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beomiracles · 12 minutes ago

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SQUEE I'M SO SAT FOR THIS ONE,, especially since you've mentioned that the mc is based a lot off of me >.<

First of all, the introduction scene omg. It captures both characters so beautifully, and it creates such a stark contrast between the two!! His gloomy, angry-at-the-world-and-everyone-in-it theme runs so strong. The way he describes mc with such resentment, but but but also a smidge of hidden adoration… You were smiling. Like you’d won something. Like this was a game and he was your opponent. And for the briefest, strangest moment, he forgot how to breathe. Well excuse you then? you’re not slick.

You draw this picture of them being sun and moon, which I really really love — but I can already tell they’re also going to be so similar. They both give off such stubborn vibes. “But I’ll let the insult slide… this time.” She doesn’t care for his insults and still flashes him a smile, and he, despite immature hatred (cough) stays because he refuses to give up the rink.

As always, you started talking. Words spilled from your mouth like marbles from an upturned jar, clattering over every thought you hadn’t had time to process. Aimed. But, whatever… (I love you)

The way she tries to be optimistic even when he’s being a jerk is crazy,, STAND ON BUSINESS GIRL. “He’s just hurt”, no no no we don’t do this around here… (we do). I can’t even be mad at her, I need to just hug her tight I think.

Hello the second scene of them skating together?? It paints his anger and frustration so perfectly, especially the way he reacts to Ruka’s compliments — and the mc, not quite jealous but also not quite okay, like a small small cloud brushing past her shining sun. And when she goes to offer him help?? I love her straightforwardness, and the fact that his cold demeanour literally does nothing to deter her. She knows she’s right and she’s not afraid to let him know either, nor is she afraid of his answer.

I’m not just saying that to be annoying. I mean, I am annoying, but not this time. — god she’s so me what if I just shrivel up into nothing and disappear. No like her consistent rambling… sister I get you, I never know when to shut up and I’m horrible at reading people and realise when they want me to shut up.

TOLD YOU THEY WAS BOTH STUBBORN UHUH. Her pushing him to let her help, and him hating it but refusing to give up.

Ruka what… I actually had hope for her. “She’s actually really depressing.” What if my fist connects with your jaw, then what? That’d be depressing. Sorry I’m get in my feelings over this, but the way she chased him down? Nu-huh.

“Sometimes I wonder if I’m just chasing a spotlight that’ll burn me up before I ever reach it.” THIS LINE IS HARD SO SO HARD. Because how worth it is even success if it leaves you with nothing?? And you worded it so perfectly, I was stuck rereading it a couple of times before moving on I’m so serious.

“Yeah. We talked for hours at his party. I just left from seeing him.” OH BUT YOU DIDN’T OH BUT YOU DID NOTTTTTTTT. Liar liar pants on fire!! She thought uh-huh, her ahh really thought but no no no. and the way mc just accepts it, doesn’t burst her bubble — it’s like being edged but in the most satisfactory way possible, like I just know this climax is gonna be so good.

The kiss caught me so off guard holy hell— I had to do a double take to make sure I even read it right. But it fits the moment so well! He’s finally gotten to where they have been working toward for so long, and his smile squeee >_< the way her breath catches at the sight, like girl mine would too, and then she just leans in to kiss him. I LOVE WHEN THE WOMAN TAKES INITIATIVE. — but omh, then he doesn’t kiss her back?? My heart dropped again and I literally held my breath for a good thirty seconds until I read that he did in fact kiss her, but their kisses were so different, and so perfect. Then the fact that they just go back to skating like nothing happened? But we all know it’s on both of their minds… THE TENSION it’s actually killing me what the hell.

Sunghoon defending her. I’m floored. eff that effing bitch who showed up at his house, and even more so for trying to spread lies and poison all over sunghoon and mc.

The cold kiss of the arena hit Sunghoon the moment he stepped through the doors, but it felt different now, less like an echo of pain and more like a memory rediscovered. — this is the moment he finds himself again idc idc idc I can feel it in my toes. “I’m done wasting time with that ballerina on ice.” Take that back. Right now.

Ruka gots to have a sixth sense or something, or she’s just a stalker because why is she there when shit goes down?? Always ready to twist and turn every single word and action and grind it into poison to feed others.

“You think I don’t know what it’s like to want something that bad?” You laughed, but it came out brittle and sharp. “To work every night until your legs give out? To fall and fall and fall and keep getting up? I gave everything to this. To the ice. To you.” Tears spilled hot down your cheeks, and you hated how fast they came, how they betrayed the tremor in your heart. Okay pause, this entire montage is so so so important I feel. Because it really highlights the mc as something we haven’t seen before in the fic. She’s always been portrayed as bubbly yet indifferent when it comes to critique and negative comments/things that should offend her. But this scene really highlights her actual feelings, the hurt and most importantly the anger that she’s always kept buried. It really shows more, if not all of her and it deepens her character immensely imo, and I love her for always being so kind and forgiving, but it’s about time she clapped back, even to Sunghoon.

Communication is so key, I love their honest and open conversation toward the very end. It’s mature but it’s also so raw because he’s really giving himself completely to her. It ties the story perfectly together and it really shows just how much she’s influenced him to believe in things he never thought to be possible before, and I’m talking both his hockey playing and love.

So my final thoughts — and I have many, because I, too, can never shut up. Ruka is honestly a much more complex character than what I think a lot of people might say. We don’t know much about her when you really think about it, which is why I really want to highlight the scene where she stands outside the rink and witnesses their kiss. It’s the only time we actually get a glimpse into her mind and honestly, it’s quite sad. You can practically feel her longing and her desperation, she’s been pining after a man who’s not once glanced her way. She knows so much about Sunghoon, she’s taken time to study him and to learn him and yet he has no idea who she even is. Then mc just swoops in, loud and in many ways so much more confident than Ruka is. Of course it hurts to see someone so easily outshine you, and it feels unfair when they get the very thing you’ve been craving for so long. In the beginning she admits to having a crush on Sunghoon and mc replies “well that makes one of us” implying that she held no feelings for sunghoon (which back then was true), but to then see mc kissing him only weeks later… I can imagine that must feel horrible. Does it excuse her actions in any way? HELL NO. she’s a lying and manipulating character but also so important to keep the plot going forward, still I think she’s perfectly written, especially since we as a reader develop such hatred for her. As for Sunghoon he’s like a literal ice block. But as the story progresses his character is the one that undergoes the most changes, much like ice melting under sun (in the case the reader) the metaphors are so spot on and it makes the fic come to life completely. He’s just as stubborn as the mc is, which makes their push and pull dynamic work so perfectly, and his character also highlights important struggles people face daily, especially in sport. I can recognise myself in his character that way because my own sport has made me feel like complete shit more than once, and injures are one of the biggest setbacks not to mention confidence knocks. So I think his growth as a person, not only in the way he is with mc but his passion for his own sport, is so important and well done her. Lastly the mc… she’s my baby idc. I feel like I’m actually her. I know you said you’ve already taken a lot of inspiration when creating her bubbly and constantly-talking-without-taking-a-second-to-catch-her-breath persona, but I still really felt like I could connect and relate to her as I was reading. The whole background with her falling at a big competition (excuse me but I’ve already forgotten the proper name of it) is such an important detail because it adds so much depth to a character that could otherwise be brushed off and categorised as “loud” or “bubbly”. But her past shows that she’s went through so much, yet she stands to this day and doesn’t fault herself nor the world for the misfortunes she’s experienced. It makes her not only a great character, but someone compatible to sunghoon since she’s experienced something similar to what he is going through right now.

In all the fic is so perfectly paced and written, from the metaphors to the feelings unraveling between the main characters, nothing felt out of place and the world felt alive and moving with each scene. It didn’t feel like 25k and I was genuinely confused when I got to the end because I thought I had at least another 5k to go. A lot of things took me by surprise but they also all made sense in the end PLUS they kept me on my toes as I was reading. Ugh rain u’re so talented when will it ever end???

FROSTBITE p.sh

synopsis ⤑ Sunghoon’s injury was comparable to the end of the world, at least for him it was. Having not been cleared in time to start practice with his team, Sunghoon is stuck practicing alone after hours, except he's not alone. Forced to share the rink with the practicing figure skaters was his version of hell, especially when one of them couldn't shut up about the fact that the world was their oyster and taking a positive look on life was the only way to live? How could he be positive when the only thing that made him happy was taken away from him. She had felt like frostbite sinking into his skin. Frostbite was quick, it stung and then it killed before you could even see it coming.

pairings ⤑ hockey player!sunghoon x figure skater!reader word count ⤑ 25k

warnings ⤑ smut, mentions of injury, grumpy x sunshine, ft. Ruka from baby monster, angst, probably more I'm missing...reader is heavily inspired by my yapping baby @beomiracles (serene).

crossing the line masterlist here.

Prologue.

Sunghoon walked into the rink like a fallen prince returning to a ruined kingdom.

The cold welcomed him. Not with open arms, but with teeth. It bit through the seams of his hoodie, gnawed at the edges of his breath, and curled around the ache in his knee like a reminder. The air here was always sharp, always clean, always brimming with the promise of speed and sweat and glory. But tonight, it only felt hollow. Like an echo of the past, stretched thin over the bones of now. His blades scraped against the ice with a sound that used to thrill him. Now it felt surgical, sterile, like a scalpel carving open the truth he couldn’t avoid.

He wasn’t on the team. Not really. Not anymore. Not while he recovered. And to Sunghoon, that meant the end of the world. Not playing hockey was his apocalypse. Jay said he needed time. Coach Bennett had nodded, voice clipped and clinical, masking the decision behind phrases like “risk mitigation” and “long-term recovery.” But Sunghoon knew what it meant: they didn’t trust his body, and maybe just maybe they didn’t trust him. What a load of bullshit. Sunghoon could play through the pain. He’s done it before. He wasn’t one to shy away from a little leg injury. Who cares, he’d push through. That’s what real pros did and Sunghoon would be a real pro one day.

He clenched his jaw as the thought burned through him. His knee twinged again, and he tried not to limp, tried to walk like it didn’t hurt, tried to be the player he used to be. Every movement felt like a performance for an audience that had already left the theater. And then he heard it. A laugh. Light and lilted, drifting through the rink like glitter in a snow globe. He didn’t need to turn to know who it belonged to.

The figure skaters were still here. Of course they were. Sunghoon let out a groan, loud enough to be heard, sharp enough to cut. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered. She was the worst of them. Not in talent, but in spirit. Always smiling, always talking like life was some golden sunrise just waiting to be kissed. She had that annoying, relentless optimism, the kind that made Sunghoon’s blood itch. It wasn't just naive — it was offensive. Especially to someone like him, whose world had cracked open and swallowed him whole. How can someone look at the world and life and all that it offers and be happy about that? Life chewed you up and spit you out like old gum whenever it had the chance.

She was all light. He was the void that light avoided. Still, she twirled like the world had never wronged her. Every glide, every spin, every leap across the ice was effortless. She was a poem written in motion. And somehow, her presence made the silence of his isolation scream louder. He dragged a puck across the rink, his stick slicing through the quiet like a blade. The sound was dull, defeated. She didn’t leave. Of course not. She was too kind or too stubborn or too oblivious to understand that he didn’t want to share this place. Not with anyone. Especially not her. She skated past, the breeze of her motion catching his hoodie, lifting it for a fraction of a second. She left behind a sentence as light as her blades: “Pretty night, huh? Ice looks good.”

Sunghoon didn’t respond.

Not because he hadn’t heard, but because he had. Her voice sank beneath his skin like snowmelt — cold, but oddly soft. He hated that about her. Hated how she turned everything into beauty. How she made it look easy. But figure skaters didn’t know what it was to fall and stay broken. They didn’t know what it was to wake every day and feel your identity splinter under your ribs. They didn’t know how it felt to sit in the stands while your teammates practiced without you. Laughed without you. Moved on without you.

He looked at her then, really looked. And for a moment, he thought of frostbite.

Not because she was cold, but because she was warm — the kind of warm you feel right before the skin goes numb. Right before the blood stops moving. Right before the damage sets in. She had felt like that from the start. Quick. Unexpected. Beautiful.

And by the time he noticed her, by the time he realized she was changing something in him, it was already too late.

After.

Sunghoon didn’t look at you again. Not when you moved like a falling star tracing soft-burning arcs in a frozen sky. Not when your laughter spilled into the rafters, bright as windchimes caught in a spring storm. Not even when you passed close enough for your perfume, warm citrus and something he couldn’t name to slip beneath his guard and settle in his lungs like memory. He focused instead on his own rhythm. On fury and fire, on the merciless repetition of sprints. Forward, brake. Backward, pivot. Turn. Drive. His blades carved the ice with the same fury that burned behind his eyes, every motion a prayer to reclaim what he’d lost.

Jay said he wasn’t ready. Coach Bennett nodded like a verdict had been passed, and just like that, his kingdom of ice and glory had crumbled beneath him. Now, he ran drills alone in the shadow-hours, a ghost trying to resurrect himself one sharp breath at a time. This was supposed to be penance. Precision. Control. But then there was you.

You weren’t supposed to be here. Not really. Not like that. Not with your reckless grace and your endless optimism. You spun where he sprinted. You leapt where he lunged. And you smiled like life hadn’t carved a hole in your chest and left you breathless in the wreckage. You were a contradiction. Light in a place he’d turned dark on purpose.

Still, he moved around you. Like a storm steering around a cathedral. Like a soldier tiptoeing through a garden he didn’t believe in. Until you skated into his path. He didn’t see you at first, he was locked in the repetition, the heartbeat-thunder of his blades slicing the world into before and after. But then, there you were, gliding in without hesitation, your body all poetry and provocation.

Sunghoon veered, instinct sharp and immediate. His edge caught. Balance tipped. His world lurched and for one heart-clenching second, he was weightless and helpless and human. He caught himself on the boards with a sharp breath, pain flashing down his leg like a warning flare. Behind him, your voice rose, bright, amused, infuriating.

“That was a triple lutz of fury. You okay, Mr. Thundercloud?” He turned slowly, every muscle tight with the effort not to snap.

“This is a hockey rink,” he bit out, eyes dark, voice heavy with disdain. “Not a ballerina recital.”

You just grinned, like you hadn’t heard the venom — or worse, didn’t care. “It’s called figure skating,” you replied, the words wrapped in sunlight and sarcasm. “But I’ll let the insult slide… this time.” He stared at you for a beat too long. You were smiling. Like you’d won something. Like this was a game and he was your opponent. And for the briefest, strangest moment, he forgot how to breathe.

Then he scoffed under his breath, muttered something bitter and small, and pushed off again away from your voice, your grin, your golden defiance. But your laughter followed him across the ice, light as snowfall, impossible to ignore. He skated harder. Faster. Angry at the sound. Angrier at the way it stayed. You were the flame he never meant to touch. But you’d already left blisters behind.

The house loomed before him, golden-lit and quiet in the blue hush of evening. Sunghoon stepped across the threshold like a soldier returning from war, though the battlefield had only been frozen water and a girl who laughed like she belonged to the light. He limped. Not dramatically he would never allow that but enough that each step sent sparks of fire through his knee. His leg was screaming, a symphony of torn sinew and stubborn pride. He didn’t slow. Wouldn’t. Not for pain. Not for anyone.

The frat house was unusually still for a Friday night. No bass shaking the walls. No shouted dares or the sound of someone racing through the halls with a fire extinguisher again. Just a soft, echoing quiet that pressed against the walls like an old quilt — threadbare, familiar. Heeseung was probably with his girlfriend, tangled up in the kind of love that softened even his sharpest sarcasm. And Jake, well, Jake had been quieter lately too. Ever since his girlfriend’s due date began casting long shadows across his smile. The house had learned to tiptoe around anticipation, around the hush of something sacred arriving.

Sometimes Jay played his guitar in the evenings, those bittersweet chords bleeding down the stairs like spilled wine. But tonight, there was no music. Only the faint crackle of something cooking and the rhythmic clink of a wooden spoon against a pot. Sunghoon followed the scent to the kitchen, where Jay stood at the stove in a hoodie and sweatpants, sleeves pushed to his elbows, stirring something that smelled warm and nostalgic, tomato sauce, maybe. Garlic. Something close to comfort.

Jay glanced up, eyes flicking to the limp before Sunghoon could hide it. “You okay?” he asked, brow creasing. “You’re pushing too hard again. You need to slow down.”

Sunghoon’s jaw clenched. The words hit like cold water, shocking, unwelcome. He dropped his stick against the wall with a dull thunk, the sound far too final. “I don’t need your concern,” he snapped, voice low, bitter. “And I sure as hell don’t need advice from the guy who kicked me off the team.”

Jay’s stirring paused. The kitchen seemed to hold its breath. “You weren’t kicked off,” Jay said carefully, like choosing the wrong word might light a fuse. “It’s a recovery period. You know that. It’s just protocol—”

“Protocol?” Sunghoon echoed, a scoff splitting the word in two. “You think I care what the official term is? You benched me, Jay. You and Coach. And now you want to play big brother?” Jay turned fully now, eyes steady but tired. “It’s not about playing anything. I care, Sunghoon. That’s why we’re doing this. You’re not ready yet.”

“You don’t get to decide that.”

“Someone has to.”

There it was. The truth, bare and blunt. And it cracked something in Sunghoon, something already splintered beneath the surface. He stepped back, breath short, throat tight with all the things he didn’t want to admit: that the rink didn’t feel the same, that he wasn’t sure he’d ever skate like he used to, that you haunted the corners of his mind like a flame that refused to go out. He turned on his heel, ignoring the flare of pain that shot up his leg. “Whatever. Just—keep your advice to yourself.”

And then he was out of the kitchen, storming up the stairs two at a time like he could leave the conversation behind if he moved fast enough. The pain chased him anyway. At the top of the landing, he paused, one hand on the railing, the other clenched into a fist. The house was silent again. Jay hadn’t followed. The scent of sauce still lingered, but it no longer smelled like comfort. It smelled like a life that was continuing without him.

He exhaled shakily. And behind his eyes, he saw the rink. Saw you. Spinning like the world was made of light. Smiling like you’d never been broken. He hated that it stayed with him. Hated it more that he wanted it to.

Your dorm room was warm in the way a lived-in space should be. Golden light pooled against the far wall like honey, slanting through the blinds in stripes, soft and sleepy. The hum of a quiet Friday night filtered in through the window, distant laughter, footsteps echoing down the hall, the occasional door creak or hallway chatter swallowed by plaster walls.

Ruka was where she always was at this hour, curled up at her desk like a monk in silent study, her headphones draped loosely around her neck, textbooks spread like sacred offerings across the surface. She barely glanced up when you opened the door, nose buried in something with a terrifying title, highlighter held like a dagger mid-stroke. You didn’t mind.

The two of you weren’t close, not in the way girls braided hair and whispered secrets into pillows at three in the morning. But there was a quiet kind of companionship in coexisting. She listened. You filled the air. She was younger than you, ran with a different crowd.

As always, you started talking. Words spilled from your mouth like marbles from an upturned jar, clattering over every thought you hadn’t had time to process. You flopped onto your bed and kicked off your shoes, legs hanging over the side like punctuation. “I swear the rink was cursed today. I could feel it in the air — like the ghosts of last season were judging me. And someone — won’t name names — almost ran me over. Again. Do I have a sign on my back that says ‘human speed bump’? Honestly, it’s impressive how fast he moves for someone with a busted knee. Like, hello? Take a nap, eat a granola bar, embrace mortality or something—”

You paused to take a breath, dragging your fingers through your hair. “Anyway,” you continued, flopping dramatically onto your back, staring up at the ceiling as if it held answers. “I survived. Mostly. Though Park Sunghoon nearly gave me frostbite with just a look. I swear, I’ve never seen someone skate like they’re mad at God.” That was when Ruka looked up.

It was subtle — a tilt of the head, a flicker of curiosity beneath her steady gaze. But you caught it. The way her highlighter froze mid-air. The way one perfectly arched brow quirked in delicate, deliberate motion. “Wait,” she said slowly, voice soft but edged with intrigue. “Park Sunghoon?”

You blinked, propping yourself up on your elbows. “Yeah?”

“The hockey player?”

You nodded, slower this time, as if each motion unlocked some hidden meaning. A small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, so rare and quiet it felt like catching a butterfly mid-flight. “He’s really cute,” she said simply. “I kind of have a crush on him.” And just like that, the air shifted.

Not drastically, no thunderclap, no sudden gust, but in the way a still lake ripples when someone tosses a stone. The world tilted a few degrees. You stared at her. Not out of disbelief, but in the strange, dissonant surprise that came from hearing someone else say his name with softness instead of frustration. Because you had only ever spoken of Sunghoon with fire in your voice. Sharp-edged. Wry. Annoyed, mostly.

But Ruka’s words were wrapped in ribbon. Gentle. Blushing. You laughed, more to yourself than at her. “Well, that makes one of us.”

She looked at you then, really looked, head tilted, eyes curious. “You don’t think he’s cute?” You hesitated. The thing was… you didn’t know. Not really. He was all sharp lines and silent storms, the kind of boy who walked like he didn’t belong to the earth. Beautiful, maybe, but in the way wolves were, wild, cold, untouchable.

“I think,” you said finally, drawing each word like a thread between your fingers, “he’s complicated.”

Ruka smiled again, turning back to her textbook with a knowing kind of grace. “Those usually are.” And just like that, the moment passed. She was back to her quiet, and you were left staring at the ceiling again, wondering when his name had started tasting different in your mouth. Like something that might linger. Like something that might matter.

Monday morning clung to the world like a yawn that never quite finished. The sky was that dreamy kind of blue, the color of notebook margins and sleepy eyes, and you were already two sips into your iced coffee, pretending it had magical properties. Your lecture hall buzzed softly with life, pages flipping, keyboards clacking, the distant groan of someone remembering they had a quiz. You sank into your seat and opened your laptop, but your fingers hovered above the keys like dancers unsure of the next step. Your mind? Miles away. Lost somewhere between calculus and chaos.

“Okay,” you whispered to yourself, drawing shapes in the condensation on your cup. “Finals are coming. Sure. Death approaches in a syllabus-shaped cloak. But we’re gonna be fine. We’ve survived worse. Like that chem lab last semester. Or the time you accidentally locked yourself in the practice rink because you thought the red button opened the door. That was fun.” You laughed a little to yourself, a soft musical thing, then added quietly, “Sharing a rink with Park Sunghoon? Pfft. Easy. He’s just one very grumpy man with a stick. It’s basically like living with a thunderstorm. Moody, loud, and occasionally electric — but you bring an umbrella and move on.”

You told yourself this because optimism was your armor. Because the world was already heavy enough, and if you didn’t keep spinning, you feared you’d sink. And besides, you liked spinning. You liked believing that everything, in its own way, would bloom eventually. Your fingers tapped absent-mindedly on your notebook. You were mid-thought — something about figuring out a study schedule, maybe, with your chin resting in your hand, your eyes soft and unfocused, when the air in the room shifted.

Louder voices broke through the usual murmur like a crack of thunder across calm skies. You blinked, sat up straighter. At the back of the lecture hall, four silhouettes gathered in a tight circle. You recognized them instantly. Jay’s dark hair, Jake’s easy posture, Heeseung’s lazy slouch. And Sunghoon, standing like a blade half-drawn from its sheath, tension coiled in every muscle. Their voices weren’t loud loud, but they carried.

“I told you, I’m fine,” Sunghoon bit out, arms crossed like a shield. “You’re treating me like I’ve lost a leg.” Jay said something quieter — calmer — but you couldn’t make out the words. Sunghoon shook his head, jaw clenched.

“I’m not some kid who needs babysitting. I could be out there with you. But instead? I’m stuck skating in circles with the goddamn figure skaters.” The words hit like a slap. No warning. No mercy. You blinked once. Twice. You looked down at your notebook, at the spirals you’d been doodling that suddenly looked like a fall. Like something unraveling.

You weren’t surprised, not really. Not when you’d seen the anger in his shoulders, the way he moved like something had been carved out of him. Grief in motion. Frustration dressed in skates and scowls. Still, hearing it out loud… hurt. Just a little. Like biting into something sweet and finding the bitter underneath.

You forced a smile. Told yourself, He’s just mad. Just hurting. And people in pain say things they don’t mean. You knew that. You’d always known that. So you tucked the ache somewhere deep, beneath the layers of warmth you wrapped around your heart every day. You held your chin a little higher. Kept the sunshine burning in your chest even when the clouds gathered.

Because that’s what you did. You stayed soft. You stayed bright. Even when the world gave you every reason not to. You glanced back at them one more time, just long enough to catch the storm still brewing in his eyes. Then you turned away. And smiled again. Even though this one didn’t quite reach your eyes.

The late afternoon folded over the campus like a well-worn quilt, stitched in gold and quiet. Shadows stretched long and slow across the sidewalks, and the sky blushed softly, unsure whether it wanted to be day or night. You walked back to your dorm with your headphones on but no music playing, just the hush of your own thoughts echoing in the space between footsteps and fading sunlight.

The building was its usual self: scuffed floors, sleepy corridors, the scent of someone's attempt at instant noodles clinging to the stairwell air. You climbed the steps like you always did, counting them beneath your breath like charms.

One, two, three, four—everything will be fine.

Five, six, seven—you're stronger than this.

Eight, nine—just lace your skates and keep moving.

Your key clicked into the lock, the door creaked open, and — Silence. Stillness, not unfamiliar, but… different. Ruka’s side of the room sat in its usual state of meticulous calm. Bed made like a hotel sheet ad, her books aligned like soldiers on her desk. But the chair was empty. Her headphones were gone. Her little desk lamp, usually the only star in your shared little galaxy was off. Your brows furrowed. She wasn’t the type to vanish without a trace. She was quiet, sure. Steady as a heartbeat. But dependable as gravity. On Saturdays, she studied. With her color-coded notes and an herbal tea steaming gently beside her elbow. A ritual. A rhythm.

You dropped your bag onto your bed and stood for a moment, frozen between thoughts. The silence was thick, pressing at your ears like water, and you almost called out her name, just to hear a sound bounce back. But you didn’t. You let it go. People have lives. Maybe she went out. Maybe someone swept her into a spontaneous adventure, a brief rebellion against her usual constellations. Maybe she just needed to breathe outside these four walls. You told yourself all of this, gently, while pulling open your bottom drawer.

Inside, your skates gleamed dully in the late-day light, blades catching the edge of dusk. You ran your fingers over the laces, the leather warm from where your dreams lived inside them. Then you pulled out your duffel, began packing with practiced hands, pads, gloves, that ridiculous fleece-lined jacket you never actually wore but always brought just in case. Each item folded like a promise. Each zipper, a punctuation mark. Each movement, a ritual. This is how we prepare. This is how we carry on.

You glanced again at Ruka’s desk as you slung the bag over your shoulder, something quiet fluttering in your chest. Not quite worry, not quite longing. Just the awareness that something familiar had gone just a little bit strange.

You left the dorm with that feeling trailing behind you like a thread, caught in the breeze of your footsteps. Outside, the sky was starting to darken. Time to skate. Time to shine.

Even if someone else’s words still echoed like bruises in the back of your mind.

The rink was a cathedral of echoes when you arrived, cold light spilling from the overheads like moonlight dragged down to earth. You stepped through the side door with your duffel swinging low and your breath fogging in the air, a silent offering to the frozen gods of routine. The chill kissed your cheeks the moment you entered, familiar and unbothered by your presence. The ice welcomed you without question unlike the boy skating circles at the far end of the rink, cutting lines through frost like he was angry at the surface itself.

Park Sunghoon.

You saw him the moment you stepped through the arch of metal and fluorescent glow. Sharp lines of movement, precise but edged with frustration, like a dancer trying to turn fury into choreography. He didn’t look up. Of course, he didn’t. You might as well have been a ghost to him, a passing flicker in his periphery. And still… his words from this morning clung to you like fog to a mirror. “I’m stuck skating in circles with the goddamn figure skaters.”

You could’ve held onto that. Let it curdle in your chest. But you didn’t. You’d already chosen to let it melt like frost under sunlight. Because that was how you survived people like him, people with cold hearts and stormy eyes. You stayed warm. You stayed soft. Gooey, like a cookie. Even if his silence sliced like wind over bare skin.

You moved toward the bench in the corner, began lacing your skates with steady fingers. A familiar rhythm. Loop. Pull. Loop. Pull. You took a deep breath. Told yourself that the ice was still yours. That joy could still be found here. And then you stepped onto it. The rink hummed beneath your blades. You skated a gentle warm-up, smooth glides and soft turns, tracing patterns in silence like a painter laying down the first strokes of something that might become beautiful. You didn’t look at him. Not really. But you felt him, like a shadow trailing just out of view.

He kept his distance. Good. Let him.

You spun into your routine, finding the quiet joy in motion again. Practicing your turns, letting momentum carry you like a whispered secret. And then, a voice loud and shrill broke the icy silence between you two. “WOO! GO, SUNGHOON!” Your skate caught slightly on the edge of your turn, not enough to fall, but enough to blink you out of your trance. You slowed to a glide, turning toward the source.

There, in the bleachers near the glass, waving like she was at a concert and not a cold, half-empty rink, was none other than Ruka. Your brows lifted before you could stop them. She had swapped her usual hoodie-and-headphones look for something more casual-cute. Perched on the edge of the seat like a cat in a sunbeam. And her eyes? They were locked onto Sunghoon like he was something out of a dream she’d once dared to whisper aloud.

“Come on, you look great out there!” she called, clapping. “That last sprint? Totally NHL-worthy!” You blinked. Slowly. Sunghoon, mid-stride, skidded slightly, his jaw ticking as he looked over at her. Not a smile. Not a nod. Just the sharp exhale of a man who’d rather be anywhere else. His annoyance was visible in the set of his shoulders, the way he stared past her like she was fog on the glass, there but inconvenient.

Your heart tilted sideways in your chest. Not because of the awkwardness. Not because Ruka was cheering for the very boy who had called your world a joke in a voice laced with disdain. But because you saw him. You saw how he stiffened under her praise, how his skates moved sharper, faster, like he was trying to outskate her words. Like kindness grated on him more than silence. Like admiration was a language he didn’t know how to read.

You stayed still for a moment, one hand on your hip, the other brushing a strand of hair from your eyes. You watched the way he avoided your gaze with deliberate precision. Like even eye contact might unravel him. Then you took a breath. Pushed off. Returned to your own practice.

Because the ice didn’t belong to him. And your light didn’t need permission to shine.

Still, as you skated, you felt something settle into your bones. Not quite sadness. Not quite jealousy. Just… the sharp awareness that everyone wore masks. Even the ones who scowled at sunshine and rolled their eyes at laughter. Especially them.

The hours unfurled like ribbons across the ice, silver and slow. You and Sunghoon spun your separate galaxies across the same frozen sky, orbiting each other in careful silence. His skates tore into the rink with force, blades slicing like twin swords, while yours curved and dipped with the grace of moonlight slipping through branches. He was precision and thunder. You were rhythm and light.

You didn’t speak. Not once. But you felt him. And somehow, that was worse. Every time he passed, your chest tightened just a little, remembering the way his voice had clipped those words this morning, how he’d tossed your world aside with a single breath. But the cold has a way of preserving more than just bruises; it clears the mind, too. By the time practice wound to a close, your hurt had melted into determination, soft and fierce.

The locker room door creaked as you stepped off the ice. And there he was, Sunghoon, perched on the bench like a statue carved from winter itself. He sat hunched over his skates, fingers tugging sharply at the laces, his jaw tight, sweat painting constellations at his temple. You watched him for a beat. The way his leg trembled slightly. The sharp inhale when he shifted. Pain. Not just ghost pain, not the phantom ache of healing. Real. Present.

Your eyes narrowed, and the words came out before you could swallow them. “You’re doing it wrong,” you said, stepping forward, breath curling in the cold.

Sunghoon didn’t look up. “Doing what wrong?”

“Your stride,” you said, matter-of-fact but warm, like you were offering a cup of tea to a frostbitten soul. “That’s why your leg still hurts so bad. Your form’s all off.”

He finally glanced at you, those glacier eyes narrowing, irritation flickering just behind them like lightning beneath snowclouds. “I’m what?”

“You’re playing wrong,” you repeated, standing tall despite your worn skates, your cheeks pink from the chill and adrenaline. “You’re putting too much pressure on the outer part of your knee when you push off. You’re compensating for the pain, which is making it worse.”

He scoffed. “And you’re what, a doctor now?”

“Nope.” You smiled, brightly, undeterred. “Just someone who’s fallen on her ass about a thousand times. Figure skaters crash constantly, but we know how to angle our bodies so the impact spreads. It’s all physics. Leverage. Balance. Control.” He looked back down at his skates, tugging harder now, the muscle in his forearm twitching.

“I can help you, if you want,” you offered, genuine, hopeful, stubborn. “Just with the angles. Not to overstep. Just to help you skate without pain.” He didn’t answer right away. For a heartbeat, you thought maybe — just maybe — he was considering it. That something in his storm-cloud gaze might soften. Then he snorted. “No thanks, Sunshine.”

The nickname was sharp, but not cruel. More like a brush-off wrapped in thin sarcasm, tossed over his shoulder like a towel. He stood, grabbed his jacket, and limped toward the exit, each step radiating quiet fury. You watched him go, your hands still resting on your hips, heart stung but not shattered. Because here’s the thing about sunshine. It doesn’t need permission to rise. It just does.

So you exhaled. Smiled again, just for yourself. And whispered under your breath like a promise: “Tomorrow, then.” Because you weren’t done. Not even close. The ice hadn’t melted between you yet.

You slipped through the dorm door with your skates still swinging from your shoulder, the scent of cold clinging to your hair like snowflakes that refused to melt. The hallway was dim, the kind of golden hush that only existed in the sliver of hours between late afternoon and true evening, and the air in your room felt just a degree warmer than the rink, barely but enough to sting your fingers with returning blood. And there she was.

Ruka. Curled cross-legged on her bed, laptop open, notebooks spread like wings around her. Her hair was tucked into a low bun, earbuds in, and she was scribbling something down with a pencil that had been chewed nearly to death. For a moment, you paused in the doorway. Something felt…off. Not visibly. Not loudly. But you knew people the way skaters knew their balance points — by instinct. You could feel when someone had shifted, even if they looked the same. She didn’t look up when you came in.

Still, you offered a bright little sigh, a soft smile breaking across your face like morning light spilling across your pillow. “Hey, you disappeared before I left the rink.” You tossed your bag gently onto the floor and began tugging off your coat, the fabric whispering across your skin. “Didn’t even hear you leave. Were you skating again?” You played dumb, of course.

Ruka blinked at her notebook, then slowly pulled an earbud free. Her eyes met yours. cool, calm, unreadable. “I wasn’t skating,” she said simply.

You tilted your head, fingers pausing mid-zip on your hoodie. “Oh. So… what were you doing there?”

it was a harmless question. Light as air. But her answer landed like a stone. “Just watching.” She turned back to her notes like punctuation, and you blinked. Something in her voice had been dipped in frost. Not biting, but distant. Measured. Not her usual soft-spoken stillness, the kind that let you chatter through silences without ever feeling unwelcome. No—this was different. This was cold. You stood there for a beat, hoodie half unzipped, heart tilting a little sideways.

“Right,” you said, voice laced in artificial warmth. “That’s cool. I didn’t know you were a fan of the rink.” Ruka didn’t reply.

You let out a little laugh, quiet, the kind that fills a space just to prove you still can. And then, still smiling, you crossed the room and sat on your bed, your bones aching from practice, your mind unraveling in quiet questions. You didn’t press. You didn’t pry. That wasn’t your way.

But you thought about the way she had cheered earlier, about how her voice had filled the cold air with warmth meant for someone else. You thought about Sunghoon, skating like he could outrun something, and the way her gaze had followed him like he was the sun she’d never dared look at before. You lay back against the pillow, eyes on the ceiling. Sometimes, things shift before you see them coming. And sometimes, people surprise you in the quietest ways.

But still, you stayed kind. Stayed bright. Because even if the room was colder than you remembered, you refused to stop being the warmth.

The night had softened by the time Sunghoon made it back to the house, the sky bruised with the fading violet of dusk, and the air bit at his skin like it resented his stubbornness. His leg burned. Not the sharp, immediate pain of an old injury flaring, but the deep, heavy ache of something being pushed past its breaking point. Again.

The front door creaked open under his weight, and the warmth of the frat house spilled over him like syrup. thick and too sweet. Familiar voices tangled together just past the hallway. Laughter. The clink of plates. The low strum of Jay’s voice. He almost turned around. But pride is a chain wrapped around the ribs. And his wouldn’t let go. He stepped inside.

The living room glowed gold, lit by the low hum of lamplight and the occasional flicker of the muted TV. Jay was leaned back on the couch, an open water bottle in hand, while Jake sat beside his very pregnant girlfriend, who had her feet propped up on a pillow. Her belly rose like a gentle tide beneath her sweater, and her eyes shone with that ever-glowing light. soft, observant, and infinitely kind. Three heads turned as Sunghoon limped through the door, his hoodie half-zipped and damp with leftover sweat from practice.

“You’re limping worse than yesterday,” Jay said, always the captain, always the voice of reason.

Jake chimed in a beat later, his brows drawn in concern. “Why won’t you just rest, man? You’re not gonna heal if you keep pushing like this.” Sunghoon dropped his gear by the door with a heavy thud, his jaw tight, the pain crawling up his leg like a storm trying to find a place to land.

“I’m fine,” he gritted out, not looking at them. “I don’t need a lecture.”

Jay sighed, the sound edged with exhaustion. “It’s not a lecture, Hoon. It’s basic logic. You’re tearing yourself up out there. You think Coach Bennett’ll let you back in if you break yourself completely?”

Sunghoon turned, irritation flashing sharp and raw in his eyes. “I wouldn’t be ‘breaking’ if you hadn’t pulled me off the ice in the first place.”

“You’re not off the team,” Jay replied calmly, setting his bottle down. “You’re on a required recovery period.”

“The same thing,” Sunghoon snapped. “Don’t split hairs.”

A quiet cough cut through the tension, and Jake’s girlfriend — sweet as spring rain — shifted a little on the couch. “I think what they’re trying to say is… maybe listening to your body isn’t the worst idea,” she said gently, her voice like a balm. “I mean, sometimes we think we’re fine just because we want to be.”

It should’ve landed like comfort. But it struck like a match. “Mind your business,” Sunghoon said sharply, the words out before he could call them back. The room froze.

Jake’s head snapped around, his eyes flaring. “Hey. Don’t talk to my girl like that.” The silence that followed was molten. Sunghoon’s anger flickered, dimmed, and died out in a single breath. He stared at the floor, guilt pooling heavy in his chest like sleet.

“I didn’t mean…” His voice cracked, quieter now. “Sorry. That was—stupid. I’m sorry.” Jake’s girlfriend gave him a small, understanding smile. She always forgave too easily. That only made it worse.

Sunghoon grabbed his water bottle and turned away, shoulders stiff, shame clinging to him like another layer of sweat-soaked fabric. He climbed the stairs slowly, every step a needle driven into the muscle behind his knee. When he reached his room, he shut the door softly almost tenderly and stood there in the quiet, staring at nothing for a long moment. The pain was still there, pulsing like a second heartbeat. But deeper than that — beneath the bruised ego and the battered pride was something else.

Your voice, bright and persistent, kept echoing in his mind.

“You’re playing wrong.”“It’s all physics. Leverage. Balance.”“I can help you.”

Sunghoon ran a hand through his hair, fingers trembling just a little. It had sounded ridiculous earlier. But now, with the pain sharp and unrelenting, and the silence of the room pressing in like a judgment, your offer didn’t seem so foolish. Maybe it wasn’t pity. Maybe it wasn’t an insult. Maybe you actually knew what you were talking about.

He sighed and sat on the edge of his bed, leg stretched out in front of him like a broken line. The ice, the skates, the ache, the quiet praise you gave him even when he hadn’t earned it… it all blurred together. And for the first time in a long while, he didn’t try to push the pain away. He let it sit beside him like a mirror. Maybe see you again tomorrow. And maybe… he’d listen this time.

The sky was the color of wet pearls as you made your way to the rink, the kind of soft gray that promised rain but never delivered. Your skates were slung over your shoulder, biting at your hip with every step, and your breath came out in visible puffs that floated like little ghosts of determination. You were a girl on a mission, fueled by blind optimism and an unyielding belief that even the most frozen things could melt if you were warm enough, loud enough, kind enough. And Sunghoon? He was a glacier. But even glaciers cracked under time and pressure.

The door to the rink groaned open and welcomed you with that familiar chill, that bite of air laced with the perfume of ice and steel. You stepped in like it was a cathedral, reverent in your own way, eyes scanning the space that had become your evening altar. He was there. Already. Park Sunghoon. Laced in shadow and silence.

He sat on the bench near the boards, bent over his skates, fingers threading laces with a quiet intensity, jaw set like it was carved from marble. His hair was damp at the edges, the kind of mess that spoke of someone who didn’t care enough to fix it but hadn’t quite let go of vanity either. The light caught on the sharp curve of his cheekbone, and for a moment you paused just a moment because something about him looked… different. He looked Less angry. Or maybe just tired of being angry. You couldn’t figure out which was which.

You marched up anyway, smile already blooming like a sunflower on your face, warmth radiating off of you in a way the ice couldn’t fight. “Okay,” you said, breathless not from the cold but from the flurry of thoughts bursting behind your eyes. “Hear me out. I’ve been thinking and don’t roll your eyes, this is important I’ve been thinking that maybe, just maybe, you need me.” He didn’t look up. You didn’t let it stop you. “Your form is off. I’m not just saying that to be annoying. I mean, I am annoying, but not this time. You’re straining the wrong muscle groups and you’re compensating for your knee in a way that’s going to make it worse. You’re going to tear something again and then you really won’t be able to play. And I know, I know I’m just a figure skater and you think I don’t get it, but we fall for a living. Literally. And we fall well. We learn to twist midair so the ice kisses us instead of cracking us open, and I could show you, I could help you—”

“Okay.”

You blinked.

“What?”

Sunghoon finally looked up. His eyes met yours, dark and steady, but not cruel. Not cold. Just quiet. “I said okay,” he repeated, voice low but clear. “Meet me here. Every weekday. 6:30 p.m. sharp.”

You stared at him, stunned into something dangerously close to speechless. “Wait. Wait, did you — did you say yes?”

“I did.”

“Well don’t deny me — wait. What.” A ghost of a smirk, barely there, almost imaginary curved at the corner of his mouth. “Meet me here on time, Sunshine.”

You laughed, half in disbelief, half in relief, the sound tumbling out of you like birds startled into flight. “Sunshine, huh? You really can’t help yourself with the nicknames.” He stood then, tall and limping slightly, but not so much that you missed the way his frame shifted lighter. Like saying yes had peeled off a layer of armor. Like hope, when it finally arrived, it didn't have to announce itself loudly; it just had to be there. “6:30,” he repeated. “Don’t be late.”

You saluted with mock seriousness, grinning wide. “Sir, yes sir.”

He rolled his eyes and skated toward the ice, but this time… this time he didn’t avoid you. Not entirely. And just like that, a crack had opened in the glacier. Small. Fragile. But real. And you, all sun and stubbornness, were ready to shine straight through it.

The next day dawned with a sky stretched in pale watercolor, as if the heavens themselves were yawning awake. And you moved with purpose, energy stitched into your limbs like golden thread, skipping down the hallway with your skates in one hand and a banana in the other, mid-bite, mid-monologue about how today was going to be the day Sunghoon learned the art of surrender. Not to defeat — oh no but to gravity. To momentum. To pain that teaches rather than punishes.

The rink was quieter than usual when you arrived, its emptiness echoing with the soft hum of the refrigeration system beneath the ice. The air was its usual crisp kiss, sharp enough to sting but not to bruise. Sunghoon was already there, of course, punctual and pouting. He sat on the bench with his skate half-laced and his hoodie still on, like a knight begrudgingly preparing for a battle he didn’t believe in. You practically twirled in, dropping your bag with theatrical flair. “Alright, Captain Crankypants,” you called out, voice bright and bell-clear, “today we begin with the basics. Lesson one: how to fall like a pro.”

He groaned, long and low, as if your very presence was the headache he couldn’t shake. “You want me to fall? On purpose?” His eyes flicked up at you, unimpressed. “Yeah, that sounds super smart.” You beamed at him, entirely unbothered. “Not just fall. Fall well. There’s an art to it, you know. A science. A rhythm. You can’t just slam into the ground like a dropped dumbbell, you’ll wreck yourself that way.”

He scoffed, standing slowly, testing his weight on that healing leg with guarded precision. “Pretty sure falling’s the last thing I should be doing if I want to get back on the ice with my team.”

“But that’s exactly why you should,” you replied, tilting your head, as if the answer was written in the frost forming along the glass. “Because falling isn’t the problem, Sunghoon. It’s how you fall. We don’t learn to stop gravity. We learn to meet it, roll with it, get back up without it stealing anything more than our breath.” His eyes narrowed, a storm cloud gathering, quiet but looming. “That’s figure skating stuff.”

“Exactly,” you chirped. “Which is why you’re lucky you’ve got me.”

He looked at you like you were speaking in tongues. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Oh, absolutely,” you said, laughing as you tugged on your gloves. “But that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.” With slow reluctance, like a stubborn mountain giving in to time, Sunghoon followed you onto the ice. His strides were careful, a ghost of his former fluidity trailing behind each push. You watched him move with a softness in your gaze, knowing he was fighting something far deeper than physical injury. He was mourning a version of himself that had been left behind in the locker room that day, when his knee gave out and the world fell with it. You stopped near center rink and turned to face him. “Okay. Watch me.”

You let yourself fall, dramatically and deliberately. A gentle twist of the hips, a tuck of the arms, a controlled slide that kissed the ice instead of collided with it. You rose just as quickly, nimble and unbothered. “See? Easy peasy, gravity is greedy but we’re smarter.”

He muttered something under his breath, something about this being ridiculous, but you caught the way his lips twitched, not quite a smile, not quite disapproval. Just… conflict. And curiosity. “Try it,” you said, your voice dipped in sugar and sunshine. “Don’t think. Just fall. Trust that I’ll teach you how to land softer.”

He hesitated, eyes flickering across the rink like it might mock him, like it might remember how once, not long ago, it had hurt him. But finally, with a sigh that could have been mistaken for wind, he crouched a little, awkward and stiff, and let himself go. It wasn’t perfect. Not even close. He landed with a thud and a grunt, half-turned and slightly off balance. But he didn’t scream. He didn’t wince. And he didn’t stay down. You clapped, delighted. “Not bad! You’ve got the makings of a Bambi-on-ice!”

He rolled his eyes, but he was sitting up now, flexing his leg, and something in his face had shifted. A flicker of belief. A spark of possibility.

You offered your hand. He didn’t take it. But he stood on his own. And that, in your eyes, was progress painted in frost and stubborn hope. Practice ended in a flurry of silence and exhale, the kind that leaves your lungs aching and your limbs trembling from exhaustion masked as endurance. The rink had settled into a sleepy hush, the overhead lights casting silver puddles onto the ice like pools of moonlight spilled from a weary sky. Sunghoon had spent most of the hour gliding just beyond your reach, stoic and brooding, a storm cloud in a jersey, orbiting your sunshine in quiet, reluctant circles. But progress had been made. Not in leaps or bounds, but in small things: the twitch of a smile that he didn’t quite manage to kill, the way he didn’t protest when you told him his weight distribution was off. Tiny steps, quiet victories.

You both sat now on the bench that bordered the rink, his skates half-untied, yours dangling from your fingers as you caught your breath. His hoodie clung to him in damp creases, his hair plastered to his forehead, and yet he still managed to look like he’d stepped out of some tragic poem. A sonnet of scraped ice and stubbornness. “So…” you began, voice light as lace, “about Ruka.”

He didn’t look at you, only furrowed his brows deeper into the shadows of his lashes. “Who?”

You turned slightly, lacing one skate in slow loops as you stole a glance at his profile. “The girl who was here the other day. Cheering for you like it was the Olympics.” Realization flickered across his face like lightning fast, dismissive. “Oh. The cheerleader.”

You laughed, not unkindly. “She’s not a cheerleader, she’s my roommate. And she might have a tiny little crush on you.” Sunghoon groaned, tipping his head back as if the ceiling above might offer him divine rescue. “Great. Just what I need.”

“What, adoration?” you teased, nudging his knee with yours. “Must be so hard.” He didn’t answer right away, his jaw working through something he didn’t say aloud. Finally, he muttered, “I don’t date.”

You raised a brow. “Really?”

“Hockey’s the love of my life,” he said, eyes sharp like ice shards, like truth he’d carved out long ago. “That’s enough for me.” You tilted your head, letting your hair fall like a curtain of gold and starlight across your cheek. “That’s a sad way to live,” you said gently, not accusing, just… observing. “Everyone deserves to love. To be loved.”

He looked at you then, a long, lingering look, as if trying to decide whether your optimism was a costume or a calling. “I do love,” he said, softer this time. “I love the game. That’s all I’ve ever needed.”

“But maybe you just haven’t met the right person yet,” you offered, voice barely more than a breath. He let out a short laugh — dry, not cruel. “Sounds like something out of one of those cheesy rom-coms you’d make me watch.”

You smiled, undeterred, pulling your coat tighter around you as the cold began to kiss at your skin. “You’d be surprised what stories can teach you.”

Sunghoon didn’t reply. He stood, the worn laces of his skates now untied completely, his posture tight, shoulders stiff with the ache he wouldn’t admit. He slung his bag over one arm and glanced at you, his expression unreadable under the dull glow of the rink’s overhead light.

“See you tomorrow,” he said, voice low.

“At 6:30,” you replied, standing too.

He nodded, already walking away, and you watched him disappear into the tunnel that led out of the rink, his shadow swallowed by silence. Still, even as the chill pressed into your bones and your breath misted in the air, you smiled. Because he hadn’t said no. And sometimes, that was the first word in a yes.

The frat house was pulsing, alive with sound and sweat and lights that flickered like epileptic stars. The bass thumped through the walls like a second heartbeat, the kind that didn’t come from within you but pressed on your ribs from the outside, trying to break in. It was the kind of night made for forgetting, flashing cups, flushed cheeks, dizzy laughter. But Sunghoon had nothing he wanted to forget, only things he was trying to survive. His body was a map of ache, his knee a smoldering ember, his back tensed and twisted, his temples drumming a painful rhythm. He should’ve gone to bed. Should’ve wrapped himself in the quiet and left the world to burn without him.

Instead, he pushed through the crowd, ignoring the limbs that bumped against his shoulders, the haze of perfume and cologne, the drunk declarations and loud, sloppy choruses of songs everyone pretended to know. The lights made everything look fake — skin too bright, eyes too glassy. He moved like a ghost among the living. The kitchen was a marginally calmer pocket of air, though even it buzzed with tension. Soobin stood near the counter, arms crossed, stoic in a way that looked practiced. Yunjin stood in front of him, animated, eyebrows tight and lips moving too fast, too sharp. Sunghoon didn’t catch the words, but the emotion slapped against the tile floor like broken glass. Love turned into a battlefield over cheap beer and pride.

Heeseung leaned against the fridge, sipping something bright and unholy from a red plastic cup, and Jay stood beside him, eyes flicking from Soobin and Yunjin to Sunghoon with a practiced detachment. “Rough night?” Heeseung asked, his tone too casual to be innocent.

Sunghoon didn’t answer. He glanced at the tension in the room, the cracked silence in Soobin’s stance, the hurt in Yunjin’s voice. “What’s their deal?” he asked, jerking his chin in their direction. Jay shrugged, reaching for a half-empty bag of chips. “Who knows. Been like that all week.”

“We try not to get involved,” Heeseung added, a smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes. Sunghoon gave a noncommittal grunt and moved to grab a water bottle from the counter. The cold plastic stung his palm, grounded him for a second. The kitchen smelled like too many people and too many drinks, but it was better than the noise outside.

Jay leaned in slightly. “Hey, by the way — a girl was walking around asking for you earlier.”

At that, something in Sunghoon stuttered some quiet spark of thought, unspoken and unacknowledged. His mind flicked to you, impossibly bright and smiling, always halfway through a sentence, your words cotton candy and conviction. It was a fleeting hope, gone before he could even name it. Then Jay nodded toward the hallway, where Ruka stood, wearing confidence like perfume and eyeing the room like she owned it.

Sunghoon’s mouth twisted. The little spark of hope snuffed out before it could catch flame. “Of course,” he muttered. He didn’t wait for her to notice him. He turned on his heel and left the kitchen, weaving back through the crowd, avoiding her gaze like it might pierce him. He wasn’t in the mood for polite smiles or coy compliments, not in the mood to be someone else’s fantasy when he couldn’t even bear being himself right now.

He was almost free, fingers brushing the door to his room, sanctuary just a heartbeat away when her voice cut through the noise behind him. “Sunghoon, wait.”

He froze. Not in obedience, but in dread the way a predator might freeze in the moment it realizes it’s been cornered. He didn’t turn around. Didn’t slow. Just kept walking, because if he didn’t look at her, maybe she’d vanish into the static of the party behind them. But Ruka didn’t vanish. She chased. Her heels clicked across the floor like punctuation in a sentence he didn’t want to read. Then her hand was on his arm — cloying, too warm, too familiar. He yanked away from her grasp like her touch burned. And maybe it did. Maybe everything burned lately.

She flinched at his reaction, then softened her voice into something apologetic and breathy, practiced like a song she’d sung too many times. “I’m sorry, okay? I just— I wanted to say something.” He said nothing, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the stairwell. “She’s not who you think she is,” Ruka said then, her voice low but sharp, like a knife being slipped between the ribs. “That girl you’ve been skating with. All that sunshine and sparkle? It’s a show. She’s not that happy. She's actually really depressing.”

The words echoed strangely in the space between them, bouncing off the noise of the house and falling like lead at his feet. Sunghoon turned then, slowly, like something ancient and brimming with wrath. His face was calm, but his eyes — his eyes held storms. Not the kind that pass, but the kind that drown entire cities. “Mind your business,” he said, his voice cold enough to crack glass.

Ruka blinked, taken aback. Maybe she’d expected amusement. Maybe she thought he’d nod in agreement or laugh, or at the very least, care. But he didn’t laugh. And he did care and that infuriated him even more. He didn’t wait for her response. He turned and stormed back down the stairs, shoving past strangers with empty smiles and red plastic cups. The house felt suffocating, bloated with sound and people and things he didn’t have the patience for. His skin felt tight, his heart loud, his thoughts louder.

Why did it bother him? Why did her words sink under his skin like a splinter?

She didn’t know you. Not really. Not the way he’d started to. Not in the way you spoke about falling like it was an art form, not in the way you tried to fix him like he was something worth mending. He shoved out the front door, the cold air biting at his skin like it, too, had something to prove. His breath left in bursts of fog, pain pulsing behind his kneecap as if to remind him of every bruise he carried, every truth he refused to name.

He walked towards the diner that nearly everyone frequented on campus. Hoping and praying for some sense of solace.

The booth by the window smelled of syrup and coffee and the kind of late-night grease that clung to the bones of a day too long lived. The diner was warm in the way a memory is warm, buzzing neon lights humming above like lullabies, and the soft clink of forks on ceramic drifting through the air like wind chimes in a storm's lull. You sat alone, chin propped up in your palm, tracing swirls in the condensation of your water glass, legs still sore from practice but your spirit untouched, untouched the way a flame dances even after the wax is nearly gone. Your plate was half full, pancakes cut into clumsy quarters, syrup pooling in the valleys. You were halfway through recounting your own day in your head out loud, of course, because silence had never been your companion when the bell above the door rang.

You looked up. The words on your tongue stuttered into stillness. Sunghoon. It was Sunghoon.

Still dressed in the hoodie he’d been wearing at the rink, his hair damp with sweat or melted frost, eyes dark with something that stormed just beneath the surface. He paused when he saw you, shoulders sinking with theatrical dread. Of course, he thought. Of course you’d be here, light personified, smile too wide for the hour and heart too open for someone who’d barely gotten a thank you out of him.

“Sunghoon!” you beamed, like the sky had cracked open just to drop this moment into your lap. Your voice, effervescent as soda fizz, bounced toward him like a pebble skipping across water. He groaned. It was low, dramatic, and pulled from somewhere that wanted desperately to be annoyed, but didn’t quite make it. “Of course you’re here.”

“Where else would I be?” you grinned, motioning to the seat across from you like you’d always meant it for him. “So… what brings you to this fine establishment at such a glamorous hour?”

“I was hungry,” he deadpanned, walking over with the kind of gait that whispered of pain. He didn’t explain the limp, didn’t bother to soften his tone. “Why else would someone come to a diner?” Your smile didn’t waver. If anything, it grew.

“Touché,” you said, then leaned in with a twinkle in your eye. “Want to sit with me?”

He opened his mouth, likely to decline with something sarcastic and sharp-edged, but the words caught on the way out. Maybe it was your smile, or the glow of the booth light painting soft halos in your hair, or maybe — though he’d never admit it —i t was just that being near you quieted something in him, something he didn’t know needed quieting. “Sure,” he muttered.

He slid into the seat across from you, his movements slow, like each inch of space between pain and stillness had to be negotiated. You didn’t mention the way he winced as he sat. You just smiled again, folding your hands in front of you like this was a normal thing, the two of you, alone together in a corner of the night that didn’t feel so lonely anymore. Sunghoon didn’t tell you what Ruka had said. He didn’t tell you how it sat on his chest like a stone, how her voice echoed in his skull like wind through a cracked window. Because it wasn’t his to say. And because, deep down, he already knew it wasn’t true.

He saw you fall on the ice and rise again like it was a song your body knew by heart. He heard the way your laughter curved around your words and the way your voice filled silence with life, not noise. No — whatever Ruka thought she knew of you, it was only a fraction, and not the kind he cared to carry. Instead, he stared down at your plate, brows raised.

“Pancakes at midnight?” he asked.

You shrugged, delighted. “Midnight pancakes fix all problems. Haven’t you heard?”

He smirked then, small, fleeting. Like sunrise just peeking over frostbitten windows. “Heeseung says that all the time.”

“Well he sounds like a pretty smart guy.” You quirked, picking at your pancakes leisurely.

Sunghoon huffed a laugh — small but still there. “Sure.” For a while, the two of you sat in something not quite silence, not quite conversation, but alive and breathing all the same. And in the quiet hum of syrup-sticky booths and flickering neon signs, something invisible began to shift. The hiss of the coffee machine behind the counter had become a kind of lullaby, murmuring softly beneath the quiet chatter of the few remaining night owls nestled into booths and barstools. Across from you, Sunghoon picked at the edge of a sugar packet, his fingers deft and idle, not quite meeting your eyes, but listening in that particular way he always did, like he was preparing to argue but got caught up in your melody instead.

You sat across from him, legs tucked under you like a child curling into a story, your face glowing with the heat of possibility rather than the diner’s neon haze. And he watched you, not that he’d admit it. Not that he knew what to do with someone like you. “I’m going to make the podium this year,” you said, sudden and certain, stabbing a lone pancake piece with your fork like it was fate itself. “I don’t care what place. Bronze, silver, first runner-up to the crowd favorite. I just want to stand there, see the crowd, and know I didn’t fall flat.”

Sunghoon blinked at you. “Figure skating finals?”

You nodded, then grinned. “The big ones. My coach calls it the crown jewel. The end of the season, the whole year in a single performance. I tanked last time. fell on my opening jump and never recovered. My blade caught the edge, and it all spiraled. Couldn’t hear the music over the panic. I was supposed to shine and instead I… dulled.”

The words weren’t bitter, just honest. You spoke of failure with a sort of reverent gentleness, as if it were a bruise you had long since accepted. It surprised him how freely you gave that part of yourself away. No dramatics. No self-pity. Just truth. He leaned forward, arms crossed on the table. “And you’re trying again?”

“Of course.” Your voice was light, but sure. “I owe it to the version of me that cried backstage and promised to do better. I owe it to the dream that didn’t die just because I messed up once. Besides, we fall all the time in figure skating on ice, off ice. You just get up and do it again.” Something in him shifted at that. The ice in his chest cracked a little more, as if the warmth in your voice could thaw even the places he'd long buried under frost and fury.

You caught the flicker in his eyes and smiled, like sunshine breaking through cloud cover. “Don’t look at me like I’ve grown a second head. You’re the one always brooding like the main character in a sports anime.” Sunghoon rolled his eyes, but the edge was gone. He stared at the last of his fries, then slowly pushed the plate aside. “You’re weird,” he muttered, almost like it was a compliment.

You beamed, unbothered. “Takes one to know one.” And just like that, between the flicker of fluorescent lights and the taste of melted syrup, the world felt a little less heavy. He didn’t tell you about Ruka. He didn’t mention the ache in his knee or the fact that, for the first time in a long while, he hadn’t felt like lashing out or retreating. He just sat there, listening to you talk about your music selection and how you were planning to bedazzle your new competition costume yourself “with enough rhinestones to blind the front row” and something quiet inside him settled.

He didn’t believe in miracles. But maybe… maybe he could believe in second chances. Especially the ones that came in the shape of bright eyes, chipped diner mugs, and a voice that refused to give up. Even on him.

The night air was a velvet hush wrapped around the world, stitched with distant traffic and the occasional hum of streetlamp flicker. The diner door swung shut behind you both with a bell's chime like the last note of a lullaby. Outside, the cold kissed your cheeks and painted your exhales into fleeting ghosts, trailing behind you like forgotten sentences. You walked beside him, your boots crunching gently over old salt and fractured pavement, the glow of the diner still soft behind you. He walked with his hands buried deep in his coat pockets, shoulders tense, as if he were always prepared for winter — even in spring.

But you, you carried warmth like it bloomed from your chest. You talked, because silence begged to be filled and your thoughts were too colorful to keep caged. "I always liked walking at night," you began, voice barely louder than the rustle of your jacket. "When I was little, my dad used to say the stars came out just to eavesdrop on our dreams. I used to whisper to them before bed. Tell them everything I was too scared to say out loud." Sunghoon said nothing, only shifted slightly, head tilted as though your words trailed behind his ears like music on low volume. His footsteps matched yours, deliberate, steady. Listening. Always listening.

You glanced up at the sky, where stars flickered shyly through the sprawl of city haze. “Some nights, when I’m scared before a competition, I still talk to them. Like, ‘Hey, I know I biffed the last triple loop but if you could just not let me crash this time, that’d be amazing.’” You laughed lightly. “They’re probably tired of hearing about my spiral sequences.” He almost smiled. Almost. You kept going, because silence in his company no longer felt daunting, only deep. A pool that welcomed your words, let them sink in, soak through. He didn’t need to speak. He just needed to be there, and somehow, he was.

“I don’t think people realize how lonely it is to try to be great,” you mused. “Everyone sees the sparkle, the applause, the medals. But they don’t see the bruised knees. The missed meals. The days where you cry on the cold rink floor because you can’t land a stupid jump you’ve done a thousand times. Sometimes I wonder if I’m just chasing a spotlight that’ll burn me up before I ever reach it.” Still, no answer. Just his steady breath beside you, vapor blooming and vanishing. But his eyes had that quiet fire, the kind that flickered only for the things that mattered.

“I think… that’s why I don’t let myself stay down. Because even when it hurts, I still want it. Not the spotlight. Just the chance. To be better. To feel like I’m flying again, even if only for four minutes.” The street turned quieter, the neighborhood dipping into darker corners, sleepy houses pressing close together like secrets being kept warm. You stole a glance at him then, expecting — what? A laugh? A scoff?

But Sunghoon’s gaze was forward, brows drawn in thought. He didn’t look at you, but he didn’t walk faster, either. He stayed at your side like a shadow that had chosen you. And then, after a silence long enough to count heartbeats, he said, low and rough, “What’s your program this year?”

You blinked, surprised by the breach in his usual barricade. “It’s set to Clair de Lune,” you said quietly, suddenly shy. “I wanted something soft this time. Something like… falling in love with the sky.” He nodded once. Just once. And somehow, it felt like the biggest applause. You didn’t need him to say more. You didn’t need him to match your sunshine with light. He was the stillness where your words could echo and not be lost. And for that, you walked beside him in silence the rest of the way, the night folding around you both like a promise waiting to be made.

The night had mellowed into something hushed and golden, a quiet that settled over your shared footsteps like falling petals. The city exhaled slowly, as if sighing into sleep, and still you walked beside him, two shadows drawn in parallel ink, aligned but never touching. Then, out of the hush, his voice rose like a single note plucked from a cello string, low and sudden. “What’s your deal with Ruka?”

You blinked, startled by the sound, by the question, by the way his words cut through your stardust-thoughts like a falling star slicing the sky. You turned to him with raised brows, lips parted with a breath that hadn’t yet become a word. “Ruka?” you echoed, the name tasting foreign when it came from your mouth.

He didn’t look at you, just kept walking, hands still in his pockets, his jaw set like stone worn smooth by time. It didn’t sound like idle curiosity. But then again, nothing about Park Sunghoon ever felt idle. You wrapped your arms around yourself, not because of the cold, but because something inside you had curled up, uncertain.

“Oh, um. We’re not really close,” you said, the words spilling like marbles rolling across a hardwood floor — easy, but a little scattered. “She’s my roommate this year, just this year. My last roommate, Sakura, graduated early. We were kind of inseparable.” You smiled faintly at the memory, soft and aching. “She used to help me with my hair before competitions. Always had a bobby pin in her pocket, even if we were just going to the store. I miss her.”

He said nothing, just nodded once. The moonlight caught his profile and painted it silver. “She’s really smart, Ruka,” you went on, feeling the silence ask for more even if he didn’t. “Always has her headphones in. Always studying. We talk sometimes, but mostly she just… lets me ramble. Which, you know, I tend to do.” You gave a light laugh, hoping the sound would cut the tension, soften the edges.

But he didn’t laugh with you. He didn’t look at you. Just nodded again, like your words were being filed away in some hidden drawer inside him. And for a moment — brief and bitter and fleeting you felt a twinge. A single pulse of something dark and unfamiliar. It settled beneath your ribs like a secret. Jealousy. You didn’t want to call it that. You didn’t want to name the way your throat tightened when he asked about her, or the way your heart gave a suspicious little stutter at the thought of her name brushing his interest.

Did he like her? The thought was ridiculous. Maybe. Maybe not. But it lodged in your chest like a thorn. And what surprised you most wasn’t the question. It was how much it mattered. You shook the feeling off with a practiced smile, the kind you wore in the mirror before competition, the one that told the world everything was okay, even if your knees were shaking.

“She’s alright,” you said, voice light, breezy, so casual it almost disguised the knot in your gut. “But I think she prefers silence. I talk too much for her taste.” Still, he said nothing.

And you wondered, as the two of you drifted past sleeping houses and rustling trees, if you could ever stop wanting to know what was running behind his quiet eyes. Maybe he’d never say it. Maybe he didn’t even know it himself. But tonight, walking beside him through the tender hours of the dark, you wished he’d turn and say something that would loosen the twinge in your chest. Instead, he walked on. Still and silent. And you matched his pace, wondering if maybe that was enough. At least for now.

The dorm room welcomed you with the kind of stillness that felt staged, like a scene waiting for the actors to step into place. The air was warm, tinged faintly with lavender and printer ink, the signature scent of shared space and sleepless study. You slipped inside quietly, the door closing behind you with a hush instead of a click. For once, your voice didn’t follow you in.

You didn’t start with a story or a sigh, didn’t fill the silence with your usual cascade of chatter about a late-night craving or a skater’s cramp or how the moon had looked like a sugar cookie on the walk back. No, tonight you simply moved through the space like a ghost of yourself soft-footed, uncharacteristically quiet. Ruka was there, as always, hunched over her desk like a cathedral of discipline, shoulders drawn tight under the glow of her desk lamp. Her highlighter moved like a slow metronome across the page, precise and deliberate. But when you entered without a word, she paused.

You didn’t notice at first. You were too focused on your routine kicking off your shoes, dropping your bag by the door, tucking your food container into the small fridge like you were sealing away the last hour of your night. The remnants of warm laughter and cool night air still clung to your skin, even as the fluorescent light washed everything colorless. It was only when she turned, slow and deliberate that you met her gaze. “I went to see Sunghoon tonight,” she said, her voice smooth but wrapped in something slippery. Something rehearsed.

You blinked. Tilted your head. “Oh?”

She nodded, looking back at her notes for a second like they might give her the courage to lie again. “Yeah. We talked for hours at his party. I just left from seeing him.” The words hung there like wet clothes on a line, dripping, sagging under the weight of their own fabrication. And you knew. You knew in the marrow of your bones, in the quiet thrum of your heartbeat still synced to the rhythm of footsteps beside Sunghoon’s. You knew because you had just walked home with him, the ache of his silence still pressed like thumbprints into your thoughts. But you said nothing.

You didn’t call her out or laugh or ask her why she thought you wouldn’t notice the lie curling like smoke between her syllables. You didn’t say, “Actually, I just walked home with him,” or, “That’s strange, he didn’t mention you.” No. Instead, you sat down at your desk, unzipping your jacket, fingers steady as you untied your shoes. You offered her a smile — small, polite, hollow in the middle and said, “That’s nice.”

Ruka turned back to her notes, and you turned to face the wall, blinking slowly as if you could paint over the moment with enough quiet. And though you didn’t say it out loud, a strange new feeling began to settle beneath your ribs, something like suspicion, something like sadness. Not because of the lie itself, but because you couldn’t understand why she’d told it. What purpose it served. What it meant. But more than that, what unsettled you the most was how your heart gave the tiniest tug at the idea that she wanted Sunghoon to herself. That maybe, just maybe, she knew you were starting to want him too. And you hated how that made you feel.

By the time Sunghoon returned to the frat house, the storm of music and voices had softened into something gentler like rain losing its temper. The halls no longer throbbed with bass, just pulsed quietly with leftover laughter, the clink of bottles, the occasional shriek from the living room where someone was trying to revive a dying game of beer pong. The air smelled like stale cologne, cheap beer, and exhaustion.

He pushed through the front door, body aching in ways he didn’t dare name, shoulders stiff with memory. The walk home had helped, a little. The diner even more so. Or maybe it wasn’t the diner, it was you. That smile. That damn voice of yours, all melody and motion, coloring every dull corner of his night until it looked like morning. He hadn’t even meant to go out. He just couldn’t stay there, not after the lies that curled out of Ruka’s mouth like perfume.

Heeseung was sprawled across the couch with a bag of chips, half-asleep and still wearing his shoes. Jay sat nearby, nursing a water bottle like it was whiskey, his guitar leaning against the side table, untouched. They looked up when Sunghoon walked in, both of them clocking the shift in him, the unbrushed hair, the frown lines that had softened just barely, like something had tried to loosen their hold. Jay raised an eyebrow. “Where’ve you been?”

“Diner,” Sunghoon muttered, heading toward the kitchen to grab a glass of water. His muscles cried out as he moved, his knee barking like it wanted to collapse. “You missed the show,” Heeseung said through a yawn. “Your little fangirl was here. Again.”

Jay snorted. “Ruka. She was asking around for you. Whole place thought she’d get a kiss out of you before midnight.” Then came the question, as casual as it was crude, tossed out like a beer can into a bonfire.

“So?” Jay leaned back, grinning. “You tap that?”

The words hung in the room like fog, heavy and misplaced. Sunghoon didn’t even look up from the sink as he filled his glass. He stood still for a breath. Then another. “Hell no,” he said flatly. “I just went to the diner.”

it wasn’t defensive. It wasn’t even irritated. It was simply true delivered with the sharp edge of certainty. A line drawn clean in the dirt. Jay let out a low whistle. Heeseung chuckled under his breath. “Didn’t know you were such a gentleman.”

Sunghoon didn’t answer. He just sipped his water, jaw tense, eyes fixed on a spot on the counter like he was trying to smooth it out with sheer will.

Because what he didn’t say not to Jay, not to Heeseung, not even to himself was that he didn’t want Ruka. Had never wanted her. Not with her lipsticked lies and her eyes that always seemed to be searching for attention like it was currency. And yet, somehow, your voice kept echoing in his head like a melody he didn’t want to forget. “Falling is inevitable unless you can stop gravity.” He couldn’t stop gravity. Not on the ice. Not in his chest. And it was starting to terrify him.

Monday came with the bite of wind and the soft shiver of pre-dawn blue, the kind of chill that kissed your skin and whispered promises of something new. The rink sat like a cathedral of silence, your shared sanctuary of sweat and bruised ego, laughter and aching limbs. The boards were cold. The air was colder. But you… you were warm, incandescent, still grinning as you laced your skates with hope braided into every loop.

Sunghoon was already there, stretching his legs like the world had done him a personal disservice. He looked like he hadn’t slept well, but his eyes those, wintry things, found you easily, like a compass that refused to point anywhere else. His movements were stiff, his expression unreadable, but he didn’t complain as you chirped about your new routine, about your bruised knee from the spin you biffed on Saturday, about how this week felt like the start of something. He didn’t say much. He rarely did. But he skated. And fell. A lot.

You counted at least thirteen crashes before you stopped keeping score—some clumsy, some oddly graceful, all equally frustrating for him. Each time, he’d scowl, curse under his breath, and brush himself off like he was made of pride stitched too tight. But you never stopped encouraging him, your words a steady stream of sunlight spilling through his clouds.

“Better!”

“That fall was cleaner!”

“You angled your shoulder perfectly!”

He looked at you like you were ridiculous. Which, maybe, you were. But you were ridiculously happy to be here. With him. By the time the clock curled toward the last stretch of practice, he’d finally done it. Not a fall, but a landing. A descent that didn’t jar his bones, one where his body absorbed the impact like water receiving rain, smooth, natural, right. You gasped and your joy exploded out of you, bright and loud and uncontainable.

“You did it!” you cheered, skates clattering against the ice as you skidded over to him. “You actually did it, Sunghoon!”

He looked up from where he was still crouched slightly, his breath misting the air, eyes wide. And for the first time, the very first time, he smiled. It wasn’t a smirk. It wasn’t that half-tilted, cynical curl he used when he was being sarcastic or amused. It was real. Unburdened. And somehow, it made him look like a boy again, soft-edged, bright-eyed, touched by something other than pain or pressure. The moment lingered. Too long.

His smile stayed, your breath caught in your throat like a fluttering thing. The distance between you thinned until there was only the sound of the ice humming beneath your skates, and then, Then you kissed him. You didn’t think. You didn’t plan it. You just leaned forward, heart drumming in your chest like a war cry and a lullaby all at once, and kissed him — soft and sure, like the ice beneath your feet had whispered that you wouldn’t fall.

But he didn’t kiss you back.

You pulled away instantly, horror creeping into your chest like cold water. “Oh my god—I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—well, I did, but not like that—I mean I wasn’t trying to—ugh—Sunghoon, I just got caught up in the—” And then he was kissing you. Fast. Sure. No warning, no wind-up, just his lips on yours like punctuation, like a sentence he’d been writing in his head for days but didn’t know how to say out loud. You blinked when he pulled back. He looked stunned, maybe a little dazed. You were definitely breathless. And then, as if nothing had happened, you both went back to skating. Circling each other like stars in orbit silent, spinning, on fire. Neither of you mentioned the kiss. But neither of you forgot it.

Outside the glow of the floodlights, just beyond the fragile safety of the rink’s boards, a shadow lingered silent and still like frost waiting to bloom. Ruka stood there, tucked in the hollow between concrete and glass, her presence cloaked by the buzz of overhead lamps and the trance of celebration that unfolded before her. She hadn’t meant to come. She had only wanted to stop by, to catch another glimpse of him, of Sunghoon in that candid, breathless space where his armor sometimes slipped. Maybe she would pretend it was a coincidence again. Maybe she’d bring him something warm, an excuse wrapped in a paper cup and a shy smile. But what she saw was not Sunghoon alone.

Through the gleaming haze of the ice, through the rhythm of blades carving truth into frozen ground, she saw you. Beaming. Radiant in your joy. And she saw Sunghoon — grinning back. Not his usual strained grimace or practiced smirk. No, this smile was something else. Real. Unearthed. Unearned, in her eyes. And then, the kiss. Her breath caught like a gasp in winter wind. She pressed her palm flat against the glass as if to steady herself, as if to break through the divide between her and what she saw, a moment that didn’t belong to her but felt like it should have. That soft, charged touch of lips in the heart of the rink burned like a betrayal, even if no promises had ever been made to her. It was a kiss that seemed to split the ice beneath her feet. And she hated how gentle it was, how true.

The rage came slowly, like an icicle forming drip by bitter drip. A seethe in her gut. A fire in her lungs. She had spent so much time watching, studying, calculating, positioning herself at just the right angle to catch his eye. She knew the timing of his strides, the way his brows furrowed when he was lost in thought. She had noticed him long before you had ever touched the same ice. And yet it was you — scatterbrained, sunny, ever-yapping you — that he kissed.

She backed away, breath coming out in little bursts of fog, eyes trained on the scene unfolding before her like a play she hadn’t auditioned for but still wanted a lead in. She didn’t care that he pulled away quickly. She didn’t care that you stammered your apology. All she could see was the connection, the tether stretching invisible and unbreakable between your smile and his rare, reluctant joy. She could feel the bitterness pool in her chest like ink in water, spreading fast and without mercy. You hadn’t seen her. Neither had he. You never noticed the fracture blooming quietly in the corner of the world you shared. But she did. And it stung, not because it was love lost, but because it never even had the chance to begin.

The walk back to the dorm felt like treading on the edge of a dream, your feet barely touching the ground, your breath catching on the remnants of laughter that still lingered like glitter in your chest. The night air was cool, brushing your cheeks like a secret, the kind that only stars overhead seemed to know. You tucked your hands into your coat pockets, smiled like a secret was blossoming behind your lips, and tilted your face skyward, as if asking the moon to keep your moment safe. You had kissed him. Or maybe the moment kissed you, soft and strange and suspended in time, like a snowflake caught mid-fall. It didn’t matter who leaned in first, or that he hesitated, or that nothing had been said after. What mattered was the way the world tilted after. The way his eyes had widened before he kissed you back like something inside him had cracked open. Like he’d been waiting all along but just didn’t know it. Something had changed, undeniably and irreversibly, and it made your limbs feel like cotton, your thoughts like honey.

There was a shift now. Subtle but seismic. You could feel it humming in the soles of your feet, echoing in the memory of the moment. You didn’t know what it meant yet, not exactly but something had softened between you two, and in that softness, you found a kind of quiet joy. When you reached your building, you entered with the reverence of someone carrying something precious. The hallway lights buzzed faintly, and your steps echoed gently down the corridor, a rhythm almost musical in its contentment. You reached your door and turned the knob, half-expecting to see Ruka with her usual mess of notebooks and headphones, wrapped in her silent storm of thoughts and solitude. But the room was empty.

The lights were off save for the sliver of streetlamp that painted silver lines through the blinds. The air was still, undisturbed. Ruka’s bed was neatly made, her chair tucked in, her world untouched. And for once, you were grateful. You slipped inside and let the door close behind you with a soft click, as if trying not to disturb the fragile bubble that wrapped around your joy. There was something beautiful in the quiet, something that gave you space to breathe, to process, to smile without anyone asking why. You moved slowly, deliberately, putting away your things, peeling off layers like petals until only your giddy little heart remained.

And then, standing there in the low light, you allowed yourself to relive the glide of your skates, the crispness of the air, the look on his face just before he closed the distance. You pressed your fingers gently to your lips, almost to confirm they still tingled. It didn’t matter that you hadn’t spoken about it. Not yet. It mattered that it happened. It mattered that, for the first time in a long time, your heart felt like it had been seen. And for that, you let yourself float just a little longer on the dream of it all.

The walk home was quiet, but for once, it didn’t feel heavy. Sunghoon’s limbs ached as usual, the kind of ache that seeped into marrow and muscle and made itself at home but tonight, it was quieter. Like even the pain had decided to take a breath, loosen its grip on his body and allow him a moment of peace. There was a strange calm moving through him, something light and unfamiliar. His mind replayed that kiss, not obsessively, but gently, like turning over a smooth stone in his pocket. The softness of your lips. The way you smiled before it happened. The burst of something warm and startling that bloomed in his chest when you leaned in, and even more so when he kissed you back. Like an ember flickering to life in a long-cold hearth. He didn’t want to overthink it, and yet, it sat with him now — steady, glowing, undeniable. But as the frat house came into view, that flickering warmth began to dim. She was there.

Perched like a stormcloud on the stone steps, her knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them, face streaked with tears that glistened under the porch light. Ruka. Her presence felt like a sudden cold front, a sharp drop in temperature, a wind that bit instead of kissed. Sunghoon paused at the edge of the sidewalk, every instinct screaming at him to turn around and disappear into the dark. But she looked up. And she saw him.

He kept walking. Slow, steady, bracing himself. The steps creaked beneath his weight as he stopped in front of her. “What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice low and laced with quiet exhaustion.

Ruka sniffled, wiping at her cheeks with the sleeve of her too-expensive cardigan. “I saw you,” she said, voice breaking on the edge of accusation. “I saw you guys… kissing.”

Sunghoon blinked at her, unimpressed. “Okay?” he answered flatly, as if that alone should be the end of it. But of course, it wasn’t. “She’s a fraud,” Ruka spat, sitting up straighter now, her voice rising with that familiar, jealous tension. “That whole sunshine act? It’s fake. She’s just pretending to be all sweet and happy. But it’s all a show. She’s actually, she’s miserable. She’s depressing. She’s not what you think she is.”

He stared at her for a long moment. The wind rustled the trees, and somewhere in the distance, someone laughed a sound so far removed from the bitter drama at his feet. Sunghoon exhaled, slow and sharp like a blade pulled from a sheath. “You know what?” he said, voice like ice over steel. “Maybe you could stand to be a little more like her.” Ruka’s mouth parted in shock, but he didn��t give her time to respond.

“She’s kind,” he went on. “She shows up for people. She cares even when she doesn’t have to. She’s loud and ridiculous and warm, and yeah, maybe that annoys the shit out of me sometimes, but at least she’s not hiding behind fake tears and whispering poison about other people to make herself feel better.” Her expression crumpled, her mouth trembling.

“You don’t know her,” she whispered. “Neither do you,” he snapped. “You don’t get to decide who she is because she threatens your tiny little world.”

Ruka’s hands curled into fists on her knees. “If you really want to know who she is, look her up,” she hissed, the venom returning. “Look up last year’s figure skating finals. Her name. Go ahead. See it for yourself.” He didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.

“Fuck off, Ruka,” Sunghoon said, and his voice was calm. Steady. Done. He pushed past her without another glance, the door slamming shut behind him like the end of a chapter. The warmth inside him didn’t dim this time. Not completely. In fact, it burned brighter now not in spite of her words, but because of the fact that he’d chosen to ignore them. That he’d defended you, and meant every syllable. He didn’t need to search your name. He didn’t care about the past you carried like quiet luggage. Because when he looked at you, all he saw was someone who got back up. Again and again. And that, more than anything, was real.

Upstairs, behind the closed door of his room where the noise of the party below had faded to a dull, insignificant hum, Sunghoon sat on the edge of his bed like the silence itself had weight. It pooled in the corners of the room, settled on his shoulders, curled around his ankles. The warm echo of your kiss still lingered, on his lips, in his chest but so did Ruka’s voice. Sharp, needling. Insistent. “Look it up. Last year’s figure skating finals. Her name.”

He didn’t want to. He knew better. He should have let it die on the doorstep where it belonged. But curiosity was a sly little creature. It nudged at him like a breeze slipping through a cracked window, whispering just look until he caved. So he did.

With stiff fingers and an unsteady breath, he typed your name into the search bar, letting muscle memory carry him when intention hesitated. The first result glowed like a ghost: “Skater Meltdown at Regionals – Full Clip.” A thumbnail of you frozen mid-fall, your face blurred by motion, your body crumpling like something once fluid and graceful now shattered. He clicked play.

The screen lit up with harsh white ice and the sound of polite applause. There you were, twirling onto the rink, arms extended, posture poised, the embodiment of elegance. And then it happened. A stumble, a miscalculation. The slip. The crash. You hit the ice with a sound that wasn't picked up by the microphones, but he could feel it all the same, sharp and echoing in his bones. But that wasn’t the worst of it. The worst came after. The camera didn’t cut away. It kept rolling as you stood up, only to fall again. And again. And again. Until your hands were shaking and your breathing was uneven and your eyes — oh, your eyes — were wild with disbelief, glazed with tears that refused to fall quietly.

You broke. On camera. In front of judges and coaches and strangers and teammates and the faceless audience of the internet. You wept, not just from pain, but from something deeper, something raw and human and jagged with betrayal. You shouted through your tears, voice cracking like thawing ice, about how people only came to see the crash. How they clapped louder for the break than the recovery. How they waited for failure like it was a performance. Sunghoon felt something crawl into his throat and settle there — tight and aching. Not pity. Not embarrassment. But fury.

Fury at Ruka, for daring to use this as a weapon. Because what he saw wasn’t weakness. What he saw was someone who got back up. Someone who, even in the middle of a storm that stole her breath and shattered her pride, still stood. Still tried. Still gave the world her tears because hiding them would’ve meant giving up entirely. He didn’t want to close the video. But he did. And then, with that same fire that lived in his limbs when he skated, he opened his phone and typed fast, not giving himself the chance to rethink it.

Sunghoon [11:43 PM]: Meet me at the rink. Please.

It wasn’t a demand. It wasn’t even a plan. It was an instinct, pulled from somewhere honest and immediate. Because he needed to see you, not just the practiced, cheery version of you that lit up rinks and rooms, but you, unfiltered, unguarded, as real as you’d been in that video. He needed you to know that it didn’t scare him. That it didn’t change anything. No. If anything, it only made him want to fall with you. And this time, not get back up alone.

The rink was dark when you arrived, the overhead lights low like the stars were keeping secrets. The air was biting, laced with the cold whisper of ice and memory. Your breath puffed in clouds before you, and your heart thundered a frantic beat in your chest. You’d gotten Sunghoon’s message and hadn’t hesitated, you didn’t even change out of your practice clothes, just threw on a coat and sprinted across campus as if your soul had sensed something fragile waiting on the other end. The moment you stepped inside, your voice echoed in the stillness. “Sunghoon?”

No response. The silence felt unfamiliar, too thick, too full of unsaid things. You found him in the locker room, perched on one of the benches, still in his practice gear, his elbows resting on his knees, head bowed. The second you saw him, panic flickered behind your eyes. Was he hurt? Was something wrong? “Are you okay? Are you—oh my god, did something happen?” you rambled as you rushed to him, your hands fluttering over his arms, down to his knees, then back to his shoulders like you were checking for breaks or bruises. “Why did you call me? Are you hurt? Did you fall again? Why didn’t you just text what happened, Sunghoon, seriously, what is going—?”

He didn’t say a word. Instead, his hands found your waist. Not rough or hurried, just certain. He pulled you into him like gravity had finally done its job. And before your voice could form another word, his mouth was on yours. Soft. Fierce. Unapologetic. Your breath caught in your chest, surprise flaring wide in your eyes, but you melted into him with instinct. There was no hesitation in the way you kissed him back. For a moment the ice outside, the night, the ache of the past, none of it existed. There was only the warmth of his touch, the sincerity of his hold, the vulnerability in that kiss.

When he pulled back, your fingers lingered near his jaw, your gaze flickering with confusion. “Sunghoon… what’s going on?” He looked at you like he was still catching up to his own heartbeat, his voice quiet but steady. “Ruka showed up at the house. Told me to look you up. Last year’s finals.”

The words dropped like ice in your stomach. You stepped back, just slightly, and your body stiffened before you could stop it. “Oh.” Sunghoon saw it immediately, the way your shoulders curled inward, how your eyes shimmered with tears you didn’t want to spill. Your lips parted like you wanted to defend yourself, but no argument came, only the truth, raw and trembling. “I had a breakdown,” you whispered. “A really bad one. I’d been practicing that routine for weeks, getting up at dawn, going to bed at two, skipping meals, skipping sleep. I thought… if I could just nail that trick, I’d prove I was more than just the bubbly girl with the pretty smile. I was exhausted and wired and terrified. And when I fell… it was like the world collapsed with me.”

You paused, voice cracking. “But I got back up. I always do. Even when it hurt. Even when the crowd didn’t cheer.” Sunghoon stood, eyes never leaving yours, and took your hands in his — warm, calloused, steady. “I know,” he said simply. “I watched the whole thing. And you — you — were the strongest person I’ve ever seen.”

Your lips quivered. “But I broke down. I was angry and ugly and scared and—”

“And you got back up,” he said, firmer now. “You didn’t stay on the ice. You didn’t let it define you. I—” he exhaled, voice softening, “—I was going to quit. When I got hurt, when it felt like everything I’d worked for just vanished, I wanted to give up. I didn’t see the point.” He reached up, brushing a tear from your cheek. “But then I met you,” he continued. “And you reminded me that even when it hurts, we keep skating. That it’s not the fall that defines us, it’s the moment after.”

A silence stretched between you, delicate and profound. And in that stillness, you smiled. Not the bright, performative kind you wore in hallways and crowded rooms, but something quieter. Realer. “Thank you,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. He didn’t need to reply. The way his fingers laced with yours said everything. The space between you fizzled like ice cracking under a sudden flame. There was a flicker of hesitation in your eyes, an instinct, perhaps, to hold back but it crumbled under the heat of the moment. Your hands were still curled inside his, trembling slightly, not from fear but from the rawness of being seen.

Then you kissed him. No hesitancy this time. No uncertainty. You surged forward, your mouth finding his with a quiet kind of desperation, the kind that had been building for weeks, hidden behind teasing words and soft glances, behind shared practices and unspoken understandings. His lips met yours like a dam finally breaking, and suddenly you were both lost to it.

Sunghoon responded with a heat that startled even him. His hands slid from your waist to your back, holding you like he was afraid you might disappear. Your fingers curled into the hem of his shirt, clutching at the fabric like it could anchor you to something real, something burning and alive. There was nothing cautious about it now, the kiss deepened, mouths parting with breathless urgency, tongues tangling, exhales catching like thunder on the edge of a storm. You gasped softly against his mouth when he walked you backward, your spine brushing the cool lockers behind you. The contrast only made you shiver more, and he kissed you again to chase it away. His hands were in your hair now, cradling the nape of your neck like you were something precious. And you were, he kissed you like you were rare, like you were the first warmth he’d felt after winter.

Your body curved into his as if you’d always belonged there. You could feel the way he was holding back, restrained despite the tension humming through every inch of him. And maybe that’s what made it even more electric, knowing how tightly he was wound, how carefully he moved against you even as his breath quickened and his hands lingered. “Sunghoon…” you murmured against his lips, dizzy from the intensity.

He didn’t answer, not in words. But the way he kissed you again, slower this time, deeper, like he was memorizing the shape of your mouth, the way your breath hitched, the way your hands trembled where they clutched at his chest was its own kind of vow. The air between you felt heady, thick with longing, the room humming with the pulse of everything unspoken. You weren’t sure how long you stood there in the glow of the locker room light, locked together in something fierce and tender and brand new.

But when you finally pulled back, your foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling, the silence that followed didn’t feel empty. It felt full of everything still waiting to be said, still waiting to be felt. And neither of you ran from it. No, you welcomed it like an incoming tide washing over your heart and your entire being. Your forehead stayed pressed to his, your breaths mingling in the space between like steam curling from a fresh cup of tea. His hands still cradled your face, thumbs brushing gently over your cheekbones as if to memorize the texture of your skin, like maybe touching you was the only way to make sense of the storm inside him.

You whispered his name again, barely a breath, and that was all it took. He kissed you once more, slower this time, deeper. There was a reverence in it, a kind of awe like he still couldn’t believe you were real and here and kissing him back. His hands slid down from your face to your waist again, and he pulled you in until there was nothing between you but heat and air. Your fingers wove into the dark strands of his hair, curling just slightly at the ends, tugging him closer in the most delicate, desperate way.

The kiss grew from soft to smoldering, like fire catching slowly at first, then flaring brighter when the wind shifts. His lips moved against yours with more certainty now, more hunger, and yours responded in kind. It was dizzying, this exchange of breath and want, of emotion too big to name. Every brush of his mouth against yours made your knees weak, every sigh from his throat made your heart race like a drum in a thunderstorm. You tugged at the hem of his shirt, not to take it off, but just to feel the warmth of him under your hands, the dip of his back, the rise of his spine, the solidness of muscle beneath skin. He shivered under your touch and kissed you like he was unraveling.

He pressed you back against the lockers again — not harshly, never harshly — but close enough that you could feel every breath, every heartbeat, every inch of tension. His hands gripped your waist like he needed the contact to stay steady, like if he let go, the whole world might stop turning. “God,” he muttered against your lips, his voice thick and rough and nothing like the usual sharp-edged sarcasm. “You drive me crazy.”

You laughed softly into the kiss, breathless and glowing. “Good crazy or bad crazy?”

He kissed you again instead of answering, and the answer was everything. For a long, lingering moment, the rink, the cold, the ice, the noise of the world, all of it faded away. There was only the warmth between you, only the taste of each other’s names on your tongues, only the ache of something new blooming fast and bright like spring breaking through the frost.

With your back still pressed against the cold metal of the lockers you allowed yourself the luxury of tracing your hands up and down Sunghoon’s broad chest, feeling every contour, every muscle beneath your palms. Filthy thoughts filled your head as Sunghoon’s lips trailed down the expanse of your neck and collarbone. A gasp fell from your lips as he sucked on the skin where your neck met your collarbone.

“Oh!” You squeaked, running your hands through his hair fisting the tufts in your nimble hands like your life depended on it. “Sunghoon…” Your voice trailed with heat laced in the words, want. “I want you.”

“You want me?” He hummed, continuing his exploration of your neck. “How badly do you want me?” He was toying with you, playing with your need for him — your want.

“So bad.” Your voice was airy — needy almost. His smirk said he loved it, the way you were willing to beg for him and willing you were. You don’t even remember the last time you’ve been touched so intimately, with someone you cared for so fiercely. The pure lust and adrenaline coursing through your veins had left you feeling like you were ablaze.

“Beg for it.” His voice was sharp — stern. It was so so hot. The way lips let your body, the way his eyes searched your traveling down your body drinking you in. The way your chest rose and fell as red hot searing need coursed through you. You do anything he asks of you at this moment, anything.

“Please” You whimpered, hands grabbing at his hoodie. “Please, fuck me.” Your voice was sweet and light your eyes wide as you stared up at him. “I need it so bad.”

“Fuckkkk” He groaned and next thing you knew his hands were under your thighs lifting you in his arms in one fail swoop. “I can’t resist you, Sunshine.”

“I don’t want you to.” You pant as his hands find your skirt lifting it enough to show your panties. It was going to be quick, dirty. And that's exactly how you needed him.

“Take me out.” He hissed at you. Your hands reach for his sweatpants pulling them down just enough to release him from his boxers. He was hard, of course. The tip red and angry with need. Your hand made a fist around his shaft pumping up and down.

“Oh fuck.” He groaned, his forehead falling forward to meet yours. “Touch yourself before i fuck you.”

You listened carefully, moving your other hand down, pulling your white cotton panties to the side and rubbing at your sensitive nub with your fingers. “Oh my god.” You whined out. “Please Sunghoon, please”

“Just a little bit more, baby.” He cooed, “You’re almost ready for me.”

“I’m ready now.” You couldn’t contain the whimper that threatened to fall from your lips. “I need you, so bad.”

“Okay, Sunshine.” He nodded, taking his length in his own hand all the whilst holding you up against the lockers. “I got you.”

Sunghoon’s gazed fell from your face to where the two of you met, his tip slapping against your entrance like a knock. A gasp leaving your lips the instant he pushed into you — creating a beautiful stretch you felt through your entire body.

Sunghoon started with a slow pace, allowing hips to tap against yours lightly. It was almost romantic the way his forehead rested against yours. His breath fanning your face with short pants. You were in love with this feeling — in love with this moment and how it consumes you whole.

“Faster.” You whined, hands gripping Sunghoon’s shoulders with white knuckles. You were trying to ground yourself, the pleasure taking you to a whole other planet entirely. “Faster please Sunghoon.”

Sunghoon said nothing, his only response was the quick motion of his hips against yours. The sound of skin slapping filling the silence of the locker room like a melody, it was a tune you’d grow to love if given the chance. “Oh– my god.” You chanted. “Oh my god.”

“You close?” Sunghoon grunts, his voice gritty and harsh. “Take it.”

“Yes.” Your head was weightless as it bobbled up and down in tune with Sunghoon’s harsh thrusts. “I’m so close.”

“Gooood girl..” He cooed in your ear. “Cum for me.”

Your end splashed into you like a tidal wave, washing over your body in an overbearing pleasure you’d never felt before. Your thighs trembled in Sunghoon’s hands as you rode out your high. Sunghoon falling suit, moaning your name like a mantra. You had never felt more connected to someone then you did in this moment. Tied together a web of emotion and something that felt so close to love.

You were falling in love. It was fast and blinding and scary but it was true. You were falling in love. And you hoped and prayed Sunghoon was too.

By the time you situated yourself it was almost too late into the night to try and sneak back into your dorm room. Plus the thought of seeing Ruka right now with the knowledge of what she had done had been sickening. Sunghoon offered for you to stay at his place and you were in no position to turn the offer down. You allowed him to take you home. You allowed him to worship your body until all hours of the night. And most importantly you allowed yourself to fall in love deeper and deeper as the clock ticked on.

The morning sun trickled through the blinds in gentle stripes, painting golden bars across the sheets tangled around your legs. The air was still tinged with last night’s sweetness, a lull of warmth that lingered between your skin and his, and the scent of cold air and something distinctly him like mint and pine and a little bit of wild. You stirred slowly, your limbs heavy but content, the kind of ache that whispered of a night where nothing was said aloud but everything was understood in touches, in sighs, in the soft tremble of lips pressed together in quiet devotion.

Sunghoon was already up, standing near the edge of the room, half-dressed and slipping his hoodie over his head. The light hit his face just right, catching the soft curve of his cheek and the tired determination in his eyes. He looked like someone ready to face something, and for once, not run from it. You sat up, the covers pooling around your waist like the soft folds of a curtain falling back. “You’re up early,” you murmured, voice still raspy with sleep and something sweeter.

He glanced at you, and there was a flicker in his gaze, that rare smile he barely gave anyone, small, crooked, a secret stitched between two hearts. “I’m going to talk to Jay,” he said, adjusting the sleeves of his hoodie. “I want to ask him… to let me play again.” For a second, it felt like everything stopped. Not because you were surprised — no, you’d seen it coming, inching closer each time he took a fall and got up again, each time he looked at the ice with something softer than hate but because this was a moment of return. A full circle. A boy broken now choosing not to stay shattered.

You smiled, and it was bright enough to make the room feel warmer. “You should,” you said, voice thick with pride. “You’re ready.” He stepped over to the bed, leaned down, and kissed you, quick and soft, like a promise sealed in the hush of morning. It wasn’t heated like the night before, but it burned all the same, quiet fire beneath skin.

And then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him like the final note of a song, leaving you alone with tangled sheets, sunlit silence, and a chest full of warmth. You fell back into the pillows with a sigh, fingers brushing your lips. Something had shifted. And you knew, with a certainty that reached down to your bones, that things were only just beginning.

The cold kiss of the arena hit Sunghoon the moment he stepped through the doors, but it felt different now, less like an echo of pain and more like a memory rediscovered. The air smelled of ice and rubber and worn leather, a scent that once haunted him, now stirring something in him that almost felt like peace. Almost. He walked toward the rink, skates slung over his shoulder, confidence stitched into the rhythm of his steps. The moment he stepped past the glass, heads turned. Jake was the first to notice, eyebrows lifting in surprise, his helmet tucked under one arm. Heeseung followed, stopping mid-lace with a crooked smile playing at the edge of his mouth. Jay’s brows drew together in disbelief, and even Soobin looked up from where he was adjusting his gloves. Coach Bennett, stoic as always, stood at the edge of the rink with his clipboard like it was a shield.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Jay muttered, not unkindly, but wary.

Sunghoon didn’t flinch. “I’m here to show you I’m ready.” The words settled into the air like frost, and no one moved for a moment. Coach’s lips pressed into a flat line. “Sunghoon…”

“I’m serious,” Sunghoon said, voice sharp as skates on fresh ice. “I’ve been training, I’ve been pushing myself. I’m not here to sit on the bench and clap for everyone else. I want to play.” There was a silence, heavy and cautious. Jake rubbed the back of his neck, looking at Heeseung, who gave him nothing but a tight nod. “You’ve been through a lot,” Soobin offered gently. “It’s not about wanting. It’s about being cleared.”

“I am cleared,” Sunghoon snapped, the warmth from earlier that morning slipping through his fingers like melting snow. “I’m cleared, I’m stronger, I’ve been working every goddamn day. But every time I come back here, you all look at me like I’m broken glass.” Coach Bennett looked down at his clipboard, unreadable. “It’s not about doubt, it’s about safety.”

“Bullshit,” Sunghoon muttered. His jaw tensed, breath fogging in front of him. “You think I’d put myself back on this ice if I wasn’t ready?” Still, they didn’t move, didn’t soften. And something in him snapped, not the injury, not the tendon, but something deeper. A flare of frustration bloomed in his chest, blooming red hot. Heeseung, trying to defuse the crackle in the air, said, “Maybe just keep training with the figure skater—”

Sunghoon’s head snapped up, and without meaning to, without even thinking, the words spilled out sharp and cruel. “I’m done wasting time with that ballerina on ice.” It felt like the words echoed, like even the boards flinched from them. A sting curled behind his ribs the moment it left his mouth, regret instantaneous, but pride, wounded and loud, kept him from pulling it back. “I want to come back to the real game,” he added, voice quieter, but iron-edged. “I’m done sitting out while you all pretend like I don’t exist.”

A thick pause. Coach Bennett looked at him long and hard, then said slowly, “You can skate at next week’s practice. We’ll see then.” And just like that, it was done. But the victory tasted hollow on his tongue, and when Sunghoon sat to lace up his skates, the chill of the words he’d thrown, not at them, but at you, clung to him like frostbite.

In the dim hush of the arena’s far bleachers, behind a column of shadow where the sun dared not reach, Ruka sat like a ghost in waiting, silent, calculating, and out of place. The buzz of the overhead lights hummed above her, flickering faintly, illuminating the sharp gleam in her eyes as she angled her phone just so. Her hand was steady. Patient. She shouldn’t have been there, wasn't allowed, wasn’t invited but Ruka had learned long ago that the world didn’t bend for those who asked politely. It bowed for the ones who took what they wanted. And right now, what she wanted was to unravel the ribbon of warmth that had started to thread its way between you and Sunghoon, to cut it with precision, to remind the world of who belonged in the spotlight and who didn’t.

Her phone was already recording when Sunghoon stormed in, voice clear and edged with fire. She leaned forward, breath caught, her ears tuned sharply to every syllable. And then, there it was. The perfect storm. “I’m done wasting time with that ballerina on ice.” it hit the air like a slap, reverberating across the rink, and Ruka’s mouth curved into something that might have been mistaken for a smile if it weren’t so cold. Her thumb paused just long enough to ensure it had been captured, every inch of his exasperation, the tension in his voice, the pride bleeding into his posture. She tucked the phone into her coat pocket like a prize, one she’d deliver when the time was right, when the sting would land deepest.

She didn’t care if Sunghoon hadn’t meant it. She didn’t care that he might already regret it. She wasn’t after truth, she was after control, and perception was always stronger than honesty in the court of whispered judgment. As the team fell into uneasy silence, she slipped out like a wisp of smoke, unnoticed and unseen, her heels light on the concrete floor, her breath misting in the chilled air. The doors of the arena sighed open and closed behind her with a hush. Outside, the sky stretched pale and gray, the wind carrying a sharpness that mirrored her resolve.

Ruka wasn’t stupid she’d seen the way you looked at him, the way your smile bloomed for him like the first flower of spring. And more than that, she’d seen the way he looked back, that faint, unguarded flicker that once might have belonged to her but now seemed to burn only for you. So fine, she thought. If fire was what it took to make him see, then she’d set the whole thing ablaze. Let the ballerina dance on thin ice. She’d make sure the cracks came quick.

The front door creaked open with a burst of wind and sunlight, and Sunghoon stepped inside, shoulders high and heart thundering like blades against ice. His cheeks were flushed, not from the cold but from the triumph still coursing through him like static. The house was quiet, a rare lull between chaos, there you were. Sprawled across the living room floor in one of his oversized sweatshirts, your legs curled beneath you, your eyes bright as twin stars as they landed on him. The moment you saw his face, your own lit up like the sky on New Year’s Eve.

"Did they say yes? What did they say? Oh my god, are you back? When do you start? What did Jay say? Wait, did Heeseung—" Your words spilled out like a melody, fast and tumbling and effervescent, each one building on the last in that way only you could manage. It was a deluge of sunshine, and Sunghoon didn’t answer — not with words, not yet. Instead, with one smooth movement and a grin tugging at the corners of his lips, he crossed the room in three long strides, swept you up with one arm around your waist, and kissed you. Firm, grounded, and breath-stealing. The kind of kiss that doesn’t ask for permission because it already knows it’s home.

You let out a delighted squeal, half-laughter against his mouth, your hands flying to his shoulders as your feet dangled above the floor. “I take it they said yes,” you murmured when you pulled back, breathless, the corners of your mouth lifting in that way that always made his chest ache a little in the best way. “Yes,” he said, barely above a whisper, but his voice held so much more than just agreement. It was relief and victory and hope. “Practice starts next week.”

You beamed like you had swallowed the moon whole, eyes soft and full of a pride that wasn’t loud, but deep and unwavering. “I knew they’d say yes,” you said, cupping his cheek. “You were born for the ice.” He kissed you again, this time slower, with a touch more reverence, as if he was grounding himself in you. As if your faith in him was the thing tethering him to the world. And maybe it was.

He set you gently down, but your arms remained looped around his neck, unwilling to let go just yet. You leaned your forehead against his and closed your eyes for a beat. “I’m so happy for you, Hoon.” His name on your lips still made something in him tremble. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“You would’ve,” you whispered. “But I’m glad I got to watch you do it anyway.” Outside, the wind whispered promises against the windows, and inside, in the soft glow of late afternoon, Sunghoon realized that somewhere between all the broken things, the injuries, the pressure, the pain he had found something whole. You.

That night, the frat house was glowing, music vibrating through the walls like a heartbeat, laughter spilling out into the cold night air, the scent of cheap beer and cologne wrapping around the porch in a familiar haze. When Sunghoon leaned against your doorframe earlier, looking all casual with his hands shoved in his pockets and a soft smile threatening the edge of his mouth, asking you to come with him to the party, your yes had come quicker than your breath. There was no way you’d miss it not after the week the two of you had. So now, walking in beside him, hand ghosting near his like some secret tether, you tried not to look too amazed at the wild warmth of it all. Lights strung from the ceiling blinked like dying stars, red cups swirled in every hand, and voices collided like waves. It was chaos, but it was the good kind, the kind where possibility clung to the air like perfume.

Sunghoon didn’t even hesitate. He kept his hand on the small of your back, leading you through the crowd with a quiet confidence, and then he said it, just loud enough for the group clustered near the kitchen island to hear. “This is my girl.” It took you a second to process the words. Your heart leapt to your throat, and your smile tried to hide behind the cup in your hand, but you felt it. The gravity of it. How he said it so simply, like it wasn’t anything new, like it had been true for ages and he was just now stating a fact everyone should already know.

His friends turned toward you all at once, a mix of grins and raised brows. Jay was first to reach out, pulling you into a quick, one-armed hug. “So you’re the figure skater.”

You laughed. “Guilty.”

“I’m Jake,” said the one with dimples, his voice warm and curious, like he’d been waiting to meet you. “You’re way too happy to be hanging out with Sunghoon.”

You giggled and nudged your shoulder into Sunghoon’s. “I think I balance him out.”

“Or drive him insane,” Soobin added dryly from the couch. His arm was loosely slung around a girl who looked like she’d rather be anywhere else. She was beautiful, no doubt, sleek and poised, but her smile was more of a formality than anything real. That had to be Yunjin. She gave you a quick nod. “You’re very…bubbly.”

“Is that code for loud?” you asked, grinning wide. “It’s okay, I get that a lot.” Soobin cracked a half-smile, and even Yunjin let out the tiniest huff that could’ve been a laugh if you squinted. Still, there was tension between them, an invisible thread pulled too tight. They stood close but didn’t seem to touch, not really. Their words skipped past each other like stones across water, and you wondered what storm brewed quietly behind their silence. Heeseung leaned in then, arms crossed, eyes flicking between you and Sunghoon. “She’s the opposite of you, man. Like…completely.”

Sunghoon only shrugged, sipping his drink with a smirk tugging at his mouth. “Yeah. I know.” And the way he looked at you when he said it like it wasn’t a flaw, like it was the best thing about you, made your chest bloom with something warm and wild. You reached for his hand, and this time he didn’t hesitate. His fingers curled into yours like they belonged there, like maybe they always had. The music shifted into something slower, the kind of beat that made everything else fade, and the crowd swayed around you like the sea. You weren’t quite sure how the night would end, but for now, wrapped in the golden hum of laughter and light, with Sunghoon by your side and your name spoken like something precious between strangers who might become friends you were exactly where you were meant to be.

The night had curled itself into comfort, like a candle-lit secret shared between strangers now growing familiar. You stood with Sunghoon and his friends in the corner of the room where the music wasn’t too loud, where voices could still dance freely. You were mid-laugh, something Jake had said, your face lit with that easy, golden joy you wore like a second skin. Sunghoon stood close to you, his arm brushing yours every so often, eyes softer than anyone had seen them in weeks. You didn’t know it, but he’d been watching you like you were a lighthouse in the storm, something to steer by. And then the room chilled.

It was subtle at first, just a shift in air, the way conversation dulled, footsteps falling heavy behind the group. You turned before Sunghoon did, and there she was. Ruka. Her presence bled tension into the moment, a sharpness that made smiles go stiff and gazes flick downward. She stood with her arms crossed, dressed like she belonged and yet looking so out of place. You smiled at her anyway, your voice honeyed and warm.

“Hey, Ruka! You made it, have you met everyone?” The sweetness in your tone was genuine, like you hadn’t noticed the way her eyes cut through you, like maybe this time would be different, like maybe she’d smile back and offer a polite nod. But she didn’t.

Instead, her lip curled, and her voice dropped low, sharp enough to wound. “Drop the act.” The words sliced through the air like glass breaking. The laughter stopped, your own breath hitching slightly as confusion passed across your face. “What?” you asked, softly, not in disbelief, but in the kind of gentle hope that maybe you’d misheard her.

“I said,” Ruka stepped closer now, venom twisting in her pretty mouth, “drop the fucking act. The bubbly sunshine girl thing? It's fake. And everyone here’s falling for it, but it’s pathetic.” A heavy silence fell. Jake blinked, Soobin muttered something under his breath. Yunjin folded her arms tightly. And beside you, you felt Sunghoon stiffen, like his muscles remembered rage before his mind caught up.

“Back off,” he said, his voice low and dangerously calm. But Ruka only laughed, a cold, humorless thing that curled at the edges like smoke. “Really? You’re defending her?” She looked at him, eyes glinting with something twisted and triumphant. “That’s rich, coming from the guy who said he was wasting his time with the ‘ballerina on ice.’”

You froze. The words hung between you like frost. You turned, your head tilting slightly toward Sunghoon, expression unreadable. But he was already shaking his head, already stepping forward. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he said, voice rising, urgent. “I was pissed, I was trying to prove I was ready to play again, and I said something stupid—”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Ruka said smoothly. “They can hear it for themselves.” She pulled out her phone, unlocking it with the ease of someone who’d been waiting for this moment. The recording played loud and clear, his voice unmistakable: “I’m just wasting time with the ballerina on ice. I want to come back to the real game.”

The words hit like a slap. Your chest ached, something invisible curling tight around your lungs. You stood still, perfectly still, like movement might make it worse. The others glanced between you both, some awkward, some stunned. Heeseung winced. Jay looked furious. Jake muttered, “Dude,” under his breath. Sunghoon reached for you then, eyes wide, desperate. “I didn’t mean it—” You didn’t flinch. You didn’t pull away. But your smile, your radiant, effortless smile — wavered. Only a flicker, barely there, like a candle in the wind.

The music faded. Or maybe it didn't, maybe it still pulsed behind you, still thudded with the bass of cheap speakers and louder laughter, but in your ears it was gone. Replaced by the sound of your own heartbeat — wild and feral, pounding like fists against a closed door. Your cheeks flushed hot, but your hands had gone cold, and everything in the room blurred with the sting of unshed tears. Your eyes found Sunghoon’s, but it wasn’t safety you felt.

It was betrayal. And shame. Shame so sudden it roared up your throat and turned the warmth in your chest to something molten and broken. “Wait—” he whispered, stepping toward you. You pulled back.

He looked like he’d been struck, like the reach of his hand had meant everything. Maybe it had. But you were already moving, weaving between people, ignoring the murmurs and awkward stares, the way the group parted like water around you. Your heels scraped the floor. Someone said your name, maybe Jake, maybe Heeseung, but you didn’t turn back. You pushed through the door and into the yard where the cold night air hit your face like glass. You breathed it in too fast, too hard, hoping it would drown out the heat of humiliation clawing at your throat. The stars blurred above you, cruel and glinting. Behind you — footsteps.

“Wait—please,” Sunghoon called out, breathless. You spun on him just as he reached the porch, voice trembling with hurt and rage. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t mean it,” he said, voice cracking. “I swear I didn’t mean it.”

“Don’t lie to me.” You tried to keep your voice strong, but it wavered at the edges, shivering like frost under sunlight. “Don’t act like I didn’t hear it. Everyone heard it, Sunghoon.”

“I was angry,” he said. “They wouldn’t let me play, I—I said something I didn’t mean because I was desperate. I didn’t mean it like that. You know I didn’t.”

“You called me a waste of time,” you whispered, voice breaking now. “You said I wasn’t the real game.” His expression collapsed. “That’s not what I meant—”

“I didn’t ask for any of this. I didn’t ask for you to kiss me. I didn’t ask to be anything more than the annoying figure skater who shares your rink time.”

“You’re not—don’t say that,” he said, stepping closer. But you stepped back.

“I should’ve known better,” you said, voice low now, shaking. “You were always going to go back to them. To the game. And I was just practice. Just something to pass the time.”

“That’s not true.” His hands curled into fists at his sides. “You’re more than that. You mean—fuck, you mean everything.” And then he said it.

“I love you.”

The words cracked the night in two. You stared at him, eyes wide, breath stolen clean from your lungs. But it was too late. You shook your head, tears still slipping down your cheeks, chest heaving. “Don’t say that now.”

“I mean it.”

“Then why did you say that?” The question hung between you like a blade. And he had no answer. Or maybe he did, but not one that could stitch the wound he’d just made. So you turned. You turned before he could see the way your whole body broke in half. Before he could see the shiver in your spine and the way your hands curled into your coat like it could somehow hold you together. You walked. Past the yard, down the sidewalk, away from the party that once felt like light. Sunghoon didn’t follow this time. And maybe that’s what hurt the most.

The days pass like shadows beneath your skates, faint and fleeting, yet always there. Each morning you wake with a hollow echo in your chest, a silence that’s grown too familiar. You lace up your skates like armor, wear your routines like battle hymns. You skate harder now, faster, carving the ice like it wronged you. Blades slicing through your thoughts, breath fogging in the cold as you spin through everything you can’t say. You haven’t spoken to Sunghoon since that night. You’ve seen him in passing, walking across campus, laughing with Heeseung outside the rink, nodding at Coach Bennett with that quiet intensity in his eyes, but you never linger. You turn corners when he comes close. Pretend not to hear when his voice drifts from down the hallway. You are your own silence, sharp and unyielding.

The dorm is no better. Ruka has become a ghost, and you let her be. You don’t look at her, don’t respond to her passive remarks or the way she sighs when you walk in. She’s tried to speak, maybe once, maybe twice, but you shut her out with the same coldness she once offered you. You spend more time out of the room than in it. Your application to switch dorms is in the system now, a silent wish sent to the stars. All you can do is wait. But the nights… the nights are the worst. Sleep doesn’t come easily anymore. Your mind replays everything, his voice, his kiss, the look on his face when you turned away. You wonder if he’s been practicing. You wonder if he hates himself for what he said. You wonder if he meant it.

That night, the silence in your room presses in too tightly, the hum of your mini-fridge too loud, the shadows too long. You grab your skates and your coat. The rink calls to you not just as an escape, but as something close to home. Familiar. Honest. The moment you step inside, the air hits you like memory. Cold. Quiet. Unforgiving. You walk past the front lobby, past the empty locker rooms, and step onto the bleachers with the intention of warming up slowly, maybe skating alone under the low light until the sun peeks over the horizon.

But you stop short. Because he’s already there. Sunghoon. Alone. On the ice. He’s skating, not perfectly, not as fluid as you’ve seen before, but he’s trying. Focused. Determined. His brows are drawn together, the sweat at his temples shining under the low rink lights. He doesn’t see you at first. Doesn’t hear the way your breath catches. You don’t move. You watch him glide forward, stumble slightly, then correct. He exhales, pushes again. Again. And again. He’s practicing. Your chest tightens.

At first, you want to run. The moment you see him standing there beneath the pale glow of the rink lights, alone, waiting, searching the dark for something like hope, your body tells you to turn around. To vanish into the quiet of night and not look back. You’ve been skating circles around your own heart for days now, tightening the laces of your silence so securely that the thought of unraveling them in front of him makes you tremble. But it’s too late. His eyes catch yours, and you freeze like a deer in the frost. The tension between you snaps taut.

“Wait,” he says, voice catching, breathless. “Please—don’t go.” You don’t speak. He steps closer, every movement slow, like he’s approaching something delicate, something sacred. His eyes are wide and shining in the cold, like he’s on the edge of something, begging not to fall.

“Just talk to me,” he says. “Please. I—I need to say something.” You don’t know what compels you to stay. Maybe it’s the quiver in his voice or the way your name falls from his lips like a prayer. Maybe it’s the days of silence, heavy as snowfall, finally breaking. But you nod. You sit. And you listen. “I’m sorry,” he says first, and the words drop between you like stones sinking into a still lake. “I’m so, so sorry.”

You don’t look at him yet. You’re afraid to. Afraid that if you do, your heart will unravel right there on the ice. He keeps going. “When you first asked me if I believed in love, I told you I didn’t. That it wasn’t real. That it was for other people, not me. And you, you just smiled like you knew something I didn’t. You said I just hadn’t found the right person yet.” You lift your eyes to meet his. He’s closer now. Kneeling in front of you, his palms flat against the boards, like he’s anchoring himself to you.

“I found her,” he whispers. “I found you.” The words hit you like a gust of wind, unexpected, sharp, and tender. You blink, and the tears finally come, soft and shimmering, gliding down your cheeks like melting snow. His gaze flickers, worried, but you raise a hand, just one, and rest it over his.

“What you said that night…” you begin, voice cracking like a brittle branch. “It hurt, Sunghoon. God, it hurt. But I don’t think it was the words, not really. It was the moment. The humiliation. Being exposed in front of everyone. Like I was something to be mocked.” He looks like he might cry too.

“I just wanted to feel safe with you,” you continue, softer now. “I wanted to be seen. And Ruka… she hates me for reasons I can’t understand. I don’t want to be in competition with her. I don’t want any of this.” His hand tightens around yours. “I know. And I hate that I let her use me like that. That I gave her the opening. But I swear to you none of what I said was real. You are not a waste of time. You are the only thing in my life that makes sense.” You lean your forehead against his, your breath mingling with his in the cold air between you.

“Don’t say things you don’t mean,” you whisper.

“I mean every word,” he breathes. “I love you.”

Your lips tremble. And before either of you can speak again, you kiss him. It’s not the fiery kiss of confession or the desperate press of need. It’s gentle. Forgiving. It’s two broken pieces finding a way to fit again, not quite perfect, but perfectly trying. His arms circle your waist, pulling you in close, grounding you as your fingers brush his jaw, his neck, his hair. The kiss deepens with every second. Not in heat, but in heart. Like a vow passed between mouths too tired for words.

When you part, your foreheads stay pressed together. His thumb brushes away your tears. “I forgive you,” you murmur, voice trembling. “But please… no more lies. Not even the ones you tell yourself.”

“I promise,” he replies, voice raw. “No more.” And in that quiet, ice-slicked space between apology and absolution, you feel it, that something between you hasn’t shattered. It’s only just begun to bloom.

Epilogue.

The arena hums like a living thing, buzzing nerves and echoing chants, the chill of the ice rising into the rafters like ghosts of old games, old dreams. You sit somewhere in the middle of it all, wrapped in a scarf and a soft coat, heart thudding so loud it’s almost a drumline. Your fingers are clasped tight in your lap, your breath fogs in little puffs before your lips, and your eyes are locked on the rink like the story of your whole life might unfold across its frozen face. It’s his first game back.

Sunghoon. And you can’t remember the last time you were this full of feeling, pride, nerves, joy, a fragile ribbon of fear, but most of all, love. Love so big and bright and burning it feels like a comet carved into your chest. The lights above dim slightly, just a flicker, and then the team is called out one by one. The crowd roars like a wave, cresting and crashing with every name announced, jerseys flashing, skates hissing against the ice as the players appear. And then, there he is. Sunghoon skates out like he’s flying, his form clean and sharp and easy, like every moment he ever doubted himself has been burned away. The crowd cheers louder, not because they know the whole story, but because they can feel it. The comeback. The storm stilled. The boy who refused to give in.

You feel breathless watching him. And then, mid-glide, he turns his head. Finds you in the crowd like a compass always knows where north is. His eyes catch yours and in that moment, the noise fades. The arena, the lights, the cheers — all of it vanishes, melting away like frost under the sun. There’s just him. And you. He points at you — simple, easy, certain. And then his mouth moves, slow and deliberate.

“I love you.” Three words mouthed without a sound, but somehow louder than thunder. Your chest caves in, and a laugh breaks from your throat, trembling and tearful all at once. You nod, hand over your heart, mouthing it back: I love you too. And in that charged quiet between you, across ice and lights and distance, the ache of the past slips into something softer. Something holy. The game begins but you're not really watching the puck.

You're watching him. And he's not just skating. He's flying.

reg taglist. (★) @izzyy-stuff , @beomiracles , @dawngyu , @hyukascampfire , @saejinniestar , @notevenheretbh1 , @hwanghyunjinismybae, @ch4c0nnenh4, @kristynaaah

series taglist. (★) @saejinniestar , @vixialuvs , @slut4hee , @xylatox , @skyearby @m1kkso @jakeswifez @heartheejake @hommyy-tommy @yunverie @lalalalawon

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jiwuu · 2 days ago

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𓈒 ㅤ୨୧^. .^ ㅤ𓈒 covering jungwon in lip stains

0.5k── fmr x yang jgw, est. relationship, pda

lazy days with jungwon were your favorite kind of days.

no alarms, no real plans. just the two of you tangled up in your little shared apartment, the love of your life walking around in sweatpants and messy hair, sunlight pooling through the windows.

perfect.

also perfect: your evil little secret. every time jungwon wasn’t looking, you were swiping on a new layer of your favorite lipstick. and every few minutes when he least expected it, you’d pepper his face with random kisses — a peck on the cheek when he reached for the remote, a smooch on the jaw when he passed by you to grab a snack, a quick kiss to his temple when he was hunched over his phone.

he laughed it off at first, just wiping the smudges away lazily with the sleeve of his hoodie.

when he eventually stood up, saying he needed to run to the store real quick, you grabbed his face, kissed all over his cheeks, his nose, the tip of his forehead — and sent him out the door like that, waving innocently as he slipped on his shoes.

twenty minutes later, he came stomping back into the apartment, plastic bags dangling from his fingers.

“baby.”

you looked up from the couch, blinking innocently. “hm?”

he set the bags down with a dramatic sigh. “why was everyone in the store looking at me weird?”

you tried to bite back your smile, but failed miserably. “look in the mirror wonnie.”

confused, he wandered into the hallway where the full-length mirror was — and you heard the gasp.

“YN!” his voice echoed through the apartment like a scandalized cat.

you burst out laughing, tears welling up in your eyes when he stormed back into the living room — his entire face covered in lipstick marks. cheekbones, jawline, forehead, even the corner of his mouth. little pink smudges everywhere like you were trying to show your love all across his skin.

“you sent me out like this?” he cried, pointing dramatically at his face.

you only giggled harder, laughing into the pillow.

he didn’t hesitate. in two seconds flat, he tackled you onto the couch, pinning you under him as you shrieked and kicked weakly, laughing so hard you could barely breathe.

“nope,” he said nuzzling his face into your neck despite the lipstick. “this is what you get.”

“jungwon you're getting lipstick on me!”

“i dont care. you’re my prisoner now.” he squished your cheeks between his hands, smearing even more lipstick across both your faces. “you’re sentenced to cuddles forever.”

“that’s not a punishment.”

his eyes softened instantly — melting into the boy you fell in love with, the boy who would let you mark up his whole face just because it made you laugh.

he kissed your nose, your cheeks, your forehead, trailing soft, slow kisses wherever he could reach.

“whatever,” he murmured against your skin, wrapping his arms tight around you. “i wasn’t planning on ever letting you go anyway.”

letters from author ୨୧ should i write my fics in lowercase like this from now on idk why i kind of love it like this its so casual

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mashtatosworld · 3 days ago

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eyes on me (3)

summary: after the scandal shattered your world, Daesung is there to pick up the pieces. until the truth is revealed.

You lost everything.

Your career, your reputation, the love of your life - all gone in a slow, public collapse that made front-page news.

Every morning, you woke up waiting for the next headline. For the next article or tweet to twist your name into something even uglier.

GDragon’s Ex Leaks Tour Footage Producer Turned Traitor Insider Betrayal Ruins Big Bang Legacy

You’d long since been let go from your job. The word “liability” now echoed in every rejection email. Even when they didn’t say it outright, you could feel it hanging there.

A shadow on your shoulders. A stain you couldn’t scrub off.

The apartment was suffocating in its silence. Iye was gone. The shelves were dusty. The bed too cold. You moved through your days like a ghost, wrapped in oversized hoodies, waiting for a cease-and-desist letter to arrive at your door.

And it never came.

Until he did.

A soft knock on your door. You hesitated, unsure if it was someone from the press - until you peeked through the peephole and saw him.

Daesung.

A quiet smile and a Lego set tucked under his arm.

You stepped aside, wordlessly letting him in.

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

You sat cross-legged on the living room floor, the pieces scattered between you like a puzzle of the person you used to be.

Neither of you spoke for a long time. The clinking of plastic bricks filled the silence. And then:

"How are you, really?" he asked gently.

You didn’t look up.

“I’m waiting for his team to sue me,” you said, trying to make it sound like a joke. It wasn’t. “Every time I check the mail I think, ‘This is it. They’re finally going to destroy me completely.’”

Daesung sighed, his hands stilling. “They tried.”

You froze.

“But Jiyong stopped it,” he continued. “He refused to let it go forward.”

Your throat tightened.

“He still cares,” Daesung added quietly.

“Not enough,” you whispered, your voice cracking at the edges.

Your hands trembled as you tried to snap a tiny blue brick into place. You blinked fast, but it was no use. The tears came before you could stop them.

“I’m so alone,” you said, barely a whisper.

He reached out and wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into his chest.

You sobbed quietly against him. And he didn’t let go. Not once.

“I miss everything,” you mumbled. “The job. The apartment. Him.”

“I know.”

You pulled back slightly, your cheeks damp, your eyes swollen.

And then… there was a moment.

A long, still breath between you both. His hands still rested gently on your arms. Your face inches from his. And for a second, you thought he might -

But Daesung withdrew. Slowly. Carefully.

“I'm sorry,” he said softly. “You're still hurting. And in love with Jiyong."

You laughed bitterly, blinking back fresh tears. “Yeah, pathetic, isn't it? God, I need to move on already. I'm sure he's already onto the next."

“Don't say that.” Daesung said. "You're Jiyong and y/n... I don't think anyone could imagine you two with someone else. Even Jiyong."

You looked down, pulling at the cuff of your sock.

“Well, before you became a couple at least,” he mumbled quietly, turning over a Lego piece in his hand.

You looked up, staring at him.

“I liked you,” he admitted. “When we first met. I wanted to ask you out. But then…” he trailed off.

“Timing,” you muttered.

He smiled sadly. “Yeah. Timing.”

You leant back, letting the silence return. You stared down at the half-finished Lego structure. It was messy, crooked. Like you.

“I’m going to get better,” you said suddenly. “I have to. I’m tired of feeling like this. I need to… move on. From him. From everything.”

Daesung nodded. “What do you need? Whatever it is, I’ll help you.”

You hesitated. "I just want to feel something other than this. Something other than sad, angry, tired... disappointed.”

He was silent for a moment. “Well... I have an idea. It always works for me.”

You blinked at him, suspicious. “Should I be worried?

He just smiled. “Get your shoes.”

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

The heater in Daesung’s car was a little too warm, and the air smelled faintly of the watermelon gum he always kept in the cupholder.

You were curled in the passenger seat, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, staring at the streetlights flicking by.

“Dae,” you groaned, eyeing the dashboard clock. “I really don’t want to do karaoke right now.”

“We’re not going to karaoke,” he said, as he rolled the windows down. All the way down.

The wind hit you instantly, cold and sharp and shocking, and then he cranked the radio up, volume climbing until the speakers buzzed.

The intro of Since U Been Gone came on, that familiar guitar riff slipping into your chest like it had been waiting for you.

“This is not better,” you laughed, voice barely cutting over the music. “What are we doing?!”

Daesung didn’t answer. He just turned the wheel, merging onto an open stretch of road, city lights melting into streaks around you. He grinned like a man with a secret.

“This,” he shouted, “isn’t karaoke.”

You stared at him.

“Now sing.”

“No.”

“SING.”

“Dae - ”

“COME ON,” he yelled, already launching into the chorus with so much conviction you were startled. “And all you'd ever hear me say - !”

You stared at him, torn between horror and hysterics.

“Is how I pictured me with you!” he continued, dramatically pointing at you. “That's all you'd ever hear me say - ”

You broke.

You cracked right open.

And then you screamed the lyrics with him - loud, raw, desperate.

"BUT SINCE YOU BEEN GONE!”

The wind whipped through your hair. Your voice tore out of your throat, carried with the cold air like a release.

You stuck your head halfway out the window, breath catching, eyes burning, the cold wind like a shot of adrenaline.

You couldn’t stop.

Every line of the song felt like it had lived in your ribs for years, waiting for this exact night.

You and Daesung were practically screaming, gasping from laughing between lyrics, your voices ragged but real.

The car flew through the quiet city, past midnight streets and blinking lights, with you two as the only chaos left awake.

When the song ended, he didn’t say anything. Neither did you.

The gentle quiet that followed was calm and not suffocating.

He glanced at you out the corner of his eye and saw your cheeks flushed from wind, lips curled into something like a real smile - not the practiced, hollow one.

The real thing.

“Better?” he asked, quieter now.

You looked at him, chest rising and falling fast.

For the first time in weeks, maybe months, you weren’t numb. You felt the burn in your lungs, the sting in your eyes, the ache in your jaw from smiling too hard.

You felt everything.

“Yeah,” you breathed. “Better.”

You couldn’t remember the last time you felt like that - not good, not healed - but free.

Alive.

You turned back to look at Daesung and he was watching the road, eyes glassy with the wind and something else - that soft warmth that always came with him. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

And maybe nothing had changed. But something in you had.

The slump you’d been trapped in felt a little looser. The grief, a little lighter.

You looked over at him again, heart thudding a little steadier.

“Thank you,” you said softly.

He reached over blindly and took your hand, squeezing it.

“Anytime.”

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

Your life looked different now.

There was no camera crew chasing you, no curated social feeds, no extravagant tour buses or flashing lights. Just a tiny café near your new apartment and a simple routine you’d grown to love.

You poured flower-shaped foam into cappuccinos and listened to the hum of radio music under soft morning light. You still missed the old world. But it was a memory now - faded, fragile, and far away.

Now it was just you, Y/n from the café.

And Daesung.

He still came by often. Always with a crooked smile and something ridiculous to say. He’d sit by the window, sipping the coffee you made for him - always with a little heart drawn in the foam - and wait for your shift to end so he could walk you home.

On Thursdays, he made you dinner. It started casually, when he realised you barely remembered to eat. Now it was a ritual.

It was the best part of your week.

No talk of the past. No talk of him.

Until today.

Your phone wouldn’t stop ringing - five, six, seven calls in a row.

Your manager gave you a raised brow from the register. “Either answer it or switch it off, hon.”

You chuckled under your breath and pulled the device from your apron pocket.

And froze.

Ji 🖤

The name blazed across the screen like a ghost risen from the dead. You hadn't even changed his contact name since he blocked you. A photo of him holding a tiny, fuzzy Iye haunting you.

Your fingers trembled. You couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

The ringtone kept playing like a slow taunt. Your heart slammed against your ribs. You stared at it until the call ended - only for it to start again a second later.

Eventually, you powered it off.

“Didn’t want to answer?” your manager asked, concerned.

You shook your head slowly. “It’s nothing.”

But it wasn’t.

A chill followed you the rest of the shift, even as the café filled with the comfort of clinking cups and low chatter. You were wiping down tables when the bell above the door chimed again.

Daesung.

But he didn’t smile this time. He didn’t order a drink or tease you about your latte art.

He just sat by the window, biting his nail, leg bouncing anxiously.

You knew something was wrong.

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

Your shift ended.

He carefully helped you into your coat, and the two of you walked together in silence.

The sky was a deep grey, the air crisp with the promise of winter. You tried talking - anything to break the tension.

“So what do you want to cook tonight? I bought those mushrooms you like - ”

“I need to tell you something,” he cut in gently.

You stopped walking, pausing in front of your apartment.

“There’s been a development in the case. Your name’s been cleared.”

You blinked. “What?”

“They found out it was someone at your old company. They impersonated you, hacked your credentials to access the footage. It’s all confirmed.”

You turned away, pulling your keys from your pocket and unlocking the door. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Y/n - ”

“It doesn’t,” you said sharply, stepping inside and heading straight to the kitchen. “At least now I won’t end up in court. That’s something.”

He followed, watching as you set out the cutting board and knives.

“Maybe you should go to court and sue whoever it was,” he said quietly. “Make them pay.”

“Let Jiyong sue them. He’s already having his legal team handle it, right?”

You began unpacking ingredients from your fridge. Daesung hesitated.

“He is,” he admitted.

You let out a soft, humourless laugh. “He couldn’t believe me until he had cold, hard evidence. Not a phone call. Not a conversation. Not even a question. Just silence.”

Daesung started chopping in your place, the kitchen filling with quiet sounds of preparation. A kind of peace.

Dinner was simple and warm - a spicy stir fry and soda, your new usual.

Then his phone buzzed on the table.

Jiyong.

He looked at you. “Should I answer?”

You scoffed. “Sure. Let him know you’re having dinner with me.”

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “He knows, y/n. I told him I’ve stayed in touch with you. We fought about it. For a couple weeks. Then he stopped bringing it up.”

“Too tired to fight anymore?” you murmured.

“Too scared to lose anyone else.”

You didn’t reply. Just stood and fetched the bottle of wine. You poured two glasses and handed him one.

“I thought you stopped drinking,” he said gently.

“I did.”

He raised a brow.

“This is a celebration,” you said, forcing a smile. “I’m no longer the world’s favourite backstabbing bitch.”

He accepted the glass, and you clinked yours gently against his. The wine tasted sharp. Almost sweet.

The two of you curled up on the couch and started a movie, horrors were your favourite.

And he never said a word in protest, but you were starting to suspect that maybe, despite his assurance he was happy to watch too, he was less of a fan. You'd occasionally catch his eyes squeezed shut or feel him jolt at the jump scares.

When it got late, you glanced over at him, voice soft. “Will you stay?”

He looked at you for a moment and nodded. “Yeah. I will.”

You turned off the lights and pulled the blanket over both of you. His arms found you naturally, curling around your waist, anchoring you in the moment.

And to him.

Just before sleep stole you, you felt his lips brush against your hairline.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

When morning came, the sun peeked softly through the curtains. The room was still. Warm.

And Daesung was gone.

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

i fear i would have picked up...

also dae singing kelly clarkson? let's not question it and live in fantasy land together ok? great 🤣

taglist: @petersasteria, @mirahyun , @allthoughtsmindfull , @gdinthehouseee , @infinetlyforgotten , @redhoodedtoad , @kathaelipwse , @lxvemaze , @loveesiren , @sherrayyyyy , @getyoassoutthetrunk , @shieraseastarrs , @ctrldivinev , @xxxicddbr88 , @onyxmango , @tryingtolivelifeblog , @tulentiy , @bettelaboure , @breakmeoff , @emmiesoverthemoon , @rafesbunniebby , @ricecake9999 , @fleabagspurplewife , @sylviavf , @ldydeath , @wonyluvi , @deliciousmagazinequeen , @heartubeatusalon , @imminsugasgf

#mashtatosworld #bigbang #kpop #gdragon #kwon jiyong #mashrecs #kwon jiyong x reader #gdragon x reader #daesung x reader #daesung

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ay0nha · 3 days ago

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Please Forgive Me | Dr. Michael "Robby" Robinavitch

GIF by crushribbons

SUMMARY: You needed to let go of the illusion that it could have been any different. You were both slowly losing yourselves and your patience. Instead, resented for being weathered and callous. But the pain and hurt were still there; nobody acknowledged how it had gone so long ignored.

Where Robby says, "Please forgive me." The first step in Ho'oponopono.

PAIRING: Dr. Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x f!attending!reader

WORD COUNT: 3.6K

WARNINGS: Canon-typical things, mentions of rats, vaccines (anti-vaxxer fuck off), needles, pining, angst, Myrna, incorrect medical things, plot driven by movie magic, flashbacks, arguments, some fluff, me projecting my competency kink, smoking, scrub sharing, word vomit, etc.

Inspired by @skulandcrossbones's post, @xxdrixx's post and @sunkissedburns' post.

A/N: Not quite what I had in mind, but I'm not going to be too hard on myself. This first bit was entirely self-indulgent. Comments are HEAVILY encouraged, they truly keep my going and motivated to write. Many thanks to @hummusforthewin for helping me out again. Enjoy.

prologue

“I could fake a seizure.”

“Too ‘boy who cried wolf’…” You shook your head. The strike of your lighter was motivated by agitation. On the first exhale of your newly-lit cigarette, you said, “It has to be a…casual—believable lie.”

“All this for what? Love?” Myrna gestured at the air with mocking disgust. “I know a thing or two about a crime of passion.”

Something swirled in your chest, but you brought the cigarette to your lips to suffocate it.

“Robby’s allergic.” To love. You wouldn’t say the word out loud, afraid you’d catch fire by some divine fury.

“Oh, honey, I knew you were stupid, but not that stupid.” Myrna cracked with humor. Her insults made you feel electric. Normal. They humbled every egotistical vein in your body. “I’d bend him over my knee for what he did to you.”

Your eyes sparkled with the image. You’d pay good money to see Robby’s face painted with discomfort. His self-control irked you, got under your skin without even trying. It used to drive a competitive friction between you both, one that was light, teasing, even. But it festered to the point it controlled you; you relied on proving a point.

“Breach of duty, my ass.” She continued. “So you were a drug dealer, so what! God forbid you did something about healthcare in this country.”

“Myrna,” You warned. You wish you were just a ‘drug dealer.’ Instead, you became the judge, jury, and executioner. “It’s just temporary.”

You said more to remind yourself. It hadn’t quite stuck as a mantra, but it was enough to get you through a shift. It took many years of vomiting up all the filth you’d been taught about yourself, and half believed, before you were able to walk on the earth as though you had a right to be there. You’d be damned to forget that because of him.

“You won’t even spit in his coffee!” Myrna snapped playfully, not letting your eyes glaze over for too long. “You asked me how to get him off your back: seizure.”

“That’ll just give him more reason to bother me.” You filtered smoke through your nose, half-lidded eyes remaining ahead. The thought caused your lips to tingle with indifference. Deep down, you knew nothing would change.

“Listen, girlie…” Myrna gave you the least offensive nickname in the ED. It was why you passed the dwindling cigarette to her; you always played favorites. “...whatever you do, don’t bet on a losing dog.”

—

The ED was slow.

No one acknowledged it; everyone was too superstitious to acknowledge it. The weather consisted of sleet that kept everyone off the streets. All that could be done was to wait idly for those who were brave enough to come in and those who had no choice but to succumb to the danger of it all. Slow days brought the worst cases.

The quiet no longer felt like rest. It starts feeling like a missing tooth. You keep tonguing at the space, even when it hurts.

The snow fueled your smoke break; it was a subconscious way to find warmth and stave off subconscious anxiety. Neither was remedied. Your fingers were stiff from the cold, and there was no relief from how the pit in your stomach grew.

“You alright?” Dr. Robby perked from the desktop, cautious enough not the call too much attention but aware enough to know you weren’t.

Robby imagined the way your fingers deftly played with the lighter. The way your side profile was traced as you exhaled the smoke. He resisted the urge to follow you out. But you didn’t smoke often, so he knew nerves formed the habit.

His attentiveness made you nauseous.

“Peachy.” Your sigh was heavy. Your day was not ruined. Your world was not over. Take a deep breath. It’s just temporary.

“Nicotine lowers the seizure threshold...” He hummed. You focused on Robby carefully, watching how his glasses reflected the screen in front of him. “...but there’s no way Myrna can smoke with those handcuffs, right?”

Ignoring him no longer led to guilt. You viewed it as self-preservation. It was the only selfish act you could take in your condition. You’d be stupid not to exercise your only right. Robby continued to push lightly. His attempts at your vulnerability were in vain. It had been weeks, and you’d yet to budge.

You don’t know why, but you were all heart today. Maybe it was what Myrna had said to you. Maybe it was the cold that weighed your limbs down. Maybe it was Robby’s question, an unorthodox olive branch, saying: everyone deserves a break.

You waited for him to interject, to ask some clarifying question or comment, but he doesn’t. The meaning of his words was not lost on you. It allowed something warm to creep through your chest, so you gave him a nod. One that held forgotten gratitude.

It shocked you, how gentle a tug it took to unravel everything that you built up.

Had his eyes ever seemed so wide, so earnest?

To distract yourself from such dangerous thoughts, you picked up any task you could. When things were busier, the trivial things vanished behind the rush, but it was too slow a day to hide behind it all.

“You hear me?”

You hummed, unaware that the way your ears rang consumed your space. You focused back in on Robby, leaned back in his chair, arms tight across his chest. Although in a relaxed posture, Robby looked protective, as if it took a lot of courage to reach out to you again.

“Your scrubs.” Robby’s eyes crinkled, toying with suppressed charm. It made you shy, like you’d done something wrong, gone too far, and lost your defensive bravado. “If you’re going for the tie-dye look, you’ll fit in better with Peds.”

There were splotches across your chest. It looked like dried blood, deep in color that led down to your pants. The droplets looked unprofessional, and you had meant to change, but the few patients that came in commanded your attention instead.

“Oh.” You said. You mumbled as the memory came back to you. “...had to snatch the povidone-iodine from a patient, they saw it had 70% isopropyl alcohol…tried drinking it…”

You’d volunteered for the busy work of stitches, as it was the only thing that you didn’t need to be monitored for. You were already counting down the days until the patient would return so you could remove them; another moment where you’d be able to come up for air.

However, it was the ED, you couldn’t turn your back for a moment because even stitches became overly complicated.

“Excuse me, doctor…”

The voice behind you is so timid, you don’t hear it right away.

“Uh, the scrubEx machine is, uh, broken—” Dr. Whitaker sheepishly interjected, catching the conversation in passing. You eyed him, seeing he wore morgue scrubs too big for him. “I mean–I-I didn’t break it…I think it’s old or it needs maintenance or something…”

You frowned. You were already in your spare.

“Check my locker, I should have extra…” Robby threw the comment passively, not bothering to look away from what he was doing. “504-985.”

Everything stilled for a breath. Nurses who were casually eavesdropping were locked in. Dana’s eyebrows even raised hearing Robby’s code roll off like second nature. Dr. Whitaker blushed on your behalf. You knew his code by heart from years ago: the area codes of New Orleans. He couldn’t let go of the numbers; they followed him everywhere.

The coldness in your limbs vanished. A prickly heat traveled through your fingertips, representing something close to mortification, but ultimately led to confusion. Then, quickly smothered with irritation.

You wanted to be suspicious, to think this was just another test, but that wasn’t in Robby’s motive. He covered himself in sarcastic exasperation, but beneath all the stress and trauma, warmth and wit were his nature. This was genuine, this was not Dr. Robinavitch or Dr. Robby, Michael had offered the clothes off his back to you.

You were like a rabbit frozen in tall grass. Ears perked, heart running, eyes blank and wide. But you didn’t move yet.

“Go on,” Dana jerked her head in the direction of the locker room. “We’ve got a GSW coming in hot.”

—

You didn't have it in you anymore to struggle and fight and suffer; you wanted to be quiet and happy.

The lockeroom wasn’t even a room. It was just lockers tucked away at the end of the hall. The so-called privacy was a small sign that said: staff only. It was between the hallway and the bathrooms, forgotten and small.

Punching in Robby’s code, you were praying for it to be wrong.

It was minimal. There was an unopened water bottle, neatly folded scrubs, and a pen that had been there since before Robby. Everything he needed was in his backpack. It was functional, tactical, his. It was all he ever needed and was there if he ever needed to run.

You felt like you were intruding, like you were moments away from being caught. For what? You didn’t want to know.

You tried to rip it off like a band-aid, grab the scrubs, and go. Something made you jerk. The fabric was scrunched into your fist like it would get away if you let up. The longer you held onto it, the more it tethered you. It was standard scrubs. Unisex and black. You went through the details, trying to be clinical. Professional. They would be big on you, but they would be functional.

You drew the fabric closer, holding the top as if it were going to vanish like a bad prank pulled. You ignored the fact that the action resembled something primal. Brushing it against your nose, you knew these were Robby’s by the faint smell of mint. It lingered from the pocket where he stored his nicotine gum.

“Thought you got lost…”

You paused.

Not out of interest. More like the way a dog pauses before crossing a fence line—aware.

“Checking to see if they’re clean.” You don’t miss a beat with the latent insult. “I know better than to trust you these days.”

There it was, that festering anger that was built on resentment. Your heart had frozen over again. You forced the air colder. It was unrelentless with no room for kindness to settle, it was not the kind of cold that came from a breeze or shade, but from stillness, from the absence of sun and time.

You comment on trust was spat as if the idea itself was revolting. It created a hush so thick it felt like you were walking underwater. Robby said your name.

“Dr. Robinavitch, I appreciate the…” You couldn’t even thank Robby properly. You’ve stood your ground this long, there was no retreating.

You shrugged off your scrub top, your thermal the only layer left. You moved swiftly, the GSW would be here in moments and you already took enough time for yourself. Tugging Robby’s shirt over your head it fit as expected; baggy in areas that didn’t matter and stitched with reliability of the owner.

The smell enveloped you fully. If you let your thoughts linger you’re sure you could figure out Robby’s detergent and what aftershave he used when it was time to trim his neck. You adjusted the collar like it was tight, a nervous tick to reprimand yourself for thinking about how Robby’s chain would hang just where you touched.

Your fingertips tingled with buried emotion. You projected a longing for when things were in a different rhythm, for when Robby was there for you outside of stipulations.

Communicate. Ask for help if you need it. Trust your attendings. We will get through this together.

The words came to you so suddenly, it felt like you’d lost your breath. They wrapped around you like a boa. You heard them when you slept and they loitered until you rubbed the exhaustion from your eyes. It had never cracked down on you like this.

Together was a false-bottomed hope. Together didn’t exist—couldn’t. Your eyes drifted, not unfocused—just distant. Remembering.

The office felt awfully small.

Robby stood far away from you, leaning against the opposing wall stiffly with hands in his pockets. His hair was a mess, a clear indication of the utter frustration he was in.

Despite the distance, the tension between the two of you was palpable. He was absolutely livid.

Deservedly so. You should have listened to him and stayed out of it, but you didn’t—couldn’t. Now you had to simply stand and take whatever he was about to throw at you.

You swallowed the knot in your throat, preparing for a half-hearted apology. “I’m so—”

“You—” He straightened himself, finger pointed out in accusation, “—had one job. I asked you to stay out of it— no, I ordered you to stay out of it. And what the hell do you do? The absolute fucking opposite. The actual fuck were you doing?”

Robby’s eyes narrowed deeper, the sharpness of the glare hitting you right in the chest. You flinch. “What makes you think you can ignore the rules? Have you forgotten that I’m your attending? I—”

“Do not pull rank with me.” You snapped. So much for just standing there and taking it. “You know damn well I am just as competent as you are.”

“Competent doesn’t mean that you’re—” Robby paused taking in a tight breath. His voice stayed level, refusing to let his anger get the best of him. “You were reckless. Out of line. I have to pull rank if you choose to act like one of the students. What is not clear here?”

You can’t help the bitter laugh that burst from your lips.

“You can pretend to be Adamson all you want, but this morning, you froze.” Low blow. But the ripple of emotion in Robby’s face was satisfying.“ So, sure, I’m fucking sorry for taking things into my own hands when you couldn’t.”

“This was not your patient, and you are too stubborn to understand that. Now he’s dead.” Robby kept going, cementing your fate. “Gloria is expecting you this afternoon. You will listen to her if you want to stay here. Don’t fuck up again.”

You tried opening your mouth, but nothing came out; your face was too hot, too hurt, too full of rage.

“What the fuck is that?”

You hadn’t realized your wrist had been caught until you were met with resistance.

You pulled back instinctively. “What are you—

A dull pain scratched at your wrist, and Robby was afraid he’d caused it. But he knew what he saw, identifying it immediately.

Robby held onto you steadily. “Did something bite you?”

“What?” Getting your wrist back, you finally looked at it. The bandage was haphazardly put on, now snagging on your sleeve, exposing two pinpricks. “You heard Whitaker, the patient tested positive for rats...”

You cringed, trailing off. It was a cheap joke that landed flatly. A few bubonic plague jokes came to mind, but you swallowed them.

“I’m fine.” You went to push past Robby, but his arm landed against the wall blocking you. His frame didn’t intimidate you, but it made you hesitate with your response. “...I’ll be fine.”

“You need antibiotics, a tetanus shot…” Robby rubbed his hands over his face, rougher than he should have, but it helped restrain his agitation. “Streptobacillosis can happen, rabies—

“Seriously, rat bite fever? I have a better chance of winning the lottery than getting that.” You actually laughed, but it wasn’t appreciated. “We have a GSW incoming.”

“The students need non-cadaver experience.” Robby attempted to be lighthearted, but there was an edge of authority to his voice. “They’ve got plenty of good hands to learn from out there.”

“Don’t be—

“You understand that’s my polite way of saying you will not touch a patient until I clear you, right?”

The words landed like a stone in still water.

They silenced you, but you didn’t shrink. They cut deeper than it was meant to. It seemed to always happen that way, where once the pleasantries passed, what weighed heavily between you only grew in pressure. The guilt was mocking you again.

Robby moved, knowing you’d follow. As he traced the hallway, you recognized what he grabbed: needles, medication, gauze, gloves, and confidence. You could have administered it all yourself, but this was a test of faith, one you were too curious about to challenge.

—

Anytime you went to the doctor, you felt like a child. Like you’d still get a lollipop and a sticker for being brave. It was why you avoided them if you could. You felt pathetic with your eyes wide and naive as Robby pulled the curtain around the two of you.

The irony didn’t go over your head.

His gloves were pulled on with dexterity. Robby mumbled what he would have to a patient, it was a reflex you were familiar with. You just stood there, anxious that you were in too vulnerable a position.

“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of needles.” Prepping the syringe, Robby looked you dead in the eyes, working without the need to look. You wanted to indulge in the charm, but you stayed quiet. “Ready?”

You nodded. There was nothing but everything to be afraid of. Doctors never got used to being a patient. It felt like going against the natural order of things. Especially when Robby looked at you so expectantly.

“Don’t think I can get through to your arm…” Robby was waiting for you to catch on. Out of habit you pulled at your long sleeve, as if covering the bite itself would disappear.

Eyeing the needle, you knew it would be intramuscular. It needed to be deep enough to be effective. It was calming to go through the facts you knew, waiting for it all to be over. The muscles had good vascularity. The injected drug would quickly reach the systemic circulation, bypassing the first-pass metabolism.

Robby repeated your name, prompting you to understand so he wouldn’t have to say it. He’d been through the worst imaginable, the grossest, the strangest things. That was life in the ED. But this was new territory.

“If you could…” He instructed you in a low tone, clearing his throat. “Turn around.”

Oh.

You had become so warm, you forgot you intentionally layered for the weather. Your arms were covered. Your legs were covered. The easiest muscle to access caused you to lean against the examination table. The paper crinkled from the slight force as turned your back to Robby.

He couldn’t seem to clear his throat enough. “If you could…”

“Right.” You snapped out of your slight stupor. If you had any conviction left, you’d have scolded him. Instead, you hooked your thumb in your waistband. Pulling the fabric down, you barely gave Robby enough surface to administer the shot.

You could almost sense the way he is actively preventing himself from letting his gaze wander further down than it had to—how he was tentative to pull at your pliant skin to find the muscle. It didn’t matter how hesitant he was because even through the gloves, his hands were unbelievably warm on your bottom.

“First one…slight pinch…” Robby’s voice was muffled by the needle cap in his mouth. “Alright, one more. Deep breath.”

The cold was catching up to you. So was the exhaustion. It weakened your senses and put your emotions at the forefront. You wanted to be held, to be cared for in ways you couldn’t provide alone. Robby was familiar with the feeling, but was better at hiding the ache.

Instead, Robby, in his own way, cared so deeply for others. His care was written in small things, never said, but done. He’d say he didn’t have any friends, but the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb—always. Yet, he never carved out space for himself to be minded.

“Not too bad, right?” His smile was awkward, but soft. Genuine. Concerned.

“Ouch.” You mumbled, a playful frown pulled at your lips. “I’ll live.”

“Good.” The snap of removing his gloves invited reality back. “This can’t be done without you.”

You were both stalling, not used to being so close for so long. The curtain’s fabric was a safety net in the chaos. He was slow to rub the hand sanitizer on. You both desired one last deep breath, but the air was running out. You both didn’t know how to exist so softly.

“Thanks for—

—I’ve been thinking…” Robby cut you off before you could slip away, hands pulling at the ends of his stethoscope to stop fidgeting.

You paused, letting it sit for a minute. “Dangerous thing.”

You’d been thinking too, but now wasn’t the time to crush the hope in his eyes. The risks outweighed the benefits.

You knew he’d been trying to catch you for days. Weeks. But his irritability got in the way. Impatience for Gloria got in the way. He had trouble sleeping, and when he was awake, he was vigilant. Then, when you didn’t see him, you knew he carried his sadness to the roof.

Even now wasn’t how he’d wanted to approach you.

“Look—I don’t know.” Robby chewed on his cheek. “I just—fuck.” He looked at you with a childlike regret. As if he’d gotten too excited and played too hard. “We can’t keep going like this...I don’t blame you… and I don’t know…”

You knew what he meant: I’m sorry—please forgive me.

You needed to let go of the illusion that it could have been any different. You were both slowly losing yourselves and your patience. Instead, resented for being weathered and callous. But the pain and hurt were still there; nobody acknowledged how it had gone so long ignored.

“I know.” That smile that you wore—it didn’t shine. Soft and a little sorry. It settled over your guilt for now.

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everythingisamazing · 1 day ago

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One thing I love about the idea of post canon jayvik is how despite everything that happened, they would be so good to and for each other. Even putting all the soul bonding stuff aside - just on a basic human level. I think the fact that they were canonically best friends sometimes gets overlooked a bit, because we focus on the (imo undeniably) romantic aspect of their relationship. I believe that it is worth noting though, how much rarer it is in fiction, for two characters to be written to get along so well from the start, because usually the trope of them disliking one another and slowly growing closer is considered more exciting. With Jayvik it's pretty much the opposite - if the world would have just let those two be, they would probably have been freaking happy making discoveries in their lab until the end of their days. Now add to that, how they basically walked a mile in each others shoes in S2 (more about that in this post) and I imagine they would understand each other on an even deeper level post finale. Like, can you imagine how good the conversations would be, once the dust has settled? Deep talk about my special interests is basically my love language, so I get really excited imagining them yapping away about everything from science to magic, their past, shared pains, newfound joys, and everything in between. And yes, even with all the trauma they'd have to deal with (it's really up to speculation how they'd be affected) I think there are no people better suited to help them with that, than them. If Viktor struggles with knowing who he is, Jayce would remind him. Any doubts Viktor would have, about him being worthy of forgiveness, Jayce would answer (as we saw in the finale) with boundless loyalty. And I think on the other hand, Jayce would finally get to relax by Viktors side, no longer having to please anyone, but just being appreciated for who he is. I also hc that Viktor, from having glimpsed inside so many minds, would be well equipped to deal with and sooth whatever ailments Jayces mind retained from his time in the AU. I also feel like their final scene provides a good baseline for imagining how their dynamic would be after. It's a full circle moment, back to how they started and I think it's very telling how - when they finally have the chance, after several violent interactions - they pretty much immediately go back to being considerate and loving towards each other. It's actually kind of funny HOW fast they revert back to this, if you consider they were fighting each other with hammers and lasers like what...10 minutes ago? I think the reason why it still feels natural, is because the show did a good job in showing how their conflict did not arise from them as people, but from outside influences, such as the hexcore. So yeah, in the end, when it's just them on the astral plane, they seamlessly go back to just being Jayce and Viktor, as they knew each other. Also visually, they once again become who they were at what was the happiest time in both their lives, signified by them wearing their academy uniforms in the last shot.

#arcane #jayvik #jayce x viktor #viktor arcane #arcane meta #jayce arcane #arcane analysis #jayvik meta #jayce talis #jayvik post canon #jayvik headcanons

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revelboo · 22 hours ago

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Oh Glorious Revelboo,

May I humbly request more Alcohol Eyes or Weakends if you're up for it?

Oh, or the reverse sparked scenario for Ratchet was so good! A lot of them have been so fun but Ratchet's just so <3333

He's been through so much he deserves to settle and have a little family !!!

The concern for reader at the end was so sweet, I love that not so grumpy medic <333

I do love some grumpy, but soft Ratchet. 🔞 Mass displaced mechs 🌶️

Alcohol Eyes Pt 14

Rumble x Reader, Frenzy x Reader

• Fantastic sex does not a relationship make, you remind yourself as they both sit up. Of course, it doesn’t hurt, either. Raking your fingers through your hair, you try to figure out how to ask what this is between you and them. Are they just fooling around? Scratching a xenophilia itch with you? “We have great sex,” you say and Rumble immediately grins, though Frenzy at least looks worried like he knows there’s a ‘but’ coming. “But is that it? Just sex?”

• “What’s wrong with just sex?” Rumble mutters and Frenzy jabs his elbow into him. Hard. “We get along, don’t we?” He asks, changing tactics. And you blow out a breath. Not even a smile? Swallowing a groan because he doesn’t like when you’re serious or worried or whatever this is. Likes you smiling and laughing. Teasing him. Pushing to his peds, he reaches for you and you rock back a step. And it hurts. “We get along. You and us. It doesn’t need to be complicated.” Hand hanging there between you, he wants you to reach out to him and you don’t.

• Why are you so worried all of a sudden? Why the shift? ‘And when you get bored?’ You ask, voice soft. And there it is. “You think we’re going to get tired of you and just get rid of you?” Frenzy growls and you turn when he stands and grips your upper arm. Sees your eyes dart to his hand on you and then up to his face and he gentles his grip. “We’re keeping you, bonding and sparking you.” Because you’re theirs and he’s never giving up this feeling, the warmth that spreads through his spark when you laugh, eyes all mischief. The feel of you sleeping against him. The sound of your voice whispering to him after overloading inside you.

• “Sparking?” You ask. Bonding and sparking sounds like it might be ‘important alien things’ that you definitely need to ask about, but Rumble moves up behind you, hands on your hips to nudge you forward until you’re sandwiched between them. ‘You want us to spark you? Have our sparklings?’ Rumble growls in your ear. Is he talking about kids? You’re two different species, so he’s going to get that bubble burst pretty quick. ‘Claim you as ours for life.’ Can feel his erect spike rub against your butt as you stare up at Frenzy. Trying to remember that you really need to ask questions. “For life?” You latch onto that. Is it messed up that you want to claim them as yours, keep them even knowing you can’t give them what they want. Can’t possibly give them sparklings, you’re just way too different for that to work.

• You like that idea, don’t you? Being claimed as theirs. Hands sliding over your hips and down between your thighs to stroke you, you arch up on tiptoes, head back against his shoulder and Rumble grins at his brother. “We’re not giving you up and we’re not getting tired of you,” Frenzy says, cupping your face in his hands as his mouth claims yours. ‘You’re stuck with us, sweetspark,’ Rumble laughs, servo pressing deep to make you squirm.

#transformers x reader #rumble x reader #frenzy x reader #idw frenzy #idw rumble

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haikyu-mp4 · 1 day ago

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A murder in the dorms – MSBY 4 wc 404 – gn!reader, warning: dead rodent

After plucking a long grey hair from your scalp that morning, you were not happy to see a text from Sakusa. The stress of managing those men was draining all colour from your hair.

Please come to the dorm. This is an emergency.

But you love your job, so you were seated in your car and driving to their dorm within two minutes. You hadn’t been to their dorm before, and doing so under these circumstances made you nervous.

You knocked two times before opening the door yourself. The text message did say emergency, and their names were plastered on the door, so you knew you were in the right place.

As you opened the door, four very different, audible reactions came from the room.

Atsumu was clutching a small towel that barely covered his precious bits, seemingly halfway between the bathroom and bedroom. For whatever reason, he was also holding his phone up.

Sakusa stood by an open bedroom door in silk pyjamas with a matching sleeping mask holding up his curls.

Bokuto was holding a frying pan in one hand, standing on the couch and dressed in a hoodie and boxers.

Hinata stood in the kitchen, pouting as he held a volleyball in his shaking hands. You would have taken note of his lack of clothing, too, had you not been distracted by the fact that the volleyball had a splat of red on it.

“I already know I’m going to hate the answer.” You took a deep breath and neither of them dared say a word yet. “But what’s the emergency?”

Sakusa looked around as if expecting any of the others to answer, before sighing and deciding to give you a recap himself. “There was a mouse. Bokuto and Hinata decided it would be smart to try to spike it with a volleyball. It was, unfortunately, and very unexpectedly, successful. There is now a dead mouse in our kitchen.”

Your jaw slowly fell open wider and wider until the end of the explanation, a lump settling in your throat. Sakusa stepped back and closed his bedroom door as if checking out of the situation until he suddenly opened it again a second later.

“Oh, and Atsumu filmed the murder on Instagram live, also catching himself half naked in the hallway mirror.”

Dear god. If you exist, please forgive me. I might lose my job today after killing four cancelled mouse murderers.

masterlist

/I did something similar to this once when I was younger because I was so scared of the mouse and home alone, and to this day, my family still calls that event the mouse massacre.

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adonisbeloveds · 1 day ago

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The Main Twisteds being jealous that you're trying to farm for Bassie.

Based off my lovely lovely experience of trying to get Bassie only to get EVERY SINGLE MAIN TWISTED AT LEAST 3 TIMES IN 3 DAYS. Anyway, yes I am alive hello hello, and apologise if any of the twisteds personalitys are not like the canon ones because I suck at writing in character! Reader is GN and doesn't use any pronouns, and Vee, Shelly and pebble are all meant to be seen as platonic. Also you can view them as yanderes or just really possessive.

ASTRO

"Please be- .....you're not Bassie." "Starlight..."

.Stay's as close to you as he can, he already know's who you are looking for -- and so do the rest of the mains. It's not like they hold any personal problems with Bassie, it's merely because they knew you first is all. .Remeber his old blanket? He makes sure that it's always wrapped around you, so when you leave and possible see Bassie -- at least she will know who you are close with. .With the way his hat moves I like to think it's either because A) he can control it or B) it has a mind of it's own -- either way it always ends up wrapping around you when you do the machine's, not that he minds though. you do astro please remove it the Ichor is staining your clothes for the 40th time. "Cuddles? Like we use to?" "Astro you always stain my shirts black with the amount of Ichor-" "......" "Sigh, Fine..." .Four arms equal 4 times the comfort of cuddles, and wrapped in his old blanket? It could almost make you forget about your whole Bassie situation. sadly it didn't but hopefully soon you will finally give up and sleep with him like you use to. .What happens when both him and Bassie are on the same floor? Well you barely see Bassie, it seems like he made it his life mission to keep you two apart whenever he could. .You also swear you hear him grumble everytime you pick up research labled as Bassie's, but at this point you can't distinguish between grumbles and weird purring noises he makes. "You are awfully clingly this time around" "mmm...." "That wasn't an invitation-" "......" "...You know I can't stay mad at you, you cuddlebug" "Mhm.."

VEE

"Vee...Vee this is the 7th time, the 7th time you have shown up." "We can make it 8th" .My darling Vee, the one who never frigging left me -- appeared so many times I got her to 100% in 2 days and she wasn't even on the board once. .She's already standing there when the elevator opens, already waiting for you -- and before you can even get a word in her tail is wrapping around you and she's walking off. "Come on Vee, put me down" "mmmm, nope" .She's talking your ear off about everything and anything, as long as your attention is on her she's over the moon -- though she rarely shows it. .She likes to tease you, with her being insanely taller than you, she uses it to her advantage -- but if she genuinely makes you upset about it she's quick to stop, even throughout all the fun she would never want you to be upset over something she did. .If you compliment her in any way her screen will bug out for a moment before she thanks you -- her voice a bit staticky. Of course you have complimented her before, and so have others, it's just she hasn't had much compliments in this form yet is all. .Somehow she always knows where you are -- what floor you're on, where you are in a blackout, even if she can't make it to the elevator before it arrives, she eventually finds you and picks you up. .You have a small suspicion it's because of her ability but at the same time she's been near you so much you've started to think she's just learn't your habbits. "Do you think I could play games on your screen" "I wouldn't let you test it" "You so would though" "....You might get a virus." "Aw man" .Unlike the others, Vee doesn't really care for Bassie -- in the sense that she won't try to take you to the other side of the map to be away from her. .What she will do though is stay very close to you -- sure you can go to Bassie for whatever reason but make sure to keep your main attention on her, she isn't as possessive as the others. .That's the biggest lie ever, you just don't need to know that or the fact she purposefully kept Bassie off the floors for so long. .If you do spend to much time focusing on Bassie you would hear a sound that's almost like a computer overheating, when you check on Vee she simply raises an eyebrow at your question before saying it's a silly idea, even though both of you can feel heat radiating off her. "Come on, she isn't that bad!" "I know my show star, but that doesn't matter"

SHELLY

"rrrrrr....." "No way, and what happened next?" .Unlike the others Shelly at least tries to help you with the machine, as she tells you -- or at least tries to tell you -- about everything and anything. .In blackouts she makes sure to stay close so you don't bump into anything -- even though she isn't as tall as the other main's, and is usually hunched over, she will try to stand as tall as she can while observing the area. .She love's it when you talk, whether you are talking about something, simply humming or just saying random words. Shelly love's the sound of your voice, and if you don't speak? She just love's being around you, it always makes her tail wag no matter what you do! "How does your tail wag if its just your spine?" "rrrrhhhh?" "Yeah I figured" .She really doesn't like sharing your attention, and it's only worse when you are actively looking for someone else. Don't get it wrong! Deep down she knows it isn't Bassie's fault, but her more protective mindset always seems to win her over. .She use to only growl or roar whenever someone went a little to close to you, but lately she's seem to pick up the habbit of biting people when she gets really mad, causing you to drop everything you are doing and running over to her. .You can't possible decide if she's doing it on purpose for your attention or doing it from protectiveness -- at this point you are more than convinced its at least a bit of both. "I- Shelly- Shelly no- no doN'T BITE HER SHELLY-" "Rrrrr."

SPROUT

"ahusfjhasfhassa" "Sprout I love you dearly but please put me down, the tendrils are cold and wet and-" "hasfsafhhas" "....that didn't mean hold me-" .You thought the others were clingy? Well get ready for mr overprotective here -- he doesn't want you leaving his line of sight, no matter what. .Hmm? You want to collect baskets for the...easter toons? Oh, well it's okay, he can...sort of help with that -- I mean you are only trying to make new friends is all. just don't talk about them to much, he's trying to hold back his possessiveness towards you but he doesn't know how much longer he can take .He can't necessarily voice his complaints but he can sure as hell try, from grumbles to simply picking you up and holding you as close as he could -- he could try to keep you away from the baskets and other twisteds but you seem so adamant about them. .No worries though, he can simply use his tendrils to carefully pick you up and hold you above -- making sure you can't get whatever it is you wanted. You don't like how they feel? No worry! He doesn't mind holding you the whole time. "Sprout, you're like...breathing down my neck right now-" "hsdfiajeidfng" "I just want the baskets..." "Hisdjmfkd!" "I thank you for wanting to bake for me, but I think the ichor would contaminate it-" .God forbid Bassie is on the same floor as you two, there's no way you are even touching the ground with how possessive he becomes -- scarf wrapped around and everything! .What do you mean you need to see Bassie? Don't you know how dangerous it is? and what if he loses sight of you? what if you get hurt, what if- no, the simple answer is no. .But please don't get mad at him! He can't help it! He just wants to protect you is all, it's simply out of his control what happens! "....." "....dfgrf?" "Hmph...." "iodkfjgddf?" "....ugh I can't do this silent treatment anymore, just behave okay?" "sjdngd!"

PEBBLE

"Pebble no- bad dog." "Don't whine at me that's called guilt tripping" .Have you ever wanted a guard dog before? Well now you have a very large and very vicious guard dog, yay! .He's such a happy boy, tail's wagging, he's almost trotting from happiness but that all goes down hill when he notices you paying more attention to the easter twisteds than him. .This causes very loud whining -- the only warning you get before you're jumped by him, causing the both of you to fall down and for him to stay on top of you. not to hard he would never want to hurt his favorite caretaker! .Now you have to play fetch with him! and give him treats galore! Just make sure there's no one around -- he WILL trample over them just to get to you even if you tell him to stop. "I'm such a good pet owner aren't I? Much better than Dandy who can't keep his DOG ON A LEASH" "Pebble with how fast you wag your tail you are going to knock someone out with it, or worse because it's a rock" .You already know Bassie's on the same floor, you can hear his growling and barking from a mile away -- be sure to get to him quickly or else he might just attack the poor basket. .When you get there it's almost like he was never angry -- kew word almost, if it wasn't for the fact he picked you up by the back of your shirt and bringing you somewhere far away from her. .When the two of you are far enough he puts you down before laying his head in your lap and very politely asking for pats for protecting you like a good boy! "Peb-Pebble do not growl and Bassie she didn't do anything wrong-" "PEBBLE PUT ME DOWN YOUR TEETH WILL RIP MY SHIRT"

DANDY

"....okay so I can explain-" "You purposefully wanted this, not that I'm complaining my flower!" .If you were anyone else you would of had a heart attack when you heard Dandy's music coming towards you at max speed -- but you aren't anyone else, and you already know how much favoritism leaks out of that flower. .Whenever you finish a machine -- you are always faced with a smiling rainbow face, his sharp teeth would probably scare others to death but you've seen it so many times it's become normal. .Such a patient gentleman he is, waiting for your signal before pouncing onto of you -- still being mindful of the tapes sticking out of him, making sure none of them accidentally scrape you. "You are such a cat" "Nope! I wouldn't say 'cat'..." "Dandy, you are literally kneading into me." .As long as you give him full permission he will knead on every spot on your body, of course he's careful of his claws -- he would never hurt you. .At most floors you wouldn't even know Bassie was there if it wasn't for her flowers on the ground. Instead of the others avoiding her it seems like she's avoiding you -- well, not YOU persay, rather the toon that follows you. .Say you finally get to see her, you immediately sense the tension in the air before watching Bassie run away as fast as she could on her four, yet small 'legs'. .Turning your attention to Dandy you witness the most deadliest side eye you have ever seen. If this is how he acts when she's not even close to you guys, you think it's best off that you don't get close to her. .You would want the Ichor to be the physical bad thing that's happened in her life. "omg stop giving the poor girl the side eye" "Hmm? I'm not." "'I'm not a cat' my ass, your eyes literally just dilated when you looked at me."

#☾★ adonis beloveds ★☽#☾★ adonis ★☽#male reader #gender neutral reader #gn reader #dandys world #dandy's world #dandy's world x reader #dandy's world x male reader #dandy x reader #astro x reader #vee x reader #shelly x reader #sprout x reader #x reader #x male reader #yandere dandys world

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rxqueenotd · 3 days ago

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PART VII

In the Roman world, damnatio memoriae was used to describe a range of actions taken against former leaders and their reputations. These actions included: defacing visual depictions, removing heads from public statues, chiseling names off inscriptions, and destroying coins.

summary: reader, who goes by Prima, was raised by a powerful Roman consul, under the reign of Imperator Septimius Severus. When it comes time for his eldest son, Caracalla, to marry again, a chain of events is set off, changing the course of Prima's life and the lives around her.

warnings: mentions of death, cremation, animal sacrifice, sexual themes, mentions of menstruation, Ancient Rome as a warning itself, see previous tags.

notes: are you guys still with me? I feel like this fic has taken a serious turn since the first few chapters and I need to check in. We good? I love your comments and thoughts. Thanks to @trashmouth-richie for being my beta and brotha.

They burned him as the sun began to fall—when the light turned gold and shadows stretched long across the Field of Mars.

You wore black, no trim or embroidery. No crown, no imperial mantle. A single bronze pin fastened the cloak at your shoulder. Your hair, unbound, fell down your back, and the only piece of jewelry you wore was a necklace from Julia Domna’s collection, a gift from Septimius himself.

You stood apart, just behind the temple steps, the air thick with oil and ash, the scent of it curling into your throat like a hand. The pyre rose above the crowd, layered in cedar and wrapped in purple, gold, and blood—the appropriate splendor for a god who had ruled with iron in his veins. His armor rested atop the body. His standard behind him. Two eagles were caged beside the pyre, silent.

When the hour came, it was the sons who approached the pyre. Together.

Geta reached first, laying the coin between the folds of linen near the mouth—his hand steady, his face unreadable. He bowed his head once. Not out of respect. Out of finality. There was no crack in his composure, no flicker of pain for the crowd to see. Only silence, held tightly in his jaw.

Caracalla stood beside him, torch in hand, the flame crackling low and blue. Another was handed to Geta. The moment was brief, unscripted, the air taut between them.

They lit the pyre together.

One from the left. One from the right.

The fire caught immediately, racing through the cedar and oil-soaked silk, roaring into the early dusk. The priests behind them began their chants. The crowd pressed closer, held back only by the Praetorian line.

Caracalla turned first, handing the torch off, and walked to where you stood. He said nothing. He stood beside you—not ahead, not behind—and let his shoulder rest against yours, his jaw clenched, his face unreadable. You didn’t look at him. But when his hand reached out beneath his robes, fingers finding yours where they rested at your side, you let him hold it.

No one saw.

When the pyre bloomed, the first crackle of it was swallowed by silence. The flames leapt higher than the temple roof. The smoke curled black against the sky.

Caracalla did not blink.

He watched his father burn with a stillness so complete it made the senators uneasy. No tears. No words. No gesture of farewell. Only the tightening of his grip around your hand and the sharpness of his jaw as the fire grew.

You said nothing.

Your veil shifted slightly in the wind, the scent of burning flesh brushing against your cheek. You did not turn from the smoke.

Geta stood unmoving, his arms folded across his chest, eyes fixed forward. He did not blink when the armor collapsed inward. He did not bow when the eagle rose. He stayed rigid, statuesque.

When the eagles were released—one into the smoke, the other a second later to chase it—the people roared. The priests chanted. The augurs lifted their hands toward the sky as if they might catch whatever was left of him in their fingers.

And still, Caracalla did not let go.

By the second day, the ashes had cooled. The marble urn had been sealed. The emperor had joined the gods.

____________________________________________________________________________

The Curia was quieter than usual, as if the walls themselves had gone still after the funeral.

You stood above, behind the patterned screen near the high arch where only shadows reached. You weren’t there to be seen. You were there to listen, and to be remembered later, by those who thought back on this moment and realized they should have paid more attention.

Caracalla entered last.

He wasn’t in mourning black anymore. The color had left him as quickly as it came. He wore a dark crimson cloak over a new tunic, the wool heavy across his shoulders, the hem weighted with fine gold thread. He had come dressed to be watched.

The senators stood when he did.

But he didn’t wait for the usual formalities. No invocation. No blessing. No opening words from a priest or steward.

“I leave for Germania within the week,” he said.

It came sharp and clean, like a spear thrown into silence.

“The Chatti have crossed further south. Patrols have vanished near the Rhine. A trader caravan was found with no heads. I’ve read every report from Mogontiacum to Argentoratum and none of them end with peace.”

He walked slowly as he spoke, letting the weight of his words build the room around him. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

“The legions need command. Not from men who sit and talk in halls like this, imploring no direct action. They need to see Rome in the flesh. They need to know their emperor still bleeds.”

He reached the center of the chamber and turned to face them fully, the hem of his cloak swaying slightly behind him.

“When I return,” he said, “there will be no more questions. No more divided loyalties. No more wondering which son was meant to lead. There will be no space left for guessing. Rome cannot belong to two men. And I will not let her.”

He didn’t speak Geta’s name. But he didn’t need to. Not when every man in the room had just imagined the same ending.

____________________________________________________________________________

He came to you at dusk.

The light outside had already begun to fade, soft and silver, the kind that didn’t cast shadows so much as it softened them. You stood near the window, one hand resting lightly against the marble, your other arm tucked close to your ribs.

The door opened without warning.

He didn’t knock. He never did.

You didn’t turn at first. You heard the sound of his sandals against the stone, then nothing. When you finally looked, he was standing just inside the threshold, his hand still resting on the frame behind him.

He was still wearing the clothes from the Senate. The red cloak had come unpinned and hung lopsided over one shoulder, the edge of it trailing low near his calf. The tunic beneath it was creased now, his hair slightly damp where it curled at the back of his neck. He hadn’t stopped to change. Hadn’t stopped to eat. He watched you like a man who had already run through the conversation a dozen different ways in his head and hadn’t liked any of them.

For a moment, he said nothing.

“You haven’t bled.”

Not a question. Just something pulled straight from the center of him, from deep in his gut. Not the way he had asked before, this was easier. More delicate.

You didn’t pretend not to understand.

“No,” you said. Your voice didn’t waver.

He stepped closer. Slowly. Like you might vanish if he came too fast.

“Not since Baiae?”

You gave one small shake of your head. “Not since before.”

His eyes dropped to your waist.

You felt the weight of it, the way he studied the line of your body—not with hunger, not with desire, but with calculation. With need.

“I don’t feel any different,” you said, before he could speak again. “No changes. No signs.”

His hands twitched at his sides but didn’t lift.

“It would explain everything,” he said, quieter now. “Why you look at me like that. Why you’re quiet. You’re carrying my heir.”

Your spine straightened at that.

You turned fully, your hand dropping from the window.

“How I look at you?” you asked. Your voice didn’t rise, but something under it changed. “What are you talking about?”

He blinked once.

“I look at you no differently than I ever have,” you said, and now you took a step toward him. “And I’m quiet because I have nothing to say.”

Something flickered behind his eyes, something almost wounded, but he swallowed it down before it could show on his face.

“You’re different,” he said. “You’ve been different since we returned.”

You tilted your head. “Your father is dead. Do you expect me to laugh in the halls?”

He didn’t answer that.

Instead, he took one more step forward and lifted a hand, like he might reach for your arm, then let it fall again before he touched you.

“If it’s true…” he said, almost to himself. “If there’s a child…”

His voice dropped further, more thought than speech.

“It changes everything.”

You didn’t flinch.

“It doesn’t change me.”

He looked at you then—not like an emperor, not like a husband, not even like a man—but like someone trying to see through the fog of something he didn’t understand. And couldn’t control.

“I need to be sure,” he said. “I can’t go north not knowing. I need to know what the gods have seen.”

And then, before you could say another word, he turned and left.

Not to rage. Not to curse. Not to demand.

But to find the augurs.

To ask men who watched birds and smoke to tell him what you wouldn’t. To search for omens where no truth lived. Because deep down, even he didn’t trust what was real. Only what could be interpreted.

____________________________________________________________________________

The augurs came just as the sun had set.

Not to the palace, but to the eastern field outside the city wall, where the air was quiet and the sky could be seen without interruption. A square had been marked in the earth ahead of time. Ropes stretched at the edges. Incense was already burning to keep the smell of blood from hanging too long once the sacrifice began.

Caracalla arrived alone, on foot. He didn’t speak to anyone.

The god named aloud was Jupiter. But other gods were called, too—Mars, for battle. Janus, for a clear path. Silvanus, in case the signs came from the ground instead of the sky. They didn’t say those names loudly. But they were there.

The bull chosen was young, black, without flaw. Its eyes were steady. Its hooves were clean. When Caracalla laid his hand between its eyes, it didn’t pull away.

The priest gave the signal.

The cut was fast, but not clean. The animal dropped slowly. It groaned once before its legs gave out and the blood hit the dirt. That sound made the priest’s face tighten.

He said nothing.

The entrails were pulled carefully from the body. The liver had a dark mark on the left side. The heart looked swollen. The priest leaned closer to study it, then stepped back without giving a word.

A second man, the augur, stepped forward and raised his curved staff. He didn’t speak right away. He tilted his head to the sky.

A young boy opened a wicker cage and released three birds. One flew straight west. One circled above the square, then vanished. The third flew east, dropped low, then rose again and went north.

When the augur finally spoke, he didn’t rush.

“There is strength,” he said. “But also pressure. Something unknown. Something beneath the surface.”

Caracalla didn’t move.

“It’s not a curse,” the augur added. “But it’s not clean.”

He looked at the sky again before saying more. “One bird flew east. One flew north. The third didn’t fly far enough to be counted.”

Caracalla’s voice came low and even.

“What did they see?”

The augur didn’t meet his eyes.

“A lion stands in the shadow of Mars. There is no cub. Not yet.”

____________________________________________________________________________

He didn’t go back to his chambers after leaving the augurs.

He walked the long inner corridor instead, the one past the council rooms and the wall where the carved map of the empire still showed provinces they hadn’t held in years. The guards at the arch stood aside without needing a signal. They had seen that look on his face before—the one that meant he didn’t want anyone following. He turned into the corridor that led to his study, the one just off the inner courtyard, not far from the formal receiving hall, close enough to power that it stayed warm with movement, but private enough that no one entered without reason.

The door was half-shut when he reached it.

He paused—not because he expected anything strange, but because the light coming from under the door was softer than usual. No clerks. No rustling. Just the low glow of oil behind carved cedar and the faint sound of something moving quietly inside.

When he stepped inside, the first thing he saw was you.

You were seated beneath the narrow window, not at his desk, not where you would have had to explain yourself, but in the corner—on the stone bench against the wall, knees drawn slightly beneath your stola, a tablet balanced on your lap. Your fingers moved over the wax with quiet precision. You weren’t writing quickly, but you weren’t wasting time either. You looked like someone trying to get something down before it vanished.

You didn’t notice him at first.

The door closed behind him with a soft sound, not loud enough to startle but enough to break the rhythm. Your eyes lifted immediately. You didn’t stand. You didn’t hide the tablet with panic. You moved like someone who had already rehearsed this moment in your head and knew exactly how long it would take to tuck the stylus away, fold the cloth over your knees, and slide the writing beneath your arm as if it were nothing at all.

He didn’t speak.

He looked at you, and then at the small lamp beside you, and then back again.

“I didn’t think you came here,” he said finally.

“I don’t,” you said, standing slowly. “I needed quiet.”

He nodded once, stepped deeper into the room, and let the space settle around him. He didn’t sit. He didn’t ask what you were writing. His gaze lingered on the place where your hand had moved, but he didn’t press it.

“I saw the augurs,” he said.

You didn’t respond. You didn’t have to. You waited.

“They burned the bull,” he continued, slower now, the words coming like someone still deciding whether they were worth saying out loud. “The signs were mixed. The liver wasn’t clean, the heart swollen. The birds flew in different directions.”

Still, you said nothing.

“They told me there is strength in my house,” he said. “But something hidden. Something coming. A lion under Mars. No cub.”

He looked at you then.

“I asked if it was a curse. They said no.”

You didn’t look away. You didn’t ask what he believed. You didn’t ask what he wanted.

He took a breath.

“I think I needed them to tell me something I could hold on to.”

You didn’t speak.

And still, somehow, he knew you understood.

____________________________________________________________________________

You didn’t expect him to follow you.

When you left his study, you assumed it was over—that he’d said what needed saying and would return to whatever preparations still demanded his attention. The army would move soon. There were generals to summon. Roads to clear. Scribes to instruct. You thought you’d walk the long way back to your chambers, maybe have Cassia bring something light, eat alone.

But he followed.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t try to walk beside you. He stayed a step behind, quiet, not looming, just there.

You didn’t stop him.

When you reached the door to your rooms, you paused—not to wait, just to see if he would keep walking. But he didn’t. And when you stepped inside, he followed again.

The table had already been set.

Cassia had left without comment after lighting the lamps—two plates, a covered dish of barley and roasted dates, figs, cheese, a bowl of wine watered just enough to dull the edge. The bread was still warm. The steam hadn’t settled yet.

You turned slightly, watching him as he moved further into the room. He didn’t ask if he was welcome. He didn’t announce he would stay. He simply removed his cloak, folded it once, and laid it across the back of the nearest chair.

Then he sat.

No command. No tension. Just a man choosing, for reasons he didn’t explain, to stay where you were.

You sat across from him. The meal was quiet. Not cold. Not strained. Just quiet.

He ate slowly, chewing each bite like he was paying attention for once. The only sound was the soft movement of fingers against bread, the clink of pottery, the occasional shift of his hand as he reached for another fig.

You didn’t speak until halfway through, and even then it was only, “The cheese is better than last week.”

He looked up, not sharply, but like he hadn’t expected anything out of your mouth that wasn’t measured. His eyes flicked to the plate, then to yours.

“It’s from my mother’s estate,” he said. Then, after a pause—“Outside Lugdunum.”

The words sat there for a moment. You remembered what they’d said at the funeral—how the urn would be placed beside hers. How he hadn’t spoken her name since.

“She died before the Rhine campaigns,” he added, quieter now,as if you didn’t already know. “But they still send the parcels. Out of habit, maybe. Or memory.”

He didn’t seem to realize he’d told you something real.

You didn’t answer.

He didn’t raise his cup. He didn’t pour wine to the gods. No offering. He only took another sip and reached for more bread.

It wasn’t prayer. It wasn’t thanks. It was just dinner. And it was quiet. And strangely, it was enough.

____________________________________________________________________________

When the meal was done, you stood without a word.

You reached for the cloth folded neatly over the edge of the table, wiped your hands slowly, then moved toward the door that led into the adjoining room, your fingers already loosening the tie at your waist. You didn’t turn to look at him. You didn’t need to. You could feel his eyes on you from the moment your chair scraped back.

“I’m going to the balneum,” you said. “The day’s been long.”

You made it halfway across the room before he rose.

He didn’t speak immediately. Just followed—quiet, careful, like he wasn’t sure if the moment would stay intact if he moved too suddenly.

When you paused near the curtain, you felt him behind you.

“You don’t have to,” he said.

You turned slightly. “Don’t have to what?”

“Wash,” he said, his voice lower now, more certain. “I want you just as you are.”

The silence after that wasn’t empty. It was thick.

You looked at him fully then, letting the moment stretch. Not challenging. Just seeing if he meant it. He didn’t look away.

“If I am already with child,” you said, your voice even, “then there is no need for us to have sex.”

“I don’t need a reason,” he answered. “I can want you all the same.”

You watched him. The space between you wasn’t wide, but it held everything that hadn’t been said across weeks—his want, your silence, the nights you didn’t speak, the moments you could’ve touched but didn’t.

You turned to face him, slowly, without speaking, without lowering your gaze. You didn’t move with invitation or hesitation. You just stood there, your hand resting lightly against the curtain, your breath steady, your eyes holding his like you had made a decision you weren’t going to say out loud.

He stepped forward.

Not in a rush, not like a man trying to claim something, but like someone who had waited long enough and didn’t want to ask again. His hand found the edge of the belt at your waist, the one you’d started to undo before the words stopped you, and he touched it gently, like he was still giving you a chance to leave.

You didn’t.

His fingers worked the knot slowly, carefully, as if the fabric might tear if he moved too fast, and when it slipped free and loosened against your hips, he let the silence stretch. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. You watched his hands instead of his eyes, the way he slid the stola from your shoulder first, then down the length of your arm, one side at a time, the linen dragging soft across your skin as it dropped lower.

You didn’t help him. You didn’t move to cover yourself either.

The fabric hit the floor in a slow hush and stayed there, forgotten. He stepped back only a little, his eyes moving over you like he was seeing you for the first time. And you let him look. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t hide. You only stood still, bare in the lamplight, the curve of your back catching the glow, your hair still pinned from earlier, your lips parted just slightly like you might speak but hadn’t decided yet.

He didn’t reach for you. Not right away.

He just stood there, looking at you like the moment might break, and maybe he didn’t want it to.

And still, you didn’t move. You let him stand in it. You let him want. You let him wait.

____________________________________________________________________________

You didn’t speak when he stepped toward you again.

You didn’t look away when his hand lifted to your cheek, his fingers brushing the edge of your jaw before moving lower, tracing the shape of your throat like he needed to remember it. He didn’t ask anything. He didn’t command. He only touched you like it had been a long time since he’d done it without anger behind it.

When he kissed you, it wasn’t fast or hard. It was slow, almost hesitant, like he was asking something and didn’t want the answer out loud.

He led you back toward the bed with one hand resting low at your spine, steady but unhurried. The way he looked at you made it feel like you’d never been here before, like he was seeing something he hadn’t earned.

You let him lay you down.

He didn’t undress all at once. He moved like he had time. He knelt between your legs and pulled your thigh over his shoulder, his hands slow on your skin, his mouth brushing just above your knee before moving lower, lower, until the tension in your breath gave you away.

He tasted you without speaking, without warning, his mouth soft but focused, like this was the only thing that made sense anymore.

You tried not to move. You tried not to let it show. But when his tongue dragged in that slow, deliberate way, again and again, your hips lifted before you could stop them, and he held you there, steady in his grip, mouth never leaving you.

You didn’t moan.

When you came the first time, it was in silence, your back arched, your fingers tight in the linen beneath you, your lip caught between your teeth. He didn’t stop. He didn’t lift his head. He only kept going, slower now, like he wanted to draw out the shape of it, learn the rhythm of what broke you open.

The second time was worse. Or better. You weren’t sure.

Your thighs trembled, your hand came up to your mouth like you could stop the sound that threatened to slip, and that was when he lifted his head, just for a moment, and brought his fingers to your lips.

They were wet. He touched your mouth gently, and when you wouldn’t open it, wouldn’t meet his eyes, he pressed one finger against your lips until they parted. You let him in. He watched the way your mouth closed around him, slow and soft, your tongue catching the taste he’d left there. He didn’t move at first—just watched. And then he crawled up, leaning over you, hands planted on either side of your ribs, his body warm and close, and kissed you deep—like he’d waited weeks to do it right, like the taste of you was the only thing he wanted to carry with him to Germania.

His body pressed down against yours, not with weight but with warmth, his chest brushing yours as he shifted, the length of him hard between your legs but not demanding. His breath was steady, his mouth dragging across your jaw, then your neck, slow enough to leave heat behind but not enough to mark you.

When he entered you, he did it without a word.

No thrust. No snap of movement.

Just a slow press, thick and full, dragging through the slick he’d pulled from you with his mouth and fingers, his hands sliding beneath your thighs to lift you higher, to angle you deeper, to make sure every inch of him found a place inside you that hadn’t been touched properly in weeks.

Your legs folded over his shoulders, your knees brushing his jaw as he moved, slow and steady, each roll of his hips deep enough to make your breath catch in the back of your throat. He wasn’t trying to break you. He wasn’t trying to prove anything.

He was just there. Moving with you.

Touching the inside of your thighs with one hand, stroking up and down like he wanted to memorize the shape of you. His other hand rested at your calf, thumb tracing lazy circles as he fucked you deep and slow, the weight of his gaze locked on your mouth like he was waiting for the sound you still refused to give.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to.

The room was too warm now. The lamplight shimmered along the curve of your stomach, your breasts, the sweat gathering low on his spine. Your hands found his back, your nails not clawing but holding, your legs trembling against his shoulders, your breath a little shorter now, a little tighter.

And still he didn’t rush. He moved like a man who had all night. Like there was nowhere else he wanted to be.

____________________________________________________________________________

When it was done, he pulled out slowly and said nothing.

You reached for the sheet without thinking, dragging it up over your stomach as you rolled your shoulders against the mattress, your legs still parted slightly, your chest rising and falling in quiet, steady waves. The heat between your thighs hadn’t faded. The ache in your hips was still there, pulsing gently, but it didn’t hurt.

You didn’t look at him. Not at first.

He lay beside you on his back, not close enough to touch, not far enough to forget. His breath was slower now, deep and even, one arm resting behind his head, the other across his chest, his eyes fixed on the ceiling like he was waiting for it to speak.

You kept your body still, your arms folded lightly beneath the sheet, the sweat drying at your collarbone.

But you turned your head. Not fast. Not fully. Just enough to see him.

And he turned too.

Your eyes met in the quiet. No words passed between you. There was no smile. No question. Just that look.

The one that lasted longer than it should have. The one that said nothing.

And still—meant everything.

____________________________________________________________________________

Over the next passing days, Rome began to change.

It didn’t happen all at once. The noise didn’t crash through the gates or arrive with fanfare. It crept in slowly, through the sound of sandals in the dark, the clink of armor being fastened at dawn, the low voices that carried between pillars before the sun reached the courtyard stones. Banners were unfurled over the barracks—freshly dyed in red and gold, crisp from disuse—and soldiers took to the training fields earlier each morning, their drills echoing faintly across the Palatine before the rest of the city opened its eyes.

Letters moved like smoke through the halls, tucked beneath arms, sealed with the emperor’s mark in warm wax that hadn’t yet hardened. Supplies were tallied twice. New horses brought in. Provisions arranged and then rearranged by stewards who kept their hands busy so they wouldn’t ask what would be waiting for them on the other side of winter. And still, the palace didn’t sleep. Not truly. Not fully.

You heard the change before you saw it.

Doors opening when they shouldn’t. Generals whispering over maps spread too wide to read at a glance. Messengers appearing in the corridors before vanishing again with parchment tucked into their belts. Servants moved faster than they used to. Fewer of them met your eye. And even those who once dared to speak softly in your presence now fell silent the moment you crossed the threshold of any room.

The air shifted in ways you couldn’t name but couldn’t ignore, and though Caracalla never asked for your help, never brought you into his councils, never asked your opinion on who should ride ahead or who should remain in Rome, you still knew what he kept close.

___________________________________________________________________________

Two days passed, and then the morning came.

The sky was still pale when you heard the sound of metal below the colonnade—helmets being fastened, bridles pulled tight, sandals striking stone in rhythm with the first calls from the training yard. Rome was awake before the sun, but not for worship. Not for ceremony. Today it moved with purpose. Today it prepared to send off its emperor.

You had not seen him the night before.

No message. No knock at your door.

When you stepped into the light, he was already below, standing near the base, not yet mounted, speaking to one of the handlers as they adjusted the reins. His horse stood waiting, the armor glinting in the morning light, motionless beneath the weight of preparation.

You were not two steps past the marble arch before a servant stepped forward.

He was young, clutching a satchel to his chest, his face twisted with uncertainty, but his voice didn’t falter when he called up to you.

“Domina,” he asked, “should I prepare the herbs again? The ones you’ve been giving him. For the journey.”

The question wasn’t sarcastic or filled with malice. But it carried, and it carried far.

Cassia turned her head immediately. Two younger girls standing behind the pillar leaned forward just enough to hear your answer.

You didn’t pause.

“They’re for his virility,” you said, smooth and unbothered, not too loud, not too soft. Just enough.

Cassia blinked once, then nodded, satisfied, stepping back into her place.

But the others—the younger ones, eyes too wide and mouths too quick—exchanged a glance. A small one. But you saw it. The kind of look that travels farther than it should.

And by the time you reached the top of the steps, Caracalla had already turned from his officers and begun walking toward you.

“I’ll send word from Mediolanum,” he said. “If the snow holds, we’ll reach the border before the month ends.”

You nodded. That was all.

He didn’t touch you. He didn’t offer his hand. There was no blessing. No farewell.

For a moment, it looked like he might say something more.

But instead, he turned, walked back down without pause, and took the reins from the handler with one hand. He mounted in a single movement, the leather shifting beneath him, his posture straight, his face unreadable.

Papinian stepped forward from the formation and spoke low.

“Domine, the soldiers are gathered. They expect words before the gate.”

Caracalla gave a single nod.

He turned his horse toward the open square where the legions stood assembled. The sound of armor shifting filled the air. Shields gleamed in the morning light. Banners moved faintly in the wind. These were not fresh recruits. These were men who had bled for Rome. And now they were about to follow Rome into another winter, another war.

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

“When we reach Germania, we do not ask for peace,” he said, his voice cutting clean through the quiet. “We take it. We show them the empire doesn’t hesitate. We show them that men who stand with Rome—stand with me—do not return in shame.”

He looked across the rows, his gaze steady.

“Some of you have fought in the north before. Some of you have buried friends there. That ground knows your blood. Let it know your victory.”

A pause. His jaw clenched.

“This is not about land. This is about fear. And I want them to be afraid.”

The words lingered only a moment before the roar of the legion rose up behind them, loud and heavy and full of the kind of noise that covered every doubt. You didn’t flinch. You only let your gaze follow the weight of his voice down through the open square, past the banners and armor and movement that blurred against the edges of your sight.

And then, without needing to turn your head, without hearing a name or the shift of a sandal on stone, you felt someone come to stand beside you. There was no sound to it. Just the weight of presence at your side. You didn’t look. You didn’t need to. You knew it was Geta.

He didn’t speak. He stood there, hands still at his sides, his posture easy but not relaxed, the way it always was when he knew people were watching and wanted to give them nothing they could use.

And down below, just as the archway opened wide and the crowd shifted to clear the path, Caracalla pulled the reins and turned his head. He didn’t look toward the banners. He didn’t look toward the senators. He looked directly up the marble steps.

Not at you. But to his brother.

His gaze locked there, sharp and still, and whatever passed between them didn’t break the silence, but you felt it all the same.

And then he turned forward again, cloak snapping behind him in the wind, the sound of hooves striking the ground in rhythm with the gate as it opened wide.

Taglist:

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@niungguang

Dividers: @ghoulbloggerrr

#damnatio memoriae #emperor caracalla fanfic #emperor caracalla x reader x emperor geta #gladiator 2 #gladiator ii fic #gladiator ii fanfiction #emperor caracalla fred hechinger #emperor geta joseph quinn #emperor caracalla #emperor geta #emperor geta x ofc #emperor geta x reader

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inthelibrarybtw · 2 days ago

Text

back to shore | r.c

pairing: bsfb!rafe x kook!reader

summary: A few hours could define anything and he wasn't going to let go that easily. He couldn't give up that easily, whatever the outcome was going to be, he was going to be there. Maybe the waves were going to be kind this time and allow him to bring you back. To bring his home back. part two of this.

word count: 3.9k

content: cursing, angst, inaccurate weather/ocean talk, Christian faith, prayer mentioned, talks of death, loss of a parent, CPR, medical terms may not be 100% accurate, crying, trauma.

authors note: I teared up again but this time it was for different reasons. I hope it makes sense I'm very tired, so excuse me.

Rafe returned to where the Coast Guard and the police had settled on the beach. It was around 2 AM, and he had decided he would go back home, grab his boat, and then look for you. He didn’t care if he died from exhaustion; he needed to know he at least did everything he could to find you.

He was acting impulsively, but he also needed to be cautious. What if he found you? You would need medical attention. So, he went to tell Shoupe what he was going to do. Shoupe knew better than to try to reason with Rafe in this situation, so he gave him a radio to communicate with them just in case.

As he drove back to his house, he felt the need to cry one more time. Your things were in his car just as you had left them, but you weren’t there. He took a deep, shaky breath and left your things right where you left them because you would come back and move them if you wanted. You were coming back. You had to come back.

He got into his boat, and before he could even get the keys into the ignition, he cried one more time. “Please let her be alive… please.”

He took another deep breath, wiped his tears, and drove away. He started close to where the police had already checked. But they could’ve missed you, so he checked again. He kept listening to the radio; he didn’t care because none of the words coming out were “we see something” or “we found her.”

He stopped for a few minutes to gather himself. He was starting to feel desperate. Very desperate. It was supposed to be just a nice day at the beach, but nothing went as planned. It was like the world was playing him a cruel joke, laughing in his face because he took too long to ask you to be his girlfriend. If he had just asked earlier, he would’ve enjoyed more time with you as his girl. And now you were still his girl because you were alive. You had to be alive, or he was going to lose all sense of living.

He wished he was joking or exaggerating. That statement was loaded, but you were everything he never thought he was missing. You were his reason to smile, to keep going; he would do anything for you. Anything but live without you, because a life without you was nothing. You had always been there; maybe he found you annoying when you were kids, but that was then. He was little; all the girls were annoying to him.

He loved you. He had always loved you; it took him a while to get there, but he eventually did. He didn’t know a life without you. He didn’t remember when you were born, but he knew he was two when you and Sarah were born. Some pictures proved it—pictures in which he was sitting between two baby girls: Sarah and you. Your mom and his mom were best friends, so, of course, having baby girls a month apart was the dream—best friends birthing best friends. At first, it was just a little joke, but it became a reality.

So yes, maybe there had been a time when he didn’t have you, but to be fair, he couldn’t even recall those times. He remembered meeting Sarah, vaguely, but he remembered. He recalled more when he was four and two little girls were babbling and running around, taking his toys. Or when he was eight and two six-year-olds wouldn’t let him be at peace. Or when he was ten, at a birthday party to which you had also been invited. You gave him his gift and a small hug that your mom had made you give him, but it made him blush, so he just left. He also remembered going to at least one homecoming with you in high school. Sarah had begged him to invite you because she was dating Topper, and she wanted to have her best friend close by just in case something happened, so he did. By this point, you two had started talking more, so he didn’t need much convincing.

Again, Rafe didn’t know a life without you, even if he tried to remember those first two years of his life. You were there as a baby, toddler, kid, pre-teen, teen, and adult. He never wanted to know a life without you, so he prayed again and again, pleading with God to please keep you alive or bring you back to life. He needed to hear you one more time, to see you one more time. He just needed time. He just needed you.

He thought back to his mom. Losing her felt much like what he was feeling right now. He had been 19 when she died in a car crash, a drunk driver. He hated remembering that moment. He couldn’t lose the only person who had stood by him during that time, because now, who would be there for him? He would break. He wouldn’t be the same, and he didn’t think he would survive. Losing his mom had caused enough pain. He didn’t need to lose the love of his life too. That would be too much pain for someone to endure.

He would love to have his mom at that moment. She would’ve gone with him in that boat. She would be there with him, looking for him. Maybe she was. He always told him that his mom was always looking out for him, keeping an eye on him, and helping from heaven. Because that’s where she had gone—heaven. Where else would his mom go? The best mother in the world, in his world, had to have gone to heaven. He wiped his tears again. Thinking back to his mom was not helping at all. He just wanted to cry more because it hurt. And it scared him to have to deal with another loss.

“Please, Mom, help me out here… She believed you were always with me, so I will believe. Help me, help her.” Lost in all his thoughts and talking to himself, he didn’t notice when he had gotten so far from where he had originally started.

—

You were coming in and out of consciousness. You didn’t know what time it was. Water kept hitting your legs. You were shivering. It was extremely cold. You remembered wanting to move, scream, and pee; maybe you had done it. Or had it been a dream? You didn’t recall. Everything was blurring together. You had dreamed of Rafe, your friends, and your family. That was the only thing you knew for sure. In the dream, it was a warm Christmas. Hot cocoa and cuddling with Rafe. Gifts, parties. New Year's. Fireworks—bright and loud.

A flash.

Light.

Has that happened? Or had that just been your brain playing games with you? Had that flash come from somewhere, or was it part of your memories, and were you hallucinating? You wanted to move to check, but you felt heavy. It hurt to breathe, but you still did it, opening your eyes. Again, just rocks, water, and the sky.

A light. A flashlight, to be more specific. With whatever energy you had left, you were going to try to scream or make some noise in hopes of being found, even if it meant dying. At least someone would find you.

—

Rafe pulled out his flashlight to illuminate the area further. There were many rocks, and the water was a bit calmer there, but it was still pushing the boat to the right. He kept directing the flashlight at the rocks.

A splash. Not a water-hitting-the-rocks splash. An intentional one.

A noise. An animal? It didn’t sound like one; it was a peculiar noise. He tried to see where those sounds were coming from. A small but strong wave hit his boat and pushed him further to the right.

Another splash. Another noise.

—

The light on your face.

You scrunch your face, and you hit the rock where you were sitting once more.

—

He pointed his flashlight at the source of the noise.

Another splash.

Time stood still, yet he reacted and brought his boat as close as he could. He got off the boat. The water was freezing, but he didn’t care. He needed to get to you, to ensure he wasn’t imagining you there, and to help you. God, he needed to make sure you were okay.

You felt a surge of strength. Adrenaline, maybe. You tried to move, but your body felt numb from the freezing water you had been in for hours. In any other circumstance, you would make a joke about being left to marinate, but right then, you needed to reach for him.

He got to your side and didn’t speak; he just reached for you, and you could swear your body sensed it before your brain could register that Rafe was there, and it was real. It was real because the pain was there, the numbness was there, and it was too cold for this to be a dream.

He had no idea how he did it, but he got you to the boat. He felt your cold body against him and your arms wrap around his neck as he lifted you. He didn’t understand why you weren’t shivering anymore; you were freezing. Once in the boat, it was as if your body knew you were safe again, and you collapsed.

Rafe’s eyes widened, and he grabbed the radio Shoupe had given him.

“Found her,” he said in a shaky voice, “She—she collapsed, she…”

"Copy, we are sending people to your location."

He didn’t remember ever giving them the location, but at that moment, he didn’t care how they knew. The important thing was that they knew and they were coming. He got close to you again, softly tapping your cheeks.

“Princess, wake up for me, please. Y/N, come on, baby, wake up.” He checked your pulse; it was weak. “No, no, no, you’re not doing this to me. Come on, pretty girl, wake up.”

You were breathing slowly, and your heartbeat was slow and weak, but it was there. He wrapped a towel he had in the boat around you to try and warm you up. The paramedics arrived quickly, starting to stabilize you and checking for major injuries. They removed the towel to use insulation blankets and placed an ambu bag over your face to help you oxygenate better.

Rafe didn’t hear anything they were saying; he was focused on you. One of the paramedics drove his boat back because he was not leaving your side. He wasn’t even processing what was happening. The only thing he heard was that you were alive, had some degree of hypothermia, and needed urgent medical attention.

He held your hand the entire ride back to the beach, throughout the ambulance ride, and only let go once you reached the hospital. They had also given him an insulation blanket, and one of the nurses brought him scrubs to wear as dry clothes. They were rolling you away on the gurney when your vitals started dropping. Rafe felt as if his heart had dropped to his feet.

After intubation and warm IV fluids, you were stable. You had some internal injuries—a concussion, some bruising, and water in your lungs—but with proper oxygenation and medication, you were going to be okay. The cut on your hand from the rock was cleaned and stitched up. Only two stitches were needed. What was more concerning was your body temperature, so they were working on warming you up so you could regain consciousness. But the most important thing was that you were alive.

After Rafe changed into dry, warm scrubs a nurse took him to your room. Seeing you with all the tubes and connected to different machines broke his heart. You were back, but it still didn’t feel like you were. He knew it was you; he recognized his girl, but this was just half of who you truly were. He was still worried for you because you hadn’t woken up. He needed to hear you, see your eyes again, to be able to breathe in peace once more.

—

Your parents had arrived, and the doctor filled them in on what had happened. Rafe hadn’t been made aware of your parents' arrival. When the doctor called him out, he reluctantly let go of your hand, but he knew your parents needed some time alone with you. When he stepped out of the room, he was met with the embrace of your mother.

“Thank you for saving my baby girl,” she said, her voice a bit choked. Rafe didn’t feel like he had saved you; he felt like he had failed you by allowing this to happen. “You found her and she’s safe again,” your mother said, holding back her sobs.

“I…” Rafe trailed off, unsure of what he wanted to share or say to your mom. It had been too much in a very short time. He was tired, both physically and emotionally. He needed to sleep; maybe he wasn’t completely aware of it, but his body was.

“We can stay with her; go rest. She needs you to be well-rested.” Your mom squeezed his hand, letting him know it was okay. He just nodded before walking back to his car. He hugged your parents goodbye and made his way to his vehicle.

One more time, he turned to see your things on the passenger seat. You were coming back to pick them up. This time it was certain; he didn’t know how soon, but it was going to be soon. He hoped it would happen soon.

—

Rafe got back home. How? He doesn’t remember, but he returned in one piece. When he entered his room, he saw something he had forgotten was there: a necklace, your necklace. Well… you were yet to know it was yours. After dinner, he planned to take you back to his place and give you that necklace. You had always told everyone that you wanted an initial necklace, but only if it came from the right guy. You had also mentioned that you wanted to receive it the day you got engaged to ensure it was a forever thing. Rafe knew he wasn’t proposing, at least not yet, but the necklace was a promise that he would propose someday.

The necklace was his promise to you: to love you forever, to stand beside you, and to eventually make it a forever thing. It was a promise that he not only wanted you as a girlfriend but also as his wife. He wanted to grow old with you and experience life by your side. There was no other person he wanted or needed. So whenever you decided to wake up, he would be there waiting for you, necklace in hand.

—

Three days. Three long days had gone by, and you were still not waking up. The doctor had said it was normal; your body needed to rest from all it had gone through, so it was just a waiting game now. Rafe was struggling with his lack of patience, while your mother kept reminding him that you were okay and doing better. You no longer had a tube down your throat to help you breathe; you had a cannula to maintain oxygenation, an IV to provide fluids, medication, and anything your body might need.

Rafe had gone back home after spending the morning with you. He kept busy with things when he received a call. Your mom was calling him, he picked up immediately.

“She’s awake and asking for you.”

He forgot how to breathe at that moment. You were awake and asking for him. You had finally woken up. You were okay. His vision blurred, and he smiled.

“I’m going right now,” he said before ending the call. He grabbed everything he needed and ran to his car.

The ride to the hospital was something else. He was probably going to get a few speeding tickets, but he didn’t care; in fact, he was happy to pay the fines. Nothing could ruin this moment for him. You were awake and asking for him, so everything else was not important. Even in all the chaos, he bought you food and flowers. You had to be hungry.

He ran as much as he could, and as much as the nurses let him to get to your room. When he stepped in, it was as if time stood still. Your eyes met his, and you were faced with the very blue eyes you had fallen for; this time, they were as watery as yours.

You both smiled and cried. Your mom grabbed the things he had brought and placed them on the table next to the hospital bed; afterward, she left the room so you two could have a moment. He didn’t waste time and sat on the edge of the bed to hug you. One hand rested on your back, and the other cradled your head, while your arms rested on his shoulders and were looped around his neck.

“Princess…” he said in a shaky voice. “You gave me the biggest scare of my life.” He pulled back and cupped your face. You held onto his wrists. “You’re here… you’re back.” You just nodded and gave him a sad smile.

“I thought I was going to…” You couldn’t finish your sentence because you broke down. “I was so scared.” With that, Rafe broke. He held onto you as you both sobbed. He kissed the top of your head over and over again to comfort you.

“You’re safe, baby… I’ve got you; just let it out,” he rubbed your back in circles.

“I didn’t want to die… I didn’t want to leave everyone. I was scared,” you said between sobs. “I—” he cut you off gently.

“Baby… breathe with me. Can you do that? I need you to breathe,” he waited for you to mimic him, and when you finally did, he had you do it again and again until you were breathing better. “There you go…” he cupped your face again.

“Are you okay?”

“Baby, you are the one in the hospital bed; I should be asking that,” he chuckled softly. “Now that you’re awake, I’m good. How are you feeling?”

“I’m alive…” you said in disbelief.

“Yes, you are; thank God you are,” he said with so much emotion, and you nodded.

“Yeah… He kept me alive, and then you found me…”

“Yes, He did… He kept you safe just like I prayed for,” he confessed before kissing your forehead. “Fuck… I thought I lost you…” he said, trying not to cry again. “I can breathe again now that you’re back.”

—

That afternoon, he spent it with you, holding your hand, helping you eat, and just keeping you company. You still needed a lot of rest to recover from what had probably been the worst experience of your life. While you were sleeping, he pulled out the little velvet box that contained the necklace. He didn’t want to wait any longer; he had waited enough, but he also knew this wasn’t the best moment.

“Hope this is not how you’re proposing,” you said as you began to wake up from your nap.

“Hey there…” he said with a soft smile as he gently brushed away a strand of hair from your forehead. “Not proposing yet, princess, but I do want to give you something…”

“Yeah?” you asked in a whisper, adjusting the bed to see him more comfortably.

“Yeah… I can’t wait any longer. You have no idea how much I regret not asking you to be my girlfriend months… hell, years ago. I almost lost you, and we just started this. Y/N… I love you, and I know you know that, but I will keep saying it for the rest of my life. I love you with all I am, and I always will. I have loved you since before I knew what love was, but you are the only person I want to share the good and the bad with. I want us to grow old together, to fight, laugh, cry, and enjoy every little thing life throws at us.” He paused. “I’m not proposing yet, but I will. Eventually, I will, but this…”

He opened the velvet box, revealing the necklace inside. The letter "R" in the center made your heart melt, and you smiled, wanting to cry again but for different reasons. “Rafe, this is…”

“I know you said you wanted this the day of the engagement, but this is my promise to you that I will do it. In the meantime, you will wear this not because I own you, but because I know you and I love you, and I don’t want you to ever forget or doubt it.” You smiled and cried at the same time.

“I love you so much, Rafe,” you paused to take a breath. “I will never stop loving you; you are the best thing that has ever happened.”

With that, he kissed you ever so gently, scared he might break you. When he pulled back, he wiped the tears that had fallen down your cheeks. He smiled at you and helped you put on the necklace.

The journey to that moment had been anything but perfect, but both of you felt at peace again. Maybe the beach would never be your happy place again, maybe you would eventually walk by, but you would never set foot near the water again. Rafe would never let you go somewhere if you didn’t feel like going anymore, and this rule also applied to him.

He couldn’t risk it, not anymore. He needed you to be alive and safe, and he needed to be there for you. He was scared of losing you, but he was equally scared of not being there to protect you if you ever needed him.

You were back, and he was going to make sure you never went away again. You were his home, and he was yours. He would never leave your side, and you would never leave his. The connection you two had was beyond comprehension. Your parents were shocked at how easy it was for you to do all the physical therapy when Rafe was around, and how easy it was for you to fall asleep when he was there. All the nightmares of that day at the beach were gone every time he slept next to you. He always said you were everything he never knew he needed, but it was the same for you; you never thought you needed someone like him until you couldn’t picture a life without him.

Life without him was not life for you, and life for him without you was not life. This chance you had gotten to keep on living, you were not going to take it for granted. It was not just about Rafe; it was about the people you loved and about your hopes and dreams. So whatever was in your future, besides a life with Rafe, you were going to enjoy it, good and bad, surrounded by your people.

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fic-girlie · 15 hours ago

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Hi! I was wondering if you could write a pedro pascal x reader where the reader works at a cafe and they meet there and they click immidiatly (reader in her 30's) and they go on dates and are dating in private for a while until she notices he cancels dates and stuff and later sees hes with dakota johnson but she doesnt realise its for their new movie and she ignores him also when he comes to her work and one night he goes to her work when she closes and she confesses everything also about how insecure she is and he assures her there is nothing going on and they make up? And he invites her to the world premiere of tlou season 2 and announces their relationship? You can decide the ending :))

A Love Unveiled

Pairing: Pedro Pascal x f!reader

Summary: She thought he was just another charming customer—until Pedro Pascal quietly became the center of her world. Their private romance grows behind closed doors, but when fame, rumors, and insecurities threaten to pull them apart, a heartfelt confession brings them back together. At the premiere of The Last of Us Season 2, Pedro steps into the spotlight—hand in hand with the woman he loves.

Warnings: angst & fluff, hurt/comfort, age gap (not big, reader is in her 30's and Pedro is 50) miscommunication, insecurity, emotional vunerability, jealousy, happy ending

A/N: Hey, everyone! :) This is the first fic that I wrote for a request. I really liked the idea so... Here it is, I guess. It turned out to be more than 10k words. I hope you'll enjoy it. :))

It was a typical Tuesday afternoon at the small, local café you had worked at for the past few years. The kind of place where the air always smelled like freshly ground coffee beans and the faint sweetness of pastries, where regulars came in at the same time each day for their routine fix of caffeine and conversation. The café, tucked between a bookstore and a florist, had become your second home, and you were content with it. It wasn’t glamorous work, but it was steady, and you liked the steady rhythm of it—the quiet hum of the espresso machine, the swish of milk frothing, the soft murmur of customers.

You had a few regulars who knew your name—Mr. Lawson, who always ordered his coffee black and took it to go; Claire, who would chat with you about her kids; and the occasional students who came in to study, sprawled out in the window seats. It was all comfortable and predictable.

That is, until he walked in.

It was almost 3 P.M., the typical mid-afternoon lull. You were wiping down the counter, absently arranging sugar packets when the bell above the door chimed. You looked up to see a man step inside, his presence immediately standing out in the calm of the café.

He had a slight air of mystery, a look that suggested he might be someone who didn’t easily fit into the mundane everyday life of coffee shops and small-town routines. His hair was a bit tousled, just the right kind of messy that made him look handsome, and his jacket—a dark leather one—hung casually over his shoulders. He looked around for a moment, and for some reason, when his eyes met yours, something in the air seemed to shift. There was a brief flash of recognition between the two of you, though you couldn’t quite place why.

He walked up to the counter, and you gave him a polite smile. “Hi, welcome in. What can I get for you today?”

He returned the smile, his eyes warm and inquisitive. “Uhm…I’m not sure. I usually drink black coffee but… What do you recommend?”

You hesitated for a second. You didn’t usually have to recommend anything. Most customers had their orders ready, and you just went through the motions. But there was something about him, the way he was looking at you, that made you want to give a little bit more. Maybe it was the tired look in his eyes or the way he seemed out of place in the usual crowd of office workers and college students. Whatever it was, you found yourself pausing before speaking.

“Well,” you said, leaning slightly towards him as you spoke, “if you want to try something little sweet, our vanilla latte is always a hit. It’s warm and comforting—perfect for a day like today.”

His smile deepened, the hint of playfulness in his eyes. “Vanilla latte it is, then.”

You nodded, feeling the tiniest flutter in your stomach at the easy way he smiled. As you prepared his drink, you couldn’t help but glance over at him every now and then. There was something about him—something you couldn’t put your finger on. Maybe it was the way his gaze lingered just a little longer than normal. Or his posture seemed so relaxed yet effortlessly confident. Or maybe it was the gentle confidence with which he carried himself around.

As you placed the warm cup of coffee in front of him, your fingers brushed briefly against his as he reached for it. A spark of electricity ran through you, and for a moment, you both froze. You locked eyes for just a fraction of a second longer than usual, and something in the air felt different. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was undeniable. He cleared his throat softly, his voice low as he spoke.

“Thank you,” he said, his tone smoother than you had expected, rich with a hint of an accent you couldn’t quite place. “Oh, and it’s Pedro, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you, Pedro. Enjoy,” you replied, offering him your name too, along with a quick smile as he took the cup in his big hands.

As he turned away, moving toward one of the window seats, you couldn’t help but watch him for a moment longer. He didn’t seem to notice, or maybe he did—either way, the brief moment had left a lingering warmth in the air.

——

The quiet rhythm of the café continued, but something had shifted. You had come to look forward to Pedro’s visits more than you cared to admit. What started as brief exchanges over coffee had turned into something deeper, a connection you couldn’t deny even if you wanted to. There was a magnetic pull between you two, something unspoken but undeniable. The way he could casually ask about your day, the way his smile would soften when you laughed or talked—those small moments stuck with you long after he left the little coffee shop.

At first, you tried to tell yourself it was just because he was a regular customer. He was friendly, sure, but he was just another face in the crowd, right? Yet, every time you saw him, your heart would skip, and you found yourself watching the door, waiting for him to come in. You tried not to get too attached. After all, you were just the barista, and he was someone who had a busy life, probably surrounded by people who had the same kind of energy he gave off: charismatic, easy-going, a little too charming for your own good.

But the more you interacted, the more you realized that there was something different about him. It wasn’t just his good looks or the way his smile could lit up a whole room. It was his genuine interest in getting to know you. No one had ever asked about your favourite books or the movies you liked without making it seem like small talk. Pedro listened when you spoke, truly listened, and that made you feel seen, something that wasn’t easy to come by in your world of casual conversations with strangers.

One Friday afternoon, you were wiping down the counter when you heard the familiar jingle of the bell as the door opened. You didn’t even have to look up to know who it was. You felt it—his presence, warm and steady, settling into the space next to you.

“Hi there,” Pedro’s voice greeted you, smooth and low, a little warmer than usual. “How’s your day going?”

You finally looked up, offering him a small smile as a greeting gesture. “It’s going alright. A bit slow today. What about you? Busy?”

He leaned against the counter, resting his arms casually, His gaze didn’t leave yours, the way his eyes seemed to soften the moment they made contact with yours, sending an unexpected rush of warmth through your whole body. You caught yourself for a second, your heartbeat quickening before you could mask it.

“Same old, same old,” he replied with a small shrug. “Just wrapped up some work. Needed a little break.”

“A break, huh?” you mused. “What does Pedro Pascal do when he needs a break from work?”

He smiled, a little sheepish. “Usually just something quiet. A walk, a good book, maybe a movie or a series.” He paused for a second, his tone becoming more personal. “But lately I’ve been spending most of my breaks here.”

You felt a little twinge in your chest at his words, not sure if it was the warmth of his compliment or the way he made you feel like you mattered. “Well, I’m glad you’ve found the time to unwind,” you tried to keep your tone as casual as you could, but the hint of vulnerability in his eyes made it hard to look away.

You noticed the subtle way he studied you as you poured his coffee. It wasn’t in a way that felt like he was evaluating you—no, it was deeper than that. It was as if he was truly trying to understand who you were, the smallest details you might not even realize about yourself. And somehow, it made everything feel more intimate.

When you handed him his coffee, you made sure to hold his gaze a little longer than usual. There was a weight to the moment now, a silent understanding passing between you two.

“You ever try the carrot cake here?” he asked, a sudden spark of curiosity in his voice.

You shook your head. “I’ve been meaning to. It’s one of those things I always put off.”

“Well, you should try it sometime,” he said with a soft chuckle. “It’s better than it looks, trust me.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” you said, taking a step back from the counter and letting your shoulders relax for a second.

He took a slow sip of his drink, and you couldn’t help but notice how his lips barely brushed against the cup. There was something effortlessly sensual in the way he moved, as if every gesture, even the smallest, had a certain grace to it. It was almost like watching someone in their element—like he was perfectly comfortable in his own skin. And that comfort drew you in, made you feel at ease with him in a way you hadn’t felt with anyone in a long time.

——

Over the next few days, the encounters grew more personal. He would come in almost every day around the same time, sometimes staying a little longer than necessary. You caught him glancing at you when you weren’t looking, but when your eyes met, he’d quickly look away, a small grin tugging at the corners of his lips. It was those little moments—the shared glances, the silent understanding—that made your heart race.

One afternoon, after the café had emptied out a little and you were wiping down tables, Pedro stood up from his usual spot by the window.

“I was wondering,” he started, his voice soft, “if you’d wanted to go for a walk sometime. You know, just to get out of here for a bit of time.”

The suddenness of the invitation caught you off guard. Your mind raced for a second. A walk? With him? A casual thing, of course, but still… the idea of spending time with him outside of the café stirred something in you.

“I’d like that,” you replied before you could stop yourself, the words slipping out of your mouth with a smile spreading across your face. You immediately felt your stomach do a small flip, wondering if you’d just done something a little impulsive.

He smiled in return, his eyes lighting up at your response. “Great. How about tomorrow after your shift? I know this park nearby.”

“Tomorrow sounds good,” you said, trying to keep the flutter of excitement from showing in your voice. “I’ll see you then.”

——

The walk was easy. Just the two of you strolling along the tree-lined paths of a nearby park, the evening sun casting a golden glow on everything around you. It was a warm, almost magical evening, the kind where everything felt like it fell into place without effort.

You talked about everything and nothing at the same time. You told him about your childhood, about how you ended up working at the café, about the little things that made your life feel whole. In return, he shared stories about his own life—how he’d started acting, his favourite roles, his family, the places he’d travelled, the people he’d met. There was something refreshing about the way he spoke—honest, without the usual pretences that most people wore.

When the conversation lulled, there was a comfortable silence between you two, and you found yourself glancing at him more than once, taking in the way the light from the setting sun played across his face, making his features even more striking. He was easy to be around, and there was no need to fill in the silence with words. It felt natural.

As the evening wore on, the temperature began to drop slightly, and you shivered involuntarily, hugging your arms around yourself. Pedro noticed immediately.

“Here,” he said, his voice gentle, and before you could respond, he slipped his jacket off and draped it around your shoulders.

You blinked, surprised by the gesture. It wasn’t grand, but the softness in his actions spoke volumes. You pulled the jacket tighter around yourself, inhaling the faint scent of cologne mixed with leather. It was comforting, like he was taking care of you without thinking twice about it.

“Thanks,” you murmured, feeling the warmth of the jacket seep through you.

“No problem,” he replied, a quiet sincerity in his voice. “You look like you could use a little extra warmth. And it looks better on you.”

The rest of the walk passed with quiet conversation, each step bringing you closer to him. You didn’t need to rush. It was as if everything had aligned, the space between you two feeling smaller with each moment that passed.

As you reached the end of the park and the streetlights flickered on, he turned toward you, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “I’m glad we did this. And of course, for accepting to come with me.”

“Me too,” you agreed, your voice a little softer than usual.

It wasn’t just the walk, or the warmth of the jacket, or the way the night had unfolded. It was the way he made you feel, the way his presence seemed to settle into your bones, making everything feel a little brighter.

You found yourself wondering. What now?

But before you could get too caught up in your thoughts, he added with a smile, “Next time, we should do something a little more exciting. How about dinner?”

Your heart skipped a beat again, and you nodded without hesitation. “I’d like that.”

——

The days passed, and with each passing one, you found yourself looking forward to seeing Pedro more than you ever thought possible. What had started as a simple connection over coffee had quickly turned into something deeper, more meaningful. You had gone on walks, shared stories, and spent long afternoons getting to know one another outside of the familiar confines of the little café. Each date, each shared moment, felt like the beginning of something real, and it was hard to deny how much you were starting to care.

You had begun to notice the small ways he showed he was interested—the way his hand would brush against yours in a crowded space, the way he’d always ask how you were feeling, really feeling, beyond the surface. No one had ever asked you that before. No one had ever made you feel so seen, like you mattered to the world.

And yet, with all the time you spent together, there was a part of you that couldn’t shake a nagging sense of uncertainty. It wasn’t like you’d never been in a relationship before, but this felt different. It felt real, in a way you hadn’t experienced before, and that terrified you. For some reason, it seemed too easy with him, too natural. You had always been more guarded, more cautious. But with Pedro, it was like everything you thought you knew about yourself—about love, about connection—was being slowly and surely undone.

It was a Friday evening when things took a turn.

You’d been at the café since the early morning, as usual, but it had been a particularly slow day. You were wiping down the counter when Pedro walked in. You saw him immediately, as always, a wave of warmth hitting you when you met his gaze. He offered his signature smile, that smile that made everything around you seem just a little brighter.

“Hey,” he greeted you, his voice deep and soothing.

“Hey, you,” you replied, your heart skipping a beat at the familiarity of the exchange. “How’s your day been?”

“Busy,” he said, shrugging as he leaned against the counter, his eyes never leaving yours. “But it’s been a good kind of busy.”

You returned his gaze, feeling the comfortable pull between you, the kind of connection that made everything feel just a little bit more meaningful. But this time, there was something in his eyes—something that made you pause. It wasn’t the usual warmth, not quite. There was a flicker of something else, something you couldn’t place, something just on the edge of his expression that made your heart tighten.

“What’s up?” you asked, instinctively picking up on the subtle change in his demeanour.

He hesitated for a second, then shook his head, forcing a smile. “Nothing, just… you know. Been thinking about a lot of things lately.”

You didn’t press, but the unease lingered between you. His words, though vague, didn’t sit right. You told yourself to brush it off. He was probably just overworked, or maybe ha was dealing with something you didn’t know about. It wasn’t unusual for people to get distracted from time to time. You tried to push the feeling to the back of your mind as you made his coffee, telling yourself it was nothing.

But then, the next week, he started cancelling plans.

It began with small things—a dinner here, a walk there. He’d apologize profusely, offering vague explanations about work commitments or something coming up unexpectedly. And at first, you didn’t think much of it. You knew he had a busy life, and you had come to understand that sometimes things just came up. But as the days went on, the cancellations started to feel less like coincidences and more like something else.

One evening, you were sitting at the counter, absentmindedly scrolling through your phone when a text from Pedro popped up.

Pedro: Hey, I'm really sorry, but I can't make it tonight. Something came up. Can we reschedule?

You stared at the message for a moment, your fingers hovering over the screen. You had tried not to let it get to you, but each time he cancelled, it felt like something was slipping through your fingers. You had started to worry, to wonder if maybe there was something more going on, something he wasn’t telling you.

You glanced at the clock—he was supposed to meet you in twenty minutes. You couldn’t help the knot that formed in your stomach.

You: Sure. Just let me know when. Hope everything's okay.

A few moments later, the familiar read notification appeared. But he didn’t respond. You sat there, staring at the screen for what felt like hours, trying to convince yourself that it was fine, that there was nothing to worry about. But deep down, you knew it didn’t feel fine. Something was off.

——

It was a few days after that, when you were working late, that you saw him. But this time, it wasn’t just him. He was with someone else.

It was almost closing time when you saw the familiar figure step through the door, but he wasn’t alone. A woman was with him—a tall, beautiful woman with soft brown hair and an easy smile that seemed to light up the room. You couldn’t help but feel a little pang in your chest as they walked in, the two of them laughing softly together as they approached the counter.

“Hey, there,” Pedro greeted you, but this time, his smile seemed a little less genuine, almost like he was forcing it.

You nodded, trying to keep your expression neutral, but the jealousy you couldn’t quite hide started to bubble up. It wasn’t rational. You had no claim over him, but something about seeing him with her made your heart sink. You forced a smile, offering a polite greeting to the woman standing beside him.

“Hi, I’m Dakota,” she said, extending her hand, her smile warm and friendly.

You shook her hand, trying to keep the irritation from showing on your face. “Nice to meet you,” you said, though the words felt hollow.

Pedro was talking, but his words seemed distant, like you were in a fog. It was hard to focus on what he was saying when all you could think about was how he had canceled your plans in favor of this woman.

Suddenly, everything seemed to fall into place. You had always wondered why he had been distant lately, why he had canceled your dates and changed his behavior. But now it was clear. He was seeing someone else, someone important. And you weren’t it.

You tried to push down the lump in your throat, but it was impossible. You felt a wave of embarrassment wash over you, the sting of being pushed aside without explanation hitting you harder than you had expected. You forced a smile and nodded at them both, unable to muster the energy to say much else.

Pedro seemed to sense the shift in the air because his smile faltered, just slightly, before he said, “Hey, listen, can we talk in a bit? I’ll be right back.”

You didn’t respond. You simply turned back to your work, trying to focus on the monotonous tasks, anything to keep your hands busy and your mind distracted.

A few minutes later, Pedro was standing by the counter, looking at you with an apologetic expression.

“Can we talk?” he asked, his voice softer than usual.

You didn’t want to look at him, didn’t want to hear whatever excuse he was about to offer. But you couldn’t help yourself. Slowly, you met his gaze, your heart pounding.

“About what?” you asked, your voice tight.

“I—look, I know this must look weird, but it’s not what you think it is.”

You crossed your arms over your chest, a defensive gesture that felt like an automatic response. “Really? Because it looks pretty clear to me.”

He ran a hand through his hair, clearly uncomfortable. “I never meant to hurt you. This isn’t about what you think it is. Dakota and I are working on something together—she’s my co-star. This is all just part of the job.”

You could feel your chest tighten at his words, but before you could respond, he reached out, gently touching your arm. “Please, just hear me out. I’ve been pulling away, and I know that’s been hard on you. I’m sorry.”

You didn’t trust your voice, so you said nothing. He stood there for a moment, searching your eyes as if trying to gauge whether you believed him.

“I care about you,” he finally said, his voice low. “I really do.”

You felt your heart skip, but the words didn’t reach you the way they used to. There was too much confusion now, too many unanswered questions.

“I don’t know what to believe anymore,” you whispered, looking away.

He didn’t push. He simply nodded, letting the silence stretch between you.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I never meant to make you feel like this.”

——

That night, after the cafe closed, you went back to your apartment, your mind swirling with everything you had just learned. You tried to convince yourself that there was an explanation, that maybe it wasn’t what it seemed. But deep down, you knew the truth.

You couldn’t ignore the doubts, the insecurities that were beginning to creep in, and the fear that maybe this wasn’t as real as you had hoped.

But there was one thing you knew for sure: you needed answers. You needed to hear him say it, to know the truth, and to finally understand what this all meant.

And maybe, just maybe, you could begin to make sense of it all.

——

The days that followed were a blur, a tangled mess of uncertainty and confusion. Each time you saw Pedro, each time your phone buzzed with another canceled date or vague excuse, you felt a knot tighten in your chest. He would send sweet texts or try to reach out, but somehow, the sincerity in his words didn’t reach you the way it used to. The distance between you two had become palpable, suffocating, and it left you questioning everything. Had you misread the connection? Was it just something fleeting for him?

You found yourself pacing your apartment late one night, unable to quiet the thoughts running through your mind. What had changed? Why did everything feel so different now? You couldn’t help but think about the woman you had seen with him at the cafe. Dakota. The name alone stung. You knew who she was. You knew enough to understand that if he was spending time with her, things were likely... complicated.

You couldn’t bring yourself to text him. The thought of confronting him made your chest tighten in a way that felt suffocating. You didn’t want to sound needy, or worse, stupid. But you also didn’t want to keep pretending that everything was fine when it clearly wasn’t.

You were just about to sit down when your phone buzzed in your hand. Pedro’s name flashed on the screen.

Pedro: Hey, I’m really sorry about what happened the other day. Can we talk?

Your finger hovered over the screen. You stared at the message for a long moment, unsure of what to do. You had wanted him to reach out, to offer some explanation, but now that it was here, you didn’t know if you could handle it. It felt like he had already slipped away, and part of you wondered if hearing him try to explain would only make things worse.

But then again, what was the alternative? You could keep avoiding him, keep letting the uncertainty fester, or you could finally confront it. You could ask the questions that had been haunting you for days.

You took a deep breath and replied.

You: I don’t know if I’m ready for this conversation, Pedro, but we need to talk. When can you come by?

His response came almost immediately.

Pedro: How about now? I can come over if you’re up for it.

You felt your heart pound in your chest. Your nerves were running wild, but something told you that this conversation couldn’t wait any longer.

You: Alright. Come over in 20 minutes.

The message was sent, and immediately, you felt a rush of anxiety. You started pacing again, wondering if you were doing the right thing. This was it. The moment you had been avoiding.

Twenty minutes later, the doorbell rang. Your stomach did a flip, and for a moment, you almost considered not answering it. But you forced yourself to move, to open the door. And there he was.

Pedro stood in the doorway, his hands in his pockets, looking a little uncertain. He had a slight frown on his face, his brow furrowed in a way that was almost familiar, like he was preparing for something difficult. When your eyes met, something shifted between you, a quiet acknowledgment of everything that had been unsaid.

“Hey,” he said softly, his voice almost tentative, like he wasn’t sure if you would let him in.

You stepped aside to let him in, your gaze flicking to the floor as you tried to gather your composure.

He entered your apartment, and there it was again—the weight of the silence between you two. It felt like the space had grown so much larger, the distance between you both almost impossible to bridge. You didn’t know where to start, didn’t know if you could even say what you needed to say.

He stood by the couch, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. You took a deep breath before speaking, your voice shaking just slightly as you broke the silence.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you asked, the words coming out before you could stop them. “Why didn’t you tell me what was going on?”

Pedro’s eyes softened, and he stepped closer, but you quickly held up a hand, your own emotions bubbling up to the surface.

“No,” you said firmly, “I need to say this. You’ve been pulling away for weeks now. And I’ve tried to be understanding. I’ve tried to be patient. But then... I saw you with her.” You couldn’t stop the anger and hurt from seeping into your voice. “And it didn’t make sense. You canceled our dates, you kept making excuses, and now I see you with her, laughing, talking, and I—”

Pedro stepped forward quickly, his hands reaching out for yours, but you pulled away before he could touch you. His face twisted with regret, and his voice was quieter now, almost pleading.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said softly. “Please, just let me explain.”

You took a step back, shaking your head. “Explain what, Pedro? What is there to explain? I thought we had something real, something that could have gone somewhere, but now it just feels like... like I was nothing but a distraction for you.”

His eyes widened, and for the first time, you saw something raw in his expression. “No,” he said firmly, stepping forward again. “You were never just a distraction to me. You’ve meant more to me than I know how to say.” He ran a hand through his hair, frustration and guilt clear in his face. “I never meant to hurt you. I’ve been trying to figure out what I wanted... what I needed.”

Your chest tightened at his words, but you shook your head again, trying to fight the tears that were starting to pool in your eyes. “Then why... why did you pull away?” you asked, your voice shaking. “Why didn’t you just tell me the truth? Why didn’t you just tell me about her? About your work?”

Pedro stood there for a long moment, his eyes never leaving yours, before he sighed deeply and spoke in a voice that was barely above a whisper.

“She’s my co-star,” he began slowly, “and we’ve been working together for a while now. But I should’ve been more upfront with you about everything. The truth is, I was scared.” He paused, his voice thick with emotion. “Scared that I was getting too close to you. Scared that I was going to screw it up.”

You were silent for a long moment, your heart aching as his words sank in. You had never seen him this vulnerable, this open. You wanted to believe him, wanted to understand, but the doubt still lingered.

“Scared?” you whispered, the word tasting foreign on your tongue. “Scared of me?”

He nodded, taking a step closer. “Yeah. Scared that if I let myself fall for you, I’d hurt you in the end. Because things get complicated, and I’m... I’m always on the move. I don’t know how to make things work the way I want them to.”

You felt your breath catch in your throat. “So what, you just thought pulling away was the answer?”

He winced at your words, and you saw the guilt in his eyes. “I don’t know. I thought maybe giving you space would help, but it only made things worse.”

You took a shaky breath, wiping your eyes as the tears threatened to spill over. “I just... I don’t know what to believe anymore, Pedro. I don’t know if I can trust this.”

He looked at you, his eyes full of regret. “I’ve made so many mistakes,” he said, his voice full of sincerity. “But I want to make this right. I don’t want to lose you.”

For a long moment, the two of you stood there in the silence, the weight of everything hanging in the air. Slowly, you looked up at him, your heart a tangle of emotions. “Then show me,” you said softly, your voice barely a whisper. “Show me you mean it.”

Pedro stepped forward, his eyes never leaving yours as he gently cupped your face in his hands. His touch was tender, almost reverent, as if he was afraid to break something fragile. He didn’t say anything more. He didn’t need to. His actions spoke louder than words ever could.

He leaned in, his lips brushing softly against yours, a slow, hesitant kiss that seemed to carry all the apologies, the regret, and the hope for something better. And for the first time in what felt like weeks, you felt something inside you begin to loosen. Maybe, just maybe, this could be the start of something real again.

When he pulled away, his forehead rested gently against yours, and he whispered, “I’m sorry. I’ll do whatever it takes to make it right. Just give me the chance.”

You closed your eyes, letting yourself breathe in the warmth of his words. “Okay,” you whispered back, your voice thick with emotion. “I’ll give you that chance.”

——

The days following your conversation with Pedro were not without their challenges, but the air between you felt lighter, somehow more breathable. The uncertainty that had plagued you for weeks was slowly being replaced with something more tangible—an understanding, a tentative trust that you were both willing to rebuild what had once seemed so fragile.

You had given him the chance, and in the weeks that followed, Pedro worked hard to prove himself. He no longer kept you at arm’s length. In fact, he did the opposite. He was present—truly present—in a way that made your heart ache with a deep, quiet joy. It wasn’t just the sweet text messages or the phone calls at night; it was the way he showed up for you, the way he made an effort to listen, to support, and to share his life in ways he hadn’t before.

One afternoon, as the late summer sun poured into your apartment, you found yourself on the couch, your feet tucked under a soft blanket, with Pedro sitting beside you, his arm draped casually around your shoulders. You were watching an old movie, but your attention was on him, as it often was these days. It had become routine to simply be with him, to share these quiet moments. It felt as if you had always known each other, even before you had ever met.

“I’m really sorry I messed things up,” he said, his voice low and sincere, cutting through the soft hum of the movie. His thumb gently traced circles on your arm, a reminder of how much he had changed since that night.

You shifted slightly, lifting your head from his shoulder to look at him. “You’ve apologized a million times already,” you said with a small smile, trying to lighten the mood, though your voice still carried a weight of emotion. “I get it. It’s in the past.”

Pedro met your gaze, his eyes searching yours for something. “I just... I want you to know how much I care about you. More than I think I even realized before.”

You could feel the sincerity in his words, the honesty in his expression. It made your chest tighten, this quiet but steady wave of emotion building inside you. He had always had a way of speaking that made you believe in his every word.

“I believe you,” you said softly, leaning your head back on his shoulder. The trust between you was fragile but growing stronger with each day. “But I’m still learning to trust myself in this.”

“I get that,” he said, his hand gently brushing your hair back. “I know I hurt you, and I don’t ever want to do that again. I’m here, I’m not going anywhere.”

You turned your face toward him, your hand coming to rest on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your fingertips. The truth of his words, so simple and yet so profound, made something inside you settle. He was here. He was trying. And that was all you needed to move forward.

——

That evening, as the moon rose high in the sky, you were closing up the cafe after your shift, your hands tired from the long day of work. You were used to the solitude of the late-night hours, but tonight, the familiar stillness felt different. There was a sense of anticipation in the air as you swept the last of the crumbs from the counter. The hum of the refrigerator was the only sound in the room, and for a moment, you allowed yourself to be lost in your thoughts.

The doorbell chimed, and you looked up to see Pedro standing in the doorway, his silhouette framed by the warm light from outside. His expression was unreadable, his usual relaxed demeanor replaced by something more serious.

“Hey,” you said, pushing the broom aside. “You’re here later than usual.”

He nodded, stepping inside. “I needed to see you,” he said, his voice soft but urgent. “I know it’s late, but I... I wanted to talk.”

You felt a quick flutter in your chest, that familiar spark of nervous energy rising within you. “About what?”

He hesitated for a moment, as if weighing his words carefully, before he took a step toward you. “About us. About what comes next.”

Your heart skipped. You had been waiting for a conversation like this, but now that it was happening, you felt your stomach twist. “Pedro...”

“Listen,” he said, his voice more intense now, his eyes locking onto yours. “I don’t want to keep hiding. I don’t want to keep this thing between us a secret anymore. I want to be with you, out in the open. I’m done being afraid of what people might think. I just—” He paused, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “I just need you to know that I’m serious about this. About you.”

You blinked, your breath catching in your throat. “You want to go public?” you asked, your voice a little shakier than you intended.

Pedro nodded, stepping even closer until you could feel the heat from his body. “I’ve been thinking about this for a while. About how I’ve been hiding parts of myself, parts of us. I want to stop doing that. I want you to know that you’re not just some side thing in my life. You’re the most important thing.”

His words wrapped around you like a warm blanket, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you felt a wave of certainty rush over you. Everything had been so uncertain for so long, but now... now you could see the possibility of something lasting, something real.

But even as you felt the pull toward him, there was a part of you that hesitated, a lingering thread of doubt.

“You’re sure about this?” you asked, needing to hear it again. “Because once we do this, there’s no turning back.”

Pedro’s smile softened, and he reached out to take your hand, his fingers weaving through yours as if he couldn’t stand to be apart from you. “I’m sure. I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

Your breath caught in your chest as you looked into his eyes, feeling the depth of what he was saying. You had been afraid, so afraid of opening up, of giving someone all of yourself. But Pedro had shown you, time and time again, that he was worth that leap of faith. He wasn’t going to let you fall.

“You mean it?” you whispered, your voice barely audible, as if saying the words aloud would make them more real.

“I do,” he said, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand in a tender gesture. “I want you by my side, no matter what. I want to take this... wherever it goes.”

For a long moment, neither of you said anything. There was no need. Everything you needed to know was already there, in the space between you, in the quiet of the night. And then, without another word, Pedro leaned in, his lips finding yours in a soft, lingering kiss that spoke of promises made and promises kept.

When he pulled away, his forehead resting against yours, his voice was low and full of emotion. “I love you,” he whispered. “And I’m going to show you every day how much.”

You smiled, feeling your heart soar as you whispered back, “I love you too.”

——

The days leading up to the The Last of Us 2 premiere were filled with the kind of excitement and anticipation that only a project this huge could bring. Pedro had been in and out of fittings, rehearsals, and press conferences, his mind consumed by the weight of the event. Yet, through it all, you noticed how often his thoughts seemed to drift back to you, his gaze softening whenever your name came up.

You had been through the whirlwind together—public declarations, the unspoken promises, the late-night talks about navigating this new world. But as the premiere approached, there was something you could sense in him, a quiet, almost hesitant energy. He wanted you there, you knew that much. But how would he ask? How would he make you feel comfortable in the midst of all the chaos?

One evening, just days before the event, you were sitting on the couch in his apartment, the soft flicker of a movie playing in the background, but neither of you were really paying attention. Pedro had a glass of wine in his hand, and you were nursing a cup of tea, your legs curled beneath you. The tension between the two of you felt thick in the air, and you could tell that he was working up the nerve to say something important.

Finally, after a long silence, he put his glass down on the table and turned to you. You looked at him curiously, noticing the way his eyes softened when he met your gaze.

"There's something I've been meaning to ask you," he said, his voice quieter than usual, almost unsure. "The premiere is coming up... and I really want you to come with me. I’ve been thinking about it for a while, and... I just need to know if you’re ready for something like this."

You blinked, caught off guard. It wasn’t that you didn’t expect the invitation—it was more that you didn’t expect the weight behind it. He wasn’t just asking you to come as his date, to stand beside him on a red carpet; he was asking you to step into the center of his world, into the spotlight with him. It felt like a deeper commitment in a way you hadn’t anticipated.

"Pedro, I..." you trailed off, feeling the nerves rising. "The cameras, the attention… I’ve been so used to staying out of the public eye. Are you sure about this?"

He nodded, his hand reaching for yours, gently squeezing it as he held your gaze with a warmth that settled deep in your chest. "I’ve never been more sure of anything," he said softly. "This... it’s not just a premiere for me. It’s about having you by my side. I want to show the world that I’m with you, that this thing between us is real."

You felt a flutter in your heart, and the weight of his words sank in. It wasn’t just about attending an event. It was about stepping forward together—into the unknown, into the whirlwind, with no hesitation. You’d both been through so much, and here was Pedro, offering you his heart without a single reservation.

"You’re sure I’m ready for this?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

He smiled, a small, reassuring grin. "I think you’re more than ready. You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for. Besides, you’re the one person I want beside me when everything else is spinning. Will you come with me?"

You didn’t even need to think about it. You knew that this moment was one of many that would define the future of your relationship. With a deep breath, you smiled back and nodded. "Okay. I’ll go with you."

Pedro's face broke into a grin, his eyes lighting up with a mix of relief and excitement. He pulled you into a tight embrace, his lips brushing the top of your head. "Thank you," he whispered, his voice full of emotion. "This means everything."

——

The red carpet was a maze of flashing cameras, buzzing reporters, and celebrities in elegant attire, all trying to carve out their place in the spotlight. It was overwhelming to witness in person, the sheer energy of it all—every second someone new was swept in front of the cameras, smiles and poses all around. But through it all, Pedro had a calm about him, an assurance that helped you breathe easier. He knew how to navigate this world, and you were about to enter it by his side.

You stood just a few paces behind him, holding onto his hand as if it was the only thing grounding you. His fingers were warm and solid around yours, and though the world was noisy and chaotic, in this small, intimate space between you, it felt like time had slowed. Pedro’s grip tightened around your hand every now and then, as if checking that you were still there, as if reminding you that no matter how many eyes were on you, nothing would change between the two of you.

The flash of cameras continued, the chatter of reporters growing louder as they all clamored for a chance to speak with Pedro. You were used to the press by now, but this night was different. This night wasn’t just about The Last of Us or the big premiere; tonight, Pedro would announce something that had been building quietly for months—your relationship, your love.

It was only when you arrived at the interview area that Pedro finally turned to you with a look that told you everything you needed to know. There was a nervous energy in his eyes, something that betrayed his usual composure. But there was also certainty—a steady, undeniable warmth that made your heart beat just a little faster.

The reporters ushered you both toward the microphones, their cameras flashing relentlessly as Pedro adjusted the collar of his suit jacket, then glanced down at you. He gave you a soft smile, as if silently asking if you were ready.

You squeezed his hand and nodded, your breath catching in your throat. It wasn’t just a premiere anymore. It was a moment. A moment where the world would finally know what you both had been protecting in private.

The interview began, the usual questions flying about the success of The Last of Us and what the audience could expect in Season 2. Pedro answered each one with his usual charm, always polite, always engaging, but there was something different in his demeanor tonight. There was a tenderness in his voice, a vulnerability that had been hidden in the past, and you could feel it, even if the cameras didn’t capture it.

Then, the moment arrived.

One of the reporters, who had been asking him about his role as Joel and his experience on the show, glanced over at you with a polite but inquisitive smile. "And who is this, standing beside you tonight, Pedro?" the reporter asked, gesturing toward you.

For a moment, everything went quiet. You could feel the gaze of every camera, every eye in the room turn toward you. Pedro’s hand, still holding yours, tightened ever so slightly as he took a breath.

For a second, you thought he might say something lighthearted or deflect the question, as he had with so many others before. But instead, he surprised you, his gaze steady and sure as he looked directly at the reporter, then back at you.

"This," he said, his voice clear and calm, but filled with something undeniably affectionate, "is the woman of my whole world. And she’s the most important person in my life."

The weight of his words hit you like a wave, crashing over you in a rush. Your breath caught, and for a moment, you didn’t know what to do. The world around you seemed to slow, the chatter of the cameras fading as you focused on the sincerity in Pedro’s eyes.

"And," he continued, his voice unwavering, "we’ve been together for some time now. It’s been... a beautiful, private thing, something we’ve held close. But tonight, I want the world to know. I want the world to know that I’m proud of her, proud of what we share. And it’s time to stop hiding."

A wave of emotion surged through you, your heart racing in your chest. The cameras were still flashing, the questions still coming, but all you could hear was Pedro’s voice, steady and strong, as he spoke about you, about the love you’d shared in the shadows for so long.

The room seemed to still as he finished his sentence. "So, yeah, this is the woman who has my heart. And I just wanted to let everyone know... because, well... she deserves to be known."

The reporter, momentarily stunned by the sincerity in his words, smiled and nodded, before turning to address the cameras. "Well, there you have it, folks. Pedro Pascal making a statement about his personal life. It looks like we have a beautiful couple here tonight."

But you weren’t listening to the reporter anymore. You were looking at Pedro—really looking at him. The way he stood there, vulnerable and strong at once, his gaze never leaving yours. It was as though the entire world had faded away, and it was just the two of you, standing on this massive stage, free to be who you truly were.

Your heart soared, and without thinking, you leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek, the tender warmth of his skin sending a ripple of warmth through your body. He turned to you, his smile wide and full of emotion.

"Thank you," you whispered, the words barely escaping you.

Pedro cupped your face with his hands, his thumb brushing your cheek as he looked into your eyes, his gaze full of unspoken affection. "No," he murmured, "thank you."

And just like that, it was official. The world knew. You and Pedro were no longer just a secret. You were a couple. You were his.

The rest of the interview passed in a blur. There were questions about The Last of Us, about Pedro’s experience on set, but the buzz of the declaration hung in the air. As you both made your way into the theater for the screening, the press followed, but it didn’t feel the same. The nerves, the uncertainty—everything had faded, replaced by a quiet confidence. Pedro held your hand tighter as you entered the theater, the feeling of his warmth grounding you, reminding you that you were no longer hiding in the shadows.

When you found your seats, Pedro leaned in close, his lips brushing your ear. "Thank you for being my strength tonight," he whispered. "You’re my everything."

You smiled, your heart full. "No, thank you, for making me feel so seen, so loved."

And as the lights dimmed and the opening credits of The Last of Us 2 began to roll, you sat beside him, hand in hand, no longer just a whisper in the crowd. You were part of this moment, part of this life, and the world would know your love—one step into the spotlight at a time.

——

The days that followed the world premiere of The Last of Us Season 2 were a whirlwind. The red carpet event had been everything Pedro had promised and more—surreal in its glitz and glamour, but deeply personal in a way you hadn’t expected. You were no longer hiding in the shadows, no longer worried about what people might think. Pedro had publicly declared his love for you, and in doing so, he had pulled you into a new chapter of your life, one where his world and yours intertwined.

At first, it was exhilarating. Walking through the flashing lights of the photographers' cameras, hand in hand with Pedro, felt like something out of a dream. But as the days wore on, the reality of being thrust into the spotlight—into a relationship that the entire world was now watching—began to settle in. The constant buzz of paparazzi, the endless social media comments, the scrutinizing eyes—it was all a bit overwhelming.

You found yourself on edge more often than not, your nerves heightened whenever you left your apartment or met up with Pedro in public. It wasn’t that you weren’t proud of your relationship—it was the exact opposite. You were proud of him, proud of both of you. But the attention was something you hadn’t anticipated, and it made you feel vulnerable in a way you hadn’t prepared for.

One afternoon, after a particularly long press tour for The Last of Us season premiere, you and Pedro found a rare moment of calm in his hotel room. He had been away for a few days, his schedule packed with interviews and shoots, and you had missed him terribly. It wasn’t just the physical distance—it was the emotional one. The time apart had started to take its toll on both of you.

Pedro was lying on the bed, propped up with a pillow behind his head, his eyes closed in exhaustion. You sat on the edge of the bed, staring at your phone as you scrolled through the constant buzz of social media notifications. Every picture, every comment, every video was filled with the same questions and assumptions—Who is this woman? Is she really with him?—and it was starting to wear on you.

Pedro noticed the shift in your mood before you could hide it. “Hey,” he murmured, sitting up and reaching for your hand. “You okay?”

You glanced up at him, forcing a smile even though your heart felt heavy. “Yeah, just... a lot going on, you know? All the attention. It’s just... a lot to handle.”

Pedro’s brow furrowed as he moved closer, gently cupping your face in his hands. His touch was warm and grounding, and you allowed yourself a moment to close your eyes and let the tension melt away under his gentle touch. “I get it,” he said softly. “It’s overwhelming, and I don’t want it to make you feel... exposed. I didn’t realize how much it would affect you.”

You shook your head, not wanting him to feel guilty for something he couldn’t control. “It’s not your fault,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “I just didn’t expect it to be like this. I don’t mind the attention, but it’s hard to feel like we can just be... us when it feels like everyone’s watching.”

Pedro’s expression softened, and he leaned in to kiss your forehead. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere, and I won’t let anyone make you feel less than. Not with me.”

You nodded, trying to hold onto his words, but doubt still lingered in your mind. “I know. But it’s hard to navigate all this. To balance what’s private with what’s public.”

Pedro sighed, pulling you into his arms, his embrace warm and secure. “We’ll figure it out together,” he said, his voice steady. “I’m not rushing anything. If we need to take a step back from the spotlight, we’ll do it. What matters is us. ”

His words wrapped around you like a safety net, and for the first time in days, you felt yourself start to relax. The pressure of the public eye hadn’t gone away, but with Pedro by your side, it felt manageable. You leaned into him, your head resting on his chest as his arms tightened around you.

——

In the following weeks, you and Pedro made a conscious effort to carve out moments for just the two of you, away from the cameras, away from the noise. When he wasn’t on set or doing press, you’d take quiet walks together in parks or visit your favorite hole-in-the-wall cafes—places where the public eye couldn’t follow. The connection between you deepened during these private moments, where time seemed to slow and it was just the two of you, existing in a world that was entirely your own.

It wasn’t always easy, though. The public pressure still weighed heavily on you, and even though Pedro did his best to shield you from it, you could see the strain it was beginning to have on him as well.

One particularly tough day, after a grueling press junket that had left both of you exhausted, you and Pedro sat in his hotel room, the lights dimmed low. You were sipping wine from a glass he had poured for you, the quiet hum of the city outside barely audible.

“I don’t think I can keep doing this,” you said suddenly, breaking the silence. The words had been lingering in your chest for days, and finally, they spilled out. “The constant scrutiny... the cameras, the rumors. I didn’t sign up for this.”

Pedro looked at you, his expression soft yet serious. He put down his glass and turned toward you, his hand reaching out to gently cup your cheek. “You don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with,” he said quietly. “You never signed up for any of this, and I’m sorry. But I won’t let it break us. I’ll protect you.”

You sighed, feeling the weight of your words. “I know. I know you will. But what about me? What if I’m not strong enough for this?”

Pedro shook his head, a small, reassuring smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “You’re stronger than you think. And we don’t have to do this alone. I’m here. And I’ll keep reminding you that we’re in this together.”

You took a deep breath, letting his words sink in. It wasn’t about being perfect or having all the answers. It was about leaning into each other, sharing your vulnerabilities, and finding strength in each other’s love.

——

A few days later, as you stood in front of your bathroom mirror getting ready for another red carpet event, you found yourself feeling more confident. Pedro had taken your hand that night and assured you again that he was committed to helping you navigate this new world you found yourselves in. The press, the cameras, and all the expectations would come and go—but your relationship, the connection you shared, would remain constant.

The event was a glamorous affair—elegant, star-studded, and full of people vying for attention. But this time, you were ready. You weren’t just Pedro Pascal’s girlfriend. You were the woman of his life, standing next to the man you loved, unafraid of the spotlight anymore. With him by your side, you knew you could handle whatever came your way.

When Pedro appeared in the doorway, looking as handsome as ever in his tuxedo, you smiled, feeling a surge of warmth flood through you. He caught your eye and grinned, his usual calm composure replaced by something that felt more genuine, more present.

“You ready?” he asked, his voice low but with a hint of excitement.

You nodded, stepping toward him and linking your arm through his. “Ready.”

The red carpet was overwhelming as always, but this time, you didn’t feel out of place. With Pedro at your side, it was as though the whole world faded away. It was just you, him, and the love you shared—something no one could take from you.

As the cameras flashed around you, Pedro leaned down to whisper in your ear. “I don’t care what the world thinks. I love you. And I’m never letting you go.”

Your heart swelled at his words, and in that moment, you knew. This wasn’t just about fame or the public eye. It was about the two of you—your love, your connection, your future.

And no matter what the world threw at you, you would face it together.

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