#it's much harder when you have to make that decision
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As someone who's around academics alot, yeah, this, scientists are actually very social, and not at all what you'd expect, I mean, confrence opening and closing events and department year end parties tend to go as hard, if not harder than college frat parties. I have never seen people quite as drunk or having as much fun as a bunch of scientists with access to an open bar.
Also, about half the job of a scientist is telling other people about your work, and you have to keep their attention while talking about often complicated and boring statistical techniques, so you need to be really good at being interesting. Beyond just talking to your peers about your work, scientists also often lecture, and participate in outreach events to schools and the public in general, so you have to know how to keep a diverse range of audiences engaged and intrested.
Studying one aspect of the world also tends to breed interest in the rest of it, so scientists are rarely monotonous people and will often be happy to chat about just about anything
Science also comes with testing theories, so if you're slightly drunk and have a slightly crazy "I wonder if we could do this" moment, the person most likely to say "ok, bet" and get arrested for it, is a scientist, for some of the brightest minds on the planet, scientists are incredibly stupid when it comes to decision making and impulse control
So, yeah, very few scientist are actually the stereotypical nerd in a bow tie and suspenders with large bulky glasses who only listens to classical music and can only talk about their field
i really want people to stop writing scientists as awkward, stilted conversationalists who don't understand idioms or emotions and start writing them as depressed alcoholics who swear like sailors unless they're in a specifically academic situation
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Between the Lines
Gojo Satoru x Awkward!Reader
Summary : As the new teacher’s assistant at Jujutsu High, Y/N is used to being invisible—quiet, awkward, always on the outside looking in. She tells herself she prefers it that way, but when Gojo Satoru, the school’s most infuriatingly nosy teacher, starts noticing the cracks in her carefully built walls, she finds it harder to hide. He’s loud, he’s persistent, and worst of all… he might just see right through her.
Warnings : Shy!Reader, Awkward!Reader, Introvert!Reader, Lonely!Reader
♡♡♡
I had never been good at introductions.
Or first impressions. Or second impressions.
Or… people in general.
So when the principal of Jujutsu High offered me a job as a teaching assistant, I accepted before I could talk myself out of it. It was logical—stable work, a chance to put my skills to use—but now, standing in front of the classroom door, I was starting to question every decision that led me here.
The job itself wasn’t the problem. It was the social part. The talking. The being around others.
The inevitable awkwardness.
Here I am, standing awkwardly outside the door of Gojo Satoru’s classroom, a bundle of nerves in my stomach.
I have never met him before. Only heard of him in passing. The strongest sorcerer alive. An eccentric man, a little ridiculous but undeniably powerful. I have no idea what to expect, and that made me even more anxious.
I exhaled sharply and knocked before I could hesitate any longer.
“Come iiinnn~”
The voice was playful, stretching the words like taffy. I hesitated for a second before pushing the door open.
The room was not empty. Three students sat at their desks, heads turning as I entered. One of them—a boy with pink hair and a bright, open grin—tilted his head curiously. Another, dark-haired with sharp features, barely reacted. The last, a girl with fiery eyes, scrutinized me with clear interest.
And then, there was him.
Gojo Satoru.
He was taller than I expected, his dark blue uniform neat but his posture anything but. White hair, messy but somehow intentional and a blindfold shielding his eyes. He was the kind of person who took up space without any effort, like the air itself made room for him.
“Oh? A new face.” A grin stretched across his face. "And who might you be?"
I swallowed and tightened my grip on my bag. “Um. I’m Y/N. The principal assigned me as your new teaching assistant.”
For a moment, there was a silence. Then, Gojo’s smile widened. “Ohhh, so you’re the poor soul stuck with me?”
I- I was not so sure how to respond to that.
“I… guess?”
The pink-haired boy snickered. “Welcome to the chaos, sensei.”
Gojo clapped his hands. “Right! Introductions. These little troublemakers are my students. That’s Itadori Yuji—”
“Yo!”
“—Fushiguro Megumi—”
A silent nod.
“—and Kugisaki Nobara.”
The girl flipped her hair. “Good luck surviving Gojo-sensei.”
I gave a small, uncertain nod with an unsure smile. “Thanks…?”
Gojo tilted his head. “So, Y/N! Tell us about yourself.”
Oh no.
Not this question. Anything but this question.
My mind blanked immediately.
I was supposed to say something here. Something normal. Something that would make me seem approachable. But nothing came.
“There’s not much to say,” I finally muttered.
Gojo leaned forward on his desk, grinning. “Come on, there’s gotta be something. A hobby? Fun fact? Favorite food? Deepest, darkest secret?”
I swallowed. I hated questions like this. I never knew how to answer.
My hands curled around the strap of my bag. “I..I mean I like...reading, I don’t know.”
For a second, silence. A horrible, suffocating pause.
Then—
Gojo sighed dramatically. “A mystery woman, huh? Fine, fine, we’ll learn your secrets eventually.”
Something in me tensed at that idea.
But Gojo spared me and did not press. He just stretched lazily and turned back to his students.
I exhaled, shoulders loosening.
That could have gone a lot worse.
°•♡•°
The first few days passed in a blur.
I kept to my work, avoiding unnecessary interactions. The job itself was easy—assisting with lessons, helping with training schedules, sorting paperwork. It was everything outside of that that I struggled with.
Small talk. Social cues. Knowing when to speak and when to stay silent.
I avoided the break room, ate lunch alone, kept my head down. It wasn’t new—I had always been like this. And I had always told myself I didn’t mind.
But Gojo made it difficult to go unnoticed.
He was everywhere. Loud, teasing, impossible to ignore. He had a habit of appearing at the worst moments—leaning over my desk when I was trying to work, suddenly materializing beside me when I was lost in thought.
And he noticed things.
A lot of things.
“Hey,” he said one afternoon. “Do you always stand like that?”
I blinked up at him. “Like what?”
He waved a hand vaguely. “All stiff. Like you’re bracing for impact.”
I immediately stiffened more. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Gojo hummed. “You’re always tense. And quiet. Do I scare you?”
I frowned, caught off guard. “What? No.” I laughed awkwardly.
He gasped, hand over his chest. “So you just don’t like me?”
“That’s not—” I stopped, exhaling. “I just… I don’t talk much.”
Gojo tilted his head, as if considering something.
For a second, I thought he might press further. Ask questions I didn’t know how to answer.
But then he just grinned. “Don’t worry. You’ll warm up to me eventually.”
I wasn’t so sure about that.
But later, when I caught him watching me with something thoughtful behind his blindfold, I realized—
He wasn’t sure about me either.
°•♡•°
Even more days passed, blending into each other like ink bleeding into paper.
I kept my head down, did my work, and kept to myself. It was easy, really. No one expected much from me beyond my job. The students were polite, Gojo was… Gojo, and the rest of the staff had their own responsibilities. I did what was required, answered when spoken to, and let conversations pass over me like waves washing over a stone.
And yet…
Something gnawed at me.
I noticed things. I always had.
Like the way Itadori and Kugisaki bickered over lunch, their insults sharp but affectionate. The way Fushiguro sighed, exasperated but always there, always included. The way they trained together, argued together, shared jokes that only made sense to them.
They belonged.
Even the staff, as different as they were, had their own connections. Yaga’s gruff lectures, Shoko’s dry humor, Gojo’s infuriating yet oddly natural way of slipping into conversations like he had always been part of them.
Everywhere I looked, people had someone.
I didn’t even have a past friendship to reminisce about. No old friend I had lost touch with. No warm memories of sleepovers, of whispered secrets at midnight, of laughing so hard my stomach hurt.
I had nothing.
It wasn’t that I had never wanted friends. I had wanted them desperately. But there had always been something wrong with me—something that made people drift away before they ever truly got close.
Maybe I was too quiet.
Maybe I was too awkward.
Maybe I was just… forgettable.
Even now, at 22, I felt like I had already wasted my entire life away.
Everyone else had stories. Experiences. Things they could look back on with fondness or even regret.
I had empty days and silence.
I never checked my phone much, but sometimes, I left it untouched for hours just to pretend—just to imagine, for a second, that when I finally looked at it, I would see something.
A message.
A missed call.
A notification that was not just a useless app reminder.
But there was never anything.
The ache in my chest was familiar by now, dull but relentless.
I felt like I was missing something vital, something everyone else had but I simply… didn’t.
It was stupid.
I had a job. A roof over my head. A place in the world, even if it felt like I was just existing rather than living.
But still—
Still.
I wanted someone.
Someone to talk to about nothing and everything.
Someone to laugh with.
Someone who would see my name pop up on their phone and be excited to hear from me.
But I didn’t know how to reach out.
Didn’t know how to start.
Didn’t know if it was even possible for someone like me.
If Gojo noticed anything, he didn’t show it.
Not at first.
He still teased, still popped up at the most unexpected moments, still acted like the world was his playground.
But then, I started catching him watching me.
Just little moments, subtle shifts.
His head tilting ever so slightly whenever I hesitated before answering a question.
His focus lingering when I thought no one was paying attention.
At first, I just chalked it up to paranoia. But it kept happening.
The worst part was, Gojo wasn’t the type to care without reason. If he was noticing me, if he was watching me, it meant something had tipped him off.
That terrified me.
Because if he figured it out—if he somehow pieced together how hollow my life really was—I wasn’t sure I could handle that kind of scrutiny.
So I tried harder.
Tried to look normal.
Tried to pretend that I wasn’t weighed down by something invisible, something I didn’t have the words for.
But Gojo was sharp in a way most people didn’t realize.
And even if I could fool everyone else,
I couldn’t fool him.
The days continued to pass, each one blending into the next. I had fallen into a routine, and while there was a sense of comfort in that, there was also something else—something heavier, something I tried not to think about too much.
I wasn’t unhappy, exactly. I had a job, I had a purpose, and I wasn’t struggling. But the silence of my own life had become deafening.
At Jujutsu High, I was surrounded by people, but I had never felt more alone.
It was during lunch that I felt it the most.
I always sat outside, away from the busy chatter of the cafeteria, where students and staff alike gathered in their little groups.
It wasn’t like anyone had told me to sit alone. I had just… done it.
It was easier that way.
Or at least, that was what I told myself.
I had taken to watching the students from afar. Not in an obvious way, but just enough to see the ease of their friendships. The way Yuji, Nobara, and Megumi existed in a way that I had never known myself.
“Oi, Megumi, say ‘ahhh’—”
“No.”
“Come onnn, I made it with love!”
“I literally watched you drop that on the floor.”
Nobara pouted dramatically, only for Yuji to swoop in and eat whatever it was she had been trying to force on Megumi. The two of them laughed at something he said, and even Megumi, who always tried to seem indifferent, looked somewhat amused.
I turned my gaze away with a slight smile, focusing on my food.
It shouldn’t have made me feel like this.
It was such a simple thing—friends joking around, sharing lunch, teasing each other. It wasn’t as if I had ever expected to be part of something like that.
And yet.
I let out a quiet sigh and checked my phone.
Zero notifications.
The same empty lock screen. The same stillness.
I turned it off quickly and placed it back on the table, pushing my food around with my chopsticks.
“Not hungry?”
I looked up, startled.
Shoko had appeared beside me, a cigarette dangling between her fingers as she leaned against the bench. Her sharp eyes flickered to my barely-touched food.
“Oh,” I hesitated. “No, I just…” I trailed off, not really knowing how to finish the sentence.
Shoko hummed. “Gojo giving you trouble?”
I blinked. “What?”
She smirked, exhaling smoke. “He’s been staring at you a lot.”
My stomach twisted uncomfortably. I didn’t know what to say to that, so I just gave a weak chuckle and shook my head.
“I think he just likes messing with people.”
“That’s an understatement.” Shoko stretched, then took another drag. “He’s nosy, though. If he’s paying attention to you, he’s probably noticed something.”
I swallowed, suddenly feeling even more self-conscious.
Shoko didn’t push. She just glanced at my food again, then nodded toward the cafeteria. “You should eat with them sometime. They wouldn’t mind.”
I smiled, but it didn’t quite reach my eyes.
“Maybe,” I lied.
She didn’t call me out on it. Just gave a lazy wave and wandered off, disappearing into the school.
I should have expected it.
I really should have.
But when Gojo’s voice rang out, disrupting my fragile moment of peace, I still nearly choked on air.
“You eat like someone’s forcing you,” he remarked, plopping down onto the bench beside me without a single care.
I froze.
He was too close.
I wasn’t used to people being this close.
Gojo didn’t seem to notice—or, more likely, he didn’t care. He leaned back, stretching his long legs out in front of him, his arms sprawled over the back of the bench as if he owned the whole world.
I forced a weak chuckle, gripping my chopsticks tighter. “I eat fine.”
“Debatable.” He tilted his head toward me. “You’re all stiff. Like a scared little rabbit.”
I gave him a look, but I knew better than to actually argue. Gojo thrived off reactions.
Instead, I let out a breathy laugh and looked away.
He wasn’t deterred.
“So,” he continued, tapping his fingers against the bench, “why do you always eat alone?”
I nearly dropped my chopsticks.
The question caught me off guard—not because it was unexpected, but because it was so blunt.
My throat felt tight. “I just prefer it,” I murmured, staring down at my food.
“Really?” Gojo drawled. “Because I think you just don’t know how to ask to sit with someone.”
I swallowed, gripping my chopsticks so hard they might snap. “That’s not—”
“C’mon, am I wrong?”
I didn’t answer.
Gojo sighed dramatically, turning to face me fully. “You’re a weird one, you know that?”
I let out a nervous laugh, feeling my entire body lock up under his gaze.
“And you’re loud,” I mumbled before I could stop myself.
He grinned. “I am loud. But I’m fun, too.”
I didn’t know how to respond to that, so I just nodded weakly.
He tapped a finger against the table. “Seriously, though. You’re always off on your own. No friends? No tragic backstory?”
I blinked rapidly, caught completely off guard. “I—”
“Oh my god, do you have amnesia? Are you secretly a lost princess? A government experiment gone wrong?”
Despite myself, I let out a small laugh. It was quiet, but it was real.
Gojo grinned like he had won something.
“You’re impossible,” I muttered, shaking my head.
“I know,” he said smugly. Then, after a pause, his voice turned softer—quieter. “But really. You okay?”
The question hit harder than I expected.
I stared at my untouched food, feeling my throat tighten.
I didn’t know how to answer.
Because I didn’t even know what ‘okay’ meant anymore.
Gojo didn’t push.
He just sat there, waiting, as if he had all the time in the world.
But I wasn’t ready.
So I did what I always did.
I laughed awkwardly. Nodded.
And said nothing at all.
Gojo let out a hum, tapping his fingers against the table again.
He knew.
Maybe not everything, but something.
And that scared me more than anything.
#gojo satoru x reader#gojou satoru x reader#jjk gojo#gojo x reader#gojo satoru#jujutsu gojo#gojo angst#gojo comfort#gojo fluff#jjk fluff#jjk angst#jjk x reader#jujutsu kaisen fluff#jujustu kaisen#jujutsu kaisen angst#jujutsu kaisen x reader
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Tim follows Bruce's rules perfectly. In this way, perhaps, he can be better than his predecessors. He knows from observation that Jason liked to ignore the rules and argue with Bruce, and he can guess from what he knows about Dick that he was the same. Tim can’t afford to ask questions, or argue with Bruce, or break the rules. He has to be perfect. Too much is riding on it. If he messes this up and gets Robin taken away from him, he doesn’t know what will happen to Bruce. If he’ll slip back into his old ways and walk along the edge between life and death.
Because the thing is, Bruce is getting better. He’s not the same Batman he used to be; he buried a piece of himself six feet under with Jason’s body, and Tim doesn’t think he’ll ever get it back. Still, Bruce’s decisions in the field become more logical, and he can recognize when to go home and tend to his wounds now. He even invites Tim to stay for dinner after patrol once, but Tim knows a courtesy invite when he sees one, and politely declines.
Outside of the suit, Bruce keeps himself at a distance at all times, and Tim is grateful for it. It certainly makes it easier to remember that this is nothing more than a business partnership.
Dick is a little harder to keep away from. The older boy has a way of making Tim feel relaxed and safe around him that he’s never experienced before. Dick’s smiles make him feel warm inside, and Tim knows that the laid-back personality and dad jokes are a front that he puts on, yet he still can’t help but look forward to Dick’s visits to Gotham. He almost feels like an older brother, but Tim scratches that thought out of his brain the second it crosses his mind.
He realizes abruptly that he’s gotten too comfortable with Dick, and forces himself to withdraw. He keeps an eye out for the little things that tell what Dick is really feeling, like the flash of sadness in his gaze that he quickly hides whenever Tim does something that reminds him a little too much of his lost baby brother, or the way he freezes up any time he has physical contact with Tim while he’s in the Robin suit, or how he holds his breath for a fracture of a second whenever Tim is even slightly in danger. Tim learns to look for these signs, and holds them like barbs around his heart to prevent himself from overstepping.
Surprisingly, Tim finds it the hardest to keep himself from growing attached to Alfred. The butler is more compassionate than Tim ever could have expected, and it gets increasingly harder to keep him at a distance. He’s kind, and caring, and says exactly what’s on his mind (it’s very amusing to witness him put Bruce in his place and stay perfectly polite while doing so).
Tim pretends not to notice the way Alfred checks him for injuries after every patrol (with a med-kit waiting just in case), and sneaks extra protein bars into the various pockets of his suit whenever Tim gets low, and always has a steaming mug of the best hot cocoa in the world waiting after the particularly grueling patrols. Tim knows better than to accept Bruce’s pity-invites to dinner, but he’d never waste a mug of Alfred’s hot cocoa. (As long as he drinks it quickly he’s not overstaying his welcome, he justifies it to himself.) He ignores the sad looks Alfred gives him when Tim makes excuses to rush home straight after patrol rather than hanging out, or when he easily brushes off the older man’s concerns regarding his dark eye-bags and alarming coffee intake.
He keeps them at a distance at all times. They don’t want you, he tells himself, they need you. And that’s enough. It has to be. He can’t get attached to them because he doesn’t deserve to have a relationship with any of them; he hasn’t earned it. And if (when) being Robin gets him killed, they won’t be hindered by the inconvenience.
Tim knows he isn’t the best option for Robin, and some days that fact looms over his head more than others. He isn’t even a good Robin, anyone would have been better than Tim. He’s still actively fighting against brain fog every day, and he has to write things down constantly so that he won’t forget them, and sometimes at 3:00AM when he’s trying to finish his case notes and on his fourth coffee the sleep deprivation and migraines just feel like too much.
When it gets really bad, he reminds himself that nobody else stepped up.
He might not be a good Robin, but he’s the only Robin that Gotham has right now.
So he sucks it up and finishes his case notes. He ignores the headaches and exhaustion and goes to school the next day anyways. He doesn’t bother Bruce or Alfred with the minor injuries that come from patrol. He stitches himself up at home and tries not to get blood on his mother’s expensive rugs.
When it feels like too much, he keeps going, because there is no other option.
[Excerpt from chapter two of Blue Pills and Scattered Dreams, which will be posted soon...]
#sneak peak#blue pills and scattered dreams#chapter two coming soon#batfam#tim drake#dc universe#dcu#dick grayson#alfred pennyworth#tim and dick#tim and alfred#tim and bruce#tim drake has low self esteem#tim drake needs a hug#tim drake angst#drabble#cinder writes
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Merger & Acquisition (Of My Heart)
Pairing: Yoon Jeonghan x gn!reader
Genres: Angst, fluff, crack, office romance AU
Warnings: Swearing, alcohol, sexual insinuations, bad decision making
Word Count: 17.2k
Summary: Jeonghan thought navigating corporate mergers was hard—turns out, navigating corporate mergers with his ex is harder.
A/N: Missing Jeonghan hours
For more office romance, please check out Glass Towers!
"Jeonghan, just trust me! It's gonna be perfect!"
You're grinning, and it’s that grin. The one that made Jeonghan's heart do that ridiculous, fluttering thing the first time you flashed it his way. The one that’s practically a cheat code for his soul. Your eyes are sparkling like you just cracked the secret to world peace—or maybe just how to make him melt like a popsicle in the sun.
You’re gesturing to something behind him, but honestly, he’s not even looking. To take his eyes off you? Not in this lifetime, buddy.
"I’m serious!" you press, eyes wide with wild excitement. "We should get matching sweaters!"
He stares, blinking slowly like maybe he’s hearing things. You look so absurdly excited, like you've proposed something truly genius. And, for a second, just for a second, he almost gets it. Matching sweaters... Huh. He squints.
"I swear to God," he mutters, almost in awe of your audacity. "You've got a one-track mind, you know that?"
But you're already dragging him inside the store, ugging him toward a rack of sweaters in shades so painfully pastel, they might be illegal. You’re holding up two—one a disturbingly washed-out pink and the other an equally offensive lavender - and beam at him, radiating enough joy to power a small city.
Jeonghan narrows his eyes at the monstrosities in your hands. "Are you trying to publicly obliterate my dignity?" he asks, deadpan. "Because I’m pretty sure this is some kind of crime."
Your laugh—sweet and impossibly bright—bounces off the walls. It’s so loud, it feels like the store itself is laughing with you. And for a split second, he doesn’t even care that you’re suggesting he wears an offence to fashion. All he hears is your laughter. And, okay, it is contagious. He can’t help but chuckle, his chest warming even as he contemplates his future in pastel hell.
"I’ll wear it if you wear it," you challenge, a wicked glint in your eyes, practically daring him to back out.
And you know Jeonghan can't resist a dare.
He crosses his arms, a perfect picture of exaggerated seriousness, mirroring how seriously you’re taking this whole thing. "Fine," he sighs dramatically. "But only because I’m too exhausted to argue with you."
Before he can even finish his thought, you're already wrapping your arms around his neck, giggling into his ear like it’s the most precious sound on earth. And just like that, any resentment he might have had about wearing a sweater straight out of a fashion crime scene? Gone. The swell of his heart forgives you, even as he silently prepares to suffer through the world’s most embarrassing outfit.
"I love you sooo much," you murmur, squeezing him a little tighter.
And, just before he can say it back, his phone buzzes in his pocket. Distracted, he fumbles for it like it’s the most urgent thing in the world—because, hey, maybe it’s a work thing or, God forbid, a text from his mom about dinner plans. When he looks up, you’re gone. The matching sweaters are gone. The street is just a blur again, and the store, with its obnoxious neon lights, has disappeared completely.
For a heartbeat, Jeonghan’s standing there, staring at the space where you were, feeling like he’s just been dropped into some weird alternate universe. The air feels thick, heavy, and for a split second, everything just feels—wrong. Empty. Off.
And in that moment, he realizes with a gut-punch of clarity: it’s all slipped away, like sand through his fingers. He’s standing in the middle of a street that doesn’t make sense, holding onto an empty promise he can’t possibly keep, his hand still tingling where you once touched him. And all he can hear now is the echo of your laugh, so bright, so full of life, fading into nothing.
And just as quickly, before he even has time to breathe, the dream shatters. Gone. Like it was never there at all.
Jeonghan wakes up with a jolt, his chest tight like a too-small sweater, heart thumping like it’s trying to escape his ribcage. The sheets are tangled around him like he'd been wrestling them all night, and he blinks at the daylight streaming through the window, a little too bright, a little too real. For a second, he’s not sure if he’s still stuck in the dream, his body caught in some weird limbo between sleep and being awake.
That laugh. That stupid, infectious laugh. It hangs in the air, teasing him like a ghost that refuses to leave. Jeonghan’s hand brushes absently over his chest, like he’s trying to wipe the sound away, like it hasn’t completely lodged itself in his mind.
“Stupid,” he mutters, shaking his head and tossing the sheets off himself, hoping to shake off whatever weird spell the dream’s put on him.
By the time he’s staring at himself in the bathroom mirror, his mind is a chaotic mess of swirling thoughts. Mostly, he’s thinking about the dream and how ridiculous it is that it’s still making his heart beat a little too fast. And then, of course, there’s the thing he can’t shake—the stupid, pastel sweaters.
He scoffs at his reflection, splashing water on his face like it’ll somehow help him wake up properly. Matching sweaters, he thinks bitterly. Really
Getting dressed feels like a chore, like he's moving through molasses. His eyes drift over his usual black jeans and plain tees, but then—something catches his eye. A flash of pink, hidden at the back of his closet like some kind of forbidden treasure, tucked behind other, more respectable pieces.
Jeonghan hesitates.
His fingers brush over it, and for a moment, he feels as though he's standing back in that ridiculous store, the weight of that challenge still hanging in the air. He almost laughs at himself. You can’t be serious, he thinks. But before he can stop himself, his hands are already pulling it out.
“I’m not doing this,” he mutters to himself, but even he can tell his voice is a little too uncertain, like he’s trying to convince someone else.
A few minutes later, Jeonghan stands in front of the mirror again, the soft, unreasonably pastel pink sweater clinging to his frame. He tilts his head to the side, frowning at his reflection. Then, he looks back at the sweater.
It's ... fine. Actually, it's kind of comfortable. And, okay, it’s not nearly as terrible as he thought it would be. The color is soft, gentle—more like a whisper than an explosion of pastel horror, and the fabric feels a bit like a soft cloud.
Of course, none of that changes the fact that it’s ridiculous that he’s wearing it.
“What’s wrong with me?” he laughs, shaking his head at himself, unable to stop the sound from spilling out.
And then your laugh—that bright, carefree, spark-of-light laugh—flashes through his mind again. It’s like the room is a little less dark when he thinks about it, and, for just a second, he lets himself imagine that maybe... maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad to go along with it. The matching sweaters, the ridiculous plans, that kind of carefree joy only you could make him feel.
But he's alone now. And the sweater is just that. A sweater.
He shakes his head, adjusting it one more time, trying to ignore the flutter in his chest as he thinks about you—your voice, your touch, your laugh—and focus on just getting out the door. He grabs his jacket, slinging it over his shoulder like he’s trying to shake off the last remnants of the dream.
“Fine,” he mutters to himself. “It’s stupid. But I’m wearing it.”
And if anyone dares to comment on it, he’s donating it to the first charity store he passes on his way home.
Jeonghan's brain feels like a blender on full speed as he pushes through the glass doors of the office building, his shoes clicking against the marble floor. He steps into the start-up chaos, where the morning energy is already off-the-charts: people darting between desks, having phone conversations that are somehow both urgent and completely pointless, and juggling coffee cups that are half-full of caffeine and stress. And there’s something else hanging in the air, something that makes him feel like he’s forgotten something super important, but of course, he has no idea what that is.
He shrugs it off and marches to his desk, where Joshua's already sitting, a fresh cup of coffee in hand and laptop open in front of him. He looks like he's already been up for hours - effortlessly composed, a picture of fcous while Jeonghan has barely kept it together this morning.
He drops his bag on the desk with a dramatic thud, letting out a long sigh.
Joshua glances at him, then at his sweater, then back up at Jeonghan’s face like he’s trying to piece together some kind of puzzle.
"I thought you didn't do pastels?"
“I don’t,” Jeonghan responds immediately, running a hand through his hair like he’s trying to untangle his thoughts. “But… it’s a long story, actually. Not one I’m getting into right now.”
Joshua’s lips twitch, clearly not buying it. "Uh-huh. And I'm sure it has nothing to do with a certain someone who shall remain nameless waltzing back into your life?"
Jeonghan freezes, his whole body going cold like he's just been caught in a lie. How in the hell did Joshua figure that out?
He forces a laugh, but it’s way too high-pitched. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, his voice cracking like a bad sitcom.
But Joshua isn’t letting it slide. “Sure. And I’m definitely not looking at someone who’s still wearing a sweater that belongs to their emotional turmoil.”
Jeonghan snorts. "Oh, please, the only thing emotional about this is how much I regret wearing it." He waves his hand dismissively, but can’t hide the way he checks the sweater like he's trying to make sure it’s still presentable. “Anyway, what’s going on today? Please tell me we're not having another one of those ‘I-just-want-to-innovate-the-industry’ creative meetings. I’m not sure I can sit through another round of ‘brainstorming’ where I’m expected to solve all our problems with a Pinterest board.”
Joshua’s face glitches as he shuts his laptop with a dramatic click. “Tell me you’re joking?”
Jeonghan blinks.
Joshua sighs, long and slow.
"The merger? I know you remember that the merger is happening today, right?"
"Merger? Oh. That merger." Jeonghan’s brain starts scrambling for clarity, trying to sort out the chaos of thoughts. They’ve been talking about this merger for weeks now—a rival company with a reputation for being way more corporate and buttoned-up than their own start-up chaos. Jeonghan hadn’t really paid attention. Too busy juggling project deadlines, chasing creative briefs, and making sure everyone’s sushi orders were on point.
But now, with Joshua’s reminder, the weight of reality hits him. Today’s the day. The day they officially merge with the enemy—and, if we’re being honest, it’s a little more corporate than he ever thought he’d get. Also, probably the reason for those stress dreams last night.
Jeonghan grimaces. "Right. The merger." He sighs, slumping in his chair. “I think I just blocked it out of my mind for the past week because I’m not sure I can handle becoming corporate Jeonghan.”
Joshua chuckles, setting his coffee down. "That’s the point of today. They’re bringing in their big bosses to meet with us—this afternoon, right after the all-hands meeting. It’s officially happening. The big, serious meeting where we all sit around and pretend to care about ‘synergy’ and ‘optimisation.’” He does air quotes with his fingers, rolling his eyes. "But, don't worry - you won't be corporate Jeonghan. You'll be corporate Mr Yoon."
Jeonghan groans, leaning back in his chair dramatically. “‘Synergy,’ optimisation...” he repeats, doing an exaggerated version of Joshua’s air quotes. “Honestly, I think I’d rather go back to bed and wake up in a parallel universe where I’m not wearing this sweater and we’re not merging. Could we please pretend we’re still a bunch of creative geniuses who just want to make awesome things? Is that too much to ask?”
Joshua smirks, clearly enjoying Jeonghan’s theatrics. “It’s the price of progress, my friend. Besides, I’m sure you’ll do just great. Just remember: don’t look too enthusiastic about the merger. We’ve got to keep some of that ‘creative chaos’ spirit alive, right?”
“Right,” Jeonghan mutters, still adjusting his sweater. “Creative chaos—that’s what we’ll call it. But, seriously, I’m really hoping they don’t ask me to do the whole ‘powerpoint presentation’ thing today. I’m already two cups of coffee in, and the only thing I can think of is whether this sweater’s a crime against fashion or a step toward self-expression.”
“Why not both?” Joshua grins, clearly enjoying the chaos of it all. “Maybe your sweater will be the key to saving us from corporate hell. You never know.”
Jeonghan shoots him a look. “If this sweater saves us from anything, I’ll personally make sure we keep it as a company mascot.”
“Deal,” Joshua says, grinning wider as he takes a sip of his coffee.
The conference room looks like a page out of Jeonghan's worst nightmares: sleek, polished, and cold enough to make an ice cube look like it’s on vacation. A long, minimalist table stretches down the middle, surrounded by chairs so expensive they probably cost more than the rest of the startup's furniture.
Jeonghan slides into the room with Joshua just behind him, trying his best to look like he belongs in a room where every person looks like they could run a Fortune 500 company. He adjusts the collar of his pastal pink sweater, wondering for the hundredth time if he's made a grave mistake. But, well, it's too late to back out now.
Joshua, in the seat beside him, has immediately begun typing away on his laptop, not a hint of nervousness in his posture. Jeonghan, on the other hand, is doing everything he can to stop himself from fidgeting. He's been in plenty of meetings before, but this one feels different. It's like everyone is playing on a higher level - every handshake more formal, every "good afternoon" more stiff.
He slouches further into his chair, doing his best to hide behind the carefully natural expressions of the other startup team members—everyone’s pretending they’re not deeply unprepared for this meeting (Jeonghan knows they are).
Just as the final few stragglers file in, Jeonghan hears it again.
The laugh.
It’s quiet, almost imperceptible, but it’s unmistakable. That laugh. The one that makes his stomach do that ridiculous fluttering thing. Jeonghan freezes, his hands stiff at his sides like he’s a statue trying to pretend it’s not about to crumble. His pulse quickens, and he does his best to shake the thought out of his brain. I'm hearing things, he tells himself. It’s probably just my brain playing tricks after that stupid dream
But no. It’s there again—soft, bubbling, infectious laughter, drifting from somewhere off to the side. Jeonghan blinks, his head snapping towards the sound like it’s the answer to a riddle he didn’t know he was solving.
And then he sees you.
There you are, standing at the front of the room, radiating effortless confidence in a sharply tailored suit, like you belong in the boardroom as much as Jeonghan belongs in a hoodie.
His heart stops.
It can't be.
He blinks. And blinks again. But you're still there. You’re still smiling, your grin as radiant as it ever was, as you exchange pleasantries with the higher-ups from the startup. The same grin that used to make Jeonghan question his entire life philosophy, every single time you flashed it his way.
What the hell?
There's no way. You can't possibly be the one running things on this side of the merger. This has to be a joke, right? His head spins, his thoughts running in frantic circles as the realisation dawns on him.
You are here. In the flesh.
A hundred questions rushes though his brain all at once - how, why, when? But most of all: Why didn't I know about this?
And then it hits him. The absurdity of the situation. The dream. The sweater. The weird sense of unfinished business he'd woken up with this morning. It all seems to click in a way that makes his brain ache with the sudden weight of it all.
Jeonghan slouches even further into his chair, if that's even possible. His stomach is in knots, and his palms are starting to get a little too clammy for comfort.
Maybe if he just... quietly gets up and leaves. Maybe if he just—
“Are you okay?” Joshua leans toward him, his voice low.
Jeonghan swallows hard, trying to keep his cool. “I—I think my ex is in charge of the merger.”
Joshua’s eyebrows furrow, confusion flashing across his face. "Yeah, I know."
Jeonghan blinks, his brain trying to process this new layer of nonsense. "You—what?"
“I thought you knew.” Joshua leans back, looking unbothered, like Jeonghan just missed a memo. “I literally brought it up this morning.”
Huh?
Oh.
That makes more sense than Joshua knowing about the dream.
Jeonghan’s brain is running full speed ahead, trying to piece together the puzzle of his existence in real-time, but nothing’s clicking. Joshua’s voice is just a dull hum in the background as his eyes are locked on you. There you are, standing at the front of the room, looking like you’ve just walked out of a business magazine. His mind keeps bouncing between the memory of you in those casual clothes, laughing over pizza, and the version of you now, all polished and corporate, like you’ve somehow always belonged here. It’s dizzying. How the hell did this happen
He forces himself to breathe and look away for a second, trying to center himself, but just as he’s about to look down at his hands—those traitors who are clammy and betraying him—he hears the sound of a microphone clicking on.
Your voice.
“Good afternoon, everyone.”
And just like that, the room falls silent, hanging on every word. Your voice is smooth—confident—but there’s this little edge of warmth that makes Jeonghan’s chest tighten in a way that’s definitely not professional. He’s trying so hard not to look at you, not to let his eyes wander back to where you stand—hands moving gracefully, voice flowing effortlessly. You’re the same you he knew, but also not. Somehow both.
“Today marks an exciting new chapter for both our teams,” you continue, “and I’m thrilled to be standing here with all of you as we embark on this new journey together. As many of you know, this merger is the culmination of months of careful planning and preparation. We’re combining our strengths to create something that will redefine the industry. And we’re all here today to ensure that we’re setting the right course.”
The words are professional, perfectly crafted, and so very corporate—but it’s the way you speak them that gets to Jeonghan. It’s the way you still carry that spark, that undeniable energy, as though nothing’s changed. As though you’ve just slid seamlessly from one world to another.
Jeonghan rubs his forehead, wishing his brain would just catch up with reality. But no. Instead, it’s like everything around him is shifting, the room suddenly way too big and his sweater way too bright for comfort.
You continue with the presentation, talking about key figures from both companies, introducing executives and senior members—those faceless people Jeonghan will never need to remember—but then… you pause. Your gaze sweeps over the room, and then it locks with his.
Jeonghan freezes. Time slows, or maybe it speeds up. He can feel his heartbeat in his throat, thumping against his ribcage as if it’s trying to break out.
You don’t look away.
For a split second, Jeonghan wonders if he imagined it. Maybe his mind is just playing tricks on him, but no—no, there’s a shift in your expression. It’s subtle, but it’s there.
Then—oh, God—your gaze drops to his sweater.
You stop mid-sentence.
The room goes quiet, all eyes on you, but Jeonghan knows it’s him you’re looking at. His sweater. Specifically, that sweater.
You swallow hard, your fingers tightening around the podium as you glance at his sweater—that damn sweater. He watches, horrified, as the corners of your mouth twitch—not with amusement—but something else. Something close to annoyance.
He can’t breathe. His hand twitches around his collar like he might rip the damn thing off and flee the building entirely.
Then, mercifully, you clear your throat. The sound snaps through the silence like a rubber band, and for a moment, it feels like the tension might break. But still, that look—that look on your face—it doesn’t go away.
"Uh..." You stop. A beat of awkwardness. You glance at him again, brow furrowing just the tiniest bit. "I’m—I’m sorry, I just... I'm a little distracted. Let me start that again.” You take a breath, visibly steadying yourself before you continue with the presentation, but Jeonghan can hear that slight crack in your voice.
He tries to make himself invisible in his chair, sinking lower, his hands buried in his lap like he could somehow physically shrink into the chair itself. The way your lips tighten as you force yourself to focus on the presentation makes Jeonghan want to disappear.
“Oh, my God,” Jeonghan mutters under his breath, doing his best to keep his voice just quiet enough so only Joshua can hear.
Joshua just gives him a deadpan stare. “What happened? Is this because of the sweater?”
“Don’t. Please.” Jeonghan’s voice cracks, and he’s pretty sure he’s never felt more exposed in his life.
Jeonghan’s heart is still trying to hammer its way out of his chest when the meeting finally breaks. The tension in the room has been almost unbearable, and now, as everyone starts shifting in their seats, the low murmur of conversation rising, Jeonghan begins to think maybe—just maybe—he can make a quick exit. Maybe sneak out of the room and pretend this never happened.
But before he can even attempt a graceful getaway, he feels a sharp pressure on his arm, and a voice—your voice—cuts through the noise like a knife.
“Jeonghan. Now.”
There’s no mistaking the authority in your tone, the same tone you’ve always used when you were determined to get something done, to make sure things went your way. He doesn't even need to look up to know that your eyes are narrowed with a familiar intensity.
He’s being dragged down the hall, his feet barely keeping up with the determined pace you set as you pull him into a small, secluded room just off the main conference area. The door shuts with a definitive thud behind them, and it’s as if the air in the room thickens, suffocating him.
You whirl around, closing the distance between you with a look of pure exasperation on your face. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Your voice is low, but it still carries the bite of someone who’s been wronged. “Wearing that ridiculous sweater—here—of all places. You knew I’d be in charge today. You knew I’d be in this room. So why? Why would you do that?”
Jeonghan, on the other hand, is trying to appear unbothered—but inside, his mind is spinning. He's suddenly very aware of how small this room feels, how close you are, how everything about you is pulling him into a vortex of confusion he does not want to be in. But outwardly, he’s just... smirking. Of course. Because what else can he do but pretend this whole thing is no big deal?
"Why would I wear a sweater to throw you off?" His voice is as nonchallent as he can muster, the words coming out cockier than he intends. With a shrug, he adds, "With or without it, you always said I was hard to ignore, didn't you?"
He sees your face twitch, your eyes narrowing further, and something about the way you stare at him makes his breath catch. Shit.
He's panicking. He's trying to hold it together, trying to keep that sharp edge in his voice, but the truth is, looking at you right now - it's like nothing's changed. It's like he's still that idiot who'd fall for you in a heartbeat. The way your gaze locks with his, the way your presence fills up the room, makes his insides twist.
It makes his chest ache.
But you don't get to know that, not anymore.
So, instead, he leans back against the door with his arms crossed, letting the smirk stretch wider on his lips. “I mean, really. Look at you.” He gestures to your perfectly tailored suit. “You’re the one who seems all riled up. Could it be that you're the one trying to throw me off? Hmm?"
You open your mouth, about to fire back some scathing retort, but Jeonghan watches your shoulders stiffen instead. You exhale a slow breath, something like frustration flickering behind your eyes.
“Jeonghan,” you begin, voice dangerously calm now, but still carrying that edge, “I’m serious. You are not making this easy. I’m just trying to do my job, and you’re in here, wearing... that. I swear to God, are you doing this on purpose?”
“Would it even matter if I was?” Jeonghan raises an eyebrow, his tone light, casual, as if he doesn't feel like he’s one stupid comment away from completely combusting. “It’s not like I care what you think about my sweater. It's a free country, and I like a little colour in my life, alright?” He shrugs again, even though inside he's a mess. A nervous wreck. A miserable wreck. “You don’t get to dictate my wardrobe.”
But God, every word he says feels like it's coming out of his mouth without his permission. He watches you, sees the flicker of something that’s almost like frustration—and he can't stand it. He really can’t stand the way you're looking at him right now. He’s never been good at being calm when it comes to you.
You shake your head, running a hand through your hair in that way that’s more exasperated than anything else. “I don’t know why you do this. Why do you always make everything so complicated?”
And that’s it. Jeonghan’s breath catches, and something cracks in his chest.
He doesn’t even know why he’s here, trying to push you away with all these stupid jokes and sarcastic comments. You’re still the one who holds all the strings in this game. Even now, even after everything, he’s still just as tangled up in you as he was back then.
“I don’t know,” he mutters, his voice finally losing its bravado. His arms uncross, and he takes a slow step toward you, his gaze falling to the ground for just a moment before he looks up again. “I guess I just can’t help myself.”
You blink, visibly taken aback, and for just a second—just a second—there’s a softening in your expression. A flicker of something.
He’s about to say something—anything—to regain his composure, but then the door swings open, and a voice from the hallway shatters the fragile moment.
“Hey, is everything alright in here?”
Jeonghan’s chest tightens again, and he forces himself to turn, pulling away from you with a rueful glance. “Yeah, everything’s fine,” he says, the sarcasm back in full force. “Just having a lovely chat about fashion choices."
As you move past him toward the door, your eyes lock for just a split second, and Jeonghan can’t help but wonder if this is where everything starts unravelling again.
The door closes behind you with a quiet click, leaving Jeonghan alone in the empty room, the weight of his own confusion pressing down on him like a suffocating cloud.
He breathes out a shaky laugh. What the hell is he even doing?
Jeonghan's never been good at avoiding things - especially you. But he's trying. Really trying.
The second he steps into the office, he practically sprints to his desk, eyes darting across the room like he’s in a spy movie and not just trying to avoid his ex at his place of employment.
It’s a solid plan. A foolproof plan.
Except, of course, the universe hates him.
“Hey, Jeonghan, did you see that email from accounting?”
He freezes.
His heart does that stupid, traitorous thing again—racing a little too fast, a little too obvious. He forces a smile, carefully ignoring the fact that you just happened to walk by at that exact moment.
And, of course, he hears you before he sees you.
The sound of your heels clicking against the floor—the same precise rhythm only you have—cuts through the noise like some cruel reminder that he’s fighting a battle he’s already lost.
“No, I didn’t,” he replies, voice too tight, too controlled. He stares at his screen, ignoring how your gaze flickers toward him for just a split second. His palms are sweating again, but he’s good at pretending.
He doesn’t even glance up at you.
Not yet.
By some miracle, Jeonghan makes it through the rest of the week relatively unscathed. He’s been ducking behind desks, taking suspiciously long coffee breaks, and strategically avoiding eye contact like it’s an Olympic sport.
But, of course, his luck has limits.
And today, at the all-hands meeting, he knows he’s finally reached the end of the track.
Everyone from both companies is gathered in the conference hall, waiting for the latest updates on the merger, and Jeonghan?
He is mentally checked out.
Completely.
He’s sitting at the very back of the room, scrolling through his phone, barely registering the corporate bullshit being discussed at the front. He’s safe. He’s comfortable.
Until—
"Jeonghan, would you mind coming up to give an update on the latest project?”
Joshua’s voice cuts through the room like a gunshot.
Jeonghan’s entire soul leaves his body.
His head snaps up, panic settling in his bones.
And then—oh, no.
Because there you are.
Sitting right in the front row.
And you’re looking directly at him.
Your eyes flick over to him, slow, deliberate, the way a cat might look at a bird right before it destroys it for sport.
Then, just to make it worse, you raise an eyebrow.
And smirk.
Not now.
Jeonghan stands up, legs way too stiff, shoulders squared like he’s heading into battle. He’s trying to look professional, trying to appear composed, but all he can think about is you.
You, sitting there with your arms crossed, wearing the exact same expression you always used to give him whenever he was desperately trying to impress you.
And the worst part?
It almost works.
Almost.
Standing at the podium, Jeonghan realizes immediately that he has made a mistake.
A huge mistake.
Because he cannot focus.
His brain is full of static noise.
The slides? No idea. The project? What even is a project? His own name? Questionable.
He starts talking—kind of. Words are coming out, but he’s not sure they mean anything.
Somewhere, in the distance, Joshua looks like he’s re-evaluating their entire friendship.
Meanwhile, Jeonghan’s mind keeps veering off track.
Because you’re there.
Right there.
Arms still crossed, head tilted, eyes locked onto him with that look. The look that says impress me. The look that used to make him try harder. The look that used to make his entire day.
And it is so distracting.
He stumbles through the rest of the presentation, barely making sense, barely keeping himself together, barely resisting the urge to die on the spot.
By the time he finally scurries back to his seat, he hears it—
The faintest whisper of laughter.
From you.
And it’s all he can do not to scream.
The Friday team dinner is supposed to be a casual affair. Just a bunch of coworkers, bonding over overpriced appetizers and painfully forced small talk. No stakes. No tension. Chill.
Except, Jeonghan has this suspicion—no, this certainty—that the universe has personally taken offense to his existence and is now actively trying to ruin him.
He walks into the restaurant and immediately spots you. Of course, you're sitting at the head of the table like you own the place. Everyone else has already sat down, their conversation filling the air with a hum of disinterested chatter. Jeonghan spots the seat that was “reserved” for him—right next to you.
“Hey, Jeonghan, come join us!” Joshua waves him over cheerfully, all but pushing him to the only empty seat at the table.
The thought of sitting next to you—of having to endure hours of the same damn tension—makes his stomach churn. But what can he do? He can’t just ... stand there and look like an idiot.
So, with a carefully hidden sigh, Jeonghan accepts his fate.
His steps are slow and deliberate as he slides into the chair, forcing a perfectly polite smile as he does. He keeps his gaze fixed ahead, not looking at you, not acknowledging the fact that you are literally right there.
But he doesn’t have to look—he feels you turn toward him. He knows you’re watching.
And then—
“Fancy seeing you here.”
The words are light, playful—too casual. But the way you say it? The way you pause just long enough to make sure he knows you’re enjoying this?
Jeonghan opens his mouth to say something snappy, something clever to deflect the growing weight between them, but instead, he just smiles—tiredly, like he’s given up trying to fight the inevitable.
“Yeah. Guess we’re stuck together again.”
He flicks a glance around the table, where everyone is too absorbed in their own conversations to notice the invisible battlefield currently forming between the two of you. But Jeonghan notices. He notices everything.
And worse, so do you.
You hum, tilting your head slightly. “I didn’t think you were the type to shy away from good company.”
There’s a bite to it. A slight challenge. A reminder of the way you two used to talk before—when the teasing was easy, when the tension was intentional.
Jeonghan exhales through his nose, willing himself to stay composed.
“Depends on the company,” he mutters, aiming for casual, but it doesn’t quite land. Not when his pulse is pounding in his ears, not when his fingers are gripping the edge of the table a little too tightly.
For a moment, there’s silence—just the lingering weight of his words.
Then, instead of responding, you just smirk and turn back to the person beside you, amusement flickering in your eyes like a silent victory.
Jeonghan barely makes it through the rest of the meal.
The conversation around him blurs into meaningless chatter, and the food tastes like cardboard because how the hell is he supposed to focus on anything when you’re right there—close enough that if he so much as shifts, his knee might brush against yours, close enough that he can still smell your perfume, close enough that every time you laugh, something in his chest tightens stupidly, unfairly, uncontrollably.
He tries so hard to focus on his plate, on anything other than you.
But his mind keeps slipping—back to old memories, back to the way you used to look at him, back to the way things were before he ruined it.
And it hits him, all at once.
How much he’s still invested in this ridiculous, unspoken battle.
How much he’s still hoping for something that’s already gone.
How impossible it is to pretend like you’re just another coworker at a casual Friday dinner when the truth is—
You’re still the only person in the room that matters.
Things take a turn for the worse.
It starts innocently enough—a vague email from his superior that’s equal parts informative and infuriating, letting him know that he’s going to be working with you on a new project. A crucial one. Something about "collaboration being key to success."
Jeonghan can feel his blood pressure spike just reading it.
For a moment, he considers drafting a quick email to HR—maybe something professional, like:
Subject: Urgent Request Regarding Project Assignment Body: Please, for the sake of workplace productivity (and my personal sanity), put a clause in the merger agreement ensuring that Y/n and I never have to be in the same room again. Ever. Thanks.
But of course, that would be unprofessional.
So instead, Jeonghan settles for the next best thing: avoidance.
He doesn’t look at you in the office. Keeps his distance like you’re a literal bomb ticking in the corner.
But there’s no avoiding it now.
He shows up to the morning meeting, already bracing himself for the collision of chaos that’s about to unfold.
“Jeonghan, you and Y/n will handle the creative direction,” Joshua announces, voice bright and cheerful like he isn’t actively ruining Jeonghan’s life.
Jeonghan forces a smile, the kind that could probably be classified as a threat in some countries. “Great. Thrilled.”
When he finally dares to glance your way, he catches it—
The look.
Just the briefest flicker of amusement in your eyes, like you know exactly how much this is going to drive him insane.
“Just like old times, huh?” you muse, sipping your coffee, your voice smooth—too smooth.
Yeah. He hates how his stomach flips at that.
The first meeting to discuss the project is, to put it mildly, a disaster.
“Let’s start by deciding on the key themes,” you say, flipping open your laptop and pulling up a presentation.
Your eyes flicker toward him, expectant.
He shrugs it off, trying to stay neutral, focusing on the screen. “Yeah, sure.” He types quickly, trying to keep his fingers from betraying him.
Your hands brush ever-so-slightly as you both reach for the same document on the table, and for a brief second, Jeonghan feels that electric connection between you. The old chemistry that used to make every second with you feel like he was walking on fire. The kind of chemistry that used to make his pulse race. And now? He feels it all over again, like it’s been reawakened.
You pull your hand back fast, but the moment hangs in the air, heavy and undeniable. No words. But Jeonghan can see it in your eyes—annoyance.
Of course, you’re annoyed.
Because this? This thing between you? It’s still there. It’s always been there.
And neither of you know what the hell to do about it.
The project moves forward, takes shape, but so does the tension between you two.
“I think we should go with a more minimalist aesthetic,” Jeonghan suggests, his voice casual, but he knows the words are loaded.
You look at him over the rim of your coffee cup, eyes narrowing slightly. “Minimalist?” you repeat, incredulous. “Jeonghan, that’s your go-to for everything.”
“And?” he replies smoothly. “It works.”
“It’s predictable,” you shoot back, leaning forward. “You’ve been stuck in that box for ages. It’s time to try something different.” There’s the challenge. There’s the dig. Jeonghan can feel his temper flare, bubbling under the surface.
“You think you know better?” He’s a little too sharp, but it’s impossible to hold back.
And there it is again.
That look.
The one that always made his chest tighten. The challenge. The fire. The heat. It makes his heart beat too fast, and for a split second, he’s there again, back in that night.
It’s late. The air is thick with everything you’ve both avoided saying for God knows how long. The tiny apartment is a disaster: takeout boxes strewn across the counter, half-finished projects littering the floor like ghosts of attempts never fully made.
“You never talk about what’s going on with you, Jeonghan!” You’re on your feet, pacing now, voice rising with frustration. “It’s like you’re a wall! A goddamn wall I can’t break down!”
“I’m fine,” he mutters, but even he can hear how empty it sounds. His jaw’s clenched, eyes hard as stone. “Everything’s fine.”
“No, it’s not!” You slam your hands down on the table with a force that rattles everything in the room. Anger, frustration, everything spilling out like a dam that’s finally cracked. “You shut me out every time, Jeonghan. Every time! And I’m so damn tired of it! I feel like I'm the only one holding this together."
A breathy, almost humourless chuckle escapes him, but his voice stays flat, defensive. "That's not fair."
"No?" You glare at him, hurt flashing across your face like a strike of lightning. "Then tell me, when was the last time you actually tried, Jeonghan? To show up - to be here, with me, instead of just ... floating through this like it's some casual thing?"
His jaw tightens. "That's not-"
You cut him off, standing up straight now, fire in your eyes. “I tell you things, and I don’t even know if you’re listening half the time. You joke when I’m being serious. You shut down the second anything real comes up. And I—” You stop yourself, voice cracking, barely holding it together.
His fingers curl into the hem of his shirt—the same way they always do when he’s trying to keep something inside. But still, he stays silent.
And maybe that silence hurts more than anything.
"Just say something," you whisper, your voice barely there, exhaustion bleeding into every word. "Anything."
Jeonghan exhales sharply, shaking his head like he’s already decided he doesn’t know how to fix this. “What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t want you to say anything—I want you to mean it.”
That hits him. Hard. He knows it’s true—he’s been so closed off for so long, pretending everything’s fine, and maybe it never was.
“I don’t need you to fix me,” he says, his voice colder than it should be, every word sharp like glass. “I just need you to stop pushing.”
You let out a dry, humourless laugh, nodding to yourself like you’ve heard it a thousand times. "Okay," you whisper, voice barely a breath. "Got it."
You stand, grabbing your coat, your bag—anything to keep your hands busy, your mind elsewhere. Jeonghan stays sitting, motionless, like maybe if he doesn’t move, none of this will be real.
And that only makes it worse.
His voice finally breaks the silence, quiet but cutting. "So that's it?"
You freeze for half a second, then shake your head, slow. "No, Jeonghan. You ended this way before I ever did."
His breath hitches, just slightly, just enough for you to notice - but it's not enough. He doesn't stop you.
Doesn't ask you to stay.
Doesn't fight for it.
So you walk away, closing the door softly behind you.
Jeonghan blinks, pushing the memory back as quickly as it came. The sting is still there, lingering under his skin, burning.
"Maybe you're right," he mutters, forcing his focus back on the task at hand, pretending it’s not tearing him up inside. "I'll rethink the design."
You meet his gaze for a beat, something flickering in your eyes—satisfaction, maybe—but you don’t say a word.
The office is quiet.
Late-night quiet. The kind of quiet that settles in your bones, heavy and unmoving. The kind that makes you feel like if you breathe too loudly, you might disturb something fragile—something that’s been stretched too thin, waiting to break.
Most of the team has already left, abandoning their desks for the promise of sleep, leaving behind the low hum of fluorescent lights and the rhythmic click of Jeonghan’s fingers against the keyboard.
The project drags on, never-ending, details shifting like sand. But Jeonghan isn’t really focused on any of that anymore.
His mind keeps wandering.
His eyes keep drifting to you, sitting across from him, scribbling furiously on a notepad, the stack of papers in front of you growing steadily higher.
You’ve barely spoken since the argument earlier that afternoon—sharp words and stubborn silences widening the already vast distance between you. And Jeonghan is starting to wonder if this… whatever fragile truce exists between you, is about to snap.
Still, he can’t help but watch you.
The way your brow furrows in concentration. The way you bite the edge of your pen, like it’s the only thing tethering you to the room.
You look up suddenly. Your gaze meets his, and for a second, everything in the room goes still. His stomach flips.
His fingers still over the keyboard, his breath catching just enough for him to feel pathetic about it.
“Jeonghan,” you say, your voice quiet, almost tentative. “You ever think about how we used to joke about working these ridiculous hours and still getting paid like it’s a 9-to-5?”
The words catch him off guard.
Like a memory materializing out of nowhere—late nights spent in this very same office, takeout boxes stacked on the desk, laughter echoing between you as you made fun of the corporate grind, passing time with inside jokes and shared exhaustion.
His lips twitch before he can stop them. Without thinking, he mutters, “Yeah, we used to joke that if we worked this much overtime, we’d need to start paying rent here.”
You grin—a small, genuine smile. One that shouldn’t affect him as much as it does.
And just like that, for a second, it’s like no time has passed at all.
You sigh, leaning back in your chair, and Jeonghan catches the way your eyes soften just a bit. “I miss that,” you say, voice distant, almost melancholic. “I really miss that.”
The words are quiet. Honest.
They land between you with the kind of weight Jeonghan doesn’t know what to do with.
His heart skips, hope flaring in his chest before it’s immediately smothered by the cold, logical certainty that he’s taught himself to live with.
You miss that.
The late nights. The way things used to be. The version of you that existed before everything fell apart.
You don’t mean him.
And still—still, Jeonghan is stupid enough to want to believe it, even for a second.
You exhale, shaking your head slightly. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought that up.” You hesitate, fingers absentmindedly tapping against the table again. “I just… I don’t know.”
You pause, and when you speak again, your voice is quieter, more uncertain.
“The merger, everything… it’s been a lot to handle. Honestly, sometimes I wonder if I’m doing the right thing. If I’m really where I’m supposed to be.”
Jeonghan freezes, his thoughts swirling. Your voice is quiet, almost vulnerable in a way that he hasn’t heard in a long time. He hasn't heard this from you in a long time—not this version of you, the one with the mask cracked, revealing something deeper, something real.
Before he can think too much about it, the words leave his mouth.
“I think you’re doing just fine.”
Your gaze flicks up to meet his, startled.
His voice is steady, but his heart isn’t. He leans forward slightly—like he wants to get closer, but knows better.
“You’re good at what you do,” he says, softer now.
You shake your head, a humourless laugh escaping your lips. “I don’t know. Sometimes I wonder if I’m just faking it. I thought I had it all figured out, but...” You hesitate, glancing down at your hands, clasped tightly in front of you. “But I don’t. Not anymore.”
And God.
The way your voice cracks. The way your words linger. The way you sound so tired, so uncertain, so—
So much like him.
Something twists in Jeonghan’s chest, sharp and unforgiving.
He wants to fix it. He wants to reach across the table, to close the distance between you, to say something—anything—to make it better.
But he knows he can’t.
He knows he shouldn’t.
So instead, he just says—quieter than before—
“I think… I think you’ve always known exactly what you’re doing. Even when you doubt yourself.”
Your gaze softens, and for the first time in a long while, you smile—a small, bittersweet thing.
A smile that isn’t just for him—it’s for everything that came before.
For the memories.
For the version of you that once existed together.
For something that will never fully fade.
The realization creeps in slowly, settling into his bones like a weight he can’t shake.
Jeonghan is still in love with you.
Deeply, hopelessly, impossibly in love with you.
And maybe—maybe—he never stopped.
Maybe all this time, he’s been pretending. Trying to convince himself that the past is over. That whatever was between you is gone.
But now?
Now he knows the truth.
The past isn’t gone. Not for him.
And you?
You’ve moved on. You’ve found your place. Built a life without him in it.
You’ve figured it out. And maybe—maybe—that’s something Jeonghan can’t do.
Not without you.
He exhales shakily, the weight of the truth pressing on his chest.
He doesn’t say anything.
He can’t.
Because there’s nothing left to say.
He looks at you one last time. His gaze lingers, and he knows.
Deep down, he knows.
You’re not his anymore.
On paper, the company retreat probably sounded like a good idea—team bonding, trust-building exercises, maybe even a temporary escape from the soul-crushing chaos of the merger.
In practice?
Jeonghan is one minor inconvenience away from throwing himself into the nearest ravine.
First, Joshua confiscated the small tumbler of gin he’d carefully smuggled in ("It’s literally a wellness retreat, Jeonghan." / "And alcohol would greatly improve my well-being, Joshua.").
Then, he tripped over a cursed log in the middle of the path, landing straight into a muddy ditch and missing out on all the good barbecue meat while he scrambled for a change of clothes.
And now he’s been paired with you for a “group hiking activity”, which is apparently supposed to teach teamwork.
The others have already split into their little groups, laughing, chatting, pretending like they’re not all secretly praying for a sudden earthquake to whisk them away from this corporate nightmare.
Meanwhile, Jeonghan is silently suffering, trailing behind you, doing his absolute best to not notice how good you look in your hiking gear.
He isn't sure it can get much worse, until the storm hits.
At first, it’s just a slight drizzle—barely worth acknowledging, but still enough to dampen his already miserable spirits.
Then, as the group ventures deeper into the woods, the rain turns into a full-on downpour—the kind that drowns out everything else, hammering against the trail, soaking through his clothes in seconds.
"Oh, shit, let’s find shelter!" you call ahead.
Before Jeonghan can even process what’s happening, you grab his arm—your fingers wrapping around his wrist, firm and unthinking—and pull him toward the only visible structure in sight: a small, semi-constructed shed at the edge of the clearing.
The storm is coming down so hard now that it’s impossible to hear anything over the roar of the rain.
By the time you both stumble inside, dripping and breathless, Jeonghan already knows—
This?
This is about to be a problem.
The shed is even smaller than it looked from the outside.
It’s barely holding itself together—nothing but a few sharp-looking tools hanging on the walls, broken pots stacked in precarious piles, and a couple of empty barrels.
Oh.
And you.
Standing so close that Jeonghan can feel the heat radiating off your body, the storm trapping you way too close for way too long.
He doesn’t mean to stare, but—
Your clothes are soaked, clinging to your skin. Your breathing is steady but deep, the rhythm oddly calming, almost hypnotic.
Jeonghan swallows.
This is fine.
It’s totally fine.
Just a normal work retreat. Normal rain. Normal amount of completely ignoring the fact that every single nerve in his body is currently hyper-aware of how close you are.
Your chest brushes against his, the warmth of your body a gentle pressure as you close the space between you. His breath hitches at the proximity, your exhale a soft whisper against his skin. Your arm extends, reaching for something Jeonghan doesn’t even register anymore; all he can focus on is the heat radiating from you, the way you glance at him with that look, that steady, determined gaze that’s always made his heart flutter.
"You should know," you murmur, your voice barely more than a breath, the words hanging between you with an intensity that makes his pulse quicken. Your eyes flicker to his lips for a moment, before meeting his gaze once more, unwavering and focused. "I'm very determined when it comes to getting what's mine."
His heart stutters, caught somewhere in his chest as your words settle into the space between you. His breath is stolen by the closeness, the silent weight of the moment. His hand instinctively lowers, his fingers brushing against yours in a fleeting touch. The briefest of touches. Barely a graze.
You notice the shift, the slight tremor in his fingers, and your breath catches too, your eyes darkening with something he can’t quite name. And in the next heartbeat, you pull your book free from his grasp with a soft, triumphant laugh, a sound that echoes in his chest as you take a step back, dancing with victory. Jeonghan stands frozen for a moment, watching you with a quiet, stunned smile playing on his lips. The adventure, the chase—none of it compares to this. Watching you, in this small, victorious moment, he’s certain he’s never seen anything quite as beautiful.
Jeonghan shifts uncomfortably, scanning the shed like maybe, if he glares at it long enough, it will magically expand and offer him a dignified escape.
It does not.
The only space available is the narrowest possible gap between a stack of old crates and a wall of wood, and it is still far too close for comfort.
Fantastic.
“Great,” he mutters, avoiding your gaze like it might set off another chain reaction of unwanted nostalgia. “What now?”
You let out a small laugh, clearly too entertained by his suffering. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”
Jeonghan dares a glance at you—just a quick one—but you’re already busy adjusting the collar of your soaked jacket, trying to make yourself a little less miserable.
He exhales slowly, forcibly fixing his focus on the floor.
It’s not that he can’t handle being near you.
He can.
Or at least, that’s what he’s been telling himself for weeks.
But what really messes with him is how his heart picks up speed every time you’re close. How his chest tightens, like it’s about to implode under the weight of everything unsaid.
And then he says it. Because he's an idiot.
“Why is it always you?”
The words leave his mouth before he can stop them. A little too sharp. A little too bitter.
But he doesn’t take them back.
Because, seriously—every single time something goes wrong, somehow, you are there. As if the universe gets some kind of sick joy out of watching him suffer.
You look at him then, the same sharp expression flickering in your eyes. “You think I want to be stuck in here with you?” you shoot back. “I didn’t exactly sign up for this either, you know.”
And, well. Fair point.
Still—
uJeonghan can’t help but laugh, low and humorless. “You’re right. I did miss this,” he drawls, sarcasm thick enough to choke on. “The chemistry. The—” he waves a hand between you, his smirk lazy, “—tension. It’s great.”
You roll your eyes, unimpressed. "Is this really how we're going to do this? Right now? You just can't help yourself, can you?"
He stiffens, a retort biting at his tongue, but he holds it back. The old banter—the biting sarcasm—is supposed to be a defense mechanism. A way to keep the walls up. But there’s no denying it now. The walls are crumbling, and so is he.
You speak again, your voice softer this time. “Jeonghan…” The way you say his name, it feels different than before, less confrontational, more—careful.
He doesn’t want to acknowledge how much that does to him.
“Maybe we should talk about it,” you continue, your voice steady but gentler now. “Before it blows up in the middle of a meeting.”
Jeonghan’s breath catches.
It’s too much, too fast. The walls he’s been desperately keeping up are crumbling, and he knows that once they’re gone—really gone—there’s no putting them back up.
His pulse jumps, the back of his neck heating, a cold sweat creeping in.
A conversation like this—the one he’s been avoiding forever—feels like something he should run from.
And now that it’s here, he doesn’t know how to approach it.
He opens his mouth.
Then closes it.
Because he’s not sure if he’s afraid of the past being dragged back into the light—
Or if he’s terrified of what it will mean to finally face the truth.
The truth about what happened between you, about how it ended, how he ended it.
“You think it’s really a good idea to talk about this now?” he manages to say, his voice quieter than usual. He’s trying to keep his cool, but the tremor in his voice betrays him.
His hands tighten at his sides—a futile attempt to hold himself together.
You stand still, your gaze never wavering from his. "Is there ever a good time, Jeonghan?"you ask, voice firm but achingly soft. "It’s been months. We’ve been walking around like we’re strangers, and yet here we are, stuck in this damn shed, acting like the last time we spoke didn’t mean anything.”
The words hit him like a punch to the chest. He’s been pretending, hasn’t he? Pretending the silence between you didn’t matter, that the weight of your absence wasn’t suffocating him. That the ache in his chest wasn’t still yours.
But it was.
It is.
And as much as he hates it, he knows that now. He knows it because of the way his heart clenches at the sound of your voice, the way his breath catches when your eyes meet his.
There’s no pretending anymore.
“I didn’t want to hurt you,” Jeonghan admits, his voice thick with emotion. “I didn’t know how to handle it. Everything was changing so fast, and I just… I shut down. I pushed you away when you needed me most.”
You don’t respond right away.
For a long moment, it feels like time stops, like the storm outside has swallowed up everything but this—this moment, this space, this thing between you that refuses to die.
Then—finally, softly—
“You didn’t push me away, Jeonghan.”
The way you say it—it’s not angry. Not sharp. Just tired.
“You just… withdrew,” you continue, your voice carrying the weight of something unspoken. “You closed off in a way I couldn’t reach you anymore. I tried—God, I tried so hard. But you were so distant, so quiet.”
Your eyes meet his again, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you let your guard down.
“I never understood why,” you murmur. “Why you couldn’t just talk to me. Why you couldn’t let me in.”
Jeonghan swallows hard.
Because how does he explain it?
He wants to say something, to explain, but the words feel inadequate, like a poor substitute for everything that’s been left unsaid. How could he explain that he was terrified? Terrified of how much you meant to him, terrified of what it would mean to feel everything he’d been holding back.
And in the end, he’d chosen the only defense mechanism he knew: silence.
“I’m sorry.”
The words barely escape his lips, a whisper, a confession, a wound reopening.
He takes a step closer before he can second-guess himself, his voice trembling.
“I was scared,” he admits, the truth cracking through his composure. “I didn’t know how to open up. I thought if I let myself feel too much… I’d lose everything.”
His voice is hoarse, stripped bare in a way he never allows. The floodgates have opened now, and the words won’t stop coming.
"You were always the one, you know," he continues, voice uneven. "I spent so long convincing myself that losing you was better than hurting you. But I never asked what you wanted."
He exhales, a bitter laugh catching in his throat. “I never stopped to think that maybe not fighting for us was the thing that hurt you the most.”
The words settle between you like an exhale—heavy and fragile all at once.
Jeonghan can barely believe he’s saying it.
But he’s made the mistake of staying silent once before.
He won’t make it again.
His heart is pounding so loudly now, drowning out the storm outside, the rush of blood in his ears making it impossible to think about anything except this.
His hand twitches at his side, caught between reaching for you and knowing he has no right to.
But then—
Your fingers brush against his.
It’s barely anything. Just the smallest, hesitant press of warmth against his skin. But it wrecks him.
His breath shallows, chest tightening, lips parting slightly as his body leans in, as if drawn by some unseen force. He's not thinking about anything else. Just you. Just this.
And then, you move closer, just an inch, and his pulse spikes, his lips parting slightly, the ache to close the distance between you almost too much to bear.
"Tell me to move," he murmurs, voice so quiet it barely exists between you. "Tell me to stop, and I swear I’ll never do this again."
A pause.
A heartbeat.
A lifetime.
"But if you don’t…" His voice drops lower, barely a whisper. "I don’t think I can pretend anymore."
Your eyes flicker from his to his lips.
And Jeonghan knows this moment. He’s felt this moment before—the slow, aching pull, the gravity between you, the kind of anticipation that makes his head spin.
Maybe this time.
Maybe this time, you’ll—
Your breath catches.
Something shifts behind your eyes.
Hesitation. Uncertainty. Regret.
And then—you take half a step back. Just enough to break the spell. Just enough to make Jeonghan’s chest hollow out.
Your fingers slip from his, as if the moment had never happened.
"I can’t," you murmur, voice barely steady. Your hands curl into fists at your sides, grounding yourself. “Jeonghan… I’m not ready to go back there. Not yet.”
The words are quiet, but they land like a blow.
Not cruel. Not harsh.
But final.
Jeonghan doesn’t say anything, not at first.
He lets the silence fill the space instead.
Because he gets it. The weight of the past is too much. Too much to dive back into. Too soon.
You search his face for something—answers, reassurance, something neither of you know how to give.
He forces himself to swallow past the tightness in his throat.
"I understand." His voice is softer now, tinged with something dangerously close to heartbreak.
“I didn’t expect you to be.” He exhales slowly, carefully. “I just… I needed you to know. I never stopped thinking about you.”
The storm rages on outside, but inside this moment, it’s quieter than it has been in months.
And as Jeonghan watches you turn away, watches your fingers curl slightly, like you’re fighting the urge to reach for him—
His own fingers curl at his sides.
The ghost of your touch still lingering.
Jeonghan can tell you're wasted the second he hears the knock at his door.
It's an uneven, erratic tap—like you’re struggling to find the rhythm of it, like the way you’re standing is fighting against whatever balance you thought you had. It’s nothing like the usual grace you carry, the poised, deliberate way you do everything.
His first instinct? Don’t answer.
Maybe if he ignores it, you’ll turn on your heel and trudge back to your room, drunk enough to collapse into bed and forget whatever reckless idea brought you here in the first place.
Maybe that would be the best option—save both of you from whatever petty revenge you’ve decided he deserves.
His fingers hover over the door handle.
He can hear you on the other side—your breath, shallow and unsteady, like you’re bracing yourself.
He knows he should stay inside. Let you figure it out on your own.
But of course, he doesn’t do that.
He’s never been good at resisting you.
With a soft sigh, he opens the door, half-expecting a drunken rant about how terrible he is, how he's probably ruined your life, again. You've always had a sharp tongue when you were upset, and he's sure that alcohol is only going to fuel it more.
But when the door swings open, the sight that greets him is nothing like he expected.
You’re swaying slightly, cheeks flushed from alcohol, eyes hazy but burning with something Jeonghan can’t quite place.
And then, there’s the smile—mischievous, reckless.
The kind of smile that makes his pulse spike for all the wrong reasons.
"You know," you slur, voice low and playful, "I've been thinking about you all evening."
Jeonghan freezes, the words hanging between you like a strange, insistent pull. He was expecting anger. Accusations. Anything but this.
He clears his throat, tries to steady himself. "Uh—you're really drunk right now." His voice is careful, measured. "Maybe you should go back to your room."
You don’t listen.
Instead, you take a slow step forward, swaying just enough for Jeonghan to notice how unsteady you are, how the world is just a little too much for you to handle right now.
Your fingers brush the front of his shirt, then slide up to his collar, curling lightly around the fabric.
"Don’t you miss me?" Your voice softens, the playful edge gone, replaced by something rawer. "Don’t you ever think about what we could've had? I know I do."
Jeonghan’s stomach lurches, and a sudden wave of panic sweeps through him.
His first instinct is to back away. Create space. Put distance between you and this mess of a moment.
But he looks at you again, really looks at you, and what he sees wrecks him. Because behind the alcohol, behind the reckless smirk, behind the dangerously soft voice—
There’s desperation.
The same raw, aching need he’s spent months forcing himself to suppress.
“No,” he says quickly, shaking his head, his voice more strained than he intends. “You’re drunk. This isn’t—this isn’t the right time for this.”
You laugh, but it’s not light. It’s not amused.
You laugh, but it’s not a light laugh. It’s heavy with something else, something he can’t quite decipher. “So you’re saying I don’t know what I want? Or maybe you don’t know what you want?”
The words sting more than they should. It’s like you’ve taken all the walls he’s spent so long building around himself and torn them down in one shot. The thought of you, standing here and waiting for him, the weight of your gaze—he can't ignore it. But it's not right to give in, either. Not like this.
He takes a step back, his hands instinctively raising to create space between the two of you. “You don’t mean this. You’re not thinking straight right now.”
You reach for him again, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him a little closer than he’s comfortable with.
He can feel your breath on his skin, warm and uneven, and the tension in the air is suffocating. Every instinct in him is telling him to kiss you, to lean into the dangerous edge between the two of you and let it all unravel.
Your voice is heavy, thick with something undeniable, something Jeonghan wants so badly it hurts.
“I’ve missed you,” you murmur, fingers tightening against his chest. “I need you.”
Jeonghan’s heart is pounding in his chest, but he knows—
If he gives in now, this moment won’t be what he wants it to be.
It won’t be real.
Not in the way it should be.
“No."
The word comes out raw, heavier than he expected.
Your face falls, disappointment flashing across your features before the alcohol muddles your expression again.
But Jeonghan holds his ground, even as his heart aches in his chest. You deserved more than this, more than a careless, drunken mistake.
“I don’t want to take advantage of you,” he continues, his voice quieter now. “I care about you too much for that.”
For a long moment, you don’t say anything. Just stand there, swaying a little, staring at him. Jeonghan watches you, heart pounding in his chest, waiting for something to give. But it doesn’t.
And then, in a quiet voice, you say, "You don’t care about me."
The words are so fragile, barely holding together as they slip past your lips.
Jeonghan flinches.
Because it’s not true. It’s never been true.
"Of course, I care-"
You don't let him finish, the door closing with a slam behind you. The sharp click of the lock echoes through the room, final and unforgiving.
Jeonghan stands there for a long moment, staring at the closed door, his chest too tight to breathe properly.
Then—slowly—he leans against it, closing his eyes, exhaling sharply.
You won’t remember much of this tomorrow.
You won’t remember the way you looked at him, the way your voice trembled when you said you missed him. You won’t remember the way his heart nearly gave out when you touched him.
And Jeonghan—
Jeonghan prays that when the fog of alcohol lifts, you won’t resent him for this.
Jeonghan had spent the weekend stewing in his own thoughts.
The retreat, the storm, the alcohol, the way your fingers curled into his shirt like you needed him—and most of all, the quiet rejection that followed.
It’s all settled into him in ways he doesn’t want to admit.
But one thing is clear through the mess of it all:
You deserved better.
Better than a rain-soaked half-confession. Better than an almost-kiss in the dim light of a cramped shed. Better than standing outside his door, drunk and vulnerable, only to be turned away.
You deserved something real.
So Jeonghan spends the better part of Sunday evening preparing himself.
He rehearses what he’ll say, how he’ll say it, what kind of apology might be enough to make things right. He tells himself that this time, he’s going to be open, that he’s going to stop hiding behind his usual emotional armour.
That he’s not the same man you left behind.
Jeonghan isn't exactly a grand gesture kind of guy, but he figures that flowers might be a good place to start.
So he picks up a small, simple bouquet—a mix of pale pink roses and white lilies. It feels right. Not over-the-top, not desperate. Just… gentle. Sincere.
Something to tell you that he’s serious about this. About you.
About fixing what he broke.
Monday morning. A bouquet. A plan.
Jeonghan walks into the office, bouquet in hand, the familiar weight of anticipation pressing down on his chest.
He hasn’t seen you yet, but he knows you’re here—probably sorting out someone else’s mess, busy fixing problems that aren’t yours to fix.
And besides, the lingering tension between you still hasn’t been resolved. There’s still too much left unsaid.
He weaves through the office, eyes scanning each cubicle, looking for a glimpse of you. Your desk. Your chair. The little personal touches you leave behind.
But when he walks past your workspace, he barely slows down. Because, of course, you wouldn’t be there yet. You’re probably in a meeting or grabbing coffee—
Right?
Jeonghan stops by the coffee machine, hovering near a group of junior associates, waiting for the right moment.
He’s still running through his speech in his head when one of them—clipboard in hand—pauses beside him, eyes flicking to the bouquet with mild curiosity.
"Those are nice," she comments. "Are you bringing them to Y/n?"
Jeonghan blinks.
He’s pretty sure no one saw you leaving his room that night, but maybe word spreads faster than he thought.
"Uh, yeah, I was just—" His voice falters, uncertainty creeping in. "Wait, what do you mean? Are they—?"
The associate raises an eyebrow. “Oh. Didn’t you hear?”
And then, with the casualness of someone delivering a weather report—
"Y/n put in their resignation over the weekend. They’re leaving the company."
The words hit Jeonghan like a punch to the stomach. He feels the air leave his lungs, his body momentarily forgetting how to function. What?
His mind races. No. It can’t be true. You—you wouldn’t just leave. Not without saying something, without—
He forces himself to reply. "When? Why?"
The associate looks a little sheepish, as though she's not sure if she should be saying anything. "I don't know the details. Something about another job, though. It's pretty sudden - just packed up this morning, said goodbye, and - yeah."
This morning.
Jeonghan’s thoughts go numb.
His eyes dart back to the desk he had walked past minutes ago—
The empty desk.
The chair is still there, but everything else is gone. No personal belongings. No little notebooks. No coffee cup. No lingering signs that you’d ever been there at all. Just an empty space. Cold. Unfamiliar.
The associate says something else, but Jeonghan doesn’t hear her.
He barely registers her walking away.
Without thinking, Jeonghan walks swiftly towards your office, although it feels like his legs are moving on their own, his mind detached from his body. He knows he shouldn't chase after you. He has no right. But this - this is different. You're leaving.
When he reaches your office, he knocks once.
Then, before he can talk himself out of it, he pushes the door open.
And what he finds is—
Nothing.
The space is just as empty as your desk had been.
The table is stripped bare. The computer monitor is gone. The air still carries the faintest trace of your perfume, but even that is fading.
Jeonghan just stands there, clutching the flowers in his hand like they're the only thing keeping him tethered to this reality.
And then, the quiet voice he’s been trying so hard to ignore finally makes itself heard: You're too late, again.
Jeonghan slumps into his chair, staring blankly at the computer screen like it might somehow offer him answers.
It doesn’t.
It just sits there—cold, unhelpful—mirroring the hollow ache in his chest.
The bouquet on the corner of his desk is dying a slow, miserable death. The once-vibrant petals are already wilting, drooping under the weight of their own existence, looking just as pathetic as he feels.
He doesn’t realize how much time has passed—how long he’s been sitting there, stuck in the endless spiral of what-ifs���until a voice yanks him back to reality with all the grace of a toddler on a sugar high.
"Jeonghan."
He blinks up, sluggish, seeing Joshua standing over him like some sort of judgmental yet well-meaning ghost, arms crossed and face set in that deeply irritating, all-knowing expression that screams I know exactly what’s going on, and I’m about to make it worse.
Joshua’s eyes flick to the flowers.
Then back to Jeonghan.
Then, like he physically cannot help himself, he smirks.
“Are those for Y/n?”
The words are light, teasing—too casual. But the look in Joshua’s eyes is something else entirely—a mix of sympathy and secondhand embarrassment, the kind that makes Jeonghan want to sink into the floor and never be perceived again.
He exhales, dragging a hand down his face. "Uh, yeah…"
His fingers skim over the petals, careful—like touching them too much might make them fall apart completely. "I was going to give them today. I mean, I did. I wanted to, but…"
His voice trails off, disappearing into the abyss of 'things that aren't going to happen'.
Joshua doesn’t say anything at first.
Instead, he just leans against the desk, watching Jeonghan with the kind of quiet scrutiny that makes his skin itch.
"I told you, man,” Joshua finally sighs, shaking his head. “You have to start reading your emails.”
Jeonghan’s mouth opens—ready to argue, ready to say something, anything—
But nothing comes out.
He’s just so tired.
And so unbelievably stupid.
"I was going to fix it," Jeonghan mutters. The words taste bitter, hollow in his mouth. He hadn’t meant to say them aloud, but there they are. Out in the open. "I was going to apologise. I was going to... to make it right."
Joshua just watches Jeonghan—arms crossed, gaze unreadable—like he’s waiting to see if there’s anything left to say.
When he does speak, his voice is softer. Gentler. Like he’s stepping carefully around fragile ground.
“You know, Jeonghan… Sometimes you can’t wait around for the right moment. Sometimes, you have to make that moment yourself. No one’s gonna do it for you.” He pauses. “And it’s okay to feel bad about it. Hell, I’d be a mess too if I were you.”
Jeonghan lets out a quiet, bitter laugh. "Congrats, Shua. You are me. This is your life now."
Joshua hums thoughtfully. “That’s unfortunate. I’d like a refund.”
Jeonghan huffs out something that almost sounds like amusement—but it dies quickly, sinking beneath the weight pressing against his ribs.
His shoulders sag. His head tilts forward, gaze locked onto the wilting flowers.
"I thought I had time," he murmurs.
Joshua stays quiet. Listening.
"I thought they’d still be there," Jeonghan continues, voice barely above a whisper. "Waiting for me to get my act together."
Silence.
Thick and heavy.
And then—finally—
“I don’t even know if they’ll want to talk to me again.”
Joshua doesn’t hesitate this time.
He just smiles—small, knowing.
“Well,” he says simply, “you won’t know unless you try.”
Jeonghan doesn't get drunk on purpose. He just ... allows the alcohol to win.
Besides, it's the first step in his extremely well-thought-out, definitely-not-drunken plan to win you back. (alternatively titled: The worst idea he's ever had, and that's saying something).
Step One: Drown Your Sorrows Like a Man
One drink? Fine. Two drinks? Even better. Five drinks? You know what? Life is short, and so is his ability to keep a functional relationship. Might as well commit.
By the time he's properly marinated in alcohol and self-pity, Joshua has started looking at him with that face—half pity, half “I should have left you at the bar and gone home.” But it’s fine. Everything’s fine.
“You know what,” Jeonghan slurs, pointing an accusatory finger at his best friend. “I think I gotta— I gotta do something. Something big.”
Joshua sighs. “No, you don’t.”
“I do, actually,” Jeonghan says, deadly serious. “I need Y/n to know I’m a changed man, Joshua.”
Joshua takes a sip of his beer, unbothered. “You are quite literally drunk in a bar, thinking of doing something stupid. So, no, you’re actually the same man.”
Jeonghan glares. “Wow. Negative energy. Get out.”
“This is my apartment.”
“Okay but, like. Metaphorically.”
Joshua shakes his head. “What’s the plan, then? You gonna text her?”
Jeonghan gasps, scandalised. “No. That’s pathetic.”
Joshua sighs in relief.
“No, I’m gonna send a voice message.”
Joshua physically lunges for the phone.
Step Two: Send a Message That Will Definitely Solve Everything
Jeonghan fumbles with his phone, blinking until his vision stabilises enough to find your contact. He hits the audio message button and clears his throat, ready to deliver the most heartfelt, sincere message of his life.
"Heyyyy," he starts. Good start. "I was just thinking. About us. About how we had, like, something special, y'know? And then I was like. Wow. I'm dumb. Like, really dumb. Like, 'couldn't pass a third-grade math test' dumb. But you knew that."
Joshua groans from the kitchen.
"But you liked me anyway. Which is crazy. And so nice of you, actually. You're so nice. The nicest." He hiccups. "And I was thinking. You always used to say that I never fight for anything - which, rude, because I am literally fighting for my life every morning when I wake up. But like, emotionally, you were right. So I'm fighting now. Right now. At this moment."
Pause. Hiccup. Thoughtful silence.
"... Okay, technically, I'm sitting on Joshua's couch. But I mean it. I am spiritually standing up for this relationship."
There's a loud thunk as Jeonghan's knees hit the coffee table from the sheer force he throws his body up with.
Joshua looks up from his phone. "DId you just break my table?"
"Shhhh," Jeonghan waves him off. "Important matters are happening." He brings the phone back to his mouth.
"Anway. Listen. I was bad at the whole relationship thing. But I'm a changed man now. I mean, not right now because I'm drunk, but like, in general, I will be. Probably. Statistically. So like. Call me. Or text. Or send, like, a pigeon, I don't care. But let's talk."
"Wow. That was awful. Are you gonna send it?"
Jeonghan grins. "Oh, it's already gone."
Joshua looks like he wants to throw himself off the balcony.
Step Three: Online Shopping
Jeonghan, still drunk and now high on the confidence of his definitely good voice message, decides he needs a gift. Something thoughtful. Something sentimental. Something way better than those shitty flowers he's glad you never had to lay eyes on.
And then it hits him. The perfect idea.
"Joshua," he says, tone dead serious. "I need a taxidermy frog."
Joshua looks at him, horrified. "You what?"
"A frog," Jeonghan's fingers are already moving at lightning speed, typing the words into a very shady-looking website. "Y/n loved that stupid frog we saw in that antique shop. Remember? Y/n said it had 'big personality'. They respected that frog."
Joshua looks like he’s physically in pain. “Jeonghan, no—”
“Too late. It’s ordered.”
Joshua stares in disbelief. "You seriously just spent—" He looks at the screen, jaw dropping. "FOUR HUNDRED DOLLARS?! ON A DEAD FROG?!"
Jeonghan nods, looking very proud of himself. "Only the best for my love."
"You don't even know if she wants that!"
Jeonghan scoffs. "Joshua. It's a frog. Everyone wants a frog."
Joshua puts his head in his hands. "This is literally why you're single."
Step Four: Pass Out and Let Tomorrow-You Suffer the Consequences
The last thing Jeonghan remembers is a very smug sense of accomplishment.
He has done it. He has made his move. He has sent a heartfelt message. He has made a grand gesture. He is fighting.
He is unstoppable.
…He is also face-down on Joshua’s couch, snoring so loudly the neighbours might call animal control.
The phone, still clutched in his hand, lights up with an incoming notification.
A text.
From you.
Three words.
"Are you serious?"
Jeonghan wakes up feeling like death.
His head is pounding, his mouth drier than the Sahara, and his soul feels like it has been forcibly removed from his body and drop-kicked into the sun. He groans, rolling over onto his side, only to come face-to-face with Joshua, who is standing over him with the look of a man who has seen things.
“…Morning,” Jeonghan croaks, voice wrecked from what he can only assume was a night of tragic decision-making.
Joshua crosses his arms. “Do you remember what you did last night?”
Jeonghan thinks. He remembers alcohol. He remembers emotion. He remembers… Oh God.
His eyes fly open. “I bought a—”
“A $400 taxidermy frog? Yes. Yes, you did.” Joshua gestures to the corner of the room, where, sure enough, a very dead, very wide-eyed frog sits in an equally dead, equally wide-eyed glass case.
Jeonghan stares at it in horror, clutching his blanket like it might protect him from reality. “Oh my God.”
Joshua sighs and pulls out Jeonghan’s phone. “And you sent this,” he says, pressing play on The Message.
Jeonghan has never known true fear until now.
“Heyyyyy…” comes his own very drunk voice, echoing through the apartment like a ghost of his worst mistakes. “Soooooo. I was just thinking. About us. About how we had, like, something special, y'know? And then I was like. Wow. I'm dumb. Like, really dumb. Like—”
Jeonghan slaps the phone out of Joshua’s hand so fast, it skids across the floor. “OKAY. Got it. Yep. Thank you.”
Joshua levels him with a stare. “Oh, you’re welcome. Also, she replied.”
Jeonghan freezes. “She what?”
Joshua pulls up the message, holding it out for him to read.
Are you serious?
He stares. That’s it? No "never speak to me again"? No "please lose my number and also possibly yourself"?
Joshua claps his hands together. “And now, you’re gonna go over."
“What? No, I—” Jeonghan gestures wildly at himself. “I can’t just—”
“Yes, you can,” Joshua interrupts. “You were literally crying over this last night—”
“I wasn’t crying.”
“You sobbed into my hoodie and called me ‘a real one,’ so actually, yes, you were.”
Jeonghan glares. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Oh, so much,” Joshua agrees. Then he gestures to the taxidermy frog still sitting ominously on the table. “Also, you’re bringing that.”
Jeonghan sits up so fast his brain almost leaves his skull. “What?! No! I’m not—this was a drunken mistake!”
Joshua gives him a look. “Yeah? So was letting her walk away the first time. And the second time. And whatever number time we’re on now.”
Jeonghan glares. “I hate you.”
Joshua pats his shoulder. “I know. Now take the frog and go.”
Jeonghan stands in front of your door, frog in hand, deeply regretting everything that has led him to this moment.
There are a lot of ways to win back an ex. A heartfelt apology. A romantic gesture. Literally any option that does not involve showing up at her doorstep, hungover, holding a dead frog in a display case like some kind of unhinged antique salesman.
But here he is.
He exhales, steadying himself. He has to do this. He has to explain everything—how he didn’t know you were working for the merging company, how the pastel sweater was not some dramatic power move, how he’s an idiot (but, like, a reformed idiot now).
Most importantly, he has to fix whatever mess he made last night.
With a deep breath, he knocks.
The door swings open a few seconds later, and there you are—standing there in sweats and an oversized hoodie, looking at him like you knew this day was coming but are still deeply unprepared for it.
Your gaze flickers to the frog. Then back to him. Then back to the frog.
“…No,” you say immediately, trying to shut the door.
Jeonghan wedges his foot in before you can. “Wait, wait, wait,” he pleads, balancing the frog case in his other hand. “Just hear me out.”
You cross your arms, unimpressed. “Are you seriously standing outside my apartment at—” You check the time. “Nine-thirty in the morning holding a stuffed frog?”
Jeonghan shifts awkwardly. “Technically, it’s taxidermy.”
Your expression remains unchanged. “You’re insane.”
“Passionate,” he corrects, trying to smile. “Look, I just… I wanted to talk. Properly. No drunk messages. No misunderstandings. Just—can we?” He gestures vaguely, still holding the frog case like it’s part of the conversation.
You sigh, running a hand through your hair. “Fine. But the frog stays outside.”
Jeonghan pouts. “It has big personality.”
You slam the door in his face.
Five seconds later, you open it again. “Get in.”
Walking into your apartment is surreal.
Mostly because it looks different. Like you took every single thing that might’ve even slightly reminded you of him and threw it into a bonfire. Jeonghan half-expects to see a sage stick burning in the corner, cleansing the air of his scent.
You sit across from him at the kitchen table, arms still crossed, watching him like he's about to unleash another round of chaos. Which is fair.
Jeonghan clears his throat, hands clasped together, like he's in a business meeting and not a shambles of a man trying to win back the love of his life.
Before he can even begin, you cut in.
“I heard you brought me flowers.”
Joshua, that absolute rat—
"Julie from legal told me."
Ah. That makes more sense.
“Well,” he starts, thrown completely off track. “I figured you might be feeling bad. I just… didn’t think you’d quit before I could even apologise.”
"Yeah, well, I guess it all got a little too much for me."
Jeonghan squints. “So you did quit because of me?”
You level him with a deadpan expression. “Jeonghan. I got a bit tipsy and practically begged you to take my clothes off.”
He blinks. “A bit tipsy seems like an understatement—”
"That doesn't mean much coming from you."
Okay. Fair.
You exhale sharply, rubbing your temples. “Come on, Jeonghan. You felt it too. How could I stay there when every moment, I was bracing myself in case I heard your voice? If every time someone passed, I’d look around to check if it was you?” You shake your head. “That’s not a productive way to work, and it’s definitely not healthy. I mean, I was thrown off the second I saw you, and I don’t think I ever really recovered from that.”
Jeonghan licks his lips, hesitating. “About the sweater—”
Your eyebrows shoot up.
"I didn't know you were leading the merger when I wore it," he says quickly, desperate to clear at least one crime off his record. "I swear to God, I didn't."
You narrow your eyes. "So you just ... casually decided to wear a pastel pink sweater to the most important corporate meeting of your career?"
Jeonghan hesitates. “Uh. Yes?”
You stare at him.
He sits up straighter, suddenly feeling defensive. “I had a moment that morning, okay? I had a dream about the day we went to get them, and I thought, Hey, maybe if I wear this, then I'll feel one sliver of the same joy I did that day.” He waves his hands. “I didn’t realize that it would lead to—” another vague, exasperated gesture “—this. Besides, you know I don’t check my emails, Y/n. I didn’t even know you were going to be there.”
You blink. "You wore it because of a dream?"
" ... Technically, yes."
A pause. Then, to his absolute horror, you start laughing.
Not a mocking laugh. Not a wow-you’re-an-idiot laugh. Just… pure, unfiltered amusement, like you cannot believe this is what started all of this.
Jeonghan watches as you shake your head, covering your mouth with your hand.
"Shit," you gasp between chuckles. "I spent an entire week planning what I was going to wear, what I'd say to you when I saw you, how I'd prove to you that I'd moved on and was better without you before that meeting. And you saw right through it, without even realising."
Jeonghan is stunned and, frankly, a little offended.
“You think this is funny?” he grumbles, watching as you wipe at your eyes, still giggling.
“Oh, I know it’s funny,” you say, shaking your head. “All that effort on my part and you just—obliterated it. By accident. With a sweater.”
Jeonghan huffs, crossing his arms. “Well, excuse me for having a sentimental moment.”
“Oh, so now you’re sentimental?”
He hesitates. “...I mean. A little.”
Your laughter fades then, softening into something quieter, something a little too knowing. “I guess that’s what last night was, too?”
Jeonghan stiffens immediately.
The message.
Oh. Right.
The actual reason he's here.
His fingers drum anxiously against the table. “I… don’t suppose you ignored that?”
“Oh, no,” you say, shaking your head. “I listened. Multiple times, actually. Almost sent it to HR for psychological damage.”
Jeonghan groans, burying his face in his hands. “I knew it was bad.”
You tilt your head, considering. “Honestly, it started fine. You sounded, like, half composed. Then you hit the ‘I am literally fighting for my life every morning’ part and, well…” You gesture vaguely. “It kind of fell apart.”
He peeks at you through his fingers. “Just a little?”
“Oh, no. It was a complete disaster.”
Fantastic. Love that for him.
Sighing, Jeonghan lets his hands drop, his fingers still fidgeting. “Look, I—” He hesitates, pressing his lips together before forcing himself to just say it. “I meant what I said.”
Your expression shifts, just slightly, just enough for him to notice.
His voice is quieter now, steadier. “I know I sounded ridiculous, but I wasn’t just talking out of my ass. I—” He swallows. “I really do regret how things ended. I should’ve fought for you. I should’ve at least tried. But I didn’t, and I lost you. And now…” He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “Now I don’t even know if I have the right to be sitting here.”
You don’t answer right away.
Instead, you watch him carefully, as if you’re still trying to figure out if this is real, if it’s safe to trust what he’s saying.
Then, finally—
“You know, you could’ve said all of this before I left.”
Jeonghan winces. “I know.”
“I mean, instead of waiting until you were drunk out of your mind and making Frogbert the most cursed apology gift of all time.”
His face burns. “We don’t have to talk about Frogbert.”
“Oh, we absolutely do.”
“Y/n—”
You smile, shaking your head, but there’s something softer in your eyes now. Something that makes Jeonghan feel like maybe—maybe—he hasn’t completely lost his chance.
You sigh, leaning forward slightly, resting your elbows on the table. “Look, Jeonghan. It wasn’t just you. I didn’t exactly handle things perfectly either.”
He blinks, startled. “You didn’t?”
You shoot him a look. “Wow. Try not to sound so surprised.”
“No, I just—” He rubs the back of his neck, struggling to process this information. “I kind of assumed you had everything figured out. That you were, y’know, thriving without me.”
You shrug. “I tried to be.”
The weight of that sits between you for a moment.
Jeonghan wets his lips, his hands still twitching slightly against his knees. “So… what now?”
You tilt your head, considering. “I don’t know.” There’s something guarded in the way you say it, like you’re waiting for him to give you a reason. A reason to walk away, or a reason to stay.
And Jeonghan—Jeonghan is so tired of giving you reasons to walk away.
So he leans forward just slightly, his voice lower, steadier than it’s been all week. “I’d rather spend the rest of my life proving that I love you than waste another second pretending I don’t.”
Your breath catches.
And for a moment, everything stills.
Jeonghan can see it—the flicker of emotion behind your eyes, the way your fingers tighten just slightly around the edge of the table. He’s spent so much time trying to read you, but this? This is the closest he’s felt to understanding you in a long, long time.
Your lips part, but no words come. He watches as you swallow, watches as you fight the instinct to look away.
“…That’s a really unfair thing to say,” you murmur finally, voice quiet.
Jeonghan exhales a soft laugh. “Yeah. It is.” He tilts his head slightly, a small, wry smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “But it’s true.”
You shake your head, eyes narrowing, but there’s no real bite behind it. “God, you are so annoying.”
“Infuriating, actually,” he corrects. “But, y’know. At least I’m consistent.”
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling now—just a little, just enough for him to notice. And Jeonghan thinks that maybe he’s finally done something right.
A beat of silence passes between you. Not tense, not uncomfortable—just quiet. Just… yours.
Then, softly: “Do you mean it?”
Jeonghan meets your gaze, unwavering. “Yeah,” he says simply. “I do.”
You exhale, rubbing a hand over your face. “You literally sent me a voice message saying you were spiritually standing up for this relationship.”
Jeonghan groans, slumping forward dramatically. “I knew you’d bring that up.”
“Oh, I’m never letting that go.”
Another pause.
Then, finally—
“…I don’t know how this is supposed to work,” you admit, quieter now. “I don’t know if it can.”
Jeonghan nods, understanding. “Me neither.” He swallows. “But I think—I think if I lost you again without at least trying this time, I’d regret it for the rest of my life.”
You stare at him, searching.
Then, after a moment, you let out a slow breath, sitting back in your chair. “Okay,” you murmur. “Then try.”
And Jeonghan, for the first time in forever, feels like he can finally breathe again.
Planning a romantic date is, unfortunately, not Jeonghan’s strong suit.
Oh, he can be thoughtful when he wants to be. But romantic? That requires effort. That requires vulnerability. That requires not making everything a joke to avoid feeling things. And frankly, Jeonghan has built his entire personality around not doing any of that.
But here he is.
Planning a real date. A meaningful one. A Hey-I’m-Actually-a-Decent-Boyfriend-This-Time-I-Swear kind of date.
Which is why Joshua, who is watching this entire thing unfold from the couch, looks horrified.
“I need you to be honest with me,” Jeonghan says, standing in front of a fully crafted itinerary. “Is this too much?”
Joshua, staring at a literal printed schedule, does not even blink. “Yes.”
Jeonghan sighs dramatically. “I knew you’d say that.”
“You wrote out timed activities, Jeonghan.”
“It’s called being prepared.”
“It’s called being insane.”
Jeonghan waves him off. “Okay, but listen. I messed up. And this—” He gestures grandly to the schedule. “This is how I fix it.”
Joshua pinches the bridge of his nose. “Why do I have a feeling this ends with something deeply embarrassing?”
Jeonghan does not answer.
Which means Joshua is right.
Jeonghan picks you up at exactly 5:00 PM (because he planned this), and the first thing he notices is that you’re suspicious.
"Okay," you say, arms crossed, giving him that look. "What’s the catch?"
Jeonghan gasps. "Wow. Zero faith in me."
You raise an eyebrow.
“…Okay, fine. A little faith in me.”
You hum. “We’ll see.”
And that is so unfair, actually, because Jeonghan is really trying here. So instead of arguing, he just grins and takes your hand, pulling you toward the car.
"You trust me, right?"
You hesitate for a second too long.
Jeonghan squints.
"Okay," you say finally, sighing. "I trust you. For now." (Jeonghan will absolutely be holding onto that for life.)
The first stop is that little bookshop café you always used to drag him to, the one where you’d spend hours getting lost in shelves while Jeonghan sat in a corner, half-asleep, pretending to be deeply interested in a book he never actually read.
You blink when you realize where you are. “You remembered this place?”
Jeonghan scoffs, feigning offense. “Excuse me. I was a very supportive boyfriend.”
“You literally fell asleep on the couch last time we were here.”
“…I was a tired boyfriend.”
But you’re smiling now, eyes soft with something that makes Jeonghan’s chest ache.
"Come on," he says, nudging you toward the door. "I owe you a coffee. And maybe a book. Or five. Whatever shuts you up about my alleged napping problem."
Somewhere between coffee and Jeonghan deeply regretting letting you pick out a book for him ("This is 800 pages. Have you met me?"), he takes you to the park.
It’s nothing fancy—just a quiet place to walk, somewhere just yours, somewhere he can talk to you without the weight of everything pressing down too hard.
"You're still here," he says eventually, his fingers brushing against yours as you walk.
You smirk. "Yeah, well. I haven't decided if I'm staying."
Jeonghan groans. "Oh my God."
You laugh, nudging his shoulder playfully. But then, softer—“I’m glad you’re trying.”
And that—that is all Jeonghan needs.
Jeonghan was not planning on this part.
The night is winding down, and everything is going well, and he should just call it there before he does something stupid.
But then—
Then, as you’re walking past a store, you freeze.
Jeonghan follows your gaze—
And, oh.
Oh no.
Matching sweaters.
The pastel monstrosities. The ones that started everything. The ones he swore he would never wear again.
And you—you are grinning.
Jeonghan is so in love with you, it’s disgusting.
You turn to him, eyes gleaming. "One last time?"
Jeonghan exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re the actual worst.”
You tilt your head, completely unbothered. “So that’s a yes?”
Jeonghan looks at you, at your stupid smile, at the way your fingers are already reaching for the sweaters—
And, well.
What else is he supposed to do?
Sighing dramatically, he grabs the second sweater and pulls it on.
You beam at him, absolutely delighted.
"God," he groans, looking at his reflection. "This is so much worse than I remember."
"You love it."
Jeonghan turns, catching the way you’re looking at him—soft, affectionate, the way you used to, before everything got messy. Before he ruined things.
Before he got you back.
And—okay. Maybe the sweater isn’t that bad.
Jeonghan exhales, shaking his head. “Yeah,” he admits, pulling you closer. “I really, really do.”
The thing about kissing you again is that it should be easy.
It’s not like he hasn’t thought about it—a lot—in the most pathetic, pining, staring-at-the-ceiling-at-2AM kind of way. It’s not like he hasn’t memorised the shape of your lips, the way you used to kiss him like you weren’t even thinking about it, like it was just natural for you to be that close.
But now, when you’re standing right in front of him, beaming at him in that stupid, unfairly charming sweater, it feels like the first time all over again.
You tilt your head slightly, as if daring him. “Are you gonna stare at me all night, or—”
Jeonghan kisses you before you can finish the sentence.
It’s not careful. It’s not calculated. It’s not like any of the times before, when he thought he had all the time in the world to figure this out.
It’s just him, leaning in like it’s the most obvious thing to do, his hands sliding against your waist like muscle memory, like they belong there. You gasp against his lips, surprised, but it melts away in an instant—your fingers curling into the fabric of his ridiculous sweater, pulling him closer, like you don’t even want him to second-guess it.
And Jeonghan—God, he could die like this.
It’s slow, and warm, and so achingly familiar that it makes his chest tighten, makes him want to grab onto you and never let go. He tilts his head, deepening it just enough to make sure you feel it, to make sure you understand—
That this isn’t just a kiss.
That this is a promise.
When you finally pull away, your breath is uneven, your lips way too tempting, and Jeonghan has never been good at restraint, so he almost kisses you again.
But then you blink up at him, slightly dazed, and—
“You taste like regret and poor life choices,” you murmur.
Jeonghan snorts, pressing his forehead against yours. “That’s your fault. You’re the one who made me wear this sweater.”
You laugh, quiet and breathless, and he feels it against his skin, and suddenly, everything is worth it.
Because you’re here.
And so is he.
And this time, Jeonghan isn’t letting you go.
Divider Credit: enchanthings
#seventeen imagines#seventeen scenarios#svthub#svt scenarios#svt x reader#seventeen#seventeen fluff#seventeen angst#yoon jeonghan#jeonghan#svt jeonghan#svt yoon jeonghan#seventeen jeonghan#seventeen yoon jeonghan#jeonghan x reader#jeonghan imagines#jeonghan fluff#jeonghan seventeen#svt#jeonghan fic#seventeen x reader#svt jeonghan fic#yoon jeonghan x reader#yoon jeonghan fanfic#yoon jeonghan fluff#jeonghan angst#jeonghan scenarios
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Meet me in the Hallway
chapter 9: I won't be able to stop, Jagiya.
Pairing: Hwang In-ho x Reader
also available on ao3!
word count: 9.2k
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The third game was over, but the weight of it clung to you, thick and suffocating. Every step down the labyrinth of stairs felt heavier than the last, like your body was only just catching up to the things your mind had been trying to ignore. Your legs ached—not from exertion, but from the tension of staying alive. Your chest felt tight, breath just a little too shallow, like the air itself was pressing down on you.
The line of players moved slowly, trudging downward in eerie silence, no one daring to speak.
Young-il was just in front of you. Close enough that if you stumbled, he would turn and catch you without hesitation. The way he always did.
You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. Not after that. So you focused on the steps beneath you, forcing each step to be careful, deliberate. Not because you were afraid of tripping. But because you knew that if you looked up, if you so much as glanced at the back of his head, and he turned around in that exact moment, you wouldn’t be able to school your expression in time.
Your foot hovered over the next step for a second too long. You forced it down, quick, steady, like the hesitation had never been there.
The moment between you—if it had even been a moment—was still burning at the edges of your thoughts, refusing to be buried. A second too long, a breath too close, something in his eyes that made your stomach tighten. And then nothing.
But it had been enough. Enough to leave warmth on your cheeks. Enough to make your heart stutter if you let yourself think about it too much. Enough to make you want more.
Your fingers twitched slightly at your sides. You clenched them into fists.
It was stupid. You were stupid for letting yourself get caught in that moment. And yet, every time it surfaced, your skin still tingled, your heart still stuttered. You swallowed hard and forced yourself to exhale, to keep walking, to focus on something, anything else.
A voice cut through the silence ahead, low and solemn.
“When we get back, let’s count the number of people remaining”, Gi-hun’s words were casual, but the meaning behind them sat heavy in the air.
“Why?” Young-il’s voice came from in front of you, even and composed, as if he were merely asking for the time.
“If we count the numbers of O’s and X’s, we’ll be able to see who’s likely to win the next vote.”
Gi-hun’s reasoning was solid, logical. You knew that. It made sense. The vote hadn’t been decided yet. It was still hanging, waiting, teetering between the people who wanted to stay and the people who wanted to claw their way back to their home—if there even was one waiting for them.
You should have been thinking about that. About the weight of the decision, about the way things could shift in an instant.
But instead, all you could think about was how close Young-il was. How much you wanted him to turn around and just finish what he was doing in that room.
You stared at the ground harder, blinking rapidly. Your body felt too warm, like the heat from before hadn’t left your skin. It wasn’t the time for this. It wasn’t the place.
Young-il spoke again, his voice smooth, thoughtful.
“We’ll have to hope more people from the other side died.”
The way he said it—so effortlessly, like it was just another fact, just another step forward in the game. No hesitation. No second thought.
His words should have made your stomach twist. Should have made your skin crawl. Should have planted something ugly inside you—something that would recoil, something that would scream, this isn’t right, this isn’t normal, this isn’t who you are.
It should have terrified you. But it didn’t. Because you had thought it first.
Because, somewhere between the gunshots and the silence that followed, between the bodies that fell and the ones that kept walking, you had already made peace with the truth: death was just a calculation now. A numbers game.
And that was the worst part. Not that Young-il had said it. But that when he did, it felt less like a revelation and more like a confirmation.
That if he could think it so easily, then maybe you weren’t so different from him.
That maybe the line you thought existed between you—between the person you were and the person he was—had never been as thick as you wanted to believe.
That maybe it had already blurred.
And that, somehow, was worse than the games. Worse than the killing. Worse than all of it.
Because the moment it stopped feeling wrong, the moment survival became instinct, the moment those thoughts slipped through your mind without resistance—how many of them are left, how many of us are left, what does that mean for me?—
That was the moment you lost. Not the games. Not your life.
Something worse.
And if it had already started to happen, if you were already thinking like him, then maybe…
Maybe it was too late.
The realization settled in slowly, curling at the edges of your mind like smoke. It hadn’t even been a conscious thought—just something quick and passing, a flicker of strategy beneath all the noise. But it had been there.
You swallowed.
You glanced up. Just once. Just to see if he’d turn. He didn’t. But you wished he had.
You kept walking.
The entrance to the dormitory loomed ahead, but you barely noticed. Your mind had drifted too far, tangled in thoughts you didn’t remember inviting in. The weight of the last game pressed down on you, thick and suffocating, wrapping around your chest like a vice. It made the air feel heavier, made each breath a little harder to take.
You didn’t even realize the rest had stopped walking until you nearly crashed into Young-il’s back.
Your heart jumped as you caught yourself just in time, stopping so close that you could feel the lingering warmth of him despite the chill in the room.
He didn’t react, didn’t turn around, but you knew he had noticed.
He always noticed everything.
You swallowed hard and took a small step back just as the guards pulled the heavy doors open.
The moment you stepped inside, the difference was impossible to ignore.
There was more space now.
The numbers had dwindled. The room hadn’t changed, but it felt different. Too open. Too hollow. And yet, the world kept moving.
The group naturally strayed toward the usual spot, but you hesitated, eyes scanning the layout. The missing beds had shifted everything slightly, creating a new gap at the back of the room. Unlike before, there was enough space to walk behind the remaining bunks, to sit where the shadows stretched a little further.
It was a perfect hiding place. A place to sit unseen.
Without really thinking, you made your way toward it, lowering yourself onto the floor in the newly formed space. The others followed, each of them settling in as if they were just as exhausted as you felt.
Young-il sat on the opposite side, deliberately putting distance between you.
You pretended not to notice. He did the same.
Your eyes flickered elsewhere, landing on the walls. It was easier to focus on that. On anything other than the presence you could still feel across from you, heavy even in silence. But then something else caught your attention.
The drawings on the walls, created by black tiles. They had been there the entire time, hidden in plain sight, obscured by the very beds that once crammed the room. Now, with so many of them gone, the images stood stark and unmistakable—a silent message that had been waiting to be seen.
Your stomach twisted as you took in the shapes—an oversized chessboard, figures frozen in place like pieces on a battlefield. Monkey bars stretching above an abyss, tiny silhouettes dangling mid-air, suspended between survival and death. The games? The next ones. Right there, in front of you, in plain sight.
The drawings had been there the entire time. Silent, waiting, like a cruel esoteric joke. A roadmap to your destruction, hidden beneath their beds like a whispered warning you were never meant to hear, before it was too late.
Had everyone been walking past them, sleeping beneath them, completely unaware of the warnings carved into the very walls that surrounded you? Had anyone else noticed? Or were they too exhausted, too numb, too caught up in their own survival to even look?
Your gaze flickered toward your group. How could they not pay attention to this? You looked at Young-il, he was always so observant, he had to see.
He wasn’t looking at the walls. He was staring at nothing, his face unreadable, his fingers drumming lightly against his knee, slow and methodical.
Had he seen it before?
You parted your lips, the words sitting at the edge of your tongue, heavy and waiting to be spoken.
Someone needed to know.
Your eyes flickered between the others, scanning their tired faces, the way they moved like ghosts, drained and hollow. Would they even listen to you?
But if they did—if they understood what those images meant—maybe it could change something. Maybe, for once, knowing ahead of time would give you some kind of control.
Your fingers twitched against the floor.
You turned your head, just enough to find Young-il across from you. He wasn’t looking at the walls. Wasn’t looking at anything. His expression was unreadable, his hands resting loosely on his knees. You hesitated.
Maybe it was better to talk to him first.
Just as you made the decision, shifting slightly to stand up and walk toward him, Dae-ho dropped down beside you. The movement startled you, making you snap your mouth shut before anything could slip out.
He exhaled, tilting his head toward you without fully turning, his voice low. “Hey.”
His presence was warm, a stark contrast to the chill in the room. He hesitated for a second before leaning in slightly, lowering his voice so only you could hear.
"What happened back there?"
You blinked, caught off guard by the question. "What?"
"The last game," he clarified, voice quieter now. "You and Young-il came out of that room looking like you'd seen a ghost. You’ve barely said a word since. What happened?"
Your breath hitched slightly, but you masked it quickly, shaking your head, ”Nothing," you said. "It was just... a tough round."
Dae-ho didn’t look convinced. His eyes searched your face, brow furrowing slightly, ”Come on," he said, voice softer now. “I don’t know you for very long but I still know you. You’re not just shaken up over the game itself. Something happened in there."
You felt your jaw tighten, fingers curling into your palms. He wasn’t wrong.
The air in that room had been thick, suffocating. The moment had stretched longer than it should have, had lingered on your skin even after it had passed. You could still feel it, still feel him, even when you weren’t looking at him. But how were you supposed to explain that?
You forced a shrug, dropping your gaze to the floor. "It’s nothing, Dae-ho. Just drop it."
Dae-ho sighed and leaned back, relenting, "Alright," he muttered. "But you know you’re a terrible liar, right?"
You huffed a quiet breath, not quite a laugh, but not quite an argument either. Before you could think too deeply on Young-il or the drawings again, Gi-hun’s voice pulled you back.
"Jung-bae," he said, voice low, thoughtful. "Go count how many players have an O patch on their chest."
Jung-bae nodded without question, pushing himself up and slipping into the crowd.
Across the space, Young-il finally looked at you. The moment stretched between you again, unspoken and fragile.
Your eyes locked for a few seconds too long, something unsaid lingering in the air. And then you looked away first, your heart thrumming just a little too fast.
A few minutes passed. The silence stretched.
Then Jung-bae returned.
The tension in the room felt like a coiled spring, wound too tight, ready to snap at any moment. Every conversation felt heavier now, every calculation carrying the weight of survival. You sat still, muscles tense.
The drawings burned into the back of your mind, but before you could say anything, Jung-bae spoke.
"Gi-hun, there are 55 people who voted in favour of continuing," he said, his voice even, but there was something behind it—a frustration, an exhaustion, a resignation.
Dae-ho immediately stood up, pushing himself off the cold ground. He didn’t say anything at first, just let the number settle in.
"Are you sure?" Gi-hun asked, his tone measured, but you could hear the edge in it. He was holding something back, but for how long?
Jung-bae nodded, "I counted them twice."
You stood then, your body moving before your mind had fully caught up, stepping next to Dae-ho. The weight of the number, the reality of what it meant, settled into your chest. Twelve people. Twelve people standing between you and the possibility of escape.
You suppressed a grin, forcing a lightness into your voice that you didn’t feel. "What about you? Did you include yourself?"
Jung-bae looked down as if he had forgotten, his eyes trailing over the O patch on his chest.
"It’s 56."
You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing, but the amused huff still slipped out. It was ridiculous, in a way—after everything, after life and death hung in the balance, he had managed to miscount himself. The absurdity of it almost made you forget where you were. Almost.
Then, from across the space, Young-il looked up at you.
The moment was fleeting, nothing more than a brief flicker of acknowledgment, but it made your skin prickle. His eyes stayed on you a second too long, and when you turned away, you still felt them lingering.
Dae-ho let out a deep sigh, the sound dragging you back into the conversation. "We have 44 people on our side," he muttered, running a hand through his hair. "So we’re outnumbered by 12."
Jung-bae exhaled sharply, throwing his head back against the bunk. "Shoot, that means we’re likely to lose again."
A silence stretched between all of you. The weight of that truth was unbearable.
Then Young-il stood.
His movement was slow, controlled, but the shift in energy was immediate.
"It may seem like a big difference," he said, stepping forward, his voice calm, methodical. "But if six of them change their minds, it’ll be 50/50, all tied. If seven of them change their minds, we could win."
The logic was sound, but Dae-ho wasn’t convinced.
"But those who pressed X might change their minds too," he pointed out, his brows furrowing.
Young-il barely reacted. "They probably won’t change their minds easily."
You frowned. "What makes you so sure of that? It happened before."
The moment your words left your mouth, Young-il looked at you. And for just a split second—so brief you could have imagined it—his gaze dropped to your lips before flickering back up.
You swallowed, throat dry, but he spoke before you could process it.
"They wanted to quit even when the prize was smaller," he said, voice steady, reasoning sharp. "Now they can leave with even more money. They wouldn’t want to risk their lives playing another game."
You studied him, your eyes searching his face, trying to find something—anything—that would tell you what he was thinking.
Jung-bae nodded, "I’m going to press X this time. That means we’ll have a tie if five others change their minds. With six more, we win."
Gi-hun exhaled, nodding in understanding. "Then let’s go over there and try to convince them."
But before anyone could move, Young-il was already stepping in.
"No," he said immediately, his voice firmer now. "That’s too risky. Most of them will want to continue the games. If we make a move, they won’t just sit back and watch."
Gi-hun’s expression darkened. "So you think we should just stand here and pray they change their mind? What if we lose again? We march down, hand in hand, to play another game?"
His voice was rising, frustration spilling into every word. You glanced at Jung-bae, whose head was now resting against the bunks, eyes closed like he was trying to drown out the argument.
You took a slow breath and spoke before the fight could escalate.
”Gi-hun,” you said carefully, trying to keep your voice even, "I think Young-il is right. I also want to leave right now. But this is the moment to stay calm. They will notice that they have the upper hand in this." You hesitated for a second, then added, "You said that during your games, the people attacked each other at night. If we tell them, they’ll have another reason to attack us."
Gi-hun sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. He understood. He hated it, but he understood. Dae-ho and Jung-bae exchanged a glance, both of them watching the three of you argue.
"Look, Gi-hun," Jung-bae said finally. "I’m too scared to play another game. I’m sure there are more people like me."
"That’s right. That’s what I think too," Dae-ho added. "If it’s just five or six people, we’ve got a shot. I did the math, and the prize is now over 300 million per person. I think that gives us a pretty good chance."
You nodded in agreement, but your mind was already somewhere else.
You wanted to grab Young-il’s wrist and pull him aside. You needed to talk to him. About the drawings on the walls. About what they meant. About what was coming next. But that wasn’t all.
You needed to talk about Mingle.
The thought pressed against your ribs, unwelcome but impossible to ignore. You had tried to bury it, to pretend that whatever happened in that room had been insignificant, just a fleeting moment swallowed by the weight of the game. But it wasn’t going away. It had followed you out of that room, clung to your skin, settled in your chest like an ache you couldn’t shake.
You told yourself it didn’t matter. That it had been nothing more than exhaustion, adrenaline, the way people reached for anything solid when everything else was crumbling. But if that were true, why was it still burning at the edges of your thoughts? Why did your body still react before your mind could stop it?
Your fingers curled into your palms. Maybe Young-il had already shoved it into the part of his mind where unspoken things went to die. Maybe it didn’t weigh on him the way it weighed on you.
Or maybe he was doing exactly what you were—pretending it never happened, while feeling the aftershocks every time you so much as looked at each other.
You needed to talk. About the drawings. About whatever was happening between you.
Your gaze flickered toward him, toward the space between you that felt too wide, too distant, too unnatural. You wanted to pull him aside, away from everyone else, where the weight of all these unspoken things could finally collapse. There wasn’t time for this. But there had to be.
Because if the drawings are what you thought they are—then you had to say something.
Before it was too late.
But before you could act, the doors buzzed. The sound sent a ripple of unease through you. Several guards stepped into the room.
And just like that, the chance was over. The chance to pull Young-il aside, to figure out what the hell they were supposed to do next, slipped between your fingers like sand. And just like that, the world moved on without you.
The square guard stepped forward, his voice calm but carrying that ever-present authority.
“Congratulations to all of you for making it through the third game. Now, here are the results of the third game.”
The moment he spoke, the other guards moved in practiced unison, setting up the voting counter with a cold efficiency that sent a shiver down your spine.
You exhaled slowly, pressing your palms against the floor beneath you before pushing yourself up. The others did the same. One by one, you all stepped out from behind the staircase, leaving the sanctuary of your hiding place and stopping just in front of the beds. The air felt heavy, like the room itself was pressing in on you.
Gi-hun and Jung-bae stood slightly to the side, their postures tense, their gazes locked onto the voting booth. Dae-ho stood firmly on your right. And on your left—Young-il.
He was close. Close enough that if you shifted just slightly, your arms would brush. Close enough that it took effort not to look at him.
But your attention was pulled elsewhere. Something was missing.
Your eyes drifted across the hall, searching, scanning. Where was Jun-hee?
Your chest tightened, but before you could say anything, the guard clicked a button on a small remote. The lights dimmed.
A second later, a mechanical whir filled the air as a thick cascade of bills descended into the giant glass piggy bank. The money rained down like confetti, filling the silence with a sound so distinct, so mocking, that it made your skin crawl.
It should have been exciting. It wasn’t.
Your gaze flickered upward. The screen above the entrance flashed, and the numbers shifted rapidly before settling.
35,600,000,000. 356 million per person.
The number was staggering, far beyond anything you had ever even dreamed of having. And yet, as Jung-bae leaned toward you, whispering, “It’s 356 million won. With that kind of money, some of them will change their minds,” his voice felt distant.
Like the money didn’t matter at all.
“If we get six more people, it’s a tie. If it’s seven more, we win,” Dae-ho announced quietly, though there was a sharpness in his voice, a desperate kind of hope that none of you could afford to fully acknowledge.
The masked manager stepped forward. His presence was suffocating.
“The vote will be once again conducted in reverse order of your player numbers,” he announced. “Player 456, please cast your vote.”
Gi-hun nodded at all of you before stepping forward, weaving through the crowd. As he moved, the manager continued, “To ensure fair and democratic voting, we will not tolerate any disruptions from this point onward. Please bear that in mind.”
It was a warning. A reminder that, no matter what happened next, no one was going to be able to change the outcome.
Gi-hun reached the voting booth, and without a single second of hesitation, he pressed X.
The vote continued. Player after player stepped forward. More people pressed O at the beginning than you had hoped. Too many. The tension in the room thickened. You felt it in the stiffness of Dae-ho’s shoulders, in the way Jung-bae exhaled sharply with each disappointing result.
It felt hopeless at first. But then—Jung-bae stepped forward. And his hand hovered over the button for just a second too long before he pressed X.
Your heart jumped. Then, a moment later, Player 380 followed. Your stomach twisted, your pulse racing.
It was happening. It was actually happening. You only needed five more.
The vote pressed on, each result like a heartbeat, too fast, too loud.
Jun-hee and Player 333 split apart, the space between them deliberate. You’d noticed him during the fight on the first day, but after the last game, you couldn’t shake the feeling that they weren’t strangers. She walked up to the counter and pressed her vote for X. You made a mental note to ask her about it later. You two hadn't talked much, but you still cared for her.
Then it was your turn.
You knew you should just walk up and do it, but the weight of it crushed you in place for a fraction of a second. You turned your head, instinct guiding you before logic could step in.
You looked at Young-il. Your eyes met. You swallowed, hesitating, before grazing his arm with your hand—a touch so light, so fleeting, that you weren’t even sure if it was real. And then, without another thought, you stepped forward.
Each step felt slow, too slow. You reached the counter. The buttons gleamed beneath the dim light. You lifted your hand, pressed X, and walked back. No hesitation.
You joined your group, and the moment you did, Hyun-ju approached the counter.
She stopped. The hesitation was painful. The seconds dragged as she stared at the buttons, unmoving. Your hands clenched into fists at your sides. Then—finally—she pressed X.
The deep beep echoed through the room like the first crack of thunder before a storm. And then cheers. Dae-ho grabbed you from the side, hugging you tightly before pulling away.
“Only two more now!” Jung-bae reminded, his voice brimming with hope.
You grinned, unable to help it, glancing at Gi-hun. His expression was nothing but relief. More players casted their vote. Then—the mother’s son voted X. The cheers grew louder, the energy in the room shifting so violently that it almost felt like a celebration.
X: 49 | O: 49
A perfect tie.
You turned to Dae-ho, a smile already forming on your lips, ready to tell him that you could go home. That you could finally leave.
A light ping echoed through the room.
Your body went rigid. Player 006 had changed her vote from X to O. Your jaw dropped. For a second, your brain couldn’t even process it.
“What—” you whispered, barely audible. Your head snapped toward the voting booth, toward the screen, toward her.
How could she do that? How could she stand there and steal that from you?
The room shifted again. Not celebration. Not relief. Frustration. Disappointment.
Dae-ho tensed beside you, his entire body dropping slightly, deflating.
“Lastly, player 001,” the square guard announced.
All eyes turned. The dormitory fell silent. Young-il moved. Slow, deliberate steps, his expression impossible to read. Dae-ho whisper-called his name. When Young-il turned his head slightly, Dae-ho raised a fist in encouragement. “Let’s go.”
You swallowed. You knew Young-il. You knew he would vote X.
But still—the doubt. Still—the weight in your chest.
Young-il glanced at you. The moment was too short, too quick. And then he turned back, his eyes trained ahead, and continued walking.
Dae-ho leaned toward Jung-bae, toward Gi-hun, toward you. “It’s going to be 50/50, so it’s still a tie, isn’t it?”
You nodded. But your stomach was twisting itself into knots.
He reached the counter and stopped. Seconds passed. Too many. Too long.
You felt every heartbeat. Finally he moved. His fingers pressed X.
Your breath left your lungs in a rush. Dae-ho dropped his head into his hands, crouching, laughing in sheer relief. Young-il turned, a slow, easy smile breaking across his face. He lifted a hand and formed an ‘OK’ sign, looking straight at your group.
He walked back, and the X voters stepped aside to let him through. Dae-ho touched your shoulder, smiling wider than you had ever seen. “Oh my god. We did it. It’s a tie.”
You let out a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding. Young-il stopped beside you. And for the first time all night, you allowed yourself to believe—
Maybe this was finally over.
“The vote has ended.” The masked manager’s voice carried through the air, cold and absolute. Silence settled over the room like a heavy fog.
You exhaled slowly, your hands clenched into fists at your sides. Every muscle in your body was tense, wound so tightly that you felt like you might snap at any moment. The relief you had felt just minutes ago had vanished the second Player 006 had changed her vote.
That single decision had unraveled everything. And now, here you all stood, at a stalemate. A tie.
“What happens now?”
It was Player 100 who asked the question, his voice laced with that same casual arrogance he always carried. The same arrogance he had when he had cornered you in the arena before the second game.
Your stomach twisted as the memory surged forward, unbidden and unwanted. His threat. His voice in your ear, laced with venom.
“Let’s see how clever you are when you’re all alone.”
The words played on repeat in your mind, clinging to you like smoke, impossible to shake off. You hadn’t forgotten. And yet, here he was, acting as if nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t tried to use intimidation to get what he wanted.
You wanted to glare at him, wanted to remind him that you hadn’t forgotten, but the masked manager spoke first.
“Clause three of the consent form,” he said, his tone unwavering, unaffected. “In the case of a tie, players will vote again.”
A murmur rippled through the room, the sound of shifting feet, of hushed voices, of weary souls trying to comprehend what this meant for them. Someone behind you raised a hand hesitantly. “So when are we going to vote again?”
You held your breath. If it was tomorrow, then tonight was going to be hell.
The O players had already made it clear that they wanted the games to continue no matter what. Some of them were desperate. Some of them were angry. And desperate, angry people were dangerous. They had lost their first chance at a majority. Now they had to know that their odds of winning were thinner.
Thinner—but not impossible. If they couldn’t convince enough X players to switch sides, then what would stop them from taking matters into their own hands? They had to know. They had to know that killing us would make the prize money go up. But then again… what if they didn’t?
What if they were still under the illusion that this was all just a fair vote? That it wasn’t a game of survival outside of the scheduled rounds?
Your mind churned, running through the possibilities, the threats, the things you couldn’t predict.
“To give you some time to think,” the masked manager said, his voice cutting through the murmurs, “the vote will be conducted tomorrow. Until then, please think carefully about your future.”
A groan slipped past your lips before you could stop it.
Tomorrow.
You could already feel it—the tension that would build, the fear that would fester, the whispers in the dark. No one in this room was safe.
People began murmuring among themselves, breaking off into their groups, moving back toward their usual spots. Some wore expressions of relief. Others—frustration. Some looked ready to fight.
Your stomach turned. You needed to get out of this crowd. You needed to think, to plan.
Your gaze flickered to Young-il. He was already turning away, already taking a step toward the bunks, already pulling himself back into that familiar quiet solitude. Your fingers moved before your mind could catch up.
You reached out and grasped his arm, “Can we talk?”
He stilled. For a moment, he didn’t move, didn’t react.
Your grip tightened slightly, like you were afraid he would pull away before you could say anything else.
When he turned to face you, his expression was unreadable. But his eyes—
His eyes searched yours.
A flicker of something you couldn’t name crossed his face before he nodded, slow, measured.
“Yes, of course.”
The weight in your chest didn’t ease, not yet. Because now that you had him here, now that you had his attention—
You had to decide what to say first.
The drawings? Mingle? The night ahead?
All of it swirled in your mind, tangled together in a mess of urgency and hesitation.
You exhaled, forcing yourself to focus. There was too much—too much you needed to say, too much you couldn’t ignore—but there wasn’t time to hesitate. The dormitory was still alive with hushed conversations, some players slipping back into their usual routines, others watching each other a little too closely, the unspoken threat of what tonight might bring hanging over everyone like a storm cloud.
Not here.
You looked past Young-il, scanning the room for somewhere less exposed. The bunks weren’t safe. The stairs weren’t safe. Then it clicked.
“The bathroom,” you said. “No one’s in there right now. We’ll talk there.”
Young-il didn’t ask questions. He just nodded.
You released his arm and turned, slipping through the crowd. You could hear his footsteps behind you, steady but light, careful not to attract attention. You resisted the urge to glance back at him. If you looked at him too long, you might lose track of what you were supposed to be doing.
After asking the guards and being escorted, you reached the bathroom door, glancing around once more before pushing it open and stepping inside. It was empty.
The cold tile echoed beneath your feet as you moved further in, the fluorescent light flickering slightly above. The door swung shut behind you, leaving you alone with Young-il in the still, sterile quiet.
You turned to face him. He was watching you, arms crossed, waiting. Your heart pounded, but you took a breath and forced the words out.
“The walls,” you said, voice lower than you intended. “The drawings. You saw them, right?”
He frowned slightly. “Drawings?”
Your stomach twisted. He hadn’t noticed?
You stepped closer, lowering your voice further. “On the walls of the dorm. The black tiles. They show the games.”
Something shifted in his expression. His arms uncrossed, hands slipping into his pockets as he processed your words.
“How do you know?” he asked.
“I saw them after the beds were removed,” you said quickly. “The games—the ones we’ve played, and the ones we haven’t yet. The next ones are human chess and monkey bars.” You swallowed. “They were always there. We just didn’t see them.”
Young-il’s jaw tightened slightly, but otherwise, he remained still. Thinking. Processing. Then, finally, he exhaled, his gaze flickering to the ground before meeting yours again.
“Who else knows?” he asked.
You hesitated. “No one. I was going to tell them later.”
He shook his head. “Not all of them.”
“What?”
“If the O players find out, it’ll change everything,” he said. “They’ll start thinking ahead. Figuring out strategies. We can’t let them have an advantage too. More X players need to survive tomorrow.”
If they had a blueprint of the future, they would use it. And not in a way that helped you.
You exhaled slowly. “So we only tell the X players.”
He nodded. “It’s safer that way.”
And it made sense. But something about it still made your skin prickle. Keeping things from people—choosing who deserved information and who didn’t—it felt like playing the same kind of game the masked men were playing. But you weren’t naive enough to ignore reality.
You nodded. “Okay.”
A quiet pause stretched between you. You weren’t sure what to say next. The plan was set, at least for now. The real conversation—the one that made your stomach twist, the one you had been putting off—was still waiting. Mingle.
You opened your mouth. Then—
Footsteps.
Your body tensed immediately. Not just one pair. Several. Voices, too.
You turned toward the door just as the doorknob turned, the sound of laughter cutting through the silence.
Shit.
Young-il stiffened beside you. The realisation hit you both at the same time—there was no way to explain why he was in here in the woman’s bathroom without causing people to have inappropriate thoughts.
Without thinking, you grabbed his wrist. He barely had time to react before you were pulling him toward the nearest stall, shoving the door open, stepping inside with him, and locking it behind you.
Your back pressed against the cold metal as you caught your breath.
The space was too small. Young-il was too close.
You could hear the voices outside, could make out the casual chatter of players who had no idea they weren’t alone. But it was hard to focus on that when Young-il’s body was inches from yours, the warmth of him stark against the cold air.
You held eye contact. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Seconds passed.
Then, finally, he leaned in, just enough that his breath ghosted against your ear when he whispered, “Are you serious?”
You swallowed hard. “It was either this or let them see you,” you whispered back, just as quiet.
You felt it before you saw it. The slight shake of his shoulders. The barely-there exhale. Young-il was trying not to laugh.
You scowled, “This isn’t funny.”
He exhaled through his nose, amusement still lingering at the edges of his voice. “It kind of is.”
You glared up at him. Bad idea. Too close.
His face was half-shadowed in the dim light, but his eyes—his eyes were focused, sharp, watching you with an expression you couldn’t quite place.
You felt warmth crawl up your neck.
“I'm not the one who’ll get caught in the wrong bathroom,” you muttered, looking away.
Another quiet chuckle. But then the voices outside grew louder, and the amusement slipped from both of you.
You held your breath. Young-il went still.
One of the players was standing right outside the stall.
If they tried the door—if they so much as glanced under the gap—
"Young-il we need to-"
You felt Young-il’s hand press against your mouth to keep you quiet.
Stay still. Stay quiet.
Your breath hitched as Young-il’s palm covered your mouth, warm and steady. The weight of it was firm but not forceful, a silent command to stay quiet. You hadn’t even realised you were holding your breath until the warmth of his skin against yours made you hyper-aware of everything—the closeness, the heat radiating off him, the way your pulse pounded beneath his fingertips.
Outside, the voices were getting closer. The stall door beside you creaked as someone leaned against it. You could see their shadow shifting slightly under the gap. Too close.
A giggle. Then a low and teasing voice.
“Did you see how pissed off the X players were? Thought they had it in the bag.”
Another voice, sharper, cutting through the first. “They’re desperate. Think they can go home and everything will be fine.”
Young-il’s hand tensed slightly, the movement so subtle you might have imagined it. But you knew he was listening. Really listening.
You swallowed, barely resisting the urge to shift against him. His hips pressed against yours and you desperately wanted to move. He must have felt it because his eyes flickered to yours, a silent warning before he removed his hand from your mouth, slow and careful.
Your chest rose and fell with shallow, measured breaths.
“Not like it matters,” the first player continued. “The next vote will tip in our favour. The ones who picked X tonight will cave once they realise they have no power.”
“Some of them won’t,” another voice interjected.
A pause.
“Then we’ll make them.”
Something cold slithered down your spine. You didn’t dare move. Didn’t dare breathe.
The voices continued, lowering to murmurs before someone turned on the sink. The rush of water drowned out most of their words, but you caught pieces.
“… gonna take things into our own hands.”
“… scared? Just like before.”
“…be grateful we didn’t try anything yet.”
Then—finally—footsteps. The door creaked open, then shut.
Silence.
You didn’t move. You didn’t trust it. Young-il didn’t move either.
Seconds passed. The hum of the fluorescent light filled the space, buzzing low and insistent. Then, a slow exhale.
You barely realised you were still pressed against him until he shifted slightly, giving you the tiniest fraction of space. The air between you wasn’t nearly enough.
“We should go,” he murmured.
You nodded. But neither of you moved.
Your heartbeat was still too fast. Your skin was still too warm. And his hand—his hand had been on your mouth, his breath had been close enough to feel, and now that the immediate danger had passed, your brain was catching up to all of it at once.
Young-il’s gaze flickered downward, catching the way your fingers had unconsciously curled into the fabric of his sleeve. You released him immediately.
He huffed a quiet breath, shaking his head. “We really need to go before someone else walks in.”
“Right.”
You turned toward the door, but just as you were about to unlocked it, Young-il caught your wrist. Your breath hitched.
“Wait,” he said quietly.
You looked up at him. His grip wasn’t tight, but his fingers lingered just long enough to keep you from moving.
There was something unreadable in his expression, something careful and deliberate. His fingers traced the inside of your wrist, slow and absentminded, like he wasn’t entirely aware he was doing it.
Young-il exhaled through his nose, gaze flickering to the locked stall door behind you, then back down to you. “I need to finish what I started earlier.”
Your throat went dry.
His gaze flickered down to your lips before snapping back up.
Your mind knew exactly what he was talking about, but your body still reacted first, heat curling in your stomach before you could stop it. The memory of Mingle, of his lips so close, his voice low, the way the air had crackled between you, came rushing back with an almost violent intensity.
He had stopped himself back then. Had walked away.
And now, here, in the dim, sterile bathroom, with the walls too thin and your heartbeat too loud, he was bringing it back up.
You forced yourself to keep your voice steady. “I thought we were ignoring that.”
A faint smirk ghosted over his lips, but his eyes didn’t hold their usual amusement. This wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t lighthearted. There was something sharper behind it. Something he had been holding back.
“I wanted to,” he admitted. “I thought I should.” He exhaled, slow, measured, gaze flickering over your face like he was deciding how much to say. “But I can’t keep pretending it didn’t happen forever.”
Your stomach twisted. “Young-il—”
“Do you regret it?” he asked, voice lower now.
You opened your mouth. Closed it again.
That was the worst part. You didn’t. You didn’t regret any of it.
Not a single second of it. Not the closeness. Not the way he had looked at you, like you were something worth reaching for. Not the way he had almost kissed you before pulling away, like he was fighting something much bigger than himself.
And you definitely didn’t regret wanting more.
But you thought he surely did.
You swallowed, tilting your chin up. “No. But you do, right?”
His fingers twitched around your wrist. His throat bobbed as he swallowed.
Then, after a beat— “No.”
It was barely a breath, but it landed between you like a spark to gasoline.
Young-il moved first. In one swift movement, he pulled you into him, pivoting you both into the farthest corner of the stall. His arm braced against the wall behind your head.
You sucked in a breath, instinctively pressing further back against the stall, but that only pushed you closer to him.
There was nowhere to go. Nowhere to escape him. Not that you wanted to.
His head tilted downward, his lips just inches from yours, his breath warm against your cheek. You could feel the rise and fall of his chest, the way his breathing wasn’t as steady as he wanted it to be. His free hand hovered near your waist, fingers curling like he was trying to stop himself from touching you.
It was intoxicating. Maddening.
“You think I regret it?” His voice was lower now, rougher.
You swallowed. “Yeah. You practically stormed out of there.”
His eyes searched yours, something unreadable flickering behind them. “I was scared.”
Your breath caught in your throat. He had never admitted that before. Never once let you see past the control, past the sharp, composed exterior.
He let out a slow, unsteady breath. “Not because of you,” he murmured. “Because of me.”
You frowned. “What does that mean?”
His gaze flickered down for a second. “The last time I felt like this…” He trailed off, jaw tightening slightly. “It was with my late wife.”
You had known. Hell, you had been there. But still, you didn't know everything. Not the details. But you knew enough. Your fingers twitched at your sides. You weren’t sure what to say.
Young-il exhaled through his nose. “I thought if I ignored it, it would go away,” he admitted. “But it hasn’t.”
Your pulse roared in your ears. “Young-il…”
He shook his head, just slightly. “I can’t keep pretending that it doesn’t feel fucking amazing to have you by my side.”
He wanted this. Wanted you.
You barely had time to react before he was moving, shifting even closer, pressing his body flush against yours to keep you in the tight space of the stall.
You sucked in a sharp breath, eyes going wide. His thigh slotted between yours, dangerously close to where you wanted him most.
His gaze flickered down to your lips again. This time, he didn’t look away.
“I can’t keep pretending,” he murmured, voice low, rough. “Not when I know you feel it too.”
Your chest rose and fell too fast. You could feel the warmth of his breath fanning across your skin, feel the way his fingers flexed at his sides, like he was restraining himself, like he was testing his own willpower.
Like he was waiting for you to break first.
And you wanted to. God, you wanted to.
You clenched your fists, forcing yourself to stay grounded, but it was impossible when he was looking at you like that, like he was drinking you in. His pupils were blown wide, his breathing just a little too uneven.
You licked your lips, and his eyes flickered downward again. You had the exact same expression on your face. His jaw tightened.
“You keep looking at me like that,” he murmured, voice dangerously low, “and I won’t be able to stop.”
Instead, you tilted your chin up slightly, testing him. Teasing him.
“You think I would want you to stop?”
His hand was at the back of your neck in an instant. You barely had time to register the movement before he was kissing you.
It wasn’t slow. It wasn’t tentative. It was urgent. Desperate. Like he had spent every second, since seeing you again, trying to ignore this, to push it away, to bury it beneath logic and restraint—and now that the dam had broken, he was drowning in it.
His hands tightened on your neck, pulling you against him even deeper, his mouth pressing hungrily against yours. His lips were warm, rougher than you expected, moving with a controlled desperation that sent heat spiralling down your spine.
You gasped against his mouth, your fingers instinctively twisting in the fabric of his shirt, and he took advantage of it immediately—deepening the kiss, his tongue brushing against yours, slow but deliberate.
Your knees almost buckled.
The stall was too small, the air too thick, the heat between you unbearable. His body pressed into yours, his chest flush against yours, his thigh still slotted between yours in a way that made your stomach clench. He teasingly pushed his thigh against your clothed pussy, making you groan.
His other hand started, under your shirt, at your waist and slid higher, up your sides, his fingers tracing the shape of your ribs before settling just beneath them, thumbs brushing against your skin.
You made a noise—a soft, breathless whimper—and Young-il inhaled sharply, like he was barely holding himself together.
“Fuck,” he muttered against your lips.
You felt his breath, hot and ragged, before he kissed you again, even harder this time.
Your body responded without thinking. You tilted your head, pressed closer, let your hands roam—one sliding up to his shoulder, the other gripping the back of his neck, fingers threading through the short strands of his hair.
He exhaled through his nose, like he was trying to stay composed, like he was fighting something bigger than himself.
But he wasn’t winning.
His grip on you tightened. He shifted, pressing you further back against the stall, his hips aligning with yours, his weight pressing you down in a way that made your entire body burn. You could feel it.
You whimpered again, and his breath stuttered against your lips.
“This is so fucking wrong,” he murmured, but he didn’t stop.
Neither did you.
If anything, you kissed him harder, letting yourself fall into it, into him, into the way his hands explored your waist, your ribs, the way his lips moved against yours like he was memorising you, the way his thigh pressed into you just enough to make your head spin.
He groaned softly when you tugged at his hair, his grip tightening, his body pressing impossibly closer.
Your name left his lips, barely a whisper, barely a breath.
And it was over. The last thread of restraint snapped like it had never been there at all.
His hands pulled you against him, and his mouth was on yours before you had time to brace for it.
It was rougher this time—less careful, less controlled, like the dam had fully broken and there was no stopping the flood now. His body pressed flush against yours, and you moaned into his mouth, your hands fisting into the front of his shirt just to keep yourself from collapsing.
His fingers dug into your sides, like he was trying to hold himself back and failing miserably.
Your entire body was burning.
His grip on you tightened as his lips moved against yours, his breath uneven, his restraint slipping more and more with each passing second.
He pulled back from your lips to move his lips down to your neck with wet, sloppy kisses.
You could still taste him, still feel the way his lips had moved against yours—hungry, desperate, restrained but barely. You could still feel the way he had kissed you like he was memorising you, like he wasn’t sure he’d ever get the chance again.
And that was the problem.
Because now he knew. Now you knew. Now you both knew how good it felt. How right it felt. How the hell were you supposed to stop now?
Young-il exhaled sharply, his fingers flexing against your ribs before moving up to cup your breasts over your bra. His lips hovered near your jaw, so close that you swore you could feel the heat of them burning into your skin.
"This isn’t where I want you," he murmured against your skin. "Not like this. Not here.”
His lips hovered by your jaw. His thumb brushed over your waist, slow, deliberate.
"When this is over, I want to take my time with you.”
A loud beep echoed through the bathroom, followed by a voice over the speaker system.
"All players, return to the dormitory immediately. Meal distribution is about to begin."
The world slammed back into focus. Young-il stilled. You stilled.
For a moment, neither of you moved, neither of you breathed—your lips still inches apart, his hands still gripping your waist.
Then, finally, he exhaled, low and shaky, his forehead pressing lightly against yours as he muttered a quiet, almost furious curse under his breath.
You swallowed hard, trying to ignore the way your body was still aching for him, trying to pretend that this interruption wasn’t the cruelest thing that could’ve happened.
Slowly—too slowly—Young-il started to move. He didn’t step back completely, didn’t put distance between you right away. Instead, his thumb brushed over your waist in a slow, absentminded motion.
He looked down at you, his gaze hooded, pupils blown wide. His lips were swollen from kissing you. A slow, incredulous smile crept onto his lips, like he was seconds away from laughing in disbelief.
“Swear to god, that announcer is personally out to ruin my life.", he muttered, shaking his head.
You hummed, tilting your head like you were actually considering it. “You might be onto something. They do seem committed to keeping me out of your lap.”
His smirk twitched—part amusement, part something darker.
He exhaled through his nose, gaze flickering down to your lips, then back up.
“Next time,” he murmured, low and certain. “I won’t stop, Jagiya.”
A slow, involuntary shiver ran down your spine. Your pulse was still too fast, your breath still uneven, your body still burning from every second he had pressed against you. But you weren’t about to let him walk away that easy.
You tilted your chin up, gaze locking onto his, voice low and taunting. “Oh, fuck you, calling me ‘Jagiya’ like it doesn’t turn you on just to say it.”
The reaction was immediate. His jaw flexed, and for a single, dangerous moment, it looked like he was about to prove you right.
His fingers twitched at his sides. His tongue darted out, wetting his lips in a way that made heat coil low in your stomach.
Then—he exhaled through his nose, shaking his head with a slow, exasperated smirk. “You’re really testing my patience.”
You grinned. “I’d hate to make things easy for you.”
A quiet chuckle left him, dark and amused, but his eyes were still hooded, still watching you too closely. He reached past you, unlocking the stall door, but didn’t move away yet.
“Careful, Jagiya,” he murmured, voice dangerously low. “You won’t be able to smart-mouth your way out of it again.”
You exhaled through your nose, running a hand through your hair like you’re trying to steady yourself. He reached past you to unlock the stall door.
The second it clicked open, reality slammed back into you.
You had to go back out there. You had to walk back into the dorms like your entire body wasn’t still on fire, like Young-il’s hands weren’t still leaving invisible burns on your skin, like your lips weren’t still tingling from his kisses.
When he opened the door and set a foot outside, you grabbed his wrist.
You scoffed, still breathless, still reeling from the way his mouth had just devoured yours like he was starving.
"Fuck dinner, Young-il. You’re just gonna leave me standing here all hot and bothered to go eat?" You crossed your arms. "Do I look like a ditchable prom date to you?"
Young-il’s gaze darkened, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. For a second, you swore he was going to grab you again. Instead, he smirked.
"I don’t know," he mused, voice low, teasing. "Ask me after I’ve had my hands on you somewhere better than a bathroom stall."
And with that, he turned and walked away—leaving you standing there, heart hammering, legs weak, and absolutely ruined.
The walk back to the dorms felt longer than it should have.
You could still feel him—his touch, his breath, the warmth of his hands where they had been on you just minutes ago.
You stole a glance at him. He was walking beside you, his expression unreadable. But the smirk he was trying to hide was still noticeable to you.
#hwang inho x reader#squid game#squid game fanfiction#ao3#hwang inho#lee byung hun#ao3 fanfic#fluff#gi hun squid game#hwang in ho#smut#angst#fleabag reference#hot priest
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Royal scandal - a mini series: Part 3/4
Royal scandal: Part 3
The weeks seemed to slip by faster than either of you had expected. What felt like distant conversations about your future as King and Queen was becoming a reality. The meetings, the briefings, the preparations for the inevitable transition - everything seemed to be happening in a whirlwind.
You and Harry spent more time in royal meetings than you had ever anticipated, discussing matters of the crown, foreign policy, and how the monarchy would evolve with the two of you at the helm. You had thought that marrying Harry would mean more time spent together - more moments of joy and peace in the midst of the chaos of royal life. But, in truth, the opposite had happened. Every day felt more like a race to prepare for the overwhelming responsibility that was waiting just around the corner.
It was one evening in the royal study, papers scattered across the large wooden desk, when Harry finally broke the silence.
“I don’t know how much more I can take, Y/N,” he said, his voice tired. He rubbed his hand over his face, his brow furrowed in exhaustion. “It feels like everything’s moving so fast, and I can’t catch my breath.”
You looked up from the papers you had been scanning. You felt exactly the same way - completely overwhelmed. The weight of the responsibilities coming your way was almost suffocating. You had thought the royal duties would be manageable, but the constant pressure and the endless demands from the press, the public, and the family itself were beginning to take their toll.
“You’re not alone in this, Harry,” you said softly, getting up from your seat and walking over to him. You sat next to him, your hand resting on his. “I feel it too. Every decision feels like it’s the most important thing in the world. And the faster we go, the harder it gets to keep up.”
Harry looked at you, his eyes tired but filled with appreciation. “I know you’re right. It’s just… I don’t think I’m ready to be King. I don’t think I ever will be.”
You gently squeezed his hand, trying to comfort him. You knew his fears; you shared them too. You had talked about this before, the two of you voicing your insecurities about the roles you were about to take on. But hearing him express them aloud still hit you hard.
“I know it’s terrifying,” you said quietly. “But we’re going to get through this together. You don’t have to be ready right now. We just need to take it one step at a time.”
Harry shook his head, a sigh escaping his lips. “But what if it’s not enough? What if I mess up? What if I let everyone down, including you?”
You cupped his face gently, forcing him to look at you. “You’re not going to let anyone down, least of all me. You’re the person I love, Harry. And together, we can face anything. You’re going to be an amazing King, because you’re already a great person. You don’t need to be perfect.”
The words seemed to offer him a small amount of comfort, but you knew the battle raged inside him. Harry had always been someone who cared deeply about doing things right, especially when it came to his family and his country. And now, with the pressure of the monarchy’s future on his shoulders, it was clear that the fear of failure was taking a toll.
“I don’t know if I’m cut out for this,” Harry murmured, his voice low.
You leaned your forehead against his, your heart aching for him. “No one ever is. But you’ll grow into it. And we’ll do it together.”
The words felt true, but even as you spoke them, you couldn’t deny the uncertainty that still gripped you both.
As the days passed, the weight of the situation continued to settle deeper into both your hearts. The date for the official transition of power - the moment Harry would step into the role of King and you by his side as Queen - was approaching with incredible speed.
The palace was a whirlwind of activity. You were handed papers to sign, decisions to make, and events to attend. The world outside the palace walls had no idea of the sheer amount of preparation happening behind closed doors. The moment when the crown would pass from Harry’s parents to him was coming closer and closer, and with each passing day, the reality of the responsibility began to hit harder.
At dinner one evening, the King and Queen spoke more about what was to come. The monarchy was undergoing a transformation, they said, and the country would look to Harry for leadership and direction. They had outlined the plans for how Harry would assume his new role, the formalities, the speeches, the public image they wanted to project.
But amidst all the royal discussions, you noticed that Harry seemed more withdrawn than ever. He was barely speaking, his mind obviously elsewhere. You could feel the anxiety radiating off of him.
“Harry,” you whispered softly, leaning in closer to him during dinner, “are you okay?”
He glanced at you, offering a faint smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Just trying to keep it together.”
You could tell he was trying to hide his stress, but you knew him too well. “I know it’s a lot. But you don’t have to carry it all on your own, you know.”
Harry’s voice dropped to a whisper as he glanced at his parents, who were engaged in their own conversation at the end of the table. “I just feel like everything is spiraling out of control. I’ve never been so overwhelmed in my life. And it feels like no one really understands what this is doing to me. I can’t help but feel like I’m not ready for this.”
You placed your hand on his, squeezing it tightly. “You don’t have to be ready right now, Harry. You just have to do your best. And that’s all anyone will expect of you.”
He shook his head, a wry smile on his face. “But what if that’s not enough? What if they expect more? What if I let you down, too?”
You took a deep breath, knowing you had to be strong for him in this moment. “Harry, I’m not going anywhere. I’m not going to let you face this alone. And if you ever feel like you’re struggling, we’ll face it together. You and me. That’s what matters.”
His hand tightened around yours, and for the first time in what felt like days, you saw a flicker of peace in his eyes.
“Together,” he murmured. “Yeah. I can do this if we’re in it together.”
The moment felt like a small victory in the midst of the storm. But as the days continued to pass, you both knew that the hardest challenges were yet to come. The transition to the throne was fast approaching, and the weight of the monarchy loomed larger than ever.
But you were determined, as was Harry. You would face whatever came your way - together.
The days leading up to Harry’s official ascension to the throne were a blur. The palace was a cacophony of endless meetings, preparations, and ceremonial rehearsals. Every detail was scrutinized, and the pressure on Harry to be both the heir and the future King of England was suffocating.
You could see it in the way he moved - his shoulders slumped, his hands occasionally trembling when he wasn’t consciously gripping them together to keep himself steady. He had been avoiding sleep and barely eating, the exhaustion evident in the bags under his eyes. But you knew Harry well enough to understand that it wasn’t just physical fatigue - it was the weight of expectation bearing down on him. He wasn’t sure if he could live up to the role that had been thrust upon him.
You had tried to reassure him, but you knew he needed more than just comforting words. He needed to find a way to believe in himself, something that was increasingly difficult with each passing day.
One evening, after yet another exhausting royal dinner, you found Harry pacing in the drawing room of your shared private quarters. His mind seemed miles away as he walked back and forth, hands running through his hair in agitation.
“Harry, stop,” you said gently, crossing the room to stand in front of him. “Come here.”
He didn’t stop pacing immediately, but eventually, he turned toward you, his eyes weary and filled with frustration. “I can’t do this, Y/N. I just can’t.”
You took his hands in yours, pulling him toward you. “You don’t have to be perfect, Harry. You just need to be yourself. You’re going to be a wonderful king because you are who you are. That’s all anyone could ever ask for.”
His gaze softened slightly, but the doubt still lingered in his eyes. “You don’t understand. It’s not just about being myself. It’s about leading a country, making decisions that affect millions of people’s lives. I don’t know if I’m ready for all of that.”
You squeezed his hands, your voice unwavering. “You’re not doing this alone. We’re in this together. You have me. You have your family. And most importantly, you have a country that believes in you.”
Harry was silent for a long moment, his eyes locked on yours, searching for reassurance. You could feel his internal struggle, the pressure and the fear, but also the flickering hope that perhaps, just perhaps, he could do this after all.
“I just need time,” he said finally, his voice quiet. “I need time to figure this all out, Y/N.”
You smiled softly, lifting your hand to gently touch his cheek. “We’ll figure it out together, one step at a time.”
The day of the coronation arrived faster than either of you had anticipated. The grand halls of Buckingham Palace were filled with dignitaries, foreign ambassadors, and members of the royal family. Every inch of the palace was adorned in the finest silks, golden tapestries, and regal colors. The ceremony itself was a spectacle - an event that would be etched in the history books, a moment of great transition for both the monarchy and for Harry.
It was still early in the morning, and you were in your private chambers getting ready. Your dress was a custom creation - a delicate gown of ivory and gold that shimmered under the soft light of the palace. A team of stylists had worked tirelessly for days to perfect your hair and makeup, transforming you into the epitome of royal elegance. Your heart was beating quickly in your chest, a mixture of excitement and nerves.
As you stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the tiara that had been passed down through generations of queens, you couldn’t help but think of Harry. This moment wasn’t just about the throne - it was about everything you both had fought for. The love you shared, the life you were building together, and the future you were about to embrace.
Just as you finished adjusting the final touches, the door to your chambers opened. Harry stood there, dressed in the royal regalia - his coronation robes shimmering in the light, the crown already resting on the table behind him. His eyes locked with yours, and for a moment, all the noise and chaos of the world outside melted away.
He looked every bit the future King of England, but the vulnerability in his eyes was impossible to ignore.
“You look incredible,” he said softly, stepping toward you.
You smiled, your heart swelling at the sight of him. “So do you, my King.”
Harry took a deep breath, clearly nervous. “I don’t know if I can do this, Y/N. This whole thing- it’s overwhelming. I’m just trying to keep it together, but…” He trailed off, clearly struggling to put his thoughts into words.
You walked toward him, gently cupping his face in your hands. “You’re going to be amazing, Harry. You already are. And you have the love and support of everyone who cares about you. You don’t have to do it alone.”
He leaned into your touch, closing his eyes for a brief moment. “Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
The moment was short but meaningful, as Harry’s parents called from the hall, signaling that the ceremony was about to begin. You exchanged a quiet look, silently promising each other that no matter what came next, you would face it together.
The cathedral was breathtaking. The long aisles were lined with flowers, and the golden light that streamed through the stained-glass windows filled the space with a sacred glow. The air was thick with anticipation as dignitaries and guests took their seats, each waiting for the monumental moment to arrive.
You and Harry stood at the front of the cathedral, the weight of the moment finally settling over both of you. The Archbishop of Canterbury stood before you, ready to begin the sacred coronation ceremony that would officially make Harry the King of England - and you, the Queen.
As Harry knelt before the Archbishop, your heart was in your throat. The crown was lowered onto Harry’s head, and the soft murmur of the guests faded into silence. The weight of the crown seemed symbolic, as if it represented everything Harry had feared - his future, his legacy, his duty. But in that moment, as Harry rose to his feet, you could see something change in him. He stood taller, more certain than before, as if the crown - though heavy - was now a part of him.
The Archbishop turned to you, and you felt a tremor in your chest as you knelt beside Harry. The crown was placed on your head, your hands trembling slightly as the weight of the moment finally sank in. You were officially the Queen, standing beside the man you loved, ready to face the future together.
When the ceremony ended, applause filled the cathedral. You turned to look at Harry, and the look on his face made your heart skip a beat. He was no longer the nervous, uncertain man you had married. He was the King. And you were the Queen by his side.
As you and Harry left the cathedral, the weight of the crown - and the reality of what it all meant - pressed heavily on your shoulders. The applause from the guests echoed in your ears, but in the quiet of the palace, it was just the two of you.
“I can’t believe it,” Harry muttered, his voice shaking. “It all just happened so fast.”
You reached for his hand, squeezing it reassuringly. “I know. But we did it. And we’ll continue to do it, together.”
Harry smiled, the weight in his eyes finally easing. “Together,” he repeated, his voice steady.
The crown was now on both of your heads. But the most important thing -!what mattered most - was that you had each other. And with that, no matter how overwhelming the responsibilities of royalty might be, you knew you would face the future side by side. Together.
The months following your coronation were filled with a mixture of new beginnings, long royal meetings, and settling into your roles as the King and Queen of England. You and Harry found yourselves slowly adjusting to the rigorous demands of your new life. The palace became your home in a way it never had before, the once overwhelming responsibilities now starting to feel like a second skin.
Together, you navigated the complexities of being the face of a nation, balancing state visits with private moments, public appearances with stolen moments of quiet. As a couple, you were still learning, still growing into the roles you had taken on, but through it all, there was one thing you both held dear - each other.
But in the quiet of your shared chambers, away from the world’s eyes, there was an underlying weight, one that lingered quietly between the two of you. You and Harry had been trying for months now, hoping, wishing for a child - an heir to carry on the legacy you both were now responsible for. But each time, when you found yourself staring at the stark white of another negative pregnancy test, the hope seemed to drain a little further from your soul.
It wasn’t that you hadn’t tried - oh, you had tried. You and Harry had put everything into it, every last ounce of love and effort, but it was as if something was just out of reach.
You would smile for the cameras, be the perfect Queen in the eyes of the people, but behind closed doors, you felt like you were failing. Failing Harry. Failing the monarchy. Failing yourself. Every month, the disappointment grew more pronounced. Each time you felt your period arrive, it was like a slap in the face.
There had been moments of doubt, moments when you sat in silence and just cried, asking Harry over and over what was wrong with you. What was it about you that wouldn’t let you get pregnant? What had you done wrong? What were you missing?
You sat in front of the large mirror in your chambers one night, staring at your reflection with teary eyes, the silence of the room making everything feel heavier. The weight of the crown seemed insignificant in comparison to the frustration, confusion, and sadness that had begun to take root in your heart.
“Why can’t I give him a child?” you whispered softly, as though your reflection could answer. You ran your hands through your hair, feeling lost. “Am I not enough for him?”
You didn’t hear Harry enter the room until he was standing next to you, his voice filled with quiet concern. “What’s going on, love?”
You forced a smile, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Nothing, just…thinking.”
But Harry knew you better than that. He’d seen the breakdowns. He’d seen the tears that you wiped away before anyone else could notice. He had felt the tension in the air when you tried to hold it together, knowing how much you wanted this. You both wanted this.
“I know you’ve been struggling,” Harry said gently, his hand resting on your shoulder. “But don’t be so hard on yourself. We’ve only been trying for a few months, Y/N. This doesn’t mean anything yet.”
You stood up, pushing his hand away gently as you wiped a stray tear from your face. “It’s been months, Harry. Months of trying, of failing, and I’m just…” Your voice cracked. “What if there’s something wrong with me? What if I can’t have children?”
Harry’s face fell, his heart breaking at your pain. He wanted to take the weight from you, wanted to fix it and make it better, but this was something neither of you could control. He couldn’t change the reality of the situation, and he knew that, but it didn’t stop him from wanting to protect you from the sadness that had become all too familiar in the last few months.
“You’re not failing,” he said firmly, his voice low but filled with love. “You’re not. We’re just starting. We’ve only just begun. You’re going to give me children, I know it. It’s just… it takes time.”
You closed your eyes, the bitterness of uncertainty rising in your chest. “But what if it doesn’t? What if it never happens? What if we can’t have the family we’ve dreamed about?”
Harry took your face in his hands, his eyes locking with yours, his grip firm but tender. “Y/N, you are enough. And if we don’t have a child right now, it doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t change how much I love you. It doesn’t change how I see you. You are everything to me. You’re the woman I love, the woman I chose to be my Queen, and I will never, ever stop loving you, no matter what happens.”
His words, though comforting, couldn’t erase the doubt that lingered in your heart. But his hands on your face, his tender touch, reminded you that at least you weren’t in this alone. You had Harry - and together, you would face whatever came next.
The weeks passed, and while the world saw the King and Queen leading their country, you both continued to face the heartbreaking reality of your inability to conceive. The doctor visits became more frequent. You sat in sterile offices, surrounded by pamphlets, medical charts, and explanations you barely understood, each visit leaving you with more questions than answers.
Harry did everything he could to support you. He was patient when you had days of frustration and silent tears. He was understanding when you pushed him away, when you withdrew into yourself. But each time you saw him try to comfort you, try to assure you that it would all work out, the feeling of guilt seemed to grow.
“I just want to give you the family we talked about,” you whispered one evening, curled up on the sofa with Harry, the two of you sharing a quiet moment before bed.
Harry kissed the top of your head, his hand stroking your back in slow, rhythmic motions. “You have given me everything, Y/N. A life I never could have dreamed of. A life I’m so proud of. We don’t need to rush into anything. If it happens, it happens. And if it doesn’t, we’ll find another way. Together.”
But it wasn’t just about Harry’s words anymore. It was about you. You were terrified that you couldn’t be the mother you so desperately wanted to be, terrified that your inability to carry a child would disappoint him or make him feel less fulfilled. And no matter how much he reassured you, you couldn’t shake the guilt.
As the pressure of royal expectations continued to build around you, so too did the pressure of your own heart. It wasn’t just the throne you had to bear - it was the weight of being the Queen, and the expectations that came with it. Your failure to conceive seemed to only intensify the scrutiny.
And all you could do was hold onto Harry - just as he held onto you -!and keep going, no matter how hard it became. Together, you would face the unknown. Together, you would find a way.
But for now, it seemed like that future - one with children, with a growing family - was still a distant dream.
It had been a long day already, filled with meetings, royal engagements, and the ever-present weight of expectations that came with being Queen. But today, you had made time for something far more important - helping Anne with one of her charity projects.
The two of you had spent the morning overseeing a women’s shelter, speaking with staff and listening to the stories of the women who had found solace there. It was the kind of work that reminded you why you had wanted to be Queen in the first place - not for the politics or the power, but for the chance to make a difference.
Now, back at Buckingham Palace, you were sitting in Anne’s private drawing room, sipping tea as she sorted through a pile of paperwork regarding upcoming charity events. The warm, golden light of the late afternoon streamed through the tall windows, casting a soft glow over the elegant space.
Anne had always been kind to you, had always made you feel welcome in the family. But today, sitting here with her, you felt something shift. You felt like you weren’t just her daughter-in-law - you were her daughter. And daughters needed their mothers.
You hesitated, staring into your cup, the tea swirling in slow, aimless patterns. Your heart felt heavy, the words stuck in your throat like an unbearable weight. But you couldn’t hold it in anymore.
“Anne,” you finally said, your voice barely above a whisper.
She looked up from her papers immediately, her sharp eyes full of quiet concern. “Yes, dear?”
You swallowed hard, fingers tightening around the porcelain cup. “I- I need to tell you something. Something I haven’t told Harry yet.”
That got her full attention. She set the papers aside, leaning forward slightly, her hands folding in her lap as she gave you her undivided focus. “Go on,” she urged gently.
You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. But the moment you opened your mouth, the emotions you had been bottling up for months came crashing down.
“I- I can’t get pregnant,” you choked out, your voice breaking. “Or, well, I can, but barely. I went to the gynecologist, and they told me I only have a two percent chance. Two percent, Anne.” Your hands trembled as you set the cup down on the saucer with a soft clink. “I feel like a failure. Like I’m failing Harry. Failing the monarchy. Failing myself.”
Anne’s face softened, her usual composed expression shifting into something far more vulnerable - motherly.
“Oh, my dear,” she murmured, reaching across the small table to take your hands in hers.
You let out a shaky breath, the tears you had been trying so desperately to keep at bay finally breaking free.
“I haven’t even told Harry,” you confessed, shaking your head. “I don’t know how. How do I tell him that the one thing we both wanted more than anything -!a family - might never happen? How do I look him in the eye and say that I can’t give him children?”
Anne squeezed your hands tightly, her grip warm and reassuring. “Listen to me,” she said firmly, her voice filled with a rare intensity. “You are not a failure. Do you hear me?”
You let out a soft sob, nodding, even though you didn’t quite believe it.
Anne sighed, shifting to sit beside you on the small sofa. Without hesitation, she pulled you into her arms, cradling you the way a mother would a heartbroken daughter. The moment her warmth surrounded you, you collapsed into her, sobbing into her shoulder as the weight of your grief finally consumed you.
“I hate myself for this,” you whispered, your voice muffled against the fabric of her dress. “I hate that I can’t give Harry what he deserves. I hate that my body won’t do what it’s supposed to.”
Anne’s grip tightened, her hand stroking your back in slow, soothing motions. “No,” she said firmly, her voice unwavering. “You don’t get to hate yourself for this, Y/N. You are not defined by your ability to have children. And Harry - Harry loves you. Not just the idea of a family, not just the dream of children. You.”
You sniffled, clinging to her as more tears spilled down your cheeks. “But what if he’s disappointed? What if he resents me?”
Anne pulled back just enough to look you in the eye, her own filled with unwavering certainty. “He won’t. And if he does, then I will personally knock some sense into him.”
That earned a wet, broken laugh from you, though it quickly turned into another sob.
Anne cupped your face, her thumbs wiping away the tears that continued to fall. “Sweetheart, you are already enough. More than enough. And if there’s one thing I know about my son, it’s that he would never see you as anything less because of this. But you need to tell him. Don’t carry this burden alone.”
You nodded weakly, though the thought of telling Harry still terrified you.
Anne gave you a small smile, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “No matter what happens, you are family. My family. And I will always be here for you, just like a mother should be.”
That was all it took for you to break down again, but this time, the weight on your chest didn’t feel quite as unbearable.
For the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel alone.
The night was quiet, save for the occasional crackling of the fireplace in your shared chambers. The golden glow of the flames danced against the walls, casting soft shadows across the room. Harry was sitting on the sofa, flipping through a few documents he needed to review for an upcoming event, but his attention wasn’t really on them.
He could tell something was wrong.
You had been unusually quiet all evening, barely touching your dinner, barely speaking. And when he had tried to pull you into conversation, you had only offered small, forced smiles that never reached your eyes.
Harry knew you well enough to know when you were holding something in. And whatever it was, it was eating you alive.
You stood near the window, your arms wrapped around yourself as you stared outside at the darkened palace gardens. Your heart was racing, palms sweaty, stomach twisted in knots. You had spent the entire day trying to find the right moment, the right words, the right way to tell him.
But there was no right way to say this.
“Love?” Harry’s voice was soft, careful, as he set the documents aside and turned his attention fully to you. “What’s wrong?”
You swallowed hard, blinking rapidly to keep the tears at bay. “I-“ Your voice broke immediately, and you clenched your jaw, trying to steady yourself. “I need to tell you something.”
Harry was already on his feet before you could say another word. He crossed the room quickly, his hands immediately finding your arms, rubbing slow, comforting circles.
“You can tell me anything,” he said gently. “You know that, right?”
You nodded, but it didn’t make it any easier. The words felt trapped in your throat, suffocating you.
Harry’s brows furrowed in concern. “You’re shaking,” he murmured, his hands running up and down your arms. “Talk to me, darling.”
You exhaled sharply, closing your eyes for a brief moment. And then, finally, you forced yourself to say it.
“I went to the gynecologist,” you whispered. “I- I haven’t been able to get pregnant, and I needed to know why.”
Harry’s grip on you tightened ever so slightly. His body tensed, but he didn’t say a word - he just let you speak.
“They did some tests,” you continued, your voice barely above a whisper. “And they found out that I can get pregnant… but the chances are-” You choked, pressing a hand to your mouth as the pain of saying it out loud became unbearable. “Two percent, Harry. I have a two percent chance.”
His face fell, his eyes darkening with something unreadable. “What?”
You let out a shaky breath, your shoulders trembling under the weight of your emotions. “I- I might never be able to have kids with you. And I didn’t know how to tell you because-“ Your voice cracked. “Because I feel like I failed you.”
Harry’s entire body stiffened at those words. His hands immediately cupped your face, tilting it up so you were forced to look at him.
“Stop,” he said firmly, his green eyes burning with intensity. “You have never failed me. Do you understand me?”
You bit your lip, trying to hold back the tears, but it was no use. The floodgates had opened.
“I wanted to give you a family,” you sobbed, your hands gripping his shirt as if he were the only thing keeping you upright. “I wanted us to have kids, to grow old together surrounded by them. And now… now I don’t know if that will ever happen.”
Harry’s heart shattered at the sheer pain in your voice. Without hesitation, he pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly against his chest as you cried.
His hand cradled the back of your head, his lips pressing soft, reassuring kisses to your hair. “Oh, love,” he murmured. “You don’t have to carry this alone. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
You buried your face into his chest, your sobs muffled against his shirt. “I was scared,” you admitted. “Scared you’d be disappointed. Scared you’d regret choosing me.”
Harry immediately pulled back, his hands cupping your cheeks as he looked deep into your eyes. His expression was one of pure disbelief, almost offended at the idea.
“Y/N, I could never regret choosing you.” His voice was rough, filled with emotion. “You are my wife. My Queen. The love of my life. Do you really think the ability to have children could change that?”
“I just… I know how much you wanted kids,” you whispered.
“I want you,” he corrected, his thumbs wiping away your tears. “I want a family with you. And if that means we try and try and try until it happens, then that’s what we’ll do. And if it doesn’t happen, we’ll find another way. Adoption, surrogacy, whatever it takes. But you are my family. You are enough.”
His words shattered the last bit of control you had. You clung to him, sobbing openly now, allowing yourself to be completely vulnerable in his arms. And Harry just held you - held you like he was afraid you might slip away, held you like you were the most precious thing in the world.
“I love you,” he whispered into your hair. “No matter what. I love you, I love you, I love you.”
And in that moment, despite the fear, despite the heartbreak, you felt safe.
Because you had Harry. And as long as you had him, you would never face this alone.
The hallways of the Buckingham Palace felt colder than usual. Each step echoed against the marble floors as you made your way toward King Edward’s office, your stomach twisting in knots.
This was, without a doubt, the most terrifying conversation you had ever faced.
Telling Harry had been one thing - he was your husband, your partner, the man who had chosen to love you unconditionally. But telling his father? The King of England? The man who had spent his entire life ensuring the future of the monarchy? That was an entirely different battle.
Edward had always been firm about the importance of an heir. Even before you and Harry had married, he had spoken of continuing the bloodline, of ensuring the next generation would be raised to take the throne one day.
And now, you had to tell him that there was a strong possibility that wouldn’t happen.
You swallowed hard, standing outside his office door, your palms damp with nerves. The guards stationed nearby gave you a brief nod before opening the large double doors, signaling your arrival.
King Edward was seated at his desk, scanning through documents with his usual air of authority. He barely glanced up as he gestured for you to step inside.
“Y/N,” he acknowledged, his voice even. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
You hesitated for a moment before closing the door behind you, taking a few cautious steps forward. Your heart was pounding, and for a brief second, you wondered if you should just turn around and walk away.
But no. You had to do this.
“Your Majesty,” you began, keeping your voice steady despite the lump in your throat. “There’s something I need to tell you. Something… important.”
That made him look up. His piercing gaze settled on you, sharp and calculating, as if already trying to decipher what you were about to say. He set his papers aside, folding his hands neatly on the desk. “Go on.”
You took a shaky breath. “It’s about the future of the family. About an heir.”
His expression remained unreadable, but you knew he was listening intently.
“I went to the doctor,” you continued, your voice softer now. “And they told me that my chances of getting pregnant are… almost nonexistent.” You swallowed hard. “Two percent, to be exact.”
A long, heavy silence filled the room.
Edward didn’t speak. He didn’t move. His face remained neutral, but you could see the way his fingers tensed slightly on the desk, the only sign that your words had truly registered.
“I know how much you wanted a grandchild,” you continued, forcing the words out before you lost your courage. “I know how important it is to secure the next generation of the monarchy. And I-” Your voice broke, and you quickly pressed your lips together, trying to contain the overwhelming emotions threatening to spill over.
For a long moment, he just stared at you, his blue eyes locked onto yours. And then, finally, he exhaled.
“Come here,” he said.
You blinked, confused. “What?”
Edward pushed his chair back slightly and gestured for you to step closer. “Come here, Y/N.”
Your legs felt stiff, almost reluctant to move, but somehow, you found yourself stepping toward him.
As soon as you were close enough, Edward did something you never expected.
He reached out and pulled you into his arms.
You froze.
You had never hugged Edward before. In fact, you had never seen him as anything other than a king - a ruler, a strategist, a man who commanded respect in every room he entered. But right now, in this moment, he wasn’t King Edward.
He was simply a father.
Your father-in-law.
Your breath hitched as his arms tightened around you, firm yet careful, as if shielding you from the weight of your own pain.
“You must have been terrified to tell me this,” he murmured, his voice softer than you had ever heard it.
That was all it took for the dam to break.
A broken sob escaped your lips as you clutched onto him, burying your face into his shoulder. All the fear, all the guilt, all the self-loathing you had carried for months poured out of you in an uncontrollable wave.
“I’m sorry,” you choked out, your body trembling against him. “I’m so sorry.”
Edward sighed, his large hand smoothing over your hair in an uncharacteristically gentle gesture. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”
You shook your head, fresh tears spilling down your cheeks. “I feel like I failed you. Like I failed Harry. I wanted to give this family an heir. I tried. But I-” Your voice cracked, and another sob escaped before you could stop it.
Edward pulled back slightly, just enough to look down at you, his hands firm on your shoulders.
“Listen to me,” he said, his voice filled with quiet strength. “The ability to have children does not determine your worth. Not as a woman. Not as a Queen. And certainly not as my daughter-in-law.”
You sniffled, blinking up at him in disbelief.
“I won’t lie to you,” he admitted. “Yes, I have always wanted an heir. But not at the expense of my son’s happiness. And not at the expense of yours.” He squeezed your shoulders. “You are my family now, Y/N. And you will always have a place here. No matter what.”
A fresh wave of tears threatened to spill, but this time, they weren’t just from sadness.
For the first time since hearing the news, you felt a weight lift from your chest.
Edward - the King - wasn’t angry. He wasn’t disappointed.
He was just there. Holding you, reassuring you, giving you the fatherly support you had never truly expected from him.
And for the first time, you didn’t feel like you had to carry this burden alone.
With a shaky breath, you tightened your grip around him, resting your forehead against his shoulder as more silent tears fell.
And Edward?
For the first time, he simply held you - not as his son’s wife, not as the Queen of England.
But as his daughter-in-law.
Life at Buckingham Palace didn’t slow down, no matter what personal struggles lay beneath the surface. The world kept turning, the public kept watching, and you and Harry had responsibilities to uphold as the Queen and King of England.
After your emotional conversation with King Edward, a weight had been lifted from your shoulders. For the first time in months, you felt like you could breathe again. You weren’t alone in this - not with Harry, not with his parents, and not with the people who truly cared about you.
But even with that relief, the reality of royal life came crashing back down almost immediately.
The next morning, you were seated at the long oak table in the private royal meeting room, staring at an overwhelming stack of documents, schedules, and briefing notes. Across from you, Harry had his own pile, rubbing a hand over his face as he tried to focus.
A royal advisor stood at the head of the table, reading out the upcoming engagements.
“…and following the charity gala next Saturday, Your Majesties will attend a diplomatic dinner with foreign delegates from Spain, Germany, and Japan,” the advisor continued. “It will be your first official state dinner as the future monarchs, so expectations will be high.”
You sighed quietly, already feeling exhausted just listening to the schedule.
“And before that,” another advisor chimed in, flipping through her notes, “the two of you will make a public appearance at the children’s hospital in London. It’s part of the royal family’s ongoing efforts to support pediatric healthcare.”
Your ears perked up slightly at that. You had always enjoyed your visits with the children - it was one of the rare duties that truly made you feel connected to the people, rather than just a figurehead in a crown.
Harry, sensing your shift in mood, glanced over at you with a small smile.
The meeting continued for another hour, outlining everything from upcoming speeches to wardrobe expectations for each event.
By the time it was over, you felt drained.
As the advisors filed out of the room, you leaned back in your chair, rubbing your temples. “How do they expect us to keep up with all of this?”
Harry let out a deep sigh, standing up and stretching. “Honestly? I don’t think they care, as long as we do it.”
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help but smile.
He stepped around the table, coming to stand behind you. His hands found your shoulders, massaging gently. “You’re doing incredible, you know that?”
You let your head tilt back slightly, enjoying his touch. “I feel like I’m drowning in expectations.”
“You are.” He smirked. “But at least we’re drowning together.”
You huffed out a laugh, reaching up to squeeze his hand.
Just then, the door opened again, and Queen Anne stepped in. “I hope I’m not interrupting,” she said, her voice warm.
“Not at all,” you said, sitting up properly as she approached.
Anne smiled, her eyes filled with the usual grace and wisdom she carried. “I just wanted to check on you both. I know these past few weeks have been… heavy.”
You swallowed, exchanging a quick glance with Harry.
“I’m okay,” you assured her, though you weren’t sure how convincing it was.
Anne tilted her head slightly, studying you in the way only a mother could. Then, instead of pressing further, she simply said, “I know it’s been overwhelming, stepping into this role so quickly. But I want you to remember - you’re not just here to serve the people. You’re here to live, too.”
You blinked, taken aback by her words.
She smiled knowingly. “Don’t let the crown steal the joy from your life, my dear. It’s a privilege, yes, but it’s also a burden. And if you don’t take time for yourselves, it will consume you.”
Harry nodded. “We’ll try, Mum.”
Anne arched a brow. “No, you will.” She placed a gentle hand on your arm. “And if you ever need a reminder, I’ll be here to give it.”
You felt an overwhelming warmth at her words.
Maybe the crown didn’t have to weigh you down completely.
And as you looked at Harry - your partner in all of this - you knew that no matter what came next, you would face it together.
You stared down at the six pregnancy tests lined up in front of you, each one displaying the same undeniable result.
Positive.
Your hands trembled as you gripped the edge of the bathroom counter, your breath shallow.
This couldn’t be real.
After months of heartbreak, of failed attempts, of hearing the doctor’s grim diagnosis - you had convinced yourself that it would never happen. That the dream of carrying Harry’s child would always remain just that - a dream.
So when the first test showed two pink lines, you had scoffed.
Faulty. It had to be faulty.
Then the second one.
The third.
By the fourth, your hands had started shaking.
By the fifth, tears had blurred your vision.
And now, staring at the sixth positive test, your mind finally allowed itself to believe the impossible.
You were pregnant.
A choked sob escaped your lips as the overwhelming reality of it all crashed into you. Your body trembled as you sank onto the bathroom floor, hugging your knees to your chest, silent tears trailing down your cheeks.
You had prepared yourself for disappointment so many times that the sheer possibility of this being real left you utterly paralyzed.
That was how Harry found you.
The door creaked open, his voice carrying through the quiet space. “Love? I’m home.”
He paused when he stepped into the bedroom, immediately noticing the empty bed. His brows furrowed.
Then, his eyes landed on the open bathroom door.
“Y/N?” His voice softened with concern.
He stepped inside - and froze at the sight of you sitting on the floor, your shoulders shaking.
“Hey, hey, what’s wrong?” He was by your side in an instant, kneeling beside you, his hands cupping your face as he searched your tear-streaked expression. “Are you hurt? What happened?”
You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. The words stuck in your throat, the sheer weight of this moment making it impossible to speak.
His panic only grew. His eyes darted around the room, looking for any sign of what had caused your distress - until they landed on the sink counter.
On the six pregnancy tests lined up in a perfect row.
Harry’s entire body went still.
You watched as his emerald eyes widened, his breath catching in his throat. His gaze flickered between you and the tests, as if trying to make sense of what he was seeing.
Finally, his lips parted. “Are these…?”
You managed a shaky nod, fresh tears spilling down your cheeks. “I took six.” Your voice was barely above a whisper. “Because I didn’t believe the first one. Or the second. Or the third.” You let out a breathless laugh, one that was half-sob, half-disbelief. “But after six… I think I finally believe it.”
Harry’s eyes welled with emotion as he let out a shaky exhale, his hands trembling as they cradled your face.
“You’re pregnant?” His voice was hoarse, filled with something so raw, so utterly vulnerable.
Another nod. “I’m pregnant.”
And then, before you could react, he was wrapping you up in his arms, holding you so tightly it felt like he was afraid you’d disappear.
A broken laugh rumbled through his chest, his face buried in your neck. “Holy shit.” His breath was warm against your skin. “Holy fuck.”
You let out a watery laugh, clinging onto him just as tightly.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands shaking as he brushed your hair away from your face. His eyes were shining with disbelief, awe, pure love.
“I thought-” He swallowed thickly, shaking his head as if he couldn’t even form the words. “I thought we couldn’t-“
“I know.” Your voice cracked. “I thought so too.”
Harry let out a sharp breath, his forehead pressing against yours. “This is a miracle.”
You nodded. “It is.”
Then, suddenly, his lips were on yours, kissing you with so much love and relief that it made your head spin. It was deep and tender, filled with all the emotions neither of you could fully express in words.
When he finally pulled away, he let out another breathless laugh, his hands resting on your still-flat stomach.
“There’s a baby in there,” he murmured in amazement.
You sniffled, covering his hands with your own. “Yeah. Our baby.”
His throat bobbed as he fought back tears. “I love you so much,” he whispered.
“I love you too.”
Harry exhaled, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead before letting out another disbelieving laugh.
“You took six?”
You rolled your eyes, letting out a teary chuckle. “Shut up.”
He grinned, and for the first time in months, everything felt perfect.
The next morning, you and Harry sat in your private lounge, both buzzing with nervous energy. The six pregnancy tests still sat on the nightstand as if they were too precious to throw away just yet, a constant reminder that this was real.
“We should tell them today,” Harry said, pacing the length of the room, rubbing a hand over his jaw.
“Yeah.” You nodded, twisting your fingers together. “But… what if they don’t react the way we hope?”
Harry stopped, his brows knitting together. “What do you mean?”
You sighed. “I mean, your father has always wanted an heir, right? What if the pressure starts immediately? What if-“
Harry knelt in front of you, taking your hands in his. “No. Stop that.” His voice was gentle but firm. “We’re not going to let anyone ruin this moment. This is our baby, our family. And I don’t care if we’re King and Queen someday - our happiness comes first.”
Your heart swelled at his words.
You exhaled deeply and nodded. “Okay. Let’s do it.”
Harry grinned and kissed your knuckles before standing up. “Let’s go shock the hell out of them.”
A short while later, you both stood outside the grand sitting room where King Edward and Queen Anne spent most of their mornings.
Harry glanced at you one last time, squeezing your hand. “Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
He pushed open the doors, and you both stepped inside.
King Edward sat in his usual chair, reading over some documents, while Queen Anne was sipping her tea by the window. They both looked up at your entrance.
“Harry, Y/N,” Anne greeted with a soft smile. “This is a pleasant surprise.”
Edward peered at you both over his glasses. “To what do we owe the honor?”
Harry cleared his throat and exchanged a quick glance with you before stepping forward. “We, uh… we have some news.”
Anne immediately straightened, setting her teacup down. “Good news?”
Harry hesitated for only a second before his face broke into a wide grin. “The best.”
He reached into his pocket, pulled out one of the pregnancy tests (because, of course, he had insisted on bringing proof), and placed it on the coffee table in front of them.
Both parents leaned forward.
Anne gasped first. “Is this…?”
Edward’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you saying?-“
You nodded, unable to stop the smile that broke across your face. “We’re having a baby.”
For a moment, there was only silence.
Then, suddenly, Anne let out a soft cry of joy, covering her mouth with her hands. Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears as she stood up and rushed toward you.
“My dear…” she whispered before pulling you into a tight embrace. “Oh, my dear.”
You melted into her hug, letting yourself be held as relief washed over you.
Anne pulled back, placing her hands on your cheeks, beaming through her tears. “This is wonderful news.”
Then, without hesitation, she turned and pulled Harry into a hug as well. “Oh, my sweet boy.”
Harry chuckled, hugging her back. “Took you long enough to say congrats, Mum.”
Edward, who had been silent up until now, finally stood from his chair, still staring at the test in his hand as if it were an artifact of unspeakable value.
Then, his gaze flickered to you, to Harry, before softening in a way you rarely ever saw.
“A child,” he murmured.
Harry nodded. “Our child.”
Edward stepped forward, his expression unreadable. For a brief second, you braced yourself for something stern or demanding - but instead, he simply placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder, the other on yours.
His lips twitched slightly. “Congratulations.”
It was a single word, but it carried so much weight.
And then, much to your absolute shock, Edward did something he had never done before.
He pulled you into a hug.
Your breath hitched, completely caught off guard, but within seconds, you relaxed into the warmth of it.
When he pulled back, he cleared his throat, his usual composed self returning. “This is… a significant moment for the monarchy. But more importantly, it is a significant moment for our family.”
He turned to Anne, who was still wiping at her eyes. “We’re going to be grandparents.”
Anne sniffled, nodding fervently. “Yes, we are.”
Harry exhaled, grinning as he wrapped an arm around you. “Well, I’d say that went better than expected.”
Edward shot him a dry look. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, son. There will be many discussions about the child’s future.”
Harry groaned. “Of course there will be.”
Anne swatted her husband’s arm. “Not now, Edward.” She turned back to you, her eyes soft. “Right now, we celebrate.”
And as she hugged you once more, you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.
For the first time in a long time, the future didn’t feel scary.
It felt right.
Pregnancy had a way of turning life upside down, especially when you were the Queen of England.
From the moment the news broke publicly, the world was obsessed. The media called it the biggest royal announcement in decades. Journalists speculated on names, gender, and how the pregnancy would affect the monarchy. Public celebrations erupted across the UK - parades, fireworks, even special merchandise with your face on it.
It was surreal.
But behind closed doors, pregnancy was a rollercoaster of emotions, challenges, and unexpected changes.
Morning sickness hit hard.
Whoever named it “morning” sickness was a liar - because it lasted all day.
You had to excuse yourself from meetings to throw up, sometimes barely making it out of the room before dashing to the nearest bathroom. The first few times, you tried to play it off as nothing, but after the third time in one week, Harry put his foot down.
“We’re telling them,” he insisted one evening as you lay curled up on the sofa, utterly exhausted.
You groaned. “No. They’ll just fuss.”
“They should fuss!” Harry ran a hand through his curls, exasperated. “You’re pregnant and still trying to do everything like normal. It’s not normal.”
You sighed, knowing he was right. So the next day, the royal advisors were informed - and just like that, your schedule changed.
Meetings were shortened. Public appearances were reduced. The palace chef was given strict orders to prepare meals that wouldn’t make you nauseous.
Harry, meanwhile, went into full protective mode.
He hovered constantly. If you so much as breathed wrong, he was by your side, fussing over you like a mother hen.
“Drink more water.”
“Did you eat enough today?”
“Put your feet up, love.”
At first, it was sweet. Then, it got slightly annoying.
One night, after he practically carried you upstairs because you “looked tired,” you finally snapped.
“Harry, I love you, but if you don’t let me walk on my own two feet, I swear I will-“
“Okay, okay!” He held up his hands in surrender, grinning. “But just so you know, I will catch you if you so much as stumble.”
You rolled your eyes - but deep down, you loved how much he cared.
The sickness eased, but new challenges emerged.
Your growing belly made royal duties a bit harder. Dresses had to be altered constantly. Walking in heels for long ceremonies? Impossible. The royal tailors ended up crafting special, elegant flats just for you.
Then came the kicks.
The first time you felt the baby move, you gasped so loudly that Harry nearly fell out of bed.
“What? What’s wrong?” He scrambled to sit up, eyes wide.
You grabbed his hand, pressing it against your stomach. “Feel that?”
For a moment, nothing - then, a tiny thump beneath his palm.
Harry’s eyes went huge. “Oh my God.”
You both froze, and then he laughed - a soft, awed sound. “That’s our baby.”
Tears pricked your eyes. “Yeah.”
From then on, Harry was obsessed. Every night, he talked to your belly, pressing kisses against it, telling stories, singing softly.
“Hey, little one. It’s Dad. Hope you’re comfy in there.”
The sight of him doing that made you fall in love with him all over again.
Everything was hard.
Sleeping? Impossible.
Standing for long periods? Torture.
Breathing? Sometimes a challenge.
And the baby kicked nonstop.
“I think they’re training for the Olympics,” you groaned one night as you shifted uncomfortably in bed.
Harry chuckled, rubbing soothing circles on your belly. “Or trying to prepare us to never get a full night’s sleep.”
The palace had adjusted everything for your comfort - your chair in meetings had extra cushions, a footstool was placed under every table, and a personal physician was on standby constantly.
But the hardest part was the public scrutiny.
The press obsessed over every tiny detail. If you looked tired in a photo? Headlines speculated on complications. If you skipped an event? Scandal.
One day, a tabloid even claimed you were carrying twins based on the size of your belly.
“Twins? Really?” you scoffed, tossing the magazine aside.
Harry smirked. “Well, at this point, I wouldn’t be surprised. You are massive.”
You glared. “Say that again and you’re carrying the next baby. I don’t know how, but I’ll make it work.”
He held up his hands in surrender, laughing.
Despite everything, though, there were beautiful moments.
Like the time the entire royal family gathered to feel the baby kick. Anne teared up, pressing a gentle hand to your belly.
Edward, surprisingly, softened. “A future ruler,” he murmured.
“No,” Harry corrected, wrapping an arm around you. “Our child. First and foremost.”
Edward looked at him for a long moment - then nodded. “Yes. You’re right.”
It was the closest thing to a heartfelt moment you’d ever had with the King.
The palace was on high alert.
Every doctor, nurse, and staff member was on standby. Your hospital bag was packed. The route to the private royal hospital was finalized.
You were ready.
Or so you thought.
Because one evening, as you sat in bed, rubbing your belly, you felt a sharp pain.
Your breath hitched.
Harry, who was reading beside you, immediately noticed. “What’s wrong?”
You hesitated, then whispered, “I think… I think it’s starting.”
For a second, there was silence.
Then…
Harry panicked.
“Oh my god. Okay, OKAY- We- we practiced this!- Breathe! Wait, SHOULD I BREATHE?!”
You groaned. “Harry, call the damn doctor.”
He scrambled for his phone, fumbling with it in his panic. “Right! Doctor! I can do that! I’m calm!”
He was not calm.
And as the reality of what was happening sank in, you realized.
Your baby was finally coming.
The moment you arrived at the private royal hospital, chaos unfolded.
Doctors and nurses swarmed around you, checking your vitals, preparing for the delivery. Everything was happening so fast.
Harry never left your side.
Not even for a second.
He held your hand the entire way through the halls, whispering reassurances, pressing kisses to your knuckles, promising you that everything would be okay.
“You’ve got this, love,” he murmured as they settled you into the delivery room. “I’m right here.”
And he was.
It was hell.
Contractions hit like waves of agony, rolling through your body with no mercy. Time blurred. At one point, you swore you were dying.
“I hate you,” you growled through clenched teeth, gripping Harry’s hand so tightly his fingers turned white.
He swallowed hard. “Okay, fair-“
“This is your fault.”
“I know, baby, I know-“
“If you ever touch me again-“
Harry winced as you squeezed harder. “Right. Noted.”
But despite the pain, despite the exhaustion, you had never loved him more.
Because he stayed.
He wiped the sweat from your forehead, whispered encouragement, ignored his own pain as you nearly broke his hand. He never let go.
“You’re doing so well,” he breathed against your temple, voice thick with emotion. “So close now.”
Then, finally - after hours of agony -!the doctor’s voice rang clear.
“One last push, Your Majesty.”
You clenched your teeth, dug your nails into Harry’s hand, and gave it everything you had.
Then, a cry.
A sharp, piercing cry filled the room.
Your chest heaved, your vision blurred with exhaustion, but nothing - nothing - could have prepared you for the overwhelming rush of emotion as they placed your baby on your chest.
A tiny, wriggling, perfect little girl.
Tears spilled down your cheeks as you stared at her, barely able to breathe.
“Hi, my love,” you choked out, voice breaking. “Hi, my sweet girl.”
Harry made a strangled noise beside you.
You turned to look at him - and your heart nearly shattered at the sight.
Tears streamed down his face as he stared at your daughter like she was the most precious thing in the world. His hands trembled as he reached out, brushing a single finger over her impossibly soft cheek.
“She’s…” He exhaled shakily. “She’s beautiful.”
You nodded, unable to speak.
Harry let out a choked laugh, his free hand covering his mouth as he blinked rapidly. “We have a daughter.”
The doctor smiled. “Would you like to cut the cord, Your Majesty?”
Harry’s breath hitched.
Slowly, he nodded, taking the scissors with trembling hands. You watched as he carefully, almost reverently, did as instructed - then immediately pressed a kiss to your forehead.
“I love you,” he whispered. “I love you so much.”
You let out a watery laugh. “I love you too.”
And then, the nurse swaddled your daughter in the softest white blanket, placing her back in your arms.
She was tiny.
Her delicate features scrunched up in sleep, her tiny fingers curling slightly. A full head of dark curls peeked out from the blanket.
You traced a fingertip down her cheek, completely in awe.
You turned your head, pressing a kiss to his damp cheek. “What should we name her?”
Harry exhaled, looking down at his daughter with pure, unfiltered love.
Then, as if it had been meant to be all along, he whispered.
“Amelia.”
Your heart clenched.
Princess Amelia of England.
It was perfect.
Tears welled in your eyes again as you nodded. “Amelia.”
Harry kissed your forehead again, voice thick with emotion. “Welcome to the world, my darling girl.”
And in that moment - exhausted, overwhelmed, but utterly complete - you knew.
Your life had changed forever.
And you wouldn’t trade it for anything.
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• random slutty thoughts, feat. mingyu •
![Tumblr media](https://64.media.tumblr.com/410aeaee7a5e1cd18d936f09b510f90f/a34481a63ef6352d-58/s540x810/e5da624d2602485530a76f1b69c6a89a09d47313.jpg)
mingyu probably shouldn’t have opened the box under your bed but he had a legitimate reason for being down there! he did drop his phone
but now he’s looking at all the toys you keep hidden - they’re different shapes and sizes and the colors - men don’t come with lime green dicks that have little crazy ridges and bumps much less multi-colored ones that slightly intimidate him
he pouts wondering why you haven’t told him about them and wonders if he isn’t enough to satisfy you, his dick is so normal and pedestrian compared to these
he’s so lost in thought, making mental comparisons, that he doesn’t hear you come in
he definitely doesn’t realize you’re watching him gaze at your collection of dildos and vibrators like he’s just made a major scientific breakthrough
and you wonder if he’s ever played with a toy in his life
the way he jumps when he accidentally turns one on answers your question - you can’t help but laugh
he’s suddenly aware that you’re there, that you’ve seen him
“hi,” he says meekly
you laugh softly, “hi,” you respond with a cute smile
he blushes an amazing shade of red as he tries to think of something to say but only stammers out, “i dropped my phone”
his heart sinks, he knows you’ll be mad - he was basically snooping and found something really private - he’s certain he can feel himself start to sweat a bit
but then you giggle and walk closer, “so you dropped your phone and found a box too”
he knows you aren’t really asking him about the sequence of events that led him to this point - he recognizes the change in your voice, the way it’s a bit lower and so sweet it makes his teeth ache
your hands touch his, “so puppy, what do you think about my toys?”
his mouth immediately feels dry, he doesn’t know what to say
you grab his jaw gently, “do you like them?”
he glances away because maybe the floor knows how he feels
you lean close and kiss his cheek, “should i show you how to play with them?” you whisper
he shivers at the thought, having no idea what you would even do with them, and nods his head, “yes,” he says without hesitation
you smile and kiss him gently, but when you lean back and tell him to strip, he sees the wicked glint in your eyes
he finds himself lying under you, kissing you, feeling your naked body pressing fully against his and your fingers trailing gently through his hair, he loves tracing his hands along the lines and curves of your body, feeling your soft skin
and when you break the kiss, he whines softly
you lean away, but your fingers stay and trace his lips, “poor baby,” you whisper
he watches you sit up and stare at your box of toys - you sigh softly - he knows you’re thinking about what you would like just as much as what he would like, he can feel himself getting hard just thinking about what you’ll pick
he watches as you touch one and then another before finally seeming to make a decision - he sees a small egg shaped toy
you shift to sit between his legs - your free hand tracing along his thigh, “i think we should start out slow,” you whisper
he nods quickly, feelings of excitement and trepidation filling his stomach - he hears the quiet buzzing of the toy, and then he feels it at the base of his cock
his body immediately tenses, “fuck,” he groans at the unexpected intensity, but you’re there, whispering to him as you start to apply a bit of pressure of tease him, “tell me if it’s too much”
he nods, “it’s fine - it’s weird but good,” he isn’t sure how to feel about the actual thing, the silicone is soft and the gentle buzzing is definitely getting him close to coming, and when he feels you lick the head of his cock before starting to slowly suck and lick his tip, he’s knows he’s barely hanging on
and when the vibrations suddenly picks up and you press it harder against his shaft, that he suddenly lets out an amazing moan, he grasps the sheets tightly when the vibrations shift up to the head of his cock, replacing your lips, your spit acting like lube
the sudden pressure and motion directly against his slit overwhelms him and he comes quickly with a moan, his cum hitting the toy and splashing against his stomach - he’s breathing raggedly and feels the hot stickiness on his stomach
you smile, “good for you, baby?”
he nods, “yeah,” he’s gasping, “yeah, really good,” he answers, watching you, he can see the flush in your face - he knows you’re turned on from watching him this way, he can’t help but grin
you switch the little egg off and reach for another toy - his mind swirls because he wasn’t expecting more - his orgasm was much more intense than he imagined, his stomach still rising and falling quickly - he hadn’t thought ahead
you lean over and kiss him lightly, “still okay?” you smooth his bangs as you ask
he nods, “i’m good,” he promises, his breathing was returning to normal at least
you lean down again placing small kisses across his hip and upper thigh before showing him the dildo you picked - it was a light, glittery blue and otherwise fairly normal shape and size, maybe a bit blunt at the head
again, you sit between his legs and turn it on, but this time, you add a bit of lube, a soft, sweet scent adding to the new experience
he waits to feel you use it on him and can’t help but to jerk slightly, when he feels you lift his balls and press the blunt end to one ball and then the other
he clenches his teeth as he moans, “oh, baby, fuck, yes,” he can’t help all the things he says as he squeezes his eyes closed, pleasure overwhelming him again
he’s never even considered this kind of stimulation for his balls - you press firmly, just as he feels a second toy, maybe the egg from before, pressing against the base of his cock, he’s sure his eyes are rolling back as he’s biting his lip to keep from moaning endlessly
but he can’t help the way his whimpers escape - he knows he can’t hang on and instead comes embarrassingly fast and is left lying there, staring at the ceiling, amazed and breathless
he feels you massage his inner thighs, “want to keep going?”
he nods, “yeah,” he whispers
he sees your smile, it’s much cuter now, not so devious
you watch him for a moment, “have anyone ever eaten you out?”
he flushes red, his body tingling everywhere with anticipation, knowing that this is going to go on well into the night
#mingyu x reader#mingyu smut#kim mingyu oneshot#mingyu fluff#kim mingyu imagines#kim mingyu x reader#kim mingyu smut#mingyu scenarios#svt oneshot#svt drabbles#kim mingyu drabbles#mingyu drabbles#sub mingyu#kat_drabbles
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I need to let this out!
The parallels and tragedy between FengLian and JunMei always make my heart ache.
Both Feng Xin and Mei Nianqing stayed behind with their prince and bestfriend even when others left.
They didn't want to abandon their bestfriend.
People blame Feng Xin for idolising Xie Lian too much and giving him hard time for his crashout, but people forget he himself was a kid too. He was crashing out too. He was witnessing his bestfriend go through immense pain and he didn't know what to do. He wanted to protect Xie Lian even it was from Xie Lian himself, and blamed himself when he was unable to do so. Feng Xin has always been emotionally straightforward. It was difficult for him to adjust to Xie Lian's behaviourial changes (which were very apt). Changes are hard and it becomes even harder when someone you knew all your life is changing. Feng Xin is loyal to a fault, no doubt he would have supported Xie Lian in the future even if Xie Lian walked down the wrong path. He just needed time to adjust. Both of them were kids, they both needed time and space to come around each other again. But, time and space is what they didn't have. Xie Lian feared being the bearer of Feng Xin's possible future resentment. He didn't want his bestfriend to hate and blame him so he did what he thought was the best... Push him away and Feng Xin's loyalty forced him to oblige to Xie Lian's wishes even though he knew it was a wrong decision. Broken friendships hurt worse than breakup.
JunMei experienced what Xie Lian feared would have become of him and Feng Xin. Mei Nianqing stayed behind to witness his bestfriend's real downfall. He witnessed their friendship being torn apart by betrayal and resentment. Jun Wu in the end betrayed the one person who stuck with him. Why do you think Jun Wu let Mei Nianqing live even after all those years. I know he is horrendous and had lost all his sense and reason, but tell me deep down he didn't grieve and regret his actions just like Mei Nianqing regretted abandoning him? Mei Nianqing just like Feng Xin would have also followed Jun Wu to the bitter end, if he was unable to protect him from himself and the world... But what he needed was time to grasp the situation. They direly needed the time they didn't have. Maybe both of them throughout their long lives were stuck on the "Maybe and what could have been"...
Thanks for going through my yappology session 🙏
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Well that just makes the scene even more confusing, don't it? Almost feel bad for the boy, must've been so confused, I know I'd have been! And I agree, really. The world could use a little more happiness in it as a whole, it feels so dreary these days, like less people are smiling than they used to. Unfortunately business people like that do make it a challenge sometimes! That's pretty much why I quit the League. All of that draining and soulless business work wore on me so much harder when professional battling was already beginning to stop feeling fulfilling. Day in and day out- spend all of it battling, and when not doing that, put up with all the business nonsense instead. I'd already spent roughly two decades doing that- couldn't let the rest of my life be wasted that way too when there was more I wanted to do, and I was only going to be young for so much longer. So I up and left. I think it would've been even more soul crushing and harder to leave if I ever had gone for champion, so I'm glad I didn't. Really, more people should stop and think it through a little harder before that kind of a decision. It's not the all that and then some that society will try and make it seem- especially to women. You've no idea how annoying it is telling people about that decision and then them trying to convince you to reconsider, or saying you'll change your mind someday, or acting as if you're wrong and lesser for it. I've long since stopped talking to all the people that ever acted that way toward me about it and haven't felt a twinge of regret, change my mind once, or felt less of a woman for it, so goes to show what they know. I don't think you should worry too hard about it, though. You're still young, you'll have plenty of time down the road before you need to sit down and think over this kind of thing and make that decision. Got a lot of life ahead of you, you shouldn't rush it that much! Enjoying your youth is important, Arc knows I wish I hadn't wasted as much of mine as I did. And of course, correct that guess would be! I've only ever trained one Pokemon that isn't Ice-type, but I'm convinced that only a crazy person would say no to a goofy little Slowpoke crawling up to you wanting to be your friend. I never quite got around to visiting Galar- I'd have loved to meet Melony. I've made friends with just about every Ice-specialist on my travels! Suppose maybe someday still, I'm not totally decrepit yet after all! Galar's one of the only regions I've heard of without an Elite Four, which I do find somewhat fascinating. A lot of the champions workload beyond battle would rather frequently get shared between us, pretty much anything that it wasn't crucial he specifically tended to. Since we were also very prominent figures for the region I suppose it made sense to have us help out. Stressful just imagining having to take on the full amount of that solo instead of just helping with parts of it sometimes...
Oh yeah wait you're too old to know what inkay games is my bad
Oh, please, I’m only twenty-three.
[ he’s not old. don’t make that mistake again. ]
—💎
#rotomblr#pkmn irl#pokemon irl#[OOC] im literally going to punt both of them into orbit (affectionate) ???
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taylor swift lyrics that keep u up at night?
*takes a deep breath*
remember looking at this room, we loved it cause of the light now i just sit in the dark and wonder if it's time.
(oversharing in the tags)
#i know it's not the most obvious choice and i think i've never talked about this line before#but i think it will keep me up at night for the rest of my life#so when i heard you're losing me for the first time i was in a very similar situation#most of you don't even know i was engaged and had the most terrible break up this year#it's easier when someone breaks up with you#it's much harder when you have to make that decision#and the hardest when you know you made this decision already but you're not sure if it's actually the time...#and i feel like both taylor and i knew it was the only option but we were never 100% sure if it's time to go#if that makes sense#i did eventually#i still remember moving into our apartment 3+ years ago when we were still happy#and then spending last six months of our relationship alone in this apartment knowing it's going nowhere and i have to leave eventually#and moving out in june to my own small cozy place i live in now#but i never even got closure#so i still didn't fully recover#and it will haunt me forever#trust me this line always makes me cry#ugh#sorry for that#i still miss him sometimes even tho he was a bad person#thanks for the ask tho#i feel like i wanted to say all of that long ago and you just gave me a perfect opportunity to do that#so i'm grateful ❤️#yes i got your letter yes i'm doing better*
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I think Mutant Mayhem is the first tmnt propriety to make Leo my favorite turtle right off the bat.
Not that I don’t like Leo anywhere else, but usually it takes me like a second rewatch or something to really pick apart Leo’s character in full to appreciate him- and even then he’s usually not my favorite.
But MM Leo is my favorite for reasons I cannot identify.
Maybe it’s the way he walks, his cringe fail personality, I don’t know but I care about this loser so much.
![Tumblr media](https://64.media.tumblr.com/0a7cfddcc156ba40f229497f17969b32/54c23ea3cabfd34d-4d/s540x810/d46faa0e290f03ccf99f534185d20c86a541ea23.jpg)
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Idk he cares so much abt his siblings despite the fact that they can be so mean to him sometimes. He is also the one who continually pushes to do the right thing when theres nothing (or even sometimes worst things) to gain from it.
Even his attempts at being cool come off as dorkish but it’s charming in a way only little kids can be. In a ‘you’re doing your best sweetie’. Leo is a single mother of three while also being a teenage boy, that takes work.
![Tumblr media](https://64.media.tumblr.com/ccfbbe75d881bbbc1d31326eb22b025e/54c23ea3cabfd34d-c8/s500x750/f76e50614338dc357d15daf3e4ea48b6981cf3c9.jpg)
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He’s such a silent but calculating character, ironically when he doesn’t try so hard and does what he feels is right he gets the best results (ie his leader speech, the plan to be accepted, gaining the acceptance of other mutants) for all his fumbling and try hard attitude he has such natural potential it’s insane.
#tmnt#mutant mayhem#mm leonardo#character appreciation#idk I might do a proper one where I go into his character in depth this was more of me rambling#It’s so weird this has never happened#like usually I need to warm up to Leo’s character with a few episodes or a rewatch of a movie#but after the first watch of MM I had the adoption papers in my hand#idk what it is maybe it’s the inner Kinnie or the fact that we see him struggle so hard#like he fumbled the bag so much!!!#he was nervous he was not confident!!! he literally looked to Donnie for every strategic plan#and yet we see him try so hard too#like he lies to splinter to make his brothers happy he snitched on his brothers bc of his honor#Leo literally was at his best when he listened to himself and trusted in his decisions#and obviously if Leo trusted in every decision he made we wouldn’t have a movie and they wouldn’t be going to school#BUT I hope tottmnt look into that where Leo doesn’t have confidence in himself and it makes things harder#there’s so much that happens in the silence of this movie- everyone say thank you to Hanna Cho!!!!#it wasn’t just her but she was specifically credited with the silent expressions in this movie and I love her for that
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not to descendants post but it's crazy to me people are still looking at the core four like "you should have saved and liberated the entire isle within a month of being in auradon" girl what. how much power do people realistically think they had over auradon for them to do this without being evil about it (which y'all also hate)
#like any half valid point is immediately ruined by people being stupid#they should have fought harder / not forgotten about the isle but pretending they could strong arm auradon royals is insane i'm sorry#y'all hate when they're evil about shit and hate when they try to play by the rules idk#weird#also ... lmfao ... sorry but the characters you want them to be ... are just other characters#controversial maybe but idk#i'm glad the isle had uma but not everyone was going to be an uma#lest we forget all of those kids grew up being abused and everyone has a different reaction to abuse#(btw the barrier coming down entirely and all of those abusers now being free was not the move but i digress)#like i actually very much like when they lie and fuck up and make bad decisions sooooooooooooo#core four they could never make me hate you#descendants#LOVE that the isle had uma fighting for them but i don't think the responsibility should've been put on any of the abused kids at all#hope that helps#core four
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On the subject of gotham county line and batman noel and so on and so forth it’s pretty frustrating (from a watsonian pov) that anytime Bruce hallucinates Jason being loving/ caring/helpful/compassionate towards him it’s always as robin and never as his current self
#it's ironic because Jason as robin never got the chance to become as obedient & devoted (malleable) to Bruce as he currently is#which is a result of being abused/manipulated for a more prolonged period of time#“maybe if I try harder and do it right this time he'll finally see the truth”#classic abuse tactic#no matter how well the victim fits the mold set by the abuser they’ll never acknowledge it#rather if they see you trying they’ll push harder and tell you you’re not perfect#the small shreds of affection here and there are important for motivating the victim to keep trying#kelseethe#Jason initiating the hug in rhato 27 after Bruce insinuated that those beatings will be a regular occurence bc he deems it a necessity#continuing to support Bruce even after Ethiopia and sticking around to help get Damian back#eagerly cooperating with Bruce + co in event leviathan then getting surprise pikachu faced/hurt after being betrayed#making a conscious decision to comfort Bruce in gotham war after Bruce fucked him up and left him behind#having undying conern for Bruce's wellbeing while Bruce regularly endangers his life#ex. Bruce's weird habit of committing vehicular assault on Jason whenever they're on the road demonstrated both in tfz and gotham war#point being: Jason was much more psychologically fit to be defiant towards Bruce when he was robin compared to now#he's more of a “good son”™ now than he was as robin Bruce is just too used to thinking whatever he wants and never being satisfied#the only times Jason got mad/upset at Bruce during one issue and continued to stay mad until the next#other than lost days and utrh was batman 410-411 and early in aditf before Bruce helps Jason find Sheila#so much worse has happened since then and all that just magically became water under the bridge off-panel
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#to me the children of hurin is a very comforting story#the narrator of course is very matter of fact#'this happened and then this happened as a result of that and so and so did this because he thought that'#does not really bring any judgement or forgiveness of their own to the story#except that throughout the bad guy is understood to be morgoth and no one else#even though 90% of the bad things that happen to turin are a direct result of his own stupid choices#the reader is expected to sympathise with him on some level#because despite all his own bad decisions#at the end of the day he is himself just as much a victim as anyone he (deservedly or unintentionally) hurt#and idk#its just. normally when bad things happen to you you have to be a perfect angel#because the second you put a foot out of line suddenly youre the problem#but in truth there is no time that its harder to make good decisions#and not that turin couldnt have handled almost everything better#but theres just nowhere else you can find that understanding#that even if you yourself are making it worse#evil against you is still evil against you
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(when i say general i mean standard 2 and 2 unit is advanced)
#i picked was good in school and hate it now#and the reason I picked that is because it was me hating maths in school that pretty much lead to my netherlands obsession so#i have that to thank#but its only because i hated maths so much that I left#and i couldn’t stand doing it for the hsc#and that decision lead to me choosing the netherlands as my study abroad#BUT i was apparently super good at it#like for year seven and eight i was in extension#and we got harder tests and shit#but even then i hated it bc I preferred writing stories and shit (wow!)#and in year 9 they split us off into 5.3 (best) and 5.2 (average) and 5.1 (worst)#no one in my school did 5.1#and basically i was already struggling with study habits and shit so my mum went into the school and says#please put her in 5.2 she’s going to be miserable as fuck in 5.3#and the school was like ‘fuck off she has potential’ and put me in 5.3 but lower 5.3#AND YOULL NEVER FUCKING GUESS WHAT I WAS! MISERABLE!!!!#it didn’t help that the teacher that i had in year 8 and 9 wasn’t amazing but like whatever#which was something i only just realised lol#ANYWAYS i did 5.3 but not extension until year ten and then i had a choice and that was what maths to do for the hsc#and i was tossing up between two unit or general (i cant explain in the tags the difference so I’ll include a screenshot or something)#i picked general maths bc it felt more like life skills maths and i was like ok seems funky if i have to i will#and then we had the yearly and the teacher wrote it a bit too hard and only two ppl in my class passed and guess who was one of them#me with my stupid 51%. we’re ignoring that I didn’t finish and cried the whole way home. and the teacher was like ‘you should be in 2 unit’#so i switched to two unit and that was MEANT to be it but i was still sacrificing something i loved for maths and ppl in my year did drop it#like completely. and like four weeks into year 11 i was like. no. why am i here when i could be doing legal studies or ancient history!#and so i went and fucking fought the school bc why was i making them happy and after a week they let me win and not do it#and let me tell you calling the maths department to say ‘I wasn’t coming tomorrow or ever again’ was a top ten life moment for me#so tldr i was good at it but i hated it#looking back it wasn’t that bad but i was happier for it#it was actually probably a case of neurodivergent me who just Wasn’t Interested
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Make It Stick
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Pairing: Old!Joel x Reader
Summary: Joel never thought he’d need a vasectomy. Then, one night, he accidentally finishes inside you.
Warnings: 18+. Unprotected-peepaw-p-in-v (I’m sorry). Accidental creampie. Age gap. Cumplay. Breeding kink. Ovulation has led me places I wouldn’t go with a gun.
Note: Convergence is a painting by Jackson Pollock. We studied it in high school and I thought it looked like jizz idk
Word count: 4.7k
Prequel | Part 1 | Part 2
He should’ve gotten snipped when he had the chance.
Should’ve taken the plunge, faced his fears of needles and fluorescent-washed doctor’s offices like any man his age could have done and gotten the damn vasectomy. Now he was here, nearly two decades older and still none the wiser in this cold, dead world with a pretty young thing like you between his sheets. In lieu of elective surgery, Joel Miller had only to grit his teeth, bite hard, and repeat over and over again in his head, desperate:
‘Don’t cum, don’t cum, don’t cum, don’t cum, DON’T—’
Words like those normally worked. With women that weren’t you, they tended to serve him exceedingly well.
But you were just so tight. And wet. And welcoming. And try as Joel might to pretend like he got laid on a regular basis, the truth was that he didn’t. Wouldn’t. Couldn’t seem to think straight when it came to this fixation he’d developed for you, so, instead, he let his dick do all the decision-making whenever he found himself around you. Ten times out of ten that ended in:
“J-J-Joel—oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck—I’m gonna CUM.”
And that made it worth every last life-endangering drop.
Feeling how your flushed, lithe body came apart beneath his touch. How you needed him. How your eyes grew to half the size of your face and you gaped up at the man, lips parted, like you couldn’t even comprehend how the friction of seven inches could make you feel so good.
If he had it his way, he would’ve loved nothing more than to show you that feeling every night, and twice the next morning if his hip wasn’t giving him too much trouble.
But, at present, the man had bigger fish to fry. Like not becoming a new father at fifty-nine if he could help it.
With the last two fluttering pulses of your heat, and almost going cross-eyed from the pleasure as he felt it, Joel yanked his big, slippery cock out of your body and made a fist around his member as he always knew to do. Tugged and pulled and grunted above you—‘Sweet girl, you’re so fuckin’ good to me’—and watched your tits and your belly for the milky white ropes to ensue.
Strangely, though, your skin stayed the same.
No cum-spray Convergence appeared before him, no opaque and cloudy fluids dribbling down your ribs, nothing. Your stomach was as bare as the rest of you, save for a few beads of sweat, and that was all there was.
Joel shook his dick harder, confused. Beneath him, you were still coming down from your high smiling ear-to-ear and staring blissfully at the ceiling. Your chest rose and fell, rose and fell in quick succession, and while you endeavored to recollect your mind, Joel was losing his.
Where the FUCK was his cum?
In no naked horizontal tango to date had Joel simply…cum without noticing. Shit like that just didn’t happen to men, least of all to ones his age, so when he’d wrung his poor cock like a sodden towel and still saw nothing come out, he felt his stomach turn and plummet inside him.
He dropped to his hands and knees in less than a moment and lowered his head between your legs.
“No, Joel!” you squealed, giggling. Kicking your feet, “Another round and I’m gonna combust, you old perv!”
But Joel wasn’t looking to get his dick wet again. He was inspecting you. Or trying to, anyway. Quickly realizing he couldn’t see a thing in the darkness, he let out a breath through his nose and lifted you off the bed. Your naked frame thrown over his shoulder, bare hip beside his head and your strangled, muffled cry of, ‘What the hell, Joel?!’ hardly seemed to register with the man carrying you off.
You were toted to the bathroom. Joel was about to ease you down on your feet. Then, appearing to change his mind at the last second, he set you onto the sink instead. Your skin bristled with indignation, anger. A little arousal.
“Last time we did it on a sink we broke the faucet,” you reminded him, feigning more dismay than you really felt inside. If anything, you liked it when your fossil-age fuckbuddy switched things up. You were just exhausted.
Heedless of your words, Joel kneeled on the floor and pried your legs apart before him. When you swatted at his silver-flecked head, he brushed your hand away.
“Hold still,” he grunted.
“How come?”
“‘Cause I said.”
How quickly he commanded that tone of a father.
“Wanna sleep,” you groaned, about to roll your eyes.
But you couldn’t deny you liked being doted on by him.
Joel’s touch was gentle. Probing. Spidering down the most sensitive parts of your bare lower half, between your thighs, and slowly coaxing you closer to the edge of the sink. Your breath hitched when you saw his head tilt.
He appeared to be deep in thought—a rare sight for anyone who’d seen Joel Miller in the postcoital state. Most every time he’d blown his load before, the man was dead asleep within ten minutes. His joints could barely hold himself upright after a half hour of plowing the back forty, much less carry you, too, so you were puzzled now.
He thumbed at the seam of your cunt, and you whined:
“Jo-el—”
“Can ya…push, baby?” His eyes flitted up quickly.
“Push?”
“Yeah, just…” With a look you couldn’t quite read, he placed the palm of his other hand on your belly. Then, pressing, “Like this. Like you’re squeezin’ somethin’ out.”
You cocked a brow in muted confusion but did as he asked. You watched his gaze, and it stayed on you.
Or, rather, on that soft and pliant spot between your legs the old man seemed to favor so much. On any other occasion, in a position like this, he surely would’ve been wearing a smile. Tonight, his lips curled into a grimace.
And twisted even further when you ‘pushed’ like you did.
At first you felt nothing. A gentle clench of your walls supplied little more than a sense of having been stretched—no novel concept to you, who’d spent the last three-and-a-half months or so getting fucked by the finest AARP affiliate alive most every night. It wasn’t until you clamped down again that you got the feeling there was something else. Something thick and warm and slow as molasses trickling out from between your folds.
You let out a low, tender, ‘Mmph’ without meaning to; it felt kind of nice. Beneath you, Joel’s face turned grave.
He watched as his spend oozed out of your freshly-fucked hole and thought of vasectomies again.
You were young—too young to know better. Too sweet and naïve to see any peril in spreading your legs for a man like him, in a world like this. And Joel swore he’d be careful. But no post-apocalyptic birth control method was perfect, or even close to it, and it was clear he’d relied too heavily on reflexes to keep him from cumming inside you. Joel was old—too old to be doing this shit.
Too grown and well-versed in sex to be making mistakes as stupid as that. His brow pinched in, and he drew his next breath as if the air around him was growing scarce.
“Joel, what’s—”
“When’s the last time you— you— uh…bled?”
Hardly more in control of his face than the rate his heart went thudding in his chest, Joel winced at the end. This time, you were the one to knit your eyebrows together. You could tell by that tight, discomfited tone he wasn’t talking papercuts, but were still unsure of his purpose.
“Like two, two and a half weeks ago. Why?”
Well, fuck.
Joel buried his face in his hands. You scooted closer to the sink’s edge, thinking little of his cum leaking out.
“Why?” you tried again. Softer this time.
An old, weathered head lifted to greet you. It was bleak.
“You see this?” Joel paused. Swiping his finger through the viscous white substance that had trickled out on the counter, in a puddle now, “Y’know what it means, right?”
You let his look, and the question, remain suspended in air for a second. Then another. Then you shrugged.
“Yeah. But…you’re old,” came your answer at length.
You’re old.
Joel and you both knew as much, but the former wasn’t quite following your train of thought. Still wanting to try and mitigate damages while he could, though, Joel reached for the roll of toilet paper that was fastened to the wall and tore himself a strip. He bunched it up and, reaching for one of your knees to spread you further for him, took to daubing the tissue across your entrance.
“What’s me bein’ old got to do with anything?” A little sharp, then, seeing you flinch when he drew too close to your clit, “‘m sorry, baby, just— gotta get this out of you.”
You made a face but let him continue anyway. Your eyes followed each movement of his hand, and reflexively, the muscles in your thighs tightened. Why bother with this when the man has so many better uses for his hands?
For a second, your eyes fluttered half-shut.
“Maria says old folks are, uh…infertile. Got something to do with a middle pause,” you said, breaths labored.
Joel stopped just long enough to shoot you a look.
“Menopause,” he corrected, all too matter-of-fact, before returning to his work, “is a woman thing.”
What the hell were they teaching in Jackson’s sex ed classes, anyway? Then Joel remembered how his brother sincerely believed that women peed out of their vaginas until he was twenty-three, and the thought of you not knowing the ins and outs of male virility wasn’t the most far-fetched idea in the universe. Besides, sexual health wasn’t exactly the community’s highest priority when the world around it was in a perpetual state of decay and hordes of fungus-faced fuckers ran rampant in the wild.
He curved a tender, careful finger against the ring of muscles framing your sex, trying to absorb more cum, and your grip on the edge of the countertop tightened.
“S-So, you—” You swallowed, throat constricting a little too, “You’re sayin’…men can make babies…whenever?”
You sounded so innocent as you said it. Joel wanted nothing more than to club himself over the head for being the cause of this predicament—of being such an instrumental part of the perceived corruption, as it was.
Meanwhile, your head was swimming in filthier thoughts.
Deeper, Joel, keep…pushing in…dee-e-per. You would have scarcely had more luck giving a fuck what Joel was talking about now than if he’d just said the room was on fire. By his voice, you knew you should’ve been paying attention, but the dexterity of his fingers was too much. He was caressing the first couple inches of your inner walls, attempting to scrape what bits of his release he could get unstuck from the flesh, but it seemed he was succeeding mostly in just turning you on. Rendering you deaf to the drone of his words as you pictured him pushing something else inside your tight, throbbing—
“—whole lotta problems for us if you’re, uh…ovulating,” Joel finished, expression taut and oblivious. You hadn’t heard the first part of that sentence and didn’t care to.
“Ovulating,” you repeated slowly. Indifferent.
Joel carried on without a hitch.
“Kids just ain’t fit for this world. I know you know that.”
You nodded along, not hearing a word.
“And if you’re— if y’ever did consider, maybe…”
Your lungs took an extra sharp inhale when Joel’s fingers coaxed out a warm, sticky glob of his load, and he petted your folds with his thumb. Then let out a breath himself.
“…y’oughta start a family with someone your own age—”
That part snagged your attention. Too swiftly, it came:
“My own age?”
Sighing, in spite of those welts of pleasure so heightened by his touch that the space between your legs began to throb and ache. Hardly possessed of more sense to form words that weren’t just echoes of his own, you tried communication from a simpler source—your foot.
You nudged his shoulder, and Joel looked up.
“What?”
“What?”
Parroting was, evidently, a hard habit to kill. Your toes curled into the bare skin of Joel’s shoulder, and when he re-inserted his finger, you ground your heel even deeper.
“When’s that ev…ever stopped us from doing it before, hm?” you said, tone strained but laced with some humor too, “Thought you liked sayin’ you’d make me a mama.”
Joel’s face flooded pink at the recollection—as a matter of fact, there had been several such memories. Instead of answering immediately, he just averted his gaze again. He anchored one hand to your thigh, and with the other teased out another string of your shared arousal before wiping his finger on the tissue, clinically, and repeating. All he had to offer in reply after was: ‘That’s different.’
And it was, to some extent. Joel wasn’t blind to the sea of uneasy looks that trailed behind you both whenever you walked the streets of Jackson together. How wide the eyes would get when instead of observing some filial display of affection play out before them, as expected, you’d loop your arms around his waist and take his lip between your teeth as you kissed—‘Can we please go home now, baby?’—that Joel was certain he’d been cemented as the resident pervert among everyone in town. Just how much worse that reputation was liable to get if there ever happened to be a round and swollen belly between that embrace someday was unthinkable. Dirty talk was one thing; parenthood another entirely.
This is for the best, became the low, grating refrain in his skull. Why he dug so hard, pushed so far inside the wet, velvety interior of your body without a thought for his own desires in that moment; he had to cull every trace of himself out of there, before he had half a chance to think.
“Baby, hey, hey, no—” Joel cut in a second later, abrupt.
No, no, no. You weren’t thinking either. Wrapping your hand around his wrist, pushing his fingers deeper inside.
Smiling a little, too.
“What are you— no, honey, don’t— you can’t,” Joel’s words splintered in every direction, watching you plunge his own index and middle fingers into the slick and the warmth he’d just been trying to get his cum out of. He looked up and saw your lids were heavy, about to close.
“What are you doin’? This ain’t…no, baby, it ain’t…safe.”
Back to sounding like a dad in no time at all.
“What’s wrong with leaving it in a bit longer? Feels nice.”
You had no idea what you were talking about. Joel pulled back on his hand and, in less than a second, had it freed.
“I just told you,” he huffed, “You’re too young—”
“I’m plenty old, Joel,” you returned, eyes snapping open, “You’ve shown me that more times than I can count.”
Joel was silent, stunned. He rose to his feet as your eyes seared holes into his, and for a second, he was uncertain whether to take a step back or reach out for you again.
“Baby…”
To his surprise, something like hurt surfaced behind your eyes. You set your lips in a tighter line, and your grip on the counter grew firmer just the same. He would’ve taken that move as his cue to lean in gently, slot his body between your thighs, and venture an apology of some sort, when the next thing you did stopped him cold.
Without a word, you slipped your free hand between your legs—eyeing Joel closely, almost scornfully, as you did.
You took your middle and ring fingers and sank them into your cunt. Not intending to let a drop of his spend leak out, you wedged them in as far as they’d go. Joel watched. Gawked. Once sufficiently pleased with the look of shock taking over his handsome, aged features, you withdrew the fingers. You brought them up to your mouth, wrapped your lips around the tips, and sucked.
It was a rare thing to get a taste of you and Joel together like this, so you savored it. You moved your mouth further down to drink it all in, peering up with wide, indulgent eyes and a look that was meant to punish.
Feels nice.
Tastes alright, too.
You’d licked the last bit of this glaze off your hand when your stomach clenched. You knew it would happen. Full as you were, you feared your body still hungered for more. As such, it hardly came as a surprise when next your muscles tensed, and you shifted closer to Joel.
“Maybe I don’t want babies with someone my own age.”
Either one of your knees were nudging his hips. Drawing him in. Joel appeared to waver for a second, unsure, but the look on his face made it clear this was mostly a matter of a delayed reaction. He couldn’t get his legs to move because the rest of him was still in awe. Staring at your lips, where the residue of his spend was glistening, then to your eyes, which were no less inviting, then up to the crown of your head and over it, to fix his stare on the mirror behind it. You watched him watch his own reflection with a look that was both hard and unkind, breathing slow. When he didn’t stir from that position after a minute, you touched a hand to his lower stomach.
And, brushing the heel of your palm against what felt like a hundred grey hairs in the old man’s happy trail—your favorite ones—you smoothed a caress along his belly, back and forth, before moving it left. Your hand came to rest on a mound of muscle and fat sitting right above his hip. Love handles, Joel had remarked one morning with vague distaste. Love handles, you’d repeated, beaming. You held on tightly now, appreciatively, and used your well-loved wall of flesh to pull him closer. As with any beckoning of yours, Joel didn’t have so much as half a mind to resist. He did, however, refuse to meet your gaze while you tilted your hips and spread your legs wider, before winding your ankles around the backs of his legs.
“Don’t you think I’d look pretty?” You pouted up at him. Your folds made a light, warm suction rubbing along the front of Joel’s cock—of course he’d grown hard again, and you could hold him, point him down to that wet embrace awaiting him patiently at the edge of the sink.
Joel cursed under his breath.
“‘Course I do…” he said, voice hoarse, “Y’always look—”
“I mean…with your baby inside me, Joel. Right here.”
As if to put a finer point on your words, you nestled the head of his cock inside the first inch of your body. Joel had to seize the laminate underneath you and grit his teeth to keep from letting out a groan too loud. That tip may as well have been a first-rate conductor of heat, and your warmth the thing that might send him spilling again
“You don’t—” Joel choked out, nearly incensed, “—don’t know what the hell you’re sayin’, baby. What that means.”
In truth, there wasn’t a world Joel Miller could imagine where a girl like you could give more than a passing thought to getting knocked up by him—a man his age. What good would it do? You had your whole life laid out before you like a four-course dinner spread; there was no sense whatsoever in letting the meal go to waste on him.
He communicated as much by moving to pull out.
You met the effort with a push of your own, sinking down another inch or two on his shaft and smiling when you saw his eyes roll back in his head at the dizzying friction.
“I know more than enough, old man—” Grin stretching ear-to-ear as you dug your heels in his ass and tugged him deeper, “—who do you think taught me all this?”
Of course, it had been Joel.
Always, always him—the only one, in fact.
Your walls drew him in like a hug. For once, Joel conjured up the strength to take a look between your lower half and his, and when he did, the next moan was inevitable. It trickled through his lips. Your body looked sublime swallowing a third of his cock, and it was almost as though a maggot had crawled into his brain, chanting:
‘Make her full. Make her yours. Tell any man who’d even think of looking her way she belongs to someone else.’
He couldn’t.
Joel would never be so selfish. Just think of her youth.
But when his gaze drifted back to yours, every thought and any word besides seemed gently to melt away. Beneath him, your eyes were two pools of desire.
“You like this…don’t you, Joel?” Your voice was tiny.
“I do.”
In fact, he loved it.
“Then why can’t we?” Why shouldn’t we?
Minuscule now, the words that reached him barely exceeded a whisper. It was as though the moment itself had drained all fear from your face—and out of Joel, all common sense from his brain—leaving you both to stare at the other with shared, stupid, anoetic looks of bliss. The man who had you beat by thirty-odd years seemed nearly of the same mind, with almost identical ignorance.
Idiocy.
“Just once?” Joel croaked.
Somewhere underneath, unseen, you smiled.
“Just one?” you murmured back.
He sank in another inch. When your walls contracted around him, Joel’s hands found your hips by force of habit and pushed your back against the glass behind it. The mirror was cool, and inside you, Joel was throbbing.
“Once,” he repeated, not thinking too deeply.
“One,” you said, with a world of more purpose.
Joel relinquished the last three inches, and with it, all of his resolve. The handsome, scarred, and plainly greying features all twisted as one, and the expression that you knew too well to mean that the man was feeling good took on the slightest hint of guilt. He gripped you tighter.
“One?” Joel panted. Confused.
He pulled out halfway just to find his home again. Your pearly slick mixed together with his spend, and both coated over Joel’s shaft in a pretty, generous sheen.
“One more of you, I mean.” You sounded too sweet. There was no way in hell you’d actually meant it.
Joel’s cheeks flushed again, but he didn’t stop, either.
“Baby…” he trailed off instead. He pushed in, pulled out, felt your tender little hole make an ‘o’ around his shaft, and then he kissed the edge of your left cheek—maybe to rein in the need in his words before he spoke again: “One’a me takes and I’m givin’ ya fifteen more, y’hear?”
The smile he received told him as much as he needed to hear. He probably wouldn’t have believed it even if you’d said the words yourself. Joel’s thrusts sped up, and as the pleasure distended in the pit of his stomach with the friction and the feel, his words flowed a little more freely.
In disbelief, “Wanna be a mama that bad for me, huh?”
Your grin grew bigger. You nodded your head.
“Make your old man a daddy, is that it?”
Exactly. Senseless as it was, your look said it all.
To have slipped between the grooves and ridges of Joel’s brain and caught wind of even a fraction of the things he wanted to do to you then, a smarter girl would have run. Would have shoved him back out as swiftly as she’d let him in and told him no, that’s gross, and gone home. And, had the grey matter floating inside your own skull not been so completely dominated by primal need and wanting, that’s likely what you would have done, too. Instead, with a head full of lewd, youthful stupidity, you seized the black-grey curls dangling at the nape of his neck and drew him closer. You spread your legs wider.
“That is what you’ve wanted this whole time, right?”
Under his scruff, a muscle tensed as Joel bit down.
That’s all he’s ever wanted.
Let the neighbors talk.
Let them say what they wanted to say—it was probably all true to the point they were trying to make, anyway. That Joel was a pervert, of course. That you were naïve, also true. That you would look too good not to stare in a white cotton frock with a bump underneath, absolutely. These were the ideas permeating your brain and his while Joel took a firmer hold of your sides and brought his nose to rest against yours. With every stab of his hips, he pressed kisses to your soft, parted lips, speaking low:
“That what you want, too, darlin’?” More serious now.
The head of his cock nicked a sensitive ridge inside you, eliciting a whimper, but you nodded. You nodded again, feeling the brush of his stubble at your mouth and your chin, and nodded again when he bottomed out, stuffing you tight. It felt a little more momentous than any other time in the past, now that you were picturing a fullness that wasn’t just him. Him and you: a concrete being to soothe the sting of his absence long after Joel withdrew.
Something to stick.
“Please say it, baby.”
Someone to call yours.
“I want it,” you said, sounding desperate.
A coil was just starting to form in the place you felt him. Drifting up, pulling tight, making your eyes go glossy and wide while they stuck to Joel’s and begged him for more.
“Want what?” He sped up, and his thrusts got sloppy.
“Want you,” you breathed, “Inside me, Joel, please.”
As if predicting your next thoughts, the man lowered his hand to your belly. You hadn’t even noticed the smallest bulge had taken shape beneath the skin. Joel slowed, momentarily, then rubbed the base of his palm against the mound where your body was obliged to make room for his cock inside you. He drew soft, tender circles there and, with the motion, sent stars flying before your eyes.
“Good girl,” he murmured, “Right here?”
“Ri— right there. Right there.”
Joel adored that sound. The soft, elated look, the gentle knoll of flesh in a bump below his hand, the whimpers rolling off your tongue repeatedly, quicker and quicker the more the pleasure inside you continued to build. Joel’s release was coming soon, too. For the hundredth time that night, he silently wished he were a little younger; so he could fill you up once, twice, twenty more times until your insides were stuffed and painted white. As if reading his mind, as he had for you, you wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him in for a kiss.
“Hope our baby has your eyes,” you murmured to him.
It shouldn’t have had such a strong effect—but of course, it did. Joel pictured the small, sweet infant with irises that shone a bit like his, and his stomach caved in.
Tonight, tomorrow, or ten months down the line, he was getting you pregnant. He’d clear his whole schedule for it
“That right?” And now he couldn’t stop the smile as he spoke, leaning even further in, “What about their nose?”
He kissed the tip of yours.
“Hope they get this.”
He kissed either one of your cheeks.
“These too.”
You had to fight back a laugh while his scruff tickled skin. Two deep strokes away from the brink of release and he still somehow always stayed in tune with your needs.
The threat of your peak was perilously near. Joel’s spend and your slick, tender glaze made a chorus of sounds at each thrust, and the deeper he went, the bigger it swelled. Your smiles couldn’t stay for much longer when the feeling inside you both was being amplified like that. Sensing this, Joel took hold of your face and slipped his touch to cup your chin. He made you tilt your head up to him, as if to ask again, ‘Are you sure?’ and when you nodded, his lips twitched again. A fleeting hint of a grin, like he couldn’t be more eager to finish now if he tried.
Holding your face, cock swollen and throbbing and desperate between your walls, he felt a familiar twitch.
There it is.
#IN CONCLUSION……….WE MAKIN BABIES#joel miller smut#joel miller x reader#joel miller x you#joel miller imagine#joel miller one shot#joel miller#joel miller tlou#joel miller fic#joel miller fanfiction#joel tlou#the last of us fic
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