and he glances at the screen. Riley.

“Sorry, gotta take this,” he says, already stepping toward the back porch for some privacy.

The cool air outside hits him as he slides the door open and leans against the railing. “Hey, Riley bear. Everything okay?”

Riley’s voice is upbeat. “Yeah! I was just wondering if I could have a sleepover this weekend?”

Chris chuckles. “How many friends?”

“Just… five?”

Chris groans. “Five? Riley, that’s a whole squad.”

“But Dad,” she whines, dragging the word out.

He negotiates, like always. They settle on three friends, no loud music, and lights out by midnight. “And steer clear of my studio,” he adds.

By the time Chris hangs up, he’s smiling, but that fades the second he steps back toward the kitchen. He stops in his tracks. Through the doorway, he sees you and Hyunjin, kissing with your hands gently curled behind his neck, his hand on your waist. Chris instinctively ducks out of view, pressing himself back behind the wall, heart thudding in his chest. He doesn’t mean to eavesdrop. But he can’t help it.

“Just for ten days,” Hyunjin murmurs against your lips.

“Ten?” you echo, brows knit with concern.

Chris hears the sound of another kiss. Then Hyunjin’s voice, low and affectionate. “I’ll be back before you know it. Can’t wait to take that trip and finally be alone with you.”

More kisses. The wet, soft kind. Chris closes his eyes. That same burning feeling blooms in his chest again—jealousy or something dangerously close. He doesn’t want to admit it, but it’s there, bitter on his tongue.

He takes a breath, then deliberately stomps his way back toward the kitchen, exaggerating his steps loud enough to warn you both. By the time he walks in, you and Hyunjin are standing apart, faces flushed. Chris doesn’t comment. He just saunters to the counter like nothing happened.

“Riley’s having a few friends over for a sleepover,” he says, grabbing another cookie. “I’m ninety percent sure they’ll break the house apart.”

You chuckle. “Let her have some fun.”

Chris grins. “With me not around, that should be fun for everyone.”

That earns a laugh from both you and Hyunjin. Chris joins in, but only half-heartedly. He doesn’t say it, but that burning in his chest still lingers.

You walk Hyunjin out to his car with a warm jar of cookies pressed into his hands, the lid tied with a little ribbon you found in the kitchen drawer. He cradles it like a gift and leans in to kiss you—slow, deliberate, a long peck on your lips that makes you want to hold him there just a few seconds longer.

"Don't go getting back together with your ex-husband while I’m gone," he teases, eyes twinkling.

You laugh against his lips. "Only if you promise to turn away every time you see an older woman."

Hyunjin barks out a laugh, his hands still resting lightly on your hips. "You wound me."

You give him one last kiss—short, sweet, maybe a little reluctant—and then step back as he opens the car door. He gets in, his window still rolled down as he gives you a little wave. “Ten days,” he says. “Try not to miss me too much.”

“Oh, no. What should I do? I miss you already,” you tease him.

With that, Hyunjin walks to his and gets in. You smile, watching his car roll down the street and disappear around the corner.

The house feels quieter when you walk back in. A little colder without him in it. You kick off your shoes and wander into the kitchen, finding Chris at the sink, stacking the dirty dishes from your baking session. He’s got the sleeves of his hoodie shoved up, one hand awkwardly holding a plate, the other trying not to knock over a glass.

You come up beside him and lean your hip against the counter. “Since we’re both too tired to even think about cooking after all that,” you start, voice playful, “how about we just order something for dinner?”

Chris turns to you with a grin, towel slung over his shoulder. “Oh, thank God! Finally. I don't have to lie and say that your cooking is good,” he says with a rather dramatic tone.

Later that night, you both huddled over the dining table, sleeves rolled up, newspapers spread beneath metal trays filled with steaming seafood boil—shrimp, mussels, crab legs, corn, and potatoes all soaked in garlicky, buttery sauce. Chris insisted on it for dinner, and now he’s grinning like a kid in a candy store, elbow-deep in shellfish. You munch on a piece of corn, watching as Chris meticulously peels shrimp after shrimp—not just for himself, but for you too. He quietly places a perfectly peeled one on your plate, then another, and another.

“You know I can do that myself,” you say between bites, amused.

“I know,” he shrugs, all smug and proud as he wipes his fingers on the edge of the napkin and goes right back to peeling more for you.

You laugh, shaking your head. “You eat like a child.”

Chris pauses, mid-bite. “What?”

You point with your greasy finger. “You’ve got sauce on the corner of your mouth.”

He tries to lick it off, tongue darting out to the side. He misses completely. “Did I get it?”

“Not even close.”

“Well,” he leans in toward you, eyes gleaming mischievously, “help me out then.”

You snort, eyes widening as you look at both of your hands coated with the sauce. “My hands are dirty.”

“Just lick it off then,” he deadpans, tapping his casted leg under the table. “Come on. I'm injured.”

You roll your eyes, but the moment lingers—his face is close, and you catch the faint scent of lemon and garlic and something warm and familiar that’s just him. You hesitate only for a second before you lean in and lick the corner of his mouth quickly, your lips brushing his skin.

Chris looks shocked and then smug. “You missed a spot.”

He swipes more sauce with his finger, smearing it deliberately across the corner of his mouth like a child trying to frame a moment. “Guess you’ll have to clean it again.”

You gape at him in disbelief, grab a shrimp from your plate, and shove it into his open mouth before he can say another word.

He hums exaggeratedly as he chews. “Worth it.”

You can’t stop laughing and for a minute, it feels like the two of you are back in some lighter, simpler version of your lives—sleeves rolled, hands messy, hearts full. You hum softly to yourself as you clean up after dinner, wiping down the sticky table and putting away the dirty dishes into the sink. Chris is moving slower behind you, his cast dragging just a little, but he insists on helping despite your protests. Then, as you're about to rinse the last dish, he opens the freezer and pulls out a tub of ice cream with a grin.

“Dessert?” he offers, wiggling his brows.

You glance at the tub, then at him, and shrug. “Why not? We’ve already made a mess.”

So the two of you settle back at the dining table, this time with two spoons and a tub of chocolate ice cream between you. You sit side by side, legs brushing, both a little warm from the food and laughter still lingering in the air.

Chris scoops the first bite, moaning dramatically as he eats it. “God, I missed this.”

You laugh. “What? Ice cream?”

“No. Eating dessert with someone and not having to share with a teenager who hogs the last bite.”

That makes you smile. “Speaking of—how’s Riley?”

He leans back with a sigh. “She’s good. She called earlier to ask if she could have friends over. We negotiated.”

“Negotiated?”

“I’ve had to learn,” he says with a smirk. “Parenting a teenager is like hostage diplomacy. You give an inch, they want a concert ticket.”

You chuckle. “That’s good for you, though. Builds character.”

He grins. “Also found out she snuck a drink from my liquor cabinet a few weeks ago.”

You snort. “Classic teenager behavior.”

“She’s sneaky.”

“We’ve done worse,” you say playfully, nudging his shoulder with yours.

He barks out a laugh, shaking his head. “Oh god. You remember that time we snuck into that concert pretending to be part of the crew?”

You burst into laughter. “And you carried a random amp just to sell the lie!”

He grins wide, cheeks slightly flushed as you both tumble down memory lane. The conversation flows easily, laced with laughter and little looks that linger too long. You feel it—the atmosphere changing. Getting quieter, softer, more intimate. Then Chris shifts, turning slightly toward you. “Hey… that package from yesterday? It was a bottle of liquor. A ‘Get well soon’ gift from my label.”

You raise a brow. “Fancy.”

“Yeah. I thought maybe we could open it. You know… share a glass?”

You glance at the clock, then back at him. The warm food still weighs on your belly. You offer him a soft smile. “I feel kind of full, honestly. Maybe another time?”

Chris nods slowly. “Yeah. Of course. Another time.”

You rise from your seat, brushing invisible crumbs off your clothes. “I’m gonna head to bed early.”

“Okay,” he says, standing as well despite the awkwardness of his cast. You meet in a loose embrace near the kitchen doorway, and as you pull away to wish him goodnight, Chris places a kiss that lands on the corner of your lips. It’s soft, brief—but enough to steal your breath. You step back, eyes flicking to his for a second, searching for something you’re not ready to name.

“I didn’t mean—” He stammers, “I was going for a full on, lips lock... kiss.”

You shake your head and chuckle at him, “Goodnight, Chris.”

You don’t look back as you head upstairs, your heart picking up pace like you’re running from something—maybe the feeling blooming somewhere deep inside, somewhere you told yourself you’d locked tight.

There’s something about this house that always feels a little warmer in the late morning light. Maybe it’s the way the house always bathed in sunlight, or maybe it’s just you. Chris leans quietly against the doorway, his arms folded as he watches you in your reading nook. You’re sitting with your legs stretched out in front of you, tucked under a soft throw blanket, completely immersed in a book. You don’t notice him, and he doesn’t call out to you. He doesn’t want to break the moment.

He’s seen you do a thousand beautiful things—over five years of marriage, you were always dazzling in a way that pulled him in without trying. But somehow, watching you like this—quiet, relaxed, just being—feels different. Feels deeper. Your fingers absentmindedly play with the tassel of your blanket. Your brow furrows a little, then lifts as you read between the lines. Chris watches the way your toes curl and uncurl, like they’re reacting to the tension in the story. It’s cute. All of it. It shouldn’t make his heart thump the way it does, but it does. He could watch you for hours like this, then your eyes lift and catch his, and it feels like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

You tilt your head. “Do you need something, Chris?”

Chris clears his throat, shifting his weight. “Uh—yeah. Just wondering if you remember about my doctor’s appointment?”

Your eyes widen as you check the time on your phone. “Oh my god—I totally lost track of time.”

You close the book quickly, already rising from the nook. “Let me get ready, I’ll be quick!”

He just nods, lips twitching with a faint smile as he watches you rush out of the room. He’s not sure what exactly he’s feeling—but it’s warm and heavy in his chest, and for a fleeting second, it almost feels like the past, like something familiar and tender that he didn’t realize he missed until just now.

Chris doesn’t really need your help walking, not this much at least. The crutches work fine and the doctor even said he’s healing faster than expected. But still… he likes it. The way your arm is linked with his, your other hand gently resting over his as the two of you make your way down the hospital corridor.

It’s slow and quiet, just the faint squeak of his crutch against the linoleum floor and the soft echo of your steps beside him. And he can’t help but wonder what people see when they pass by. To anyone else, it probably looks like you’re his wife. The devoted one. The one who still sticks around even when he’s limping through life—literally and metaphorically. And god, he likes that thought way more than he should.

You lean in a little closer when a nurse pushes a cart past you both, and Chris feels your shoulder brush against his. His heart does this dumb little stutter in his chest, like it still hasn’t figured out that this kind of intimacy is borrowed now, temporary. Still, he clings to it.

“You okay?” you ask, glancing up at him with that soft concern that always seems to undo him.

“Yeah,” he says, voice lower than he means for it to be. “I’m good.”

Chris should want to go home. He should be tired after the appointment, after walking more than he probably should have. But there’s this ache in his chest that’s got nothing to do with his leg, and everything to do with the fact that he just… doesn’t want this to be over yet. So he clears his throat, casual like he's not already thinking too much about how to say it. “Hey,” he says, turning his head a little toward you. “You hungry?”

You briefly glance away from the road ahead “A little. Why?”

“I was thinking…” He pauses for dramatic effect, because he knows you hate that. “Early dinner? I'm thinking Italian, pasta or maybe steak?”

You squint at him for a second, like you’re trying to read between the lines. He shrugs, looking out the window, like it's not a big deal. “Only if you're not in a rush to get home.”

You’re quiet for a beat, and he doesn’t even breathe as he waits for your answer. Then you sigh, a soft little smile curling on your lips. “Yeah. Sure,” you say. “You can just say that you don't want to eat my cooking, Chris.”

He grins, relief and something warmer blooming in his chest. “You read my mind,” he teasingly says.

The restaurant isn’t crowded, just the way he likes it. There’s a gentle breeze sweeping through the outdoor patio where the two of you sit, your hair moving with it, catching bits of sunlight. Chris leans back in his chair, his cast resting comfortably, and watches as you open the menu with a kind of focus he swears you used to reserve only for editing scripts or assembling furniture. Your eyes scan the options like it’s a high-stakes test. He smirks to himself, leaning forward slightly, elbows on the table as he rests his chin in one hand, just watching you.

You hum thoughtfully, then glance at him. “Okay, hear me out. If we get the grilled octopus, the sea bass, and the truffle fries, we can split them and still have room for dessert.”

Chris nods solemnly. “Smart. Strategic.”

“I know,” you say with a satisfied grin, then turn back to the menu. “Also, we should get the mussels.”

“That’s four dishes,” he teases.

“We’ll pace ourselves.” You flip a page. “And we’re getting the wine. That red blend we tried that one time—remember?”

He remembers everything. “How could I forget?”

The waiter comes, and you order with such certainty, like you’ve already envisioned the entire meal playing out. Chris can’t stop smiling. Something about the way you talk to the waiter—clear, kind, decisive—makes something settle warm in his chest. You’ve always been like this. Always good at taking care of people, of moments, of making things feel easy without trying. And he thinks—yeah. He’s going to enjoy every damn second of this. Not just the wine, or the food, or the sunset that’s slowly dipping behind your shoulder. But this. Sitting across from you. Listening to you talk. Watching you reach for your glass and wrinkle your nose as you swirl the wine, pretending to be a snob about it before breaking into laughter. It’s all so familiar. And god, he’s missed it more than he’s willing to admit.

The food is incredible and the wine is warm in his chest, loosening things that he usually keeps tucked away. "If this is what we would've been like back then," Chris says, voice low, casual but meaning every word, "maybe we never would’ve gotten divorced."

You look up at him, your fork pausing midair. Your eyes catch the light — same as they always have — and something in Chris's chest aches. "Yeah," you murmur, setting your fork down. "Maybe."

He toys with the edge of his wine glass, tracing it with his finger, pretending he’s not hanging onto every second of your silence. "Sometimes I think about it," he admits. "If we’d just waited a little longer. Grown up a little more. If we hadn’t been so damn stubborn about everything."

You smile — a little sad, a little knowing — and Chris swears it’s the most beautiful thing he’s seen all night. "We were so young," you say, your voice gentle. "We didn’t know how to fight for the right things."

Chris chuckles under his breath, remembering all the late nights and slammed doors, the pride that always came first. "We knew how to fight, though," he jokes lightly.

Your laughter is soft, almost tender. It hits him harder than he expects. "Yeah. We were good at that."

For a moment, the world goes quiet around you — just the hum of the restaurant, the flicker of the candle between you, the way your eyes hold his like they’re remembering too.

"I don’t regret it," you say, your voice steady. "Not meeting you. Not marrying you."

Chris's heart knocks hard against his ribs. He drinks you in — the curve of your mouth, the quiet way you look at him, like you mean it. "Me neither," he says, and it comes out rougher than he intended. "Not even for a second."

Without thinking, Chris reaches across the table — maybe to grab another plate, maybe to get your attention — but instead, his fingers brush against yours. You freeze, looking up at him.

Chris’s mouth goes dry. His hand lingers over yours for a second longer than necessary. He half-expects you to pull away. Tease him. Make a joke like you always do, but you don’t. You just look at him with that quiet, familiar softness. The same one you used to look at him with in the mornings, when it was just the two of you and no walls between you. He feels his heart thudding in his ears. Slowly, he curls his fingers around yours. Testing. Asking. You don't pull away. You smile — a small, secret thing — and let your thumb lightly brush over his knuckles. It’s nothing. Barely anything, but to Chris, it feels like everything.

He swallows hard and forces a chuckle, squeezing your hand once before letting go — before he does something stupid like pulling you across the table just to kiss you. "You know I was reaching for the fries, right?" he muses, picking up his fork again to distract himself.

You laugh softly, reaching for your glass of wine. "Yes. And I successfully stopped you from taking it."

Chris grins despite himself, heart too full, hands still tingling where they touched you. Maybe he’s a fool, maybe he’s setting himself up to get hurt all over again, but right now, he doesn’t care about all of that. He just wants more of this — more of you.

Toward the night, the weather turns bad. The rain comes fast, a steady drum against the windshield as you pull into the driveway. You shift the car into park, turning to Chris.

"Stay put," you tell him firmly, already reaching for the umbrella behind your seat. "I'll come around and help you."

Chris opens his mouth, probably to protest, but you shoot him a look that makes him snap it closed again, grinning helplessly instead.

You shove the car door open and dart out, the cold rain immediately soaking into your clothes. You wrestle the umbrella open, fighting the wind for a second before managing to steady it, then hurry to the passenger side.

Chris is already half out of the car, and you have to laugh a little under your breath because he's stubborn even now.

"Hold on," you say, breathless from the run and the rain, as you wedge yourself between him and the car, the umbrella awkwardly angled over the both of you. One hand gripping the umbrella handle, you extend the other to him. "Okay, come on."

Chris leans heavily into you as he swings his good leg out. His cast bumps clumsily against the door, and you wince for him, but he just chuckles low in his throat and wraps an arm around your shoulders without hesitation.

"Gotcha," he murmurs into your ear, his voice warm despite the chilly rain.

You cling to each other, awkward and close under the flimsy umbrella as you make your way up the driveway. Every step has you practically pressed chest-to-chest, Chris clutching you for balance and you gripping his waist tightly, both of you half laughing as you stumble once, twice, splashing through shallow puddles. The front door never looked so far away.

By the time you get inside, you’re both half-soaked, your shoes squelching against the floor. You slam the door shut behind you, breathing hard from the run and the cold. Chris's arm is still around you, your bodies still pressed close as if neither of you quite wants to let go yet. You feel his chest rise and fall against yours, the shared breath between you heavy with something that feels... different. You tilt your head back to look up at him, and for one suspended second, neither of you says a word.

Chris’s gaze lingering on you, heavier than before. It’s not playful or casual like it’s been lately. It’s intense, almost like he’s seeing right through you. It’s the way he used to look at you years ago, back when the world felt small and safe because you had each other. Back when just one look from him could tell you everything he was feeling and right now, it’s telling you too much. You feel your heart clench, your chest tighten with the weight of everything unsaid between you. The conversation you had over dinner still hums in the air, a thread pulled too tight, fraying at the edges. You swallow hard, breaking your gaze away before you can let yourself drown in it.

"I'm gonna head upstairs and dry off, and uh... sleep," you say lightly, forcing a small smile as you step away from him, peeling off your damp jacket and hanging it by the door.

You don’t miss the quick flicker of disappointment that crosses Chris’s face. It’s gone just as quickly, replaced with that familiar, easy smile he always wears when he’s trying not to show too much.

"Yeah," he says, his voice a little rougher than before. "Goodnight."

You nod, hugging your arms to your chest. "Goodnight, Chris."

You don’t dare look back as you head for the stairs, your footsteps soft against the wood. You can feel his eyes on you until you disappear from view, the pull between you stretching thinner and thinner—like a rubber band waiting to snap. Behind you, the house feels too quiet, and somehow, you feel like you’re running away from something you’re not ready to face.

The rain drums steadily against the windows, a constant, restless sound. You lay curled under the covers, staring at the ceiling, waiting for sleep that never comes. When the thunder cracks again, louder this time, you sigh and reach for your phone on the nightstand. Instinctively, your fingers find Hyunjin’s name and you press call. It rings once, twice, three times. No answer. You chew on your lip for a moment, then quickly type a text instead: "Just checking on you... hope you haven't found another older woman to steal your attention. :)"

You smile softly to yourself as you hit send, imagining him rolling his eyes with that fond little grin of his. Setting the phone back down, you exhale a long breath and stare into the darkness. But the thunder keeps coming, low and rumbling, rattling the windows. It’s clear you’re not going to sleep through this. You throw the blanket off and slip out of bed, shivering slightly as your feet touch the cool floor. You pull a bedrobe over your nightdress, tying it loosely at the waist, and quietly head for the stairs.

When you reach the first floor, you catch Chris stepping out of his room with his hair tousled wildly, sticking out in every direction. You both stop and chuckle when your eyes meet, the absurdity of the timing not lost on either of you.

"Can’t sleep, huh?" you ask, your voice low, almost conspiratorial against the storm’s noise.

Chris scrubs a hand through his messy hair, his mouth curling into a tired smile. "Yeah. Guess not."

He glances toward the kitchen, then back at you with a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Maybe this is the perfect time to crack open that 'Get well soon' gift," he suggests.

You raise an eyebrow, pretending to consider it, then shrug. "Why not," you say, the words feeling lighter than the knot sitting in your chest.

Chris grins, his face lighting up for real this time, and you follow him into the kitchen—both of you barefoot and slightly disheveled, like two teenagers sneaking around past curfew.

Chris is back in his room to get the bottle of liquor, finding it still tucked in its box. It’s a fancy-looking thing, something expensive if the weight of it in his hand says anything. When he turns around, he finds you already poking through the pantry, pulling out a bag of chips and a container of peanut butter-filled pretzels. You flash him a triumphant smile, and he can't help but grin back. It’s stupid how easily you make him feel lighter, like the two of you are just kids up too late, sneaking junk food behind your parents' backs.

You both settle onto the sofa, the movie playing quietly in the background, though neither of you are really paying attention to what’s on. You tuck your legs underneath you, pulling the blanket over the both of you without a second thought, and Chris shifts closer, careful with his leg. You pour the first two shots, and you clink glasses with a soft clink.

“To thunderstorms," you say, grinning.

"And insomnia," Chris adds, smiling back at you.

You both down the shots and immediately reach for the snacks, laughing at the way the liquor burns its way down. You make a face, sticking your tongue out dramatically, and Chris nudges your side with his elbow, pretending to scold you.

"Lightweight," he teases.

"You wish," you shoot back, tossing a pretzel at him. It bounces off his forehead, making both of you burst into laughter. It feels easy. So easy.

As the storm outside grows wilder, you lean into him a little more, warm and soft under the blanket. Chris drapes his arm across the back of the sofa, pretending it’s casual, though really he’s just hoping you’ll lean even closer. You hand him another shot, and this time you both sip it slower, letting the conversation drift from silly things—bad reality TV shows, your weird obsession with true crime podcasts—to the movie still flickering in the background, some terrible romcom neither of you can take seriously.

"You would totally be the guy who trips over himself trying to win the girl back," you tease, smirking over your glass.

Chris scoffs, feigning offense. "I’m way smoother than that."

He then leans his head back against the couch, feeling the pleasant buzz of the alcohol seep into his veins, making everything a little hazy around the edges. His leg is stretched out carefully in front of him, the blanket pooled over his lap, and he watches you talk animatedly, your face flushed from the drinks and the warmth of the room.

"You know," you say, pointing a finger at him, your words just slightly slurring, "you were so bad at being romantic sometimes. Like—so bad."

Chris chuckles under his breath, lifting his glass lazily. "That’s not true. I was plenty romantic."

"You were not!" you argue, scoffing as you grab a handful of chips and shove a few into your mouth. "You forgot our anniversary once."

"It was one time!" Chris defends, laughing, though his protest is weak at best. "And I made it up to you."

"You bought me a hairdryer!" you say, throwing your head back against the couch dramatically. "A hairdryer, Chris!"

Chris snorts, nearly choking on his drink. "Hey, that was a very expensive hairdryer. Top of the line."

You glare at him, though the way your mouth twitches betrays your amusement. "That’s not the point," you mumble, poking his arm with your finger. "I wanted, like... romance. Flowers. Grand gestures."

Chris lifts his hands in surrender, a lazy grin spreading across his face. "Okay, okay. Maybe I wasn’t exactly Romeo."

"Not even close," you mutter with a huff, your words dragging adorably.

He watches you as you curl deeper into the blanket, your frustration fading into giggles you can’t hold back. Chris can't help it—he laughs too, the sound low and fond. You're slurring more now, your sentences wandering, but Chris listens anyway, his heart squeezing a little tighter with each teasing complaint you toss at him.

Somewhere between the drinks and your sleepiness, Chris finds it hard to focus on anything other than the curve of your smile and the way you keep stealing glances at him through heavy lids. He wants to defend himself more, maybe argue that he did love you deeply even if he showed it clumsily—but he figures it’s a lost cause tonight. He shifts slightly, his voice light and teasing.

"You know," he says, nudging you gently with his shoulder, "I might’ve been bad at the whole romance thing, but I don’t remember you ever complaining about the... sex."

You let out a scoff, rolling your eyes without lifting your head. "I admit, you were good back then," you say with a mischievous glint in your eye as you glance down meaningfully at his injured leg. "But who knows if you still are. You're not exactly young anymore, Chris."

Chris gasps in mock offense, his mouth falling open dramatically as he clutches his chest. "Wow. Wounded physically and emotionally in the same month," he says, pouting exaggeratedly. "I’ll have you know that with age comes experience. I’m very, very good now."

You turn your head toward him, and Chris feels your warm breath brush across his cheek, sending a shiver down his spine. Your lips curve into a sly smile. "Very good at making terrible choices, you mean?" you muse, voice soft and teasing.

Chris narrows his eyes at you, the playful challenge sparking between you like static electricity. "You won’t believe me," he murmurs, his voice dropping low, "until I show you."

Before you can react, Chris reaches up and gently grabs your chin, holding your head steady. He leans in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away—but you don’t. His lips brush yours, soft and careful, and for a heartbeat you don't kiss him back. Chris almost pulls away, heart thudding painfully in his chest—

But then you part your lips slightly, letting him deepen the kiss. His hand slides along your jaw, cradling you like something precious. It's unhurried, tender, a kiss that feels more like a memory than a temptation.

When you finally pull back, your laughter is warm and soft against his mouth. "Okay," you murmur, teasing. "You’re not that bad... but not that good either."

Chris lets out a low, breathless laugh, eyes glinting with mischief. "Is that so?"

Without giving you time to think, he leans in again and catches your mouth in another kiss—this time bolder, surer, stealing the breath right from your lungs and this time, you don't hesitate at all.

Chris can’t seem to stop himself. The second your lips part beneath his, something primal wakes up in him — something he’s been keeping buried, locked up for so long. His kisses grow hungrier, deeper, each one a little more desperate than the last, like he’s trying to memorize the feel of you all over again. His hand slides from the nape of your neck, fingers skimming down the line of your throat to your shoulder. You shiver against him, and it only spurs him on. His touch is deliberate but unhurried, tracing the curve of your collarbone through the soft fabric of your robe.

Chris shifts closer, his good leg anchoring him while he leans into you, his hand finally finding the loose belt of your robe. His fingers toy with it for a moment, giving you a heartbeat’s worth of time to stop him if you wanted to — but you don't. So he tugs, slow and certain, pulling the knot free. The robe falls open around you with a whisper of fabric against skin, revealing the silky nightdress you’re wearing underneath.

Chris exhales shakily against your mouth, his hand gliding under the open folds of your robe to settle at your waist, feeling the warmth of your body through the flimsy fabric. His forehead rests against yours for a beat, both of you breathing hard, the air between you thick with the heat of everything unspoken.

He drags his voluptuous lips down your neck, kissing a slow, reverent trail along the delicate curve of your throat. He feels you breathing harder, each soft exhale fanning across his hairline, sending a rush of heat through him. When he nips lightly at your skin, he hears the faintest sound escape you—a breathy gasp that curls something wild and reckless in his chest.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his hand cradling your jaw, his thumb brushing along your cheek. Your eyes meet his, wide and uncertain, and for a moment, Chris feels the weight of everything that could fall apart if he takes this any further.

"Please," he whispers, his voice hoarse. "Stop me. Please stop me here… because if I kiss you again, I don't think I'll be able to stop."

The room crackles with tension. Chris watches the emotions flicker in your eyes—hesitation, longing, that same undeniable pull he's feeling too. He knows you’re both standing on the edge of something you might not be able to come back from.

And then you move. You don't answer him with words. Instead, you slide your hand into his hair, pulling him down, and crash your mouth against his with a desperate kind of hunger.

Chris groans low in his throat, the last thread of his restraint snapping as he kisses you back just as fiercely. Your kiss tells him everything he needs to know—no second-guessing, no going back. You're choosing this. You're choosing him. And he knows with absolute certainty: he’s about to lose himself in you all over again.

✨ Evermore: Chapter III is available on my Patreon ✨

Please support my writings by kindly reblog, comment or consider tipping me on my ko-fi!

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afroslacks · 19 days ago

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Hello! Can I request a drabble or whatever you'll like. How about possibly the reader had feelings for Micheal to everyone it was so obvious but he kinda brushed it off because he got with lorvey. Now they have to work together for sinner.. and he realize how much he was in love with her. is it too late????

Listen to Brent Faiyaz - Wherever I go ( Or not)

Your current project is Sinners. You’ve always admired Ryan Coogler’s work, so when he called offering you a part, you immediately said yes. Your management rearranged everything to fit the project into your already hectic schedule—and now, you’re in Louisiana.

As you arrive at the cast meet-and-greet, you look around and take in the faces you’ll be seeing for the next nine months. You sip from a water bottle while sitting in your seat when Wunmi walks up to you.

“Hey, how’ve you been?” she asks, settling into the vacant seat next to you.

That’s such an odd question, considering you’ve been smiling and enjoying yourself. Your brow lifts. “Great. Why do you ask?”

Wunmi fidgets with her fingers and glances around, almost like she’s searching for someone. “No reason,” she squeaks—obviously hiding something.

You cap your water bottle and place it on the table. “Wunmi…” you begin, preparing to pry the truth out of her.

“Alright, fine. Ryan didn’t tell you this, but Michael B. Jordan is going to be our leading guy—he’s playing both twins,” she blurts, exhaling with relief.

Your heart stutters, skipping a couple of beats at her confession. “Oh.”

Wunmi’s brown eyes study you. “It was supposed to be a secret, but I couldn’t help it,” she explains, gauging your reaction.

Not many people know the history between you and Michael. Sure, there were a few sightings of you two on dates, but no one knew the full story. You always had that will-they-won’t-they energy. It wasn’t quite Ross and Rachel from Friends, but it was close. You started as friends, and over the years, feelings grew—but the timing was never right. You were too busy, he wanted to have fun (and you didn’t fault him, because you wanted the same), long-distance became too much, or you both were still growing.

Eventually, you had the conversation: you’d hold off on a relationship, and if it was meant to be, it would happen. But it was hard to hold off when people could feel the tension and yearning radiating between you two. Whether in close-up or in passing, people always thought you’d make a beautiful couple.

“I’m good. Thank you for letting me know, Wunmi. I know damn well Ryan wasn’t,” you joke, glancing around in anticipation of seeing him again after so long.

Moments later, Michael walks through the door—gold chain, waves on swim, and a signature smile.

“Hello, everybody,” he says as the room erupts in applause and excited chatter.

You're focused on calming your pounding heart at the sight of him. He looked good in his twenties, sure—but now, in his thirties, there’s an overwhelming pull you try to suppress. As he walks further into the room, his eyes find yours immediately. He doesn’t even try to interact with anyone else.

Wunmi glances between the two of you. You curl your lip in a smirk, trying to appear calm, cool, and collected.

“Hey, how you doing?” he asks, nodding at you.

“I’m good. Nice to see you, Bakari.”

His cheeks flush slightly—only a few people call him by his middle name, mostly family. So when you say it, it flusters him just a little. Michael has always thought the two of you should’ve gotten together years ago, but you weren’t ready. You had your reasons. So he stepped back, tried something new. Lori Harvey wasn’t a bad choice, but it wasn’t the same. With you, it was different—his mind always circled back. He hated how public things got with Lori, and the way the media treated him after the breakup felt... off.

But even through it all, no matter where he was, he kept up with you—quietly.

“Well, looks like you’ll be stuck with me for nine months,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest, trying to bring back the playful tone of your old dynamic.

“Boy, I ain’t worried about you,” you scoff, waving him off.

Wunmi sits quietly, observing the spark crackling between you two.

“Alright, lil’ mama. We’ll see. I mean—we’re going to be playing love interests,” he says, secretly giddy about the chance to explore something more now that you're both single and available.

“I can be very professional, Michael.”

His eyes darken, softening with familiar longing. “What if I don’t want you to be?”

Your body temperature spikes—right in front of Wunmi, no less.

“Sorry to break this up,” Wunmi cuts in, grabbing your arm and pulling you away. “You two could’ve at least waited until we started filming,” she scolds playfully.

a/n : WHY ARE THE SINNERS FICS SLOWING DOWN :(

#sinners x reader #smoke x reader #michael b jordan x reader #black reader #elijah moore x reader #x black reader #micheal b jordan sinners #elijah moore #elijah smoke moore #stack x reader

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whispereons · 1 year ago

Text

Oracle!Reader Part 24

Masterlist - Part 1, Part 23, Part 25

Warning! My AU is yandere and can involve gore. Sensitive topics appear in this series. This chapter is a bit bloody but not that bad.

In all honesty, you never expected to be the one to say ‘no’ to a proposal. Love wasn't something you frequently chased, and being a heartbreaker was even farther from your mind.

Maybe that's why you laughed so merrily at Zhongli’s face when you rejected him.

Then again, he wasn't proposing his heart, nor his love. Morax, Rex Lapis, or rather Zhongli was offering an alliance of mutual benefit.

“What's your reasoning for rejecting my proposal? I may not marry you as the Geo Archon, but I'm not undesirable as I am now.”

He takes a moment to think as his fingers taps on his chin. The way the diamond of his iris shrinks and the slight grimace on his face raises a red flag in your mind.

“You aren’t rejecting me solely due to the fact that I’m not operating as this country’s Archon are you?”

The smile on your face becomes tight as your hand shakes with the unmeasurable amount of effort to not flip him off right there. Just what did you do that could have caused such a stupid reasoning to come from his usually smart mouth?

“What the fuck made you think that I even gave a shit about you being an Archon?” Well maybe you couldn’t hold your tongue, but granted you didn’t really need to either.

The man bristles, but ultimately doesn’t answer your question, choosing to instead repeat the first question. “Why are you rejecting my proposal, then?”

“Because you don’t love me.”

“I could learn to love you.”

“But that goes against the terms and conditions of what a marriage is supposed to consist of.”

This brings Zhongli to a halt as he stews on your answer. With a smaller voice, he continues, “The legalities of our marriage would be decided on what vows we utter during the ceremony.”

“Not according to the Creator.” It’s like saying ‘no you’ in an argument, especially with how Zhongli’s face contorts into clear annoyance.

“With what proof do you claim that as the truth? Nothing in any scriptures on Teyvat says that.” He seems to realize what answer you’ll give him even before you open your mouth by sighing.

“Because I’m the Oracle.” The self-satisfied smirk on your face is clear as you step closer to poke his chest. “Unless you’re suddenly going to claim that I’m wrong? Should we cut off another limb? Maybe your pitiful rat-tail as an ornament to decorate it.”

He pushes you away by your head, the material of your mask is cool under his fingers as you let him push you back with a laugh. He tsks at your antics and smoothly replies.

“Have you finished laughing? There’s no need to pick at my appearance when I wouldn’t do the same to you, whenever you would have shown me your face once we wed.”

Light laughter calms down into a brief hum as you take in his words. It’s all just a well-timed cover-up for the internal panic that you had at realizing that marrying him would mean being forced to reveal yourself one way or another.

“Fair point. Do you really want a serious answer from me anyway?” The swift conversation turn doesn’t go unnoticed by Zhongli, but he concedes by answering.

“Yes. Your reasoning may bring me more information on the Creator’s personal beliefs, or even aspects of humanity that I failed to learn firsthand yet.”

“Like rejection?” The smart-ass reply is met with an unimpressed stare as he comments. “Humorous, but not incorrect.”

“I wasn’t completely joking when I said that it’s mostly due to the Creator. Marriage in Liyue at least is mostly decided by the parents.” Your chapped lips become a bit more manageable to speak with as you lick them. “I don’t remember mine, and the closest thing you have to a parent is the Creator themselves, or maybe Teyvat?” Which was a weird thought, but you couldn’t really be sure how to view it.

“Therefore your marriage, or at the very least, my marriage, considering that I was personally sent on a mission by them, should be under the Creator’s control and only theirs. My opinion on it shouldn’t matter.” This was how you remembered China’s history worked, so Liyue hypothetically should have a similar system.

Zhongli’s frown deepens at your answer as you shrug your shoulders. As if you didn’t just make this whole answer up so that you can avoid marrying the ticking time bomb that wouldn’t hesitate to murder you in a split second.

Sure, there was increasing evidence that your acolytes gained this weirdly strong attachment to you, but you weren’t betting your entire life on it. The moment the mask was gone, your life was going to follow it.

“Then it seems I can do nothing but accept your teaching. Thank you for enlightening me on a topic that I was unaware about. Can I chalk this up to something you learned about from the scriptures written in Cloud Ret-”

He cuts himself off as he looks down at the bustling streets below the balcony. “Xianyun’s old abode? The one’s written in indecipherable language?”

Damn, you really forgot about Cloud Retainer’s humansona. Just thinking about accidentally running into her during your visit to Madam Ping makes you irritated in advance.

“No, there are other scriptures that the Creator led me to when I was exploring.” You didn’t want Zhongli trying to trace it back to Cloud Retainers introvert cave. In fact, it was more entertaining to visualize Zhongli searching every nook and cranny of Liyue’s vast lands for said ‘scriptures’.

The sun hits your eyes directly from its position as you try to guess the time. It had to be at least 3:30 at this point, right? Just how much time did you have to see Madam Ping before the dinner with Ningguang?

Who were you even kidding, you didn’t know how to tell the time by the sun. You’ll have to ask someone once you finish rejecting Zhongli.

Noticing your far off gaze and attention no longer on him, Zhongli let the petty, unexplainable indignation at the action simmer as he forcefully turned your body to face the door.

“I believe I’ve taken up more than enough of your time. You’d best be on your way to whatever task may be next on your schedule today.”

Now you feel pretty bad about spacing out like that. “Sorry Zhongli, I was just trying to figure out the time-” Your words seemed to go ignored as he pushed you out the doorway.

“Don’t bother worrying.” Is his brief response. The touch and pressure of his hands is firm and reliable in a way you can’t fully describe, before they’re removed swiftly as if he was burned. “Instead, you can focus on relaying your gratitude the next time we meet.”

Before you can question the strange sentence, the door is already slammed shut in your face. The whiplash of his actions settles as you stare at the wood in bewilderment. Instinctive, your feet lead you back down the stairs as you toss Zhongli’s sudden attitude and words in your mind.

Surely you weren’t that rude? You’ve done and said much worse things to him after all. Replaying your conversation yielded no new revelations, so with a sense of unease, you decide to take his push for your departure as his weird version of sulking.

What he expected you to thank him for wasn’t something you were going to worry about now. The sun shines on you, making the mask a bit warmer against your skin as you exit the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor.

If he didn’t bother explaining what you should be thanking him for, then it must be something either very big or very noticeable. Walking past where the balcony was, you look up and can only spot the empty chairs and simple table.

Time will tell, you suppose.

-----------------------

You aren’t completely sure how you expected your meeting with Madam Ping to go, but being stuck inside the temple with your neck being examined carefully by the older woman wasn’t a possibility you had in mind.

“Um, Madam Ping, I’m quite sure Xianyun’s claw marks aren’t there anymore. They’ve long healed at this point.”

“Child, you shouldn’t brush off injuries left by the Adepti so easily. Many can leave varying, strange and frankly annoying effects that can permanently alter your body if not taken care of.”

Sighing, you use your right arm to sip the tea Ping generously made for you, as your left arm was also being examined for any amber fragments from Mountain Shaper.

“You really don’t have to worry. Dr. Baizhu was the one who healed me up, so there’s nothing off about my body.” Ping relents and lets you fix your clothing as she steps away.

It was honestly surprising when she first spotted you and immediately apologized for her Adepti companion's actions. Yaoyao and Shuyu, Xianyun’s youngest disciple, were quick to be corralled away as Madam Ping brought you to one of the smaller rooms for examination.

“It must be an illuminated bird quality to be somewhat violent toward me. Maybe when I meet Xiao, I’ll get an injury from him too.” The joke slips out easily, but when Ping sighs and shakes her head in disapproval, you’re quick to shut your mouth.

“That would be even worse, as the karmic debt can be accidentally seeped into your wound that way.” Each sentence Ping says is clear worry, so you can’t be too annoyed at the slight nagging.

“Even still, I hope you have it in your heart to pray that the Creator forgive my headstrong and stubborn companions.” And here’s the catch. “I’m afraid it hasn’t been long since any of them have been trying this hard to understand humans on a personal level, so they tend to revert into their more proud egos when faced with the unexpected.”

There it was, all the excuses. You were really hoping Ping wouldn’t be the kind enabler that asks the victim to forgive the assaulter under the guise of some excuse. You’ve dealt with more than enough back on earth when bullies actually had abuse and other fucked up shit going on at home.

Likewise, you weren’t about to put up with it from some ‘illuminated beings’ that had more than enough years to learn how not to be judgmental sad sacks of shi-

“I’ll still properly scold them for you, but it’s the Creator’s opinion that I’m truly concerned about.” Would you get in trouble for punching her? Probably. Yanfei is close with her and the best lawyer in existence.

It wasn’t worth it, you told yourself. It wasn’t worth it to argue with Ping about whether it was okay for the Adepti to hurt you or anyone else, solely depending on how connected they were to the Creator. It absolutely wasn’t worth it to point out how the Adepti’s lack of control over their emotions and harsh judgements couldn’t just be scolded away. And that they definitely weren’t allowed to get away with unneeded violence simply because they’re stubborn.

The building tension as Ping continued to ramble and your death grip on your pants was broken by Yanfei walking in while looking off to the side.

“Granny, I heard you came - Oh. Hello there!” Yanfei’s casual greeting had you melting back into the oracle position as you smile calmly at Yanfei.

“Hey, nice to meet you. I was just talking with-” You’re cut off by Ping moving to stand in front of Yanfei and begin to explain and introduce you. Including the fact that the other Adepti attacked you and that you were the oracle.

Well, it’s better than you retelling the story. It’s better to let others lie for you, especially considering the close relations. It’s not like Ping’s way of speaking was fast or overwhelming, it just felt like you would be wrong for whatever reason if you tried interfering.

Doesn’t stop the surge of annoyance, though.

Deciding to just leave as soon as possible and not get into a fist fight with a hidden Adeptus, you move off the bed and walk closer to the duo. Without much trouble, you’re able to slip past them until a hand tugs your wrist quickly before releasing it.

“Sorry, but I just wanted to introduce myself to you before you leave. My name is Yanfei. I'm the top legal advisor in Liyue.” A business card is handed to you as she speaks.

Accepting it, you examine the card to not be rude before stuffing it into your bag. While you’ll probably forget about it, it’s not bad to have it in case you visit Fontaine. Or if things with Ninggnuang get into legal territory.

What actually got your attention was how Yanfei went through the trouble of cutting off Ping to speak personally to you. Could this be the first Adepti related character to treat you with respect as a normal person?

The fact that you’re amazed by basic human decency is pretty fucking sad. The difference in treatment between her and Ganyu despite both of them being half-adeptus is staggering.

“Thank you. Just as Madam Ping explained, my name is Y/N, and I’m an Oracle for the Creator.” At least the old woman didn’t butt in yet. “Yaoyao visited me yesterday to meet her. I just didn’t expect to meet you here as well.”

“You suit your position rather well.” Her head tilts slightly to the side, making the Mora decorations jingle. “Although I haven’t met you before, just by your appearance alone I can guess that you’re either-” A finger is raised. “A - you’re not from here. Or B - you don’t have a traditional job.” The second finger joins the first as she takes in your appearance in completion.

“I would put inhuman beings or vision holders on the list, but your aura is completely that of a human, but also not one of a vision holder. In a way, you remind me of the traveler.”

“It does make sense.” You reply with a noncommittal shrug. “The traveler was the first Acolyte, and I’m the first Oracle, so there’s bound to be some uncanny similarities between us.”

Madam Ping wistfully sighs at the mention of the traveler. “Ah yes, the Hero of Liyue. I was able to gift them that teapot, but what a shame that I don’t have another one to spare for you, esteemed Oracle.”

And here comes the half-praise, half-demeaning words that’s meant to belittle you into feeling worthless while giving meager praise to make her sound generous.

“There would be no need to, since I intend on enjoying our God’s creations rather than hiding away from it in an Adeptal piece of machinery.” A wide grin adorns your face with canines clear to see, but your voice is as excited as a child’s with innocence clear.

Those that hear you would assume nothing but ignorance at fault, but the ones that can see how your eyes dimly gleam with mockery would think otherwise.

Isn’t it so good that Yanfei is by your side while Ping is in front of you?

The words clearly hit a nerve, as Ping’s smile drops into a horribly wrinkled frown. Yanfei’s teal eyes look between you two with a smile that dissolves into a confused furrow of her brows.

“My apologies, child, I was unaware that you were so deprived of empathy for others that you can reduce the hard work of the Creator’s chosen protectors of this land into a symbol of defilement.” The last few words are scathing as her face contorts into a gruesome mess of sagging skin.

“Granny, I understand why you’re mad but-” Yanfei takes a step forward, but is cut off by Ping raising her hand while stepping closer to you.

“I can now understand why Shenhe, that poor pitiful child, was so conflicted about her emotions toward you. I may not understand why the Creator chose a human of your breed to have that holy position, but I can only pray that this journey teaches you a lesson concerning those that you have wronged in this way.”

“Granny!” Yanfei yells in shock as she moves between you two, “How could you say something like that to them? You’re not only insulting them, you’re also insulting the Creator!”

She turns around to face you as she shots a grimace behind her at the fuming hag. “I am so sorry about this, you should probably go now.”

Nodding with a sad expression, you speak in a confused tone. “I-I understand. It was nice meeting you and Madam Ping. I hope we can talk again sometime.” Twisting open the doorknob and pushing it open, you sneak one last peek into the room.

Yanfei has her back to you as she yells on a whisper level. Ping doesn’t look all that pleased until her eyes stray to yours. The smugness practically rolls off you in waves as she scorns at you with disgust.

-------------------------

It was official.

You were lost.

Looking at the doors and people walking around you, you tried to remember what path you took with Ping. But each door looked the same, with different people rushing in and out.

None of them even had time to talk to you as they wheeled out screaming and bleeding people from room to room. You got glimpses of dressings pressed haphazardly on wounds as you continued walking.

Surely you still had enough time until Ningguang’s dinner?

Trying not to freak out over the time, you continue marching throughout the seemingly endless hallways and avoid bumping into the doctors, nurses and more that rush around you. Eventually you arrive at an area of the building that looks a bit calmer.

You spot a woman wearing a dress looking similar to a work uniform and decide to ask her for directions leading out of the temple. You’re about to call out to her when she opens a door and enters it while cheerfully calling out.

“Thank you so much for all the help despite your busy schedule!” She continues to walk in, giving a half-hearted push to close it.

Sneakily, you plant your foot right at the hinge of it, making it stop before it actually closes. A sense of déjà vu nags you as you stand outside the room with your head resting against the wall. You close your eyes to listen to the conversation.

“It’s no trouble at all, Daiyu. I always enjoy volunteering to help those who offer sacrifices to the Creator here.” There’s a light tilt to the voice while remaining sturdy, a good indicator that the speaker is who you think it is.

“Even so, as the Yuheng of Liyue, you still have many duties. Much more than you did when you first began to help out all those years ago…” The anxious woman is met with a brief chuckle.

“As I’ve said before, Daiyu, you can call me Keqing during these times. I’m not here as the Yuheng, but as a servant of our God to learn more.” The faint click of heels can be heard as drawers of what you assume are bandages are opened.

“Well, have you finally come to a conclusion? You know about whether self-mutilation is an ‘overdone’ and an ‘inferior’ way of worshiping the Creator?” The question is met with brief silence before Keqing responds.

“I’ve already made up my mind around the same time as Rex Lapis’s death. Self-mutilation isn’t exactly wrong per se, but it should not be our main way of worship. Our bodies were painstakingly crafted by the Creator’s hands and should not be abused. It’s why I’ve strived to keep myself in perfect shape.”

A sigh can be heard with an almost bitter note.

“But humans can not regrow lost limbs. Thus, I do not believe self-mutilation is the best way for humanity to worship the gods. Blood offerings and even human offerings of other criminals can be done, but I believe that self-mutilation should be left for extreme sins and for the Adepti to present.”

With eyes trained to the blood-stained floorboards beneath your feet, you push yourself off the wall. It seemed you weren’t going to gain any useful information from here.

“The public won’t accept that kind of view that goes against what we’ve been taught for thousands of years. Then again, that never stopped you before - Aw, damn it! There’s barely any medical supplies here, too.”

The tapping of your feet walking away is concealed by the clicking of heels.

“There’s nothing left? Ugh, probably Ningguang again. She’s always doing this stuff.”

But perhaps you should have stayed just a bit longer.

“The Tianquan?! Oh, please don’t let her know what I said! I quite like my job!”

“Relax, Daiyu, she wouldn’t care about your complaints even if she did hear them.”

“Then why are you frowning like that?”

You never know what you might hear.

“It’s just a bit strange to me. Not long ago she was doing all sorts of planning with an annoyed expression, but this morning she was pleased. She must have either taken care of whatever was bothering her or hatched the perfect, foolproof plan for it.”

----------------------------

Thankfully, you did manage to find your way back to the first floor. (When did you even walk up the stairs?) Most of the people there were rather calm, with incense and prayer rooms decorating this floor.

The smell was of cinnamon and something with a strong woody scent. The one’s in the prayer rooms had healed scars exposed, either doing a full floor bow or at least on their knees.

If they had them, at least.

It was a gruesome sight if you were to be honest. Some had skin raw red from what looked like boil scars, others with self-inflicted writing carved into their skin. Words like; ‘Holy One’, ‘Savior’, and the most popular one of all: ‘Beloved Creator’ were in some way permanently branding their skin.

The wind blew from a certain hallway, as if Teyvat was trying to finally lend you a hand in leaving this temple of smoke and blood. Taking long strides past the rooms that muttered and screamed at varying levels and intervals, you see a set of wide doors.

WHAM

The whir of a sliding door before it slams into the doorway is all you hear before a hand is wrapped firmly around your wrist and pulling you into the dark room. Your breath is knocked out of you as the soles of your shoes search for purchase.

Your hands reach up to where you were grabbed to dig into the scalp of your assailant before you both fall to the ground from the struggle.

“Let go of me!” You grit out as the slender fingers continue trying to pin you down. A feminine grunt of pain is heard as you finally manage to push her away, making your assaulter hit the wall.

Like hell! You weren’t just going to leave after being attacked for no fucking reason. Rushing forward, you pin the person against the wall as your eyes adjust to the dark room. Silvery hair can be seen in a tangle between your fingertips as you hold her wrists against the wall.

“Shenhe, what the fuck were you thinking? Are you still pissed at me? I thought we cleared it all up.” With a mix of anger, disbelief and pure confusion, you stare at her face as her features slowly become more defined.

“I just wanted to see you again…” The kicked puppy look is not suiting the bloody bandages wrapped around her left eye. Or what used to be her eye. “I didn’t hurt you this time.”

“Dragging an unsuspecting person into a dark room isn't not hostile either, Shenhe.” She simply stares at you in silence, as if she’s incompetent enough to not understand your words. “We almost fought to our deaths last time we met. How am I not supposed to assume that you’re trying to hurt me?”

Shenhe’s head drops a little bit as her mouth opens and closes repeatedly with no success. After giving her a moment, you sigh with a hint of annoyance and let go of her. “I have to get going, Shenhe. I'm not going to sit and wait forever.”

“I’m sorry.” You glance back down at Shenhe as she sits on her knees with her hands clenched tightly on her thighs. “I’m sorry for hunting you down so insistently while framing you as someone who wronged me on a personal level.”

Could you really accept this apology when you did stab her first for killing those Hilichurls you were friends with? Then again, they did give you liquor while Shenhe convinced herself that you were an evil entity. “Thanks for the apology, but that still doesn’t change much. I spent days in Bubu Pharmacy trying not to die from all the shit you and Yelan put me through.”

“I already heard about it and saw the vivid details of your healing progress while I waited outside your window that day.” Those words alone had you whipping your head around to her as your jaw dropped.

“Shenhe, what the hell!?” She staggers back to her feet with a worrying sway before taking mute steps towards your shocked form.

“A good partner is one who is attentive and keeps detailed track of their lover's affairs and health, correct?” Trying to wrap your head around the twisted logic she presents you with, you bury your face in your hands.

“Yes, but not in the context of our relationship.” You stress as your arm automatically reaches out to stop her from swaying to the ground. With your hand firmly on her arm, you continue to speak. “I know that you don’t really use that word often considering Xianyun’s teachings, but it’s pretty fucking important.”

A sole iridescent blinks lazily at you before her whole body weight is pressing down on you. It’s less of a hug and more like a ‘glomp’. Deciding to hold her by her waist to prevent being crushed by the pure muscle mass that made up her body, her forehead rests on your shoulder.

It’s burning. Definitely unusual for a Cryo vision holder.

“Shenhe? Shenhe can you hear me?” You ask as her glazed over eye stares into yours with no recognition seen in them. Swinging your head around, you finally spot a blood stained coat off to the side.

“C’mon, Shenhe, just work with me a bit to get you back to bed.” You spit out as you carry more of her weight to avoid dragging her on the floor. Thankfully, she helps out by wrapping her legs around your body and despite the slight constriction, you still manage to carry her back to bed.

Dropping her on the bed, you carefully fix her up. Brushing her hair out of her face, pulling the covers back over body, and adjusting the surrounding bandages around her injured eye to fit snugly.

She did apologize after all, it would be cruel of you to leave a person with a fever and probably an infection a mess on a bed.

That didn’t mean you were going to stay and nurse her back to health. Ningguang was probably at the restaurant at this point, and you weren’t going to be late for it.

Turning around, you take a quiet step toward the exit until a hand wraps frantically around your wrist.

“You forgive me, right?” Heavy breathing fills the room as her sweaty skin clings to the little contact she has with you. “I apologized sincerely, I’ll do it again if I must.” A trembling eye stares into your soul as her voice breaks. “Please…”

You stare down at the disciple with an unreadable expression until a smile breaks out onto your face. Shenhe’s grip loosens as hope begins to light up. Your other hand gently removes her fingers from your wrist before you whisper.

“Why don’t you sleep on it, Shenhe?”

Her eyes slide shut from pure exhaustion as you walk away and exit the room. After taking note of the room number, you resume your short walk to the exit. A nurse is nearby and just as you pull one of the wide doors open, you lean in to whisper a brief message.

The door closes shut behind you as the nurse rushes away. With careful footsteps, you walk leisurely toward the Xinyue Kiosk. The burning stares of civilians and soldiers alike are rolled off you in waves.

It was pointless to fight with the puppets when the puppet master invited you to meet her.

A feel like this part took forever. It's just the beginning of my spring break before I have another quiz and exam. So my break is just more studying, wonderful. My editor didn't need to do much considering the small size but I also feel like this wasn't the best of my work. I did write piece by piece every few nights when I got back home dead tired. I really can't wait for this semester to end…. But I'm also really excited to get started on the dinner with Ningguang! Taglist is always open!

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