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xylatox · 10 hours ago

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Out of tune [pt1] || cbg

I am finally getting to this. Jesus. I literally have it saved in my drafts to be read exhibits A through Z below

This is insane but I wanted to read this the moment I saw it, but when it was initially published I was literally going through it through the months of March to the end of April and I always told myself I would read it but as you can see that didnt happen. BUT i am so glad Im staying up tonight and I can use that time to get through my readings (for context i have a whipping 600+ draft of fics and other things I never got to its so terrible.

Anyways enough of my yapping. I thought about this fic the other day and I am going to read it all tonight like my life depends on it.

Before I even start again Im actually so giddy to finally read this😭Like its enemies to lovers, slowburn, angst, mc and gyu being producers; like my fav things ever.

You finally peeled off your glasses and turned to him with a deadpan expression. “Do I look like I had a peaceful night?”

I already love the mc’s personality. Also from the first lines I know im going to love your writing style.

His lips quirked up slightly, but he didn’t deny it. You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. If there was one person in this entire company who got under your skin more than anyone else, it was Choi Beomgyu. Beomgyu, your so-called “rival.” Beomgyu, the golden boy of the production team. Beomgyu, the one person standing between you and total creative dominance.

I giggled. Workplace rivalry always makes me so giddy

Slowly, you turned to him. “I hate this company.”

I love her so much actually, this was literally me in hs and uni.

Your stomach twisted, not with nerves, not with excitement, but with that same frustrating mixture of irritation and awareness that always came with him. Because no matter how much you tried to ignore it, Beomgyu had a presence. The kind that made a room feel smaller when he walked in, like he pulled all the energy toward himself without even trying.

I will always love enemies to lovers because its always so insane how your body can viscerally react to someone’s presence. I also think Beomgyu is such a perfect fit for this entire trope because as loveable as he is, I just know he can easily get under someone’s skin

Because as much as you wanted to believe you could do this on your own, you weren’t stupid. You knew your strengths, you were a producer first, a composer second. Melodies came naturally to you, the kind that could make someone feel something without even needing lyrics. But lyrics weren’t your strong suit. You could write, sure, but not the way Beomgyu could.

I actually appreciate the fact that the mc is very self aware and knows her strengths and weaknesses and even admits that Beomgyu is a good lyricist despite not really wanting to.

Also loving Yeonjun as her roommate and him being aware that Beomgyu pushes her over her limits and the fact that she needs it. I cant wait to see them interact more and the eventual break.

Beomgyu shrugged, stirring his coffee lazily. “Me. Him. This moment of pure camaraderie.”

Me laughing because why does this comment rile me up hello. Men are annoying

Also me giggling over them cooperating like

Beomgyu’s eyes flicker with something—approval, maybe, or just excitement—and he immediately scribbles something in return, adjusting the cadence of the next line to fit. Back and forth, line by line, the song starts to take shape. He throws out a melody, you refine it. You hum a transition, he finds a way to make it sharper.

Oh my god like ??? this is so cute tho

He shifts too, elbows resting on the table, so close now that you can feel the warmth of his arm next to yours. His knee bumps against yours, but neither of you moves away.

Screaming, screaming and more screaming

I love how they naturally work so well with each other ugh. I also love how effortlessly Beomgyu riles her up

You huff, leaning back against the wall. "Taehyun, I barely have time to eat, let alone go make small talk with people I don’t care about."

Did i mention how much i love her personality? Small talk? 👎👎👎Also i just really love her friendship with Taehyun, it makes me so happy

Soobin chuckles, shrugging. "Yeah. Maybe he’s not as much of a jerk as you think." He pauses, eyes twinkling with amusement. "Or maybe he’s just trying to get under your skin."

You know how some boys get extra irritating when they like someone? Thats what it feels like seeing Beomgyu interact with the mc and its kinda sweet

I did not expect Enha to clock her like that oh my god 😭thats just fowl

You sighed, stretching your arms above your head before rolling your chair back slightly. The worst part? You knew exactly what was missing.

Giggling oh my god. Also the fact that Gyu is never there on Thursday’s peaks my interest hmm

You hesitated, glancing at Taehyun, who only gave you a small shrug like it wasn’t that big of a deal. Maybe it wasn’t. And maybe… just maybe… you were a little tired of feeling like a ghost in this industry.

This makes me so sad actually :(( shes just an antisocial bean

Beomgyu’s jaw clenched, eyes flickering back to where you stood with Yunjin and Taehyun. You looked good tonight. Too good. And it was pissing him off. Because ever since that stupid studio session where you accidentally made magic together, he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about you.

I love getting his POV it makes me even more giddy. Hes so down bad for her in such way that I cant explain. Also loving that Soobin and Taehyun and basically one in the same when it comes to teasing Beomgyu and mc respectively.

Theyre sharing a cigarette holy fuck, thats actually p intimate in my eyes

"Careful," he said, handing it back to you with a smirk. "If you keep looking at me like that, I’m gonna start thinking you actually like me."

Screaming oh my god

"He called you talented and touched your arm twice," Beomgyu deadpanned. "That's textbook flirting."

You let out a sharp laugh. "Why do you even care?"

Beomgyu hesitated. "I don’t care," he said, a beat too late.

I will pass out I swear

"You were faking interest," he replied without hesitation. "You do that thing where you tilt your head slightly and nod, but your eyes are already somewhere else."

Fuck hes so into her

"She’s been sick for a while," he added, almost like he was saying it more to himself than to you. "Autoimmune thing. Thursdays are… her day."

I didnt expect us to get why he isnt there oh my god :((( Gyu

Also love hoe Beomgyu looks out for her in the industry since its p much a dog-eat-dog kind of environment

Beomgyu’s jaw tensed almost instantly. He felt the muscle in his cheek twitch as he forced himself to keep his expression neutral. "How the hell would I know?" he muttered, too quickly. "It’s not like I’m friends with her."

Im loving jealous Beomgyu

Yeonjun raised a brow. "You forget I’ve known you since forever. I know how your brain works. You groaned, pushing the door open "Y/N." You paused, turning back to him. Yeonjun leaned over, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. "Go make history."

Their relationship is also so sweet too :(

Also Beomgyu using producing lingo is oddly attractive. And also loving how he so casually mention Yeonjun being her boyfriend and I just know hes relieved when he realizes it isnt true

Why the hell did I even ask that? He scoffed under his breath, shaking his head. It didn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter.

Im enjoying this fic so much I swear its so funny but also has moments of seriousness to it

I am soooooooooooooo suspicious of Seungcheol oh my god

Beomgyu's gaze flickered briefly down the hallway where Seungcheol had disappeared. Then, finally, he looked back at you. "You should be careful with him," he said, voice flat.

Hes so right, i can feel it

You weren’t sure what you expected, maybe another cocky remark, another teasing jab, but instead, his eyes moved over your outfit in a way that made your skin prickle with awareness. "You always wear black," he murmured, almost to himself, but his voice was just loud enough for you to catch.

The way that he notices this. The more I read the more I realize hes so in love with her. I also love how him and Yeonjun instantly click god. And I also love just Beomgyu’s personality in this context.

I DID NOT EXPECT TO SEE YUNHO HERE ??? Also Beomgyu needs to learn to hide his jealously

He smirked. Just a flash of teeth, just enough to make your stomach twist. Then he turned on his heel and walked off, leaving you standing there, heart pounding, head spinning, caught between wanting to kill him and—

Heheh oh my god. Part 1 was so good😭it sso satisfying to finally read it!! Unto part 2 hehe

out of tune ˖ ୨ 🎙◞⋆ ☆

pairing: producer!beomgyu x producer!femreader part 1 // part 2 // part 3

summary: you and beomgyu have been at each other’s throats since day one at HYBE. both of you are producers, both of you are talented, and both of you absolutely refuse to lose to the other. whether it’s competing for the best demo, fighting over studio time, or bickering in team meetings, everyone knows one thing: you and beomgyu cannot stand each other so, of course, your boss decides to put you two on the same project—producing ENHYPEN’s next album. together. as in, sharing a studio, making creative decisions, and not murdering each other in the process. and suddenly, the tension isn’t just about work.

genre: enemies to lovers, coworkers to lovers, slow burn, angst with a good payoff // w/c: 27k // warnings: not entirely proofread, smoking (reader and beomgyu smoke), drinking, angst, jealously, overworking characters, classic enemies to lovers type of plot

author's note: GUYS. i’m finally releasing this prisoner that’s been rotting in my drafts for a million years this one’s a longer fic, so i’m splitting it into part 1 and part 2! it’s definitely a slowburn, and also my first time writing a full-length fic like this. read part 2 here!!

out of tune's playlist <3

The HYBE cafeteria was unusually bright today. Or maybe that was just your headache talking.

You sat slumped at one of the corner tables, your laptop was open in front of you, but the words on the screen blurred together every time you tried to focus. Your body was in the office, but your soul was still somewhere on the dance floor from last night.

You were never drinking again.

A cup of coffee slid into your line of vision. You blinked, slowly lifting your head to see the familiar figure dropping into the seat beside you.

“Rough night?” Taehyun asked, amusement laced in his voice.

You didn’t answer, just wrapped both hands around the coffee like it was a lifeline and nodded your thanks. You took a sip, the bitter warmth cutting through the fog in your brain, and exhaled through your nose.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he pressed.

You finally peeled off your glasses and turned to him with a deadpan expression. “Do I look like I had a peaceful night?”

Taehyun let out a soft laugh. “No. You look like someone who made a lot of bad decisions and is currently regretting all of them.”

You sighed. “That’s exactly what happened.”

Taehyun was one of the few people in this building you actually liked. As a manager for a junior HYBE group, he wasn’t directly involved in your work, but somehow, over shared coffee breaks and snarky side comments during meetings, you had become friends. He was calm, observant, and, most importantly, he never judged you when you showed up like this.

“Who dragged you out last night?” he asked, leaning back in his chair.

“Yunjin,” you mumbled, rubbing your temple.

Taehyun whistled. “That explains it. She doesn’t just go out—she goes out.”

“Tell me about it.” You shook your head. For a few moments, you just sat there, sipping your coffee in comfortable silence. The caffeine was starting to work, clearing the fog in your brain just enough for you to remember why you had dragged yourself out of bed in the first place.

“Anyway,” Taehyun said, as if reading your mind, “you think you got it?”

You glanced at him. “Got what?”

“The ENHYPEN album. You think you landed the producer role?”

You exhaled slowly, fingers tapping against your coffee cup. “Yeah. I mean, I should. I have the best pitch. It’s mine to lose.”

Taehyun hummed, watching you carefully. “Unless…”

You groaned, already knowing where this was going. “Unless the company decides to give it to Beomgyu.”

Since the moment you started working at HYBE, the two of you had been locked in a never-ending competition. You were both young, both talented, and both desperate to prove you were the best. Every project turned into a silent battle. Every meeting became a chance to outshine each other. Every time you thought you had the upper hand, he came back swinging with something better.

And, worst of all, he was good. As much as you hated to admit it, Beomgyu was one of the most talented producers in the company. His compositions were sharp, his sound design was clean, and when he wasn’t being an arrogant pain in your ass, he actually had an ear for what made a song great. But that didn’t make him any less infuriating.

“He’s been talking about it a lot,” Taehyun said, watching your reaction.

“Of course, he has,” you muttered. “He loves the sound of his own voice.”

Before Taehyun could press you, your phone buzzed with a notification. Your stomach flipped when you saw the email preview on your screen.

[HYBE Entertainment] Producer Assignment for ENHYPEN’s Next Album

Taehyun caught the way your shoulders tensed. “Well?”

You swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and opened it. And then, in bold letters, you saw it:

Lead Producers: Y/N & Choi Beomgyu.

You stared at the screen, unblinking.

Taehyun leaned over. “So?”

Slowly, you turned to him. “I hate this company.”

You barely had time to process your misery before you were ushered into one of the production meeting rooms. The headache was still lingering, but the coffee had helped enough that you could at least pretend to be functioning.

Across the table sat Baekhyun, ENHYPEN’s main A&R manager, flipping through a thick binder filled with concepts, references, and scribbled notes. He was in his mid-thirties, sharp-eyed and always impossibly put-together, the kind of guy who could walk into any room and immediately command attention.

“You look like hell,” he said, not even bothering with a greeting.

“Good morning to you too,” you muttered, dropping into your chair.

Baekhyun smirked, but didn’t push further. Instead, he slid the binder toward you. “Alright, let’s get to it. This is going to be ENHYPEN’s biggest album yet. They’re growing like crazy, and we need something that reflects that—something bold, mature, but still fresh.”

You nodded, flipping through the pages. There were mood boards, keywords, visual concepts—deep reds, blacks, a contrast of sharp and soft. “So, a sexy vibe,” you noted.

“Sexy, but not just for the sake of being sexy,” Baekhyun clarified. “It’s not about being provocative, it’s about confidence, about knowing your worth and expressing it. It needs to feel natural, not forced.”

“Got it,” you said, scanning a page filled with song references—everything from dark R&B to stripped-back acoustic ballads. “And the sound?”

“We want duality,” Baekhyun said, leaning forward. “Something sleek, something intense, but balanced with softer, more emotional tracks. Like… a contrast between the chase and the catch.”

You smirked. “So basically, heartbreak wrapped in temptation.”

Baekhyun snapped his fingers. “Exactly.”

You nodded, your mind already racing with ideas. This was the kind of project you thrived on, creating an album that told a story, something cohesive but layered, something that felt alive.

“I can already hear it,” you murmured, flipping to a blank page and jotting down rough ideas. “We need instrumentals that hit deep, a mix of live elements and modern production. R&B basslines, warm analog synths, breathy vocals in the right places…”

Baekhyun grinned. “See? This is why I knew you were the right person for this.” Your ego swelled, but before you could respond, he casually added— “And why Beomgyu is the perfect person to work on this with you.”

Just like that, your mood soured. You shut the binder and looked up at him, unimpressed. “Really?”

Baekhyun laughed. “Don’t start.”

“I’m just saying—”

“You’re just saying that you don’t like him. Which, frankly, is why this is going to be so interesting.”

You huffed, crossing your arms. “We have completely different styles.”

“Which is exactly why this works. You bring structure, he brings unpredictability. You focus on energy, he focuses on emotion. You push each other, even when you don’t realize it.” You groaned, but you knew he wasn’t wrong. Baekhyun leaned back, watching you with an amused glint in his eyes. “You know, if you two weren’t so busy trying to one-up each other all the time, you might actually make a great team.”

You scoffed. “Doubtful.” Baekhyun only shrugged, a knowing smile on his face. You sighed, standing up and gathering your notes. “Fine. If this album flops, I’m blaming you.”

He smirked. “Noted.”

You turned toward the door, bracing yourself for the inevitable headache that would come from working directly with Beomgyu for the next few months. But as soon as you pulled it open, you nearly walked straight into someone.

Someone tall, with long black hair falling messily over sharp eyes that gleamed with something infuriatingly smug. His features were all sharp angles and effortless confidence, full lips curled into a smirk, the kind that made your blood pressure spike before he even said a word.

Choi Beomgyu.

Dressed in an oversized black hoodie layered under a leather jacket, silver chains peeking out from the neckline, and ripped jeans that looked both expensive and carelessly thrown on, he looked every bit like the type of person who thrived in controlled chaos. Like someone who knew exactly how to get under your skin and enjoyed every second of it. And he always made it look easy.

He was leaning casually against the doorframe, like he had been waiting for you to walk straight into him. His dark eyes flickered down at you, amused. He chuckled, stepping aside just enough for you to pass. But before you could make your escape, Baekhyun called from inside the room—

“Beomgyu, perfect timing. Y/N and I were just talking about how great you two are going to be working together.”

You clenched your jaw. Beomgyu turned to you, raising an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

“No,” you deadpanned. “We weren’t.”

Beomgyu grinned, clearly enjoying himself. “Too bad, cause I think we’re going to have so much fun.”

You took a slow breath, reminding yourself that murder was illegal. Then, without another word, you pushed past him and walked out of the room. Behind you, you could hear him laugh under his breath.

This was going to be hell.

By the time you finally stepped out of the HYBE building, the sky had already melted into deep shades of indigo. The day had been long, hours spent inside the studio, fine-tuning beats, layering harmonies, trying to shape the skeleton of a project that didn’t even exist yet. Your brain felt like mush, the melodies still buzzing in your head like an overplayed song on repeat.

You shoved your hands into your jacket pockets, letting the cool night air wake you up a little as you made your way toward the subway. Your body ached, exhaustion settling into your bones, but your mind wouldn’t shut up.

It was annoying how easy it was to think about the project, how ideas kept forming without you even trying. Even more annoying? The realization that, in some twisted way, Beomgyu was actually a good fit for this album. You hated that it made sense.

That was the problem. He was good. And he knew he was good.

His songwriting had this effortless quality, like he wasn’t just writing songs, he was telling stories. He knew how to take a concept and turn it into something that felt real. And if this album was supposed to be all about desire, longing, and the push-and-pull of emotions, then yeah, maybe he was the right person for this. But you’d rather die than admit that out loud.

With a tired sigh, you pushed the thought away as your train pulled up to the station. You just needed to go home, take a hot shower, and vent to the one person who wouldn’t hesitate to call you out on your bullshit.

By the time you unlocked the door to your apartment, you could already hear the faint sound of music playing from the living room.

Yeonjun was sprawled across the couch, laptop balanced on his stomach, probably tweaking some mix for one of his own projects. He worked at SM, but somehow, despite the constant rivalry between companies, the two of you had ended up as roommates.

Not that it was surprising. You had known each other for years, long before either of you had started working in the industry. Your friendship had survived everything: late-night study sessions in college, chaotic moving days, and now, the shared struggle of being overworked producers.

When you enter your place, the smell of something warm and familiar wrapped around you instantly. “You cooked?” Your voice came out halfway between shock and suspicion.

Yeonjun, who was also eating his ramen, looked up to give you an unimpressed look. “First of all, rude.”

You let out a breathy laugh, kicking off your shoes. “I mean, last time you ‘cooked,’ we almost set off the fire alarm, so forgive me for being a little traumatized.”

Yeonjun rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, he gestured toward the table, where two bowls were already set out. “Sit. Eat. You look like you just survived a war.”

You groaned, dragging yourself to a chair. “I feel like I just survived a war.”

He lifted up, and sat across from you, resting his chin in his hand as he watched you take the first bite. The warmth of the broth was immediate, soothing the tightness in your chest that you hadn’t even realized was there. Yeonjun waited until you had eaten a little before speaking again, voice softer now. “Long day?”

You exhaled, rolling your shoulders. “Yeah. But…” You paused, picking at your noodles with your chopsticks. “I got it.”

Yeonjun blinked. “Got what?”

“The Enhypen album,” you said, finally looking at him. “Baekhyun gave me the project.”

For a second, he just stared at you. Then, his face lit up. “Oh, shit!” He practically lunged over the table to shake your shoulders. “Y/N, that’s huge! Why didn’t you say that first?”

You laughed, swatting his hands away. “I was getting there!”

“You deserve this,” he said, grinning as he leaned back again. “Seriously, they couldn’t have picked anyone better. I knew this was yours.”

His words sent a strange warmth through your chest, one that had nothing to do with the ramen. “Thanks,” you murmured, a small smile tugging at your lips. “I really wanted it.”

Yeonjun’s smile softened. “And now you have it.” Then, after a beat—“Wait, this means you’ll be locked in the studio for months. I’m never gonna see you.”

You snorted. “Please. You’ll be begging me to stop ranting about synth layers by the end of next week.”

“Okay, yeah, probably.” He smirked. “So, what’s the concept?”

You sat back, letting your head rest against the chair as you thought about it. “Sexy, but in a romantic way. Like… polished, expensive. Desire, but not in a loud way. It’s supposed to be smooth. Mature. A little dangerous, but still aching for something real.”

Yeonjun let out a low whistle. “Damn. Sounds like a dream album.”

You nodded, your fingers drumming absentmindedly against the table. “I spent all day trying to build a soundscape that fits that vibe. The melodies are coming together, but…” You hesitated. “It’s missing something.”

Yeonjun raised an eyebrow. “What?”

You exhaled, tapping your chopsticks against your bowl. “Lyrics.”

He didn’t say anything, just tilted his head, waiting. You sighed, rubbing your temple. “Baekhyun thinks it’s the kind of album that needs a really strong lyrical identity. It has to feel intentional. Like every word matters. And… I get it. But that’s not really my strong suit, you know?”

Yeonjun nodded, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “So… you need a songwriter.”

You let out a humorless laugh. “Yeah. And that’s the problem. Because Baekhyun already assigned me one.”

Yeonjun’s lips curled at the edges. “Lemme guess.”

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. “Yep.”

His grin stretched wider. “Beomgyu.”

You pointed your chopsticks at him. “Don’t start.”

He just laughed, leaning back against his chair. “I mean, I get it. He’s good. And if the concept is all about longing, I hate to admit it, but that’s his thing.”

You exhaled sharply. “I know. That’s what’s pissing me off.”

Yeonjun chuckled. “So what, you guys are just gonna be stuck in a studio together for the next few months?”

You poked at your ramen. “Pretty much.”

“You gonna survive that?”

You scoffed. “I’ll manage.”

Yeonjun gave you a knowing look. “You say that now, but I know you. You’re gonna drive yourself insane over this.”

You groaned. “Ugh. Don’t remind me.”

He nudged your foot under the table. “Hey. For what it’s worth, I think this is gonna be good for you.”

You frowned. “How?”

“Because,” he said simply, “Beomgyu pushes you. You hate it, but you need it. And whether you want to admit it or not, the two of you working together? It’s gonna make something insane.”

You stared at him for a long moment, then sighed, dropping your head onto the table dramatically. “Why do you have to be so right all the time?”

He laughed, reaching over to ruffle your hair. “It’s a curse.”

You swatted his hand away, but the heaviness in your chest felt a little lighter. Maybe Yeonjun was right. Maybe this was exactly what you needed. But still, if Beomgyu so much as breathed wrong, you were going to kill him.

The sound of your alarm was the first thing you registered. Sharp, insistent, and entirely too aggressive for this early in the morning You groaned, rolling onto your side to slap at your phone blindly. A soft knock came from your door.

“You alive in there?” Yeonjun’s voice was muffled but amused.

“Barely,” you grumbled.

The door creaked open slightly. “You’ve got ten minutes before I leave. If you’re not ready, I’m not waiting.”

Liar. He always waited. Still, you forced yourself up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. You barely had time to throw on some semi-presentable clothes before you were slipping into Yeonjun’s car.

The drive was comfortable, filled with sleepy silence and whatever playlist Yeonjun had on shuffle. Every now and then, he’d hum along to a song or tap his fingers against the steering wheel, the familiarity of it making your exhaustion a little easier to bear.

“Big day?” he asked eventually.

You sighed. “Yeah.”

Yeonjun glanced at you. “You nervous?”

You shook your head. “No. Just… mentally preparing myself.”

He smirked. “For the album or for Beomgyu?”

You shot him a glare. “Drop me off right here. I’ll walk.”

He snorted, pulling up in front of the HYBE building. “Good luck,” he said as you unbuckled your seatbelt. “Try not to freak out.”

“No promises,” you muttered, stepping out.

As you made your way inside, the familiar hum of the building’s early morning routine surrounded you, employees shuffling in, conversations murmuring in the background, the faint notes of music drifting from a nearby studio. Your first stop, as always, was the company café. You needed caffeine. But as you approached the counter, your mood soured instantly.

Because standing there—already engaged in conversation—was none other than Beomgyu.

And he wasn’t alone. Taehyun, of all people, was with him, the two of them deep in discussion. The sight made your stomach twist weirdly. You had always found it strange how someone as levelheaded as Taehyun could willingly spend so much time with him.

You weren’t sure what they were talking about, but the second Taehyun spotted you, his face lit up. “Morning, Y/N,” he greeted, completely oblivious to the way your eyes immediately locked onto Beomgyu.

“Morning,” you replied, forcing yourself to focus on Taehyun instead. “Didn’t know you two were having a little coffee date.”

Taehyun rolled his eyes, but Beomgyu, ever the opportunist, smirked. “Jealous?” he asked.

You scoffed. “Of what, exactly?”

Beomgyu shrugged, stirring his coffee lazily. “Me. Him. This moment of pure camaraderie.”

You gave him a deadpan look. Taehyun sighed, shaking his head. “I don’t know why I even try.”

Before you could respond, Beomgyu leaned against the counter, regarding you with that ever-present smugness. “Baekhyun told you about the meeting, right?”

You narrowed your eyes. “What meeting?”

Beomgyu’s smirk widened. “Figures.”

You groaned. “Beomgyu.”

The songwriter just lifted his cup to his lips, clearly enjoying this. He swallowed his sip of coffee, dragging out the silence before finally saying, “Baekhyun scheduled a meeting for us. With Heeseung.”

Your brows furrowed. “Heeseung?”

“He’s co-producing some of the album,” Taehyun explained. “He’s been really hands-on with this comeback.”

You nodded slowly. You had known Heeseung was involved, but this was the first you were hearing about an actual meeting. “So when is this happening?” you asked.

Beomgyu glanced at his watch. “In about… twenty minutes.”

You inhaled sharply. “Are you serious?”

Beomgyu grinned. “What? You need more time to prepare?”

You opened your mouth, probably to say something regrettable, but Taehyun quickly stepped in. “Okay, let’s not start this before a meeting.” He shot you both a pointed look. “Try to behave, yeah?”

You exhaled sharply, turning back to the counter to grab your coffee. “Fine. Let’s get this over with.” You turned on your heel, shooting him one last glare before heading for the conference room. This was going to be a long day.

The conference room is sleek, all clean lines and soundproofed walls, but the air inside feels thick with expectation. You lean against the table, arms crossed, trying not to let the weight of the situation sink in too much. Across from you, Beomgyu sits with his usual careless ease, twirling a pen between his fingers like he’s got all the time in the world.

Baekhyun flips through the binder of notes, while Heeseung sits beside him, watching everything with that sharp, unreadable gaze of his. Heeseung is a lot of things, an incredible performer, a perfectionist, and most of all, observant. Even now, you can feel him studying you and Beomgyu, picking up on things you aren’t even saying out loud.

"Alright," Baekhyun says, snapping the binder shut. "This album is going to be big, but we need it to feel cohesive. That’s why I brought you three together." He nods toward Heeseung. "Heeseung's been working on the overall creative direction with the group, so he’s got a vision for the sound. But you two—" he looks between you and Beomgyu, "—need to bring that vision to life."

Heeseung leans forward, clasping his hands together. "I have some ideas for the emotional beats of the album. I think it should feel… layered. Not just desire for the sake of desire, but something deeper. Craving, frustration, vulnerability. The kind of push-and-pull that makes people feel something."

You nod, already picturing melodies in your head. "I get that. It can’t just be surface-level. The production has to carry that duality too, something sleek but aching underneath."

Beomgyu hums beside you, finally paying attention. "I like that. But we can’t overcomplicate it. It still has to hit immediately, you know? If the production is too… pretty, it won’t land."

You glance at him, raising an eyebrow. "I wasn’t planning on making it ‘pretty.’"

His lips curve into a smirk. "You say that, but your demos always start out all delicate before you drown them in atmosphere."

You scoff, but before you can fire back, you remember something. You pull out your phone, scrolling through your files. "Actually, I have something. It’s just an idea, but…" You trail off as you connect to the speaker and press play.

The room fills with the soft hum of synths, a deep bassline kicking in a second later. The melody is restrained, almost hesitant, but there’s tension in it, a slow build that promises something bigger. Baekhyun leans back in his chair, nodding along, his fingers drumming lightly against his knee. Heeseung listens with his head tilted slightly, his brows furrowed in thought.

But it’s Beomgyu you’re watching.

His usual air of disinterest is gone. He’s listening—actually listening—his fingers absentmindedly tapping a rhythm against the table. His lips part slightly, his head tilts, and then, without saying a word, he grabs his notebook, flips to a blank page, and starts writing.

You should be annoyed. Maybe you are. But more than that, you’re intrigued. Because you recognize this version of him, the one who isn’t just all cocky smirks and sharp remarks, but the one who gets lost in the music the same way you do. The one who doesn’t just hear songs, he feels them.

And maybe it’s because you recognize it, or maybe it’s because you can already hear something forming in your own mind, but before you even realize it, you’re reaching for a pen.

The two of you don’t speak at first. You don’t need to. Beomgyu jots something down in a messy scrawl, then taps the edge of his notebook twice before turning it toward you.

Won't you give it to me? Our secret

You stare at it for a second, then shake your head. "Too direct," you murmur, crossing out a word with your pen. You rewrite it underneath—

Won't you let me in? Our secret

At some point, you pull your chair closer without thinking, angling yourself toward him as you lean over his notebook. He shifts too, elbows resting on the table, so close now that you can feel the warmth of his arm next to yours. His knee bumps against yours, but neither of you moves away.

Your phone is still connected to the speaker, and every now and then, you pause to tweak the demo, adjusting a chord, adding a reverb effect, testing how the lyrics sit against the melody. The more you work, the more the energy builds.

It’s like a high. The thrill of chasing an idea, of catching it just before it slips away. Baekhyun exhales a quiet laugh, finally breaking the silence. "Well, damn," he mutters, amused.

You glance up, only now remembering that he and Heeseung are still in the room.Heeseung is watching the two of you with his arms crossed, one brow raised like he’s witnessing something he wasn’t expecting. "Is this how you two always work?"

Beomgyu leans back in his chair, stretching his arms over his head like he didn’t just spend the last twenty minutes hyper-focused beside you. "We've never worked together"

Baekhyun smirks. "That's a shame."

You open your mouth to argue, but then you stop. Because the truth is, you don’t actually know how to explain it. You and Beomgyu have spent so much time trying to one-up each other that you’ve never really thought about what it feels like when you work together.

And maybe you don’t want to think about it too much now, either.

Beomgyu is watching you, his expression unreadable, like he’s waiting to see what you’ll say. You hesitate for half a second, then roll your eyes, reaching over to shut your notebook.

And maybe it’s just the adrenaline from the session, or maybe it’s something else entirely, but as you gather your things, you can’t shake the feeling that this—whatever just happened between you and Beomgyu—is something you’re going to be chasing again.

The moment you step into the hallway, you exhale, feeling the lingering buzz of the brainstorming session still thrumming under your skin. Your mind is moving too fast, melodies and lyrics weaving together even as you try to shake them off.

Before you get too far, Heeseung catches up to you, matching your pace effortlessly. "That was impressive," he says, hands tucked into his pockets.

You glance at him, eyebrows raised. "What was?"

He smiles knowingly. "Don’t play dumb. The way you and Beomgyu just… locked in like that. You guys have a really strong creative dynamic."

You scoff. "Please. It was a one-time thing."

Heeseung just hums in amusement. "Sure," he says, voice dripping with skepticism. "But seriously, I really liked what you did with the demo. That shift in the pre-chorus? That was smart."

The unexpected praise makes your steps falter slightly. You work with a lot of talented people, but compliments from someone like Heeseung, who has an ear for every small detail, actually mean something. "Thanks," you mutter. "Still needs work, though."

Heeseung nods. "Yeah, but that’s what makes it exciting. You and Beomgyu had some really solid ideas in there. I can already tell this album is gonna be something special."

There’s something in his voice, genuine, excited. It’s the same kind of excitement you feel when a song starts coming together, when you can hear the final product before it even exists.

And maybe—just maybe—that feeling is stronger now because of how easily you and Beomgyu fell into rhythm together. Not that you’re going to admit that.

Before you can respond, you hear footsteps approaching. Beomgyu slows as he reaches the two of you, glancing between you and Heeseung with mild curiosity. "What’s this? A secret meeting?"

You roll your eyes. Heeseung chuckles, shaking his head. "Relax, man. I was just telling Y/N how good that session was. You guys really work well together."

Beomgyu gives you a look, something unreadable flickering in his dark eyes, but he doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he tilts his head toward Heeseung. "You heading out?"

"Yeah," Heeseung nods. "But I’ll catch up with you guys later."

With that, he gives you one last easy smile before walking off, leaving you alone with Beomgyu. Big mistake. The second Heeseung disappears down the hall, Beomgyu turns to you with a lazy grin. "So," he drawls, "what did he say about me?"

You narrow your eyes. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me," he says, shifting his weight against the wall. "Did he say I was a genius? A lyrical mastermind? The only reason this album is gonna be good?"

You glare. "Wow, and here I was thinking you couldn’t possibly get more unbearable."

Beomgyu just laughs, completely unfazed. "I’m serious, though. You should really start getting used to working with me. I mean, if this first session was any proof, we make a great team."

You cross your arms. "Yeah, alright"

Beomgyu tilts his head. "Anyway, I’m gonna be in my studio for a bit—working on some ideas. You know, since I’m so dedicated."

You raise an eyebrow. "And this concerns me how?"

His smirk is instant, sharp. "Because, genius, that demo we worked on still isn’t finished. And if I remember correctly, you’re kind of obsessed with making things perfect."

You exhale through your nose, already feeling the trap he’s setting. "I’ll work on it on my own."

"Sure, sure," he muses, rocking back on his heels. "Except… we both know it’s better when we do it together."

You roll your eyes. "I don’t ‘do things together’ with you, Beomgyu."

He grins, leaning in slightly. "You did today." Your fingers twitch at your sides. You hate that he’s right. You hate that, for a moment, working with him didn’t feel like a battle, it felt electric.

Beomgyu seems to know exactly what you’re thinking, because he shrugs, all casual confidence. "I mean, if you wanna waste time trying to fix it alone, be my guest. But you saw how fast we worked together. We could probably finish a whole verse in an hour—less, if you don’t get distracted staring at me."

You scoff. "Oh my god. You're unbelievable."

"You keep saying that, but you still haven’t said no."

You open your mouth to argue, but then, against all logic, you hesitate. Because he’s right. Again. For as much as you can’t stand him, the truth is undeniable: when you and Beomgyu get into that creative zone, things happen. He watches you carefully, amusement flickering in his dark eyes as you consider it. Finally, with a heavy sigh, you relent. "Fine. Maybe I’ll stop by later."

Beomgyu beams, clearly way too pleased with himself. "Knew you would."

"Don’t get cocky."

"Too late," he says, already turning to leave. But just as he starts walking away, he throws one last remark over his shoulder— "Can’t wait to see how long you last before you come running to my studio."

You swear under your breath, clenching your fists. That smug little—No. You’re not letting him get to you. You pull out your phone, ignoring the way your heartbeat is still uneven, and type out a quick text.

[you]: are you at the company?

Taehyun responds almost instantly.

[taehyun]: Just finished up. Why? [you]: meet me outside [taehyun]: …Are you about to fight someone? [you]: just fucking get there jesus

Shoving your phone back into your pocket, you reach for the crumpled pack of cigarettes in your jacket. It’s a bad habit—one you don’t let yourself fall into often—but it’s always been your go-to when you feel like you might actually explode.

You light up, inhaling deeply, letting the nicotine settle in your lungs as you lean against the wall. The city hums around you, cars passing, distant chatter from people walking by, but your head is still full of Beomgyu. His smirk, his voice, the way he gets under your skin so damn easily.

You take another slow drag. A few minutes later, footsteps approach, and then—

"You really need to quit that," Taehyun says, stepping up beside you.

You exhale, watching the smoke dissipate into the night air. "Yeah, yeah."

He looks at you for a moment, then sighs. "Beomgyu?"

You shoot him a glare. "I hate how predictable that was."

Taehyun just laughs, shaking his head as he leans against the wall next to you. "Alright. Tell me what happened."

And you do. Between slow drags of your cigarette and exasperated hand gestures, you let it all out. Beomgyu’s arrogance, his teasing, the way he makes you want to strangle him and throw yourself into another session with him at the same time. Taehyun listens, nodding along, his expression somewhere between amused and exasperated.

When you finally finish, he exhales, running a hand through his hair. "You know," he says, "for someone who ‘hates’ working with him, you sure as hell can’t stop talking about him."

You groan, dragging a hand down your face. "I swear to god, if you say one more thing—"

"Relax," he grins, bumping his shoulder against yours. "I’m just saying. If this keeps up, this album’s gonna be fun to watch."

"Fun," you mutter, taking one last drag of your cigarette before flicking it away. "Yeah, sure. If Beomgyu doesn’t kill me first."

Taehyun snorts. "I dunno. You’re the one smoking like you’ve just seen your life flash before your eyes." You shoot him a glare, but he just grins. Taehyun shifts beside you. "So, you’re going this weekend, right?"

You frown. "Going where?"

"The HYBE party," he says, like it should be obvious. "Producers, execs, big names—basically a ‘who’s who’ of the industry."

You make a face. "Oh. That thing."

"Yes, that thing," he deadpans. "Don’t tell me you weren’t invited."

"I was."

"And?"

"And I ignored it."

Taehyun groans. "Of course you did."

You roll your eyes. "Why would I waste my time going to that? It's just a bunch of industry people getting drunk and kissing each other’s asses."

"Yeah," he says, "and that’s exactly why you should be there."

You huff, leaning back against the wall. "Taehyun, I barely have time to eat, let alone go make small talk with people I don’t care about."

He gives you a pointed look. "If you want more people to care about you, you need to start showing up to these things."

You open your mouth to argue—but then his words hit you in a way you weren’t expecting. Because you’ve heard them before. Not from him. You’re good, but no one’s ever gonna notice if you never leave this cave.

Beomgyu’s voice, unshakable, rings through your head.

It was late—too late, really, for either of you to still be in the studio—but you had been working, tweaking a demo, lost in your own world. And then he had walked in, leaning against the doorframe with that lazy smirk, watching you like he had you all figured out.

At the time, you had rolled your eyes and told him to fuck off. Now, standing here, you hate that his words come back so easily.

Taehyun must notice the shift in your expression because he nudges your shoulder. "Hey. You okay?"

You blink, shaking the thought off. "Yeah. Fine."

"Uh-huh," he says, unconvinced. "So, you’re going?"

You sigh, kicking at the pavement. "I’ll think about it."

He smirks. "That means yes."

You groan, "I hate you."

"You hate a lot of people," Taehyun teases, already stepping away. "But I’ll see you at the party, yeah?"

You don’t answer. But the thought lingers, anyway.

The walk back inside feels heavier than before. Maybe it’s the cold finally settling into your skin, or maybe it’s the fact that Taehyun’s words—and Beomgyu’s, fucking Beomgyu’s—are still bouncing around in your head.

You push the thoughts away as you step into your studio, shutting the door behind you. This is what you need. Work. Something to focus on. Something that doesn’t smirk at you like it knows you better than you know yourself.

Sitting down in front of your computer, you slip your headphones on and pull up a track you’ve been building. The beat kicks in, a deep, pulsing rhythm, crisp percussion layered underneath. You tweak a synth, adjusting the filters until it hums just right. The bass needs more weight. You push it up, listening as the sound thickens, your fingers moving without thinking.

The door swings open. You pull your headphones off, already prepared to tell whoever just barged in to knock first, but the words die on your tongue when you see who it is. Soobin.

He pauses in the doorway, one hand still on the knob, blinking at you like he wasn’t expecting to see you here either. His eyes, soft, dark, perpetually kind, widen slightly before he lets out a small laugh, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Oh—shit. Sorry," he says. "I thought this room was empty."

You shake your head, waving a dismissive hand. "It’s fine. You’re not bothering me."

He hesitates for a second, shifting on his feet like he’s not sure if he should stay or leave. You take him in properly, his hoodie slightly oversized, the sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal his wrists, his hair slightly tousled like he’s been running his hands through it all day. Soobin has always had this way about him, gentle, easygoing, warm in a way that makes people feel safe without even trying.

Soobin steps further into the room, leaning against the doorframe with that easy, almost shy smile of his. "So," he starts, his voice warm and easy, "how’s the project going?"

You lean back in your chair, giving a small shrug, trying to look casual despite the knot in your stomach. "Yeah, it’s going… well. I’m happy with how the beat is shaping up. Just need to refine a few things."

Soobin smiles, his gaze drifting to the computer screen, clearly not just focused on the music. There’s a softness in his expression, like he knows when you’re holding back, but he doesn’t push. "Beomgyu said you two were going to be working together on the new album," he says casually, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, still lingering by the door.

The mention of Beomgyu makes you stiffen for a split second, but you force yourself to remain composed. You try to play it cool, even though the words "working together" feel like they’ve got a much sharper edge to them.

"Yeah," you say, keeping your voice neutral. "Baekhyun put us both on the project. Not really my first choice, but… it is what it is."

Soobin tilts his head slightly, his eyes narrowing just a touch. "Hmm."

You raise an eyebrow, sensing that there’s something more to his reaction than he’s letting on. "What? What’s up?"

Soobin shrugs, his smile returning, but it’s a little softer now, like there’s something he wants to say but he’s not sure if he should. "I’m just surprised. Beomgyu never really talks much about the people he works with, you know?"

Your heart skips a beat. "What do you mean?"

He looks at you thoughtfully for a moment, his eyes flicking to the screen again before meeting yours. "I mean… he mentioned you, actually. Said your work was 'solid.' Which, for him, is practically a compliment."

You blink. Beomgyu? Complimenting you? It takes a moment for the words to fully sink in. "Wait, seriously?"

Soobin chuckles, shrugging. "Yeah. Maybe he’s not as much of a jerk as you think." He pauses, eyes twinkling with amusement. "Or maybe he’s just trying to get under your skin."

You roll your eyes, though there’s a small smile playing at the corner of your lips despite yourself. "I wouldn’t be surprised if it was the second option."

Soobin seems to think about that for a moment, his expression thoughtful. "But hey, maybe working together will surprise you."

You shoot him a skeptical look, but there’s something in Soobin’s voice, something sincere, that makes you pause. "Maybe," you say, your tone softer. "I just don’t know if I’m ready for that kind of surprise."

Soobin chuckles, stepping back toward the door. "Well, if anyone can handle Beomgyu’s ego, it’s you."

You watch him leave, his figure disappearing behind the door with that usual, casual air he carries, but his words stay with you. If anyone can handle Beomgyu’s ego, it’s you.

You take a deep breath, leaning back in your chair, eyes fixed on the blinking cursor on your screen. The beat you’ve been working on earlier suddenly feels distant, like it’s just background noise to the thoughts swirling in your mind.

You didn’t expect Soobin to say that. In fact, you didn’t expect him to even mention Beomgyu.

Beomgyu's ego. The words replay in your head, and you can't help but feel that familiar bitterness rise in your chest. He was arrogant, always so sure of himself, as if he thought he could charm his way into every room he walked into—every meeting, every collaboration, every conversation. But that wasn't the worst part. No, the worst part was how effective it was. He was good at what he did. So good, it made you sick to admit it.

Your fingers hover over your keyboard, but you don't type anything. Instead, you let your mind wander back to the countless times you’d crossed paths with Beomgyu. From the first time you’d met him, there had always been this unspoken tension between you two. You could never quite pinpoint why, but it was always there, like a challenge, an unspoken game.

Beomgyu was never afraid to speak his mind. Never afraid to push you, challenge you, throw something in your face to see how you'd react. He wasn’t the type to back down, especially not in a field like this, where every day felt like a battle for the top spot.

And yet, in all the years you’d worked alongside him, you’d never been able to figure him out. You hated how unpredictable he was. How he’d come in with that cocky grin, take control of a room with nothing more than his presence, and leave you second-guessing everything about the project you’d just finished.

It wasn’t just his confidence that grated on you. It was the way it worked. How easy it was for him to charm clients, co-workers, everyone. You’d always been the opposite, quiet, focused, just a little too serious for the industry’s taste. But Beomgyu? He could weave his way through conversations, make jokes, make everyone like him.

You weren’t so good at that. You weren’t good at pretending things were okay when they weren’t, and you definitely weren’t good at ignoring the way Beomgyu’s presence made your heart race just a little too fast.

You pull your headphones back on, the sound of the track filling your ears, but it doesn’t help. You can’t stop thinking about him. About his stupid smile, the way he’d always act like he knew more than you, the way you’d find yourself questioning every decision you’d made just because he disagreed with it.

You stare at the screen, tapping your fingers absentmindedly on the desk. The ping of a new message from the company chat pulls you out of your thoughts. You glance at the screen, already knowing who it is before you even look. Beomgyu.

You almost groan, but instead, you open the chat without thinking too much about it. His message is short—typical Beomgyu. And, of course, he has to type in all lowercase letters, just like you do.

[beomgyu]: you coming to work with me today or nah?

You lean back in your chair, staring at the message for a second. He always had to throw in that annoying casual tone, like you were just some kind of colleague he could poke fun at. Not that you were going to let him get to you.

[you]: maybe

The typing bubble shows up immediately, and you can already tell he’s typing a response. Of course, he wouldn’t leave you hanging.

[beomgyu]: alright, i’m coming over. don’t run away this time.

You lean back in your chair, exhaling deeply. As much as you’d like to ignore him, you know that when Beomgyu’s around, the work somehow gets done. Annoying as he is, he’s good.

A few minutes later, you hear the soft sound of the door to your studio creaking open. You don’t even look up from your computer at first, but you can feel his presence in the room. It’s hard to miss, he’s got this way of filling up space with his confidence, as if he belongs in every room he enters. "That was fast," you say, still clicking through your files.

"I was already on my way," Beomgyu replies smoothly. His voice is light, teasing, but you can hear the subtle scratch of his hoodie against his skin as he moves, stepping closer.

Only then do you finally glance up. He’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, head tilted slightly as he watches you like he’s already won something. "Thought you’d be hiding from me again," he muses.

You huff a quiet laugh, rolling your eyes. "I wasn’t hiding. Just… working. Something you should try sometime."

Beomgyu pushes off the frame, walking toward you with that effortless, too-cool confidence that somehow never looks forced. He doesn’t take the bait. Instead, he nods toward your screen. "What have you been working on, then?"

You hesitate for a beat. It’s not like you don’t want to show him, it’s just that you know how this goes. He’ll have something to say, and you’re not sure if you’re in the mood to let him have an opinion today. Still, your fingers move on their own, pulling up the track. "A beat," you say, pressing play. "Something I was messing with earlier."

The studio fills with the low pulse of a kick drum, steady and clean. A deep bassline follows, smooth but weighty, the kind that makes your chest vibrate. You keep your eyes on the screen, tweaking the volume slightly, but you can feel Beomgyu’s gaze shift. He’s listening. Really listening.

When the beat fades out, you finally glance at him. His usual smirk is gone, replaced by something unreadable. He stays quiet for a moment, and just when you think he might actually be serious for once, he speaks.

"It’s… not bad," he says, dragging out the words just to be annoying.

You scoff. "Not bad?"

He shrugs, fighting a grin. "I mean, I expected worse. But yeah. It’s solid." You stare at him for a second before shaking your head. Beomgyu finally laughs, a soft, genuine sound, before nudging your chair lightly with his knee. "Come on. Let’s make it better."

You side-eye him. "Since when are you this eager to work?"

He gives you a slow smirk. "Since I found out I have to prove I’m better than you."

You scoff but don’t argue. Instead, you press play again, letting the track fill the studio once more. The beat hums through the speakers, crisp and layered, but something still feels… incomplete. It’s a skeleton, a strong foundation, but it needs something to make it breathe.

Beomgyu’s fingers drum lightly against the desk, following the rhythm. "The bass is solid, but it needs more texture," he muses, his voice slipping into something more thoughtful. "Maybe a reverb on the snare? Just enough to make it feel bigger."

You hum, considering. "That could work." Your hands move quickly, adjusting a few settings, adding the effect he suggested. When you play it back, the subtle change makes a difference. The beat hits deeper, lingers in the air.

Beomgyu tilts his head, listening. "Yeah… that’s better," he mutters, almost to himself. Then he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Alright, now lyrics. What’s the vibe?"

You purse your lips, thinking. "Baekhyun wanted something sexy but with emotional weight. Not just a throwaway club song—something that actually sticks with people."

Beomgyu hums, tilting his head. "So, like… temptation?" You glance at him, curious. He gestures vaguely with his hands. "Something that feels like you shouldn’t be doing it, but you want to anyway. You know, that whole ‘I’m trying to stay away, but I keep coming back’ thing."

You hesitate, but that actually makes sense. Your fingers hover over the keyboard as you type a few rough phrases, trying to capture that idea. "Something like…" you murmur to yourself, voice trailing off as you think.

Beomgyu shifts closer, his shoulder almost brushing yours as he watches your screen. "Try flipping it," he suggests. "Instead of ‘I can’t stay away,’ what if it’s more like ‘I know you don’t want me to stay away’?"

Your fingers pause. You glance at him. His eyes flicker with something unreadable, like he knows exactly what he just did. You scoff lightly, shaking your head. "You would think of it that way."

Beomgyu grins. "What can I say? I like a little push and pull."

Rolling your eyes, you type out the line anyway. And to your annoyance, it works.

From there, the writing flows easier. He throws out ideas, some ridiculous, some brilliant. You counter them, sharpen them, adjust the phrasing. He tests melodies under his breath while you tweak the instrumental to match. The push-and-pull dynamic you usually hate about him actually fuels the process, and before you know it, the bones of the song are coming together.

At some point, Beomgyu gets up and paces the room as he mumbles lyrics under his breath, testing cadences. You watch as he stops, rewinds, repeats lines to himself like he’s working out a puzzle. It’s the most serious you’ve seen him look all day.

And, annoyingly, you find yourself thinking, not for the first time, that Beomgyu is actually really good at this. You shake the thought away. No need to inflate his already massive ego.

Eventually, you both get so lost in the work that time stops mattering.

As Beomgyu stretches, his arms extending above his head, the hem of his hoodie lifts just slightly, revealing a sliver of skin. He lets out a low groan as his back pops, shaking off the hours spent hunched over the desk. You barely register it, too lost in the sound of the track looping softly in the background, but then you catch the way he suddenly stills.

His gaze flickers to the clock on the wall, and his expression shifts. "Holy shit," he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. "It’s past midnight."

The words barely register at first. Your brain is still swimming in melodies, unfinished lyrics, and the lingering energy of collaboration. But then the weight of time settles in, and you finally blink, pulling yourself back into reality.

You sit up straighter, stretching out your fingers before glancing at the studio door. The hallway beyond is silent. The once-busy building has gone eerily still, the distant hum of conversations and footsteps long gone.

"Shit," you murmur, running a hand through your hair. "Didn’t even notice."

It’s not surprising. This happens sometimes, getting so lost in the process that hours slip by unnoticed. But something about tonight feels different. Maybe it’s the fact that you didn’t just work alone. That, for once, Beomgyu wasn’t just a distraction or an annoyance, but someone who helped.

Beomgyu, meanwhile, is watching you with something unreadable in his eyes. Then, as if snapping back into his usual self, he lets out a small breath and leans against the edge of the desk. His smirk creeps in, lazy and familiar.

"Wanna grab a beer?"

The words are so casual, so effortless, that it takes you a second to process them. You snort, already shaking your head before he can even try to convince you. "Not even if you paid me."

Beomgyu clicks his tongue, feigning deep disappointment, like you just shattered his fragile dreams. "Tsk. Alright, alright. I get it. You’re all work, no fun."

You roll your eyes, but before you can fire back, he leans in slightly. Not close enough to invade your space, but just enough that his voice drops a fraction, almost like he’s sharing a secret.

"I’ve got until the album drops to change your mind."

There’s something about the way he says it. Not teasing, not pushy, just confident, like it’s already a done deal. Like he knows you’ll give in eventually.

You scoff, but the corner of your mouth betrays you, just the tiniest flicker of a smile before you school your expression back into indifference. "Good luck with that," you mutter, standing up and stretching your arms.

Beomgyu watches you for a beat longer before pushing off the desk, stuffing his hands into the pocket of his hoodie. He doesn’t say anything else, just hums in amusement as he heads for the door, his posture loose and easy.

And somehow, you already know. He won’t drop it.

The dream was still vivid when you woke up. The melody, the lyrics, everything had felt so real, like the song had already existed somewhere in your mind, just waiting to be found.

You barely remembered throwing on your clothes and rushing out the door, but now you were here, practically jogging through the HYBE hallways, desperate to get the words down before they slipped away.

Your mind was a mess of half-formed ideas and lingering dream logic, but the one thing you knew for certain was that this had to be written today. The only problem? Beomgyu was nowhere to be found.

You’d expected to see him the second you walked into the studio, already lounging in his usual spot, feet up on the desk like he owned the place. But the room was empty. No bags, no coffee cups, no signs of life.

You frowned, pulling out your phone on instinct, but there were no messages. No snarky texts from him, no last-minute updates about being late. Nothing. You tried not to dwell on the fact that it unsettled you. That you were even looking for him in the first place.

Instead, you headed back into the hallway, hoping to run into someone who knew something. That someone turned out to be Taehyun, who was standing near the vending machines, scrolling on his phone. "Hey," you called, walking up to him. "Have you seen Beomgyu?"

Taehyun barely looked up, but the slight smirk on his face told you he’d heard you just fine. "You’re looking for him?"

You folded your arms. "I just need to talk to him about the album."

He hummed, finally glancing up from his phone. "Sure. About the album."

You sighed. "Taehyun—"

"I haven't seen him," he cut in, clearly enjoying this way too much. "And even if I had, I don’t think I’d tell you. This is way too entertaining."

You rolled your eyes. "Unbelievable."

"You could just text him, you know," Taehyun pointed out.

"I could," you admitted, "but I shouldn’t have to."

Taehyun just shrugged, biting back a grin. "Well, if you’re that desperate, good luck."

You groaned, turning on your heel and heading down the hall. Desperate. Right. Beomgyu wasn’t the only person you could talk to about music.

So, instead of wasting time looking for him, you made your way to a different part of the building, where you knew you’d find people who actually showed up to work. Enhypen's break room was surprisingly lively when you walked in.

Heeseung was sitting at the center table, scrolling through his laptop, while Jake and Jungwon were arguing about something (probably a game) on the couch nearby. Sunghoon and Sunoo were by the fridge, debating which energy drink was less likely to kill them, while Jay and Niki were huddled over Jay’s phone, watching a video of some kind.

The moment you stepped inside, seven pairs of eyes turned toward you. "Whoa," Jake said, blinking. "You actually left your studio?"

"She exists outside of work?" Sunoo added, looking genuinely fascinated.

"Crazy, right?" Jay smirked. "I thought she was just a myth."

You sighed, dropping into the chair across from Heeseung. "Hilarious. All of you."

Heeseung closed his laptop, leaning forward with an amused grin. "So, what brings you here?"

The others perked up, too, the room’s energy shifting as they all turned their attention to you. You hesitated for only a second before reaching for your phone, pulling up the rough voice memo you’d recorded half-asleep that morning.

"I had this dream last night," you explained. "It was kind of abstract, but there was this melody, and I woke up with the start of a lyric in my head. It’s not much yet, but—"

"Play it," Jungwon interrupted.

You did. The room fell silent as the low, dreamy hum of your voice filled the space. It was raw, just a melody over soft chords, the words barely formed, but you could already hear the potential in it.

When it ended, there was a beat of silence. "That’s sick," Niki said immediately.

"It sounds kind of nostalgic," Jake added. "Like something that pulls you back to a specific memory, even if you don’t know what memory it is."

Heeseung nodded, thoughtful. "The vocal layering could be really cool if you lean into that hazy, dreamlike feel."

You took mental notes as they spoke, their excitement feeding into your own. Collaborating like this, bouncing ideas off of people who genuinely loved music as much as you did, was one of your favorite things. For the first time that morning, you forgot about Beomgyu entirely. Almost.

Because as the conversation started winding down, you found yourself asking, "By the way… has anyone seen Beomgyu today?"

Heeseung raised an eyebrow. "He’s never here on Thursdays."

That made you pause. "What do you mean?"

"I don’t know the details," he admitted, "but every Thursday, he just… doesn’t show up. It’s like his unofficial off day or something."

You frowned. "And no one questions that?"

Jay shrugged. "He’s Beomgyu. He gets away with a lot."

That was true, but it still felt odd. Beomgyu was everywhere, all the time. It was part of his personality, the way he always had to make himself known, make his presence felt. So, why did he suddenly disappear once a week? And more importantly… Why did you care?

The glow of the computer screen was the only thing illuminating the studio now. You leaned back in your chair, rubbing at your eyes as the melody you’d been playing on loop for the past twenty minutes continued to hum faintly through the speakers.

The demo was coming together, slowly but surely. You had the skeleton of the track—the instrumental was rich, the atmosphere was there, but the lyrics still felt incomplete. No matter how much you tried, you couldn’t quite find the missing piece.

You sighed, stretching your arms above your head before rolling your chair back slightly. The worst part? You knew exactly what was missing.

Beomgyu. You hated that realization.

As much as you wanted to deny it, things just worked when he was around. Ideas flowed easier, the process felt smoother—hell, even when you were annoyed at him, it still fueled the energy in the room. The back-and-forth, the push and pull, it all somehow led to better music.

And today, without him, it felt like dragging a boulder up a hill. You shook your head, refusing to dwell on it. It wasn’t like you needed him. You’d been making music for years before he ever stepped into your life.

Still, as you saved the latest version of the demo and shut your laptop, you couldn't shake the irritation bubbling in your chest. What the hell does he even do on Thursdays?

Pushing the thought away, you grabbed your jacket and slung your bag over your shoulder. You’d been here too long already, and at this point, you weren’t getting anything else done tonight. Just as you stepped out into the hallway, your phone buzzed in your pocket.

[yunjin]: we’re at hyehwa. bring your tired workaholic ass over here [yunjin]: before you ask, yes, yeonjun is here. yes, taehyun is here. and yes, hueningkai is here. no excuses

You exhaled through your nose, the corners of your lips twitching upward despite your exhaustion. Of course they were at Hyehwa, the bar that had somehow become your unofficial meeting spot over the years.

For a moment, you debated going straight home. But then you thought about how much time you’d already spent alone in the studio tonight, trapped in your own head. Maybe you needed a break after all.

The second you stepped inside, the familiar warmth of the bar wrapped around you like a worn-out leather jacket. The dim lighting, the low hum of conversation, the clinking of glasses, it was the kind of place that always felt easy, no matter how long the day had been.

And, as expected, your friends were easy to find. Yeonjun was the first one you spotted, lounging in the booth like he had no bones in his body, one arm draped over the back of the seat. Taehyun was sitting next to him, scrolling through his phone, while Hueningkai was across from them, laughing at something Yunjin was saying. There were already a few empty beer bottles on the table, condensation still dripping from them.

You rolled your eyes as you walked over. "You guys started without me."

Hueningkai beamed. "Of course we did. You’re late."

You slid into the seat next to Yunjin, ignoring the way they were all looking at you like you were some rare specimen that had just wandered into the wild. "Yeah, yeah," you muttered, flagging down the bartender for a drink. "I was working."

"We know," Taehyun said, side-eyeing you. "You’ve been working non-stop."

Yunjin leaned in, resting her chin on her hand. "So? How’s the album going?"

You hesitated, drumming your fingers lightly against the table. "It’s… coming together."

Yeonjun squinted at you. "That doesn’t sound convincing."

You sighed. "It’s fine. Just a long day."

Taehyun raised an eyebrow. "A long day or a long day without Beomgyu?"

You froze mid-sip, the beer bottle barely touching your lips before you slowly lowered it back down to the table. "I’m not talking about him right now," you said flatly, setting the bottle down with a quiet clink against the wood. "I’m here to have a drink with my friends, not to analyze my work situation."

Taehyun smirked like he knew exactly what you were doing. Yeonjun raised his hands in surrender, but the knowing look in his eyes was still irritating. Hueningkai, ever the agent of chaos, just grinned.

"Alright, alright," Yunjin said, leaning back. "No Beomgyu talk. But, speaking of things you do need to talk about—" She fixed you with a pointed look. "You’re coming to the HYBE party, right?"

"I'm thinking about it," you corrected, crossing your arms. "I have work to do. I don’t have time to stand around making awkward small talk with industry people who don’t even know my name."

Yunjin groaned, dramatically letting her head fall against the table before snapping back up with renewed determination. "Listen. You spend every waking moment working on this album. You need to breathe. Plus, I’m going."

"And?"

"And that means you have no excuse not to."

You snorted. "That logic is flawed."

"It’s actually foolproof," she argued. "And you know who else is going? Taehyun."

"…Fine," you muttered.

Yunjin’s face lit up. "Yes!"

"I’m going with you and Taehyun," you clarified. "And if it sucks, I’m leaving early."

"Deal," she grinned, clinking her beer against yours.

As the conversation moved on, you took another sip of your drink, pushing away the nagging thought that had been lingering at the back of your mind. Because you knew exactly who was going to be at that party. And whether you admitted it or not, part of you was already wondering if you'd run into him.

When you woke up, sunlight was already spilling through the curtains, the golden hue casting soft shadows across your room. For a few blissful moments, you lay there, staring at the ceiling, letting yourself exist in the quiet. But the minute your mind fully registered what day it was, that peace shattered. The HYBE party.

You groaned, rubbing a hand over your face. Part of you still wanted to back out. It wasn’t like anyone would really care if you didn’t show up. You weren’t the kind of person people noticed at these events. And yet… you’d already agreed to go.

Dragging yourself out of bed, you padded into the kitchen, still in your oversized sleep shirt, your hair a mess from sleep. To your surprise, Yeonjun was already up, standing by the coffee machine, scrolling through his phone. "You’re awake early," you mumbled, voice still thick with sleep.

He glanced up, smiling lazily. "And you look like you got hit by a truck."

You scowled, reaching for a mug. "Thanks."

Yeonjun chuckled and, before you could react, he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into a warm embrace. "You looked like you needed it," he murmured against your hair.

For a second, you stiffened, but then you exhaled, letting yourself melt into him, pressing your face against his chest. He was warm, solid, and familiar. The kind of comfort that didn’t need words. "…I don’t know why I feel weird about tonight," you admitted quietly.

Yeonjun didn’t let go, just rubbed small, soothing circles against your back. "You don’t have to go if you don’t want to."

You sighed. "I know. But… maybe I should go. Maybe I need to stop avoiding these things."

He hummed in agreement, waiting a beat before asking, "Beomgyu’s gonna be there, huh?"

You groaned into his shirt. "Why are you like this?"

He laughed, finally pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. "Because I know you. And I know that’s part of what’s making you overthink this."

You didn’t deny it. Because as much as you hated to admit it, a small part of you was wondering—if you went, would you run into him? And if you did… then what?

The day dragged on slower than usual, each hour stretching endlessly as you fought to keep your mind occupied. You had promised Yunjin you’d go to her apartment to get ready together. As much as you had hoped the day would pass without the need to confront your nerves, the time had come. The tension in your chest flared up again, and for a split second, you wished you could back out. But you couldn’t.

When you arrived at her apartment, Yunjin was perched at her vanity, still in a robe, mascara wand frozen mid-air as she turned to look at you. "Took you long enough," she teased, a grin pulling at her lips.

On the bed, Taehyun was sprawled out, scrolling through his phone with that signature, mildly unimpressed expression he always wore. "I’ve been trapped here for thirty minutes," he deadpanned. "Save me."

You snorted, already feeling more at ease. This was exactly what you needed, the mindless chatter, the shared chaos of getting ready, and the reminder that not everything in your life had to revolve around late-night studio sessions and a certain annoying producer who lived rent-free in your head.

By the time you were all dressed and out the door, the city lights stretched out in front of you, buzzing with life. The party was already in full swing when you arrived, the familiar pulse of bass-heavy music vibrating through the ground, bodies moving under dim lights, and the haze of cigarette smoke lingering in the air.

Yunjin led the way, slipping effortlessly into the crowd. Taehyun trailed behind with his usual nonchalant vibe, and you… well, you were busy doing exactly what you promised yourself you wouldn’t do: scanning the room for him.

And then, you saw him.

Beomgyu stood near the corner of the room, deep in conversation with Soobin. It was the kind of effortless, laid-back energy that somehow made him stand out in a room full of people trying too hard.

He wasn’t drowning in one of those oversized hoodies he always wore in the studio. No, tonight was different. He had on a simple black button-up, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, showing just enough of his wrists to make you irrationally annoyed. The fabric clung to him in all the right places, and paired with black jeans and silver rings on his fingers, he looked…

You blinked, irritated at yourself. No. Absolutely not.

But your eyes betrayed you, tracing the way he casually ran a hand through his hair as he laughed at something Soobin said. He looked relaxed, like he belonged in this kind of environment, like he wasn’t the same Beomgyu who spent hours annoying the life out of you in the studio. And worse, he looked… good. But you would literally rather die than admit that out loud.

What you didn’t know was that, from across the room, Beomgyu was watching you just as intently.

He leaned against the wall, drink in hand, nodding absentmindedly as Soobin spoke, but his attention kept slipping, drawn back to the way you moved through the crowd. The way your eyes flickered around the room, pretending not to be looking for him. The way you laughed at something Yunjin said, even though you were clearly trying to hide how uncomfortable you felt being here.

It was unfair, really. How easily you occupied space in his head without even trying.

"Are you even listening to me?" Soobin’s voice cut through his thoughts.

Beomgyu blinked, tearing his gaze away from you. "Huh?"

Soobin sighed, already used to this. "I said, how’s the album coming along? Baekhyun’s been hyping your demos, but you’ve been suspiciously quiet about working with Y/N."

Beomgyu scoffed, taking a sip of his drink. "It’s… fine."

Soobin raised an eyebrow. "Fine?"

Beomgyu hesitated, rolling the glass between his fingers. "She’s annoying," he muttered. "Thinks she knows everything. Always overcomplicates the production and acts like she’s too good to work with me."

Soobin let out a quiet laugh. "Right. And that’s why you’ve been writing the best shit of your career since you two started working together."

Beomgyu shot him a look. "Shut up."

"You like working with her," Soobin said, deadpan.

"I do not," Beomgyu snapped, a little too quickly.

Soobin’s grin only widened. "No? Then why do you keep staring at her like that?"

The way your mind worked. The way your fingers moved across the keyboard, tweaking melodies until they hit just right. The way you bit your lip when you were focused, completely lost in the sound.

You made him crazy. And maybe that’s exactly why the album was turning out the way it was, raw, sharp, full of tension. It wasn’t just music. It was you. Beomgyu sighed, running a hand through his hair. "She drives me insane."

Soobin smirked. "And here you are saying that you don't like working with her."

Beomgyu glared at him. "I swear to god, Soobin—"

"Come on," Soobin grinned. "You’re just not ready to admit that this whole ‘hating each other’ thing is actually… kind of your thing."

Beomgyu didn’t respond. Because deep down, he knew Soobin was right. And that terrified him.

You weren’t exactly expecting Baekhyun to pull you aside at this party, but here you were, following him through the crowded room as he weaved between people with practiced ease. "Y/N," he started, glancing back at you with a smirk, "I’ve been meaning to introduce you to someone."

You barely had time to ask who before you found yourself face to face with Choi Seungcheol, one of HYBE’s creative directors. He was taller than you expected, dressed in a sleek black suit that somehow made him look more approachable than intimidating.

"Y/N’s producing the new Enhypen album," Baekhyun introduced casually.

Seungcheol’s eyes lit up with recognition as he extended his hand toward you. "Ah, I’ve heard about you. Your demos are impressive."

You shook his hand, hiding the way your stomach flipped at the compliment. "Thank you. I’m… still figuring things out."

"You and everyone else in this company," Seungcheol chuckled. His tone was light, polite, the kind of effortless charm that only someone who’s been in the industry for years could pull off.

The conversation flowed easily from there. Seungcheol asked about your creative process, subtly throwing in references to producers you admired, showing he actually understood what you did. It felt… good. Like for once, someone saw you as more than just “the girl working with Beomgyu.”

Which was exactly when Beomgyu appeared. You didn’t notice him at first, too caught up in whatever Seungcheol was saying, but you felt it. That weird shift in the air when someone’s eyes are on you.

Beomgyu stood just a few feet away. You forced yourself to ignore him, focusing back on Seungcheol, who was mid-sentence about the new creative direction HYBE was taking. But from the corner of your eye, you saw Beomgyu lingering, not quite joining the conversation, but not leaving either.

It was annoying. Typical, actually. You knew exactly what he was doing, standing there, listening, watching. Almost as if he was waiting for the right moment to insert himself. And, of course, he did.

"Y/N," Beomgyu’s voice cut in smoothly, "Baekhyun’s been looking for you."

Your eyes narrowed as you turned to face him. "Funny. I’ve been with Baekhyun for the past ten minutes."

Beomgyu’s lips twitched, but his gaze flickered, just for a second, toward Seungcheol. "Guess he forgot to mention it." There it was. That subtle edge in his voice. Not enough for anyone else to catch, but you knew him too well by now.

Seungcheol seemed unfazed, stepping back slightly as if sensing whatever weird energy was happening between you two. "I’ll let you handle that," he said, offering you a polite smile. "It was great meeting you, Y/N. I’ll keep an eye out for your work."

"Likewise," you replied, hoping your voice didn’t sound as awkward as you felt. Seungcheol disappeared into the crowd, leaving you and Beomgyu standing there in uncomfortable silence. You turned to him, arms crossed. "Really? What was that?"

"What was what?" Beomgyu replied, all fake innocence.

"You’re ridiculous," you muttered, already moving past him.

But before you could disappear into the crowd, you heard him mumble under his breath, just loud enough for you to catch:

"I bet he doesn’t even know what a compressor does."

You stopped dead in your tracks, spinning around to face him. "Oh my god, you’re actually jealous."

Beomgyu blinked. "What? No."

"You totally are."

"I just think," he said, with that infuriating smirk, "that some people like to talk more than they actually create."

You stared at him, half in disbelief, half wanting to strangle him. "Unbelievable," you muttered, turning away again.

"Where are you going?"

"Away from you," you shot back over your shoulder.

But as you pushed through the crowd, your heart was pounding for reasons that had nothing to do with the music. And somewhere behind you, Beomgyu stood there, running a hand through his hair, wondering what the hell you’d done to him.

The night pressed on, and you let yourself slip into the chaos of the party.

Yunjin dragged you to the dance floor, her hand wrapped around yours as the bass vibrated through your chest. Taehyun hovered nearby, doing his signature head-bop move with a drink in hand, pretending he was too cool to enjoy himself when, in reality, he was having the time of his life.

You allowed yourself to let go for a bit, letting the music drown out the noise in your head, the pressure of the album, and, most importantly, the fact that Beomgyu was somewhere in this room, probably still brooding after whatever weird stunt he pulled earlier.

But even as you danced, laughed with Yunjin, and stole sips from Taehyun’s drink, you felt it. That annoying awareness of him.

You caught glimpses of him through the crowd, leaning against a wall, talking to Soobin, occasionally scanning the room. And somehow, every time your eyes accidentally met, he’d hold your gaze for just a second too long before looking away, leaving something heavy and unspoken lingering in the air. It was messing with your head.

You slipped out to the smoking area, grateful for the cool night air against your skin. There were a few other people scattered around, some making out against the wall, others huddled in quiet conversations, but you found a spot in the corner, leaning against the railing as you lit a cigarette.

It was a bad habit, one you only fell back into when you were stressed. But tonight, it felt… necessary.

The first inhale burned your lungs in that oddly comforting way, and you let your head fall back, eyes closing for a moment as you exhaled. You barely heard the door creak open behind you, but the familiar voice made you tense instantly.

"Wow. Didn’t peg you as a smoker."

You opened your eyes, already irritated. "Of course, it’s you."

Beomgyu stood a few feet away, hands shoved in his pockets, watching you with that same infuriating expression he always wore, somewhere between amused and way too pleased with himself. He huffed a quiet laugh, stepping closer until he was leaning against the railing beside you.

"I’m not stalking you," he muttered, eyes flickering to your cigarette. "I just needed air."

"Right," you replied, taking another drag. The silence between you stretched for a moment, surprisingly comfortable. The muffled music from inside bled through the walls, mixed with the distant sounds of traffic from the streets below.

"I didn’t know you smoked," Beomgyu said quietly.

"I don’t," you replied. "Only when I’m overthinking."

He glanced at you. "What are you overthinking about?"

You hesitated, unsure why you were even entertaining this conversation. "The album," you finally said. "And… other things."

Beomgyu hummed, eyes fixed ahead. "Same."

That surprised you. For some reason, you always assumed Beomgyu was immune to self-doubt, that everything came easy to him. But now, standing here under the dim light, he looked tired. Almost like he was carrying the same weight you were.

He grinned, and for a moment, the tension between you softened into something else. Something unfamiliar. You took another drag of your cigarette before handing it to him without a word.

Beomgyu raised an eyebrow. "Oh? You’re sharing with the enemy now?"

"Take it or leave it," you muttered.

He hesitated for half a second before accepting it, bringing it to his lips and inhaling slowly. You hated how attractive that looked. And of course, Beomgyu caught you staring.

"Careful," he said, handing it back to you with a smirk. "If you keep looking at me like that, I’m gonna start thinking you actually like me."

"God, I regret this already," you groaned, turning away.

But Beomgyu just chuckled, leaning closer until his shoulder brushed against yours. "Too late," he murmured. "You let me in."

You took the cigarette back from Beomgyu, bringing it to your lips again as the cold air pressed against your skin. For a moment, neither of you said anything. The music from inside thumped faintly in the background, but out here, it felt like you were in a completely different world, one that was quieter, slower.

"So," Beomgyu started, breaking the silence, "have you thought more about track five?"

You nearly choked on the smoke. "Are you seriously talking about the album right now?" You turned to him, disbelief written all over your face. "We're at a party."

Beomgyu shrugged. "What, you think I know how to do small talk?" You huffed, half amused, half annoyed. "You were literally talking about work with Seungcheol earlier," he quipped, stealing it from your hand again.

You let him, watching as he took another slow drag before handing it back. You groaned, already regretting letting him stay out here. "Oh my God. Don’t."

"I’m just saying," Beomgyu muttered, gaze fixed on the ground. "He was totally flirting with you."

You rolled your eyes. "He was being polite."

"He called you talented and touched your arm twice," Beomgyu deadpanned. "That's textbook flirting."

You let out a sharp laugh. "Why do you even care?"

Beomgyu hesitated. "I don’t care," he said, a beat too late.

You narrowed your eyes at him. "Sure." Your breath hitched slightly, but you masked it by taking another drag of the cigarette. Beomgyu shifted beside you, leaning his weight against the railing. "You know," you started, voice low, "for someone who allegedly doesn't care, you spend an awful lot of time ruining my conversations."

Beomgyu let out a soft scoff, eyes fixed somewhere ahead. "You looked bored."

"I wasn’t bored."

"You were faking interest," he replied without hesitation. "You do that thing where you tilt your head slightly and nod, but your eyes are already somewhere else."

You blinked, caught off guard. "Didn’t know you analyzed me that much," you muttered.

"I don’t," Beomgyu replied too quickly.

You just hummed in response, taking another slow drag. The distant hum of the party buzzed faintly behind you, but out here, it felt like you’d slipped into some strange, quieter version of reality.

Your eyes flickered to him again, noticing the subtle tension in his posture, the way his fingers tapped against his rings, the same nervous habit you’d seen in the studio when he thought no one was looking.

You hesitated before speaking again. "Why don’t you work on Thursdays?"

Beomgyu stilled. You almost regretted asking, but he didn’t look at you, didn’t deflect like you expected him to. Instead, he let out a slow breath through his nose.

"I visit my mom," he said quietly.

Your breath caught in your throat. "What do you mean?"

"She’s been sick for a while," he added, almost like he was saying it more to himself than to you. "Autoimmune thing. Thursdays are… her day."

Your grip on the cigarette faltered slightly. You hadn’t expected honesty. You turned to him, but his gaze remained fixed ahead, like saying it out loud would make it heavier. "I didn’t know," you said softly.

"Yeah," he replied, almost like he was amused by your reaction. "Why would you?"

You wanted to say something, but words felt too fragile for whatever this was. So you didn’t. You just stood there, feeling that strange shift in the air, the one where he felt less like your annoying rival and more like… You weren’t sure what.

Beomgyu glanced at you then, catching the way you were looking at him. "What?" he asked, almost defensive.

"Nothing," you replied, turning away.

But it wasn’t nothing. It was everything you’d never noticed about him until now. You pressed the cigarette against the railing, watching the ember die out. The air outside felt heavier than usual, but maybe that was just the way Beomgyu’s presence filled every empty space.

"I should head back," you muttered, more to yourself than to him.

Beomgyu didn’t look at you. He stayed leaning against the railing, gaze fixed on some distant point in the city, jaw tight like he was holding something back.

"Do yourself a favor," he said suddenly, voice low. "Be careful with who you let think they know you."

You frowned, turning to him. "What?"

Beomgyu exhaled slowly, like he already regretted speaking. "These people," he gestured vaguely toward the noise inside. "They’ll act like they want you around. Like they see potential in you. But they don’t actually care. They just want something to say they discovered first."

You blinked, caught off guard. "You think that’s what Seungcheol was doing?"

Beomgyu scoffed, eyes flickering to yours. "I think you’re too naive to notice when people are looking at you for the wrong reasons."

You stared at him, searching for whatever this was, this strange tension that always seemed to surface when the two of you were left alone. But before you could step inside, Beomgyu spoke again.

"I’m serious, Y/N." His voice softened slightly. "You're new to this. You think people in this industry want you to win, but they don't. They want you to be grateful. They want you to be quiet. And the second you stop being useful to them, they’ll move on."

You hesitated, hand hovering over the door handle. "And you?" you asked quietly. "What do you want from me, Beomgyu?"

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Then, barely above a whisper:

"Nothing."

You turned back, but he was already looking away, like he hadn’t just said something that would stay stuck in your head for weeks. You lingered for half a second before slipping back inside, the noise of the party swallowing you whole.

But somehow, you could still feel him. And that scared you more than anything.

The party felt louder when you stepped back inside, but maybe that was just the ringing in your ears from whatever the hell that conversation with Beomgyu was. You pushed through the crowd, head spinning, eyes searching for familiar faces. Yunjin and Taehyun were by the bar, Yunjin holding a half-finished drink and Taehyun looking like he was ready to disappear from this place an hour ago.

"I’m heading out," you told them.

Yunjin pouted. "Already?"

"I’m… tired." You offered her a weak smile, not really in the mood to explain why your chest felt weird or why Beomgyu’s words kept looping in your head.

Taehyun raised a brow but didn’t question it. "Get home safe."

You nodded, squeezing Yunjin’s arm lightly before slipping away. As you stepped outside, the night air hit you harder than you expected. You pulled out your phone and hesitated for a moment before typing:

[you]: where r u?

It didn’t take Yeonjun long to reply.

[yeonjun]: me and kai just found a sketchy fried chicken place that’s probably violating health codes. u want in?

You smiled.

[you]: can u come pick me up? [yeonjun]: omw.

You waited by the curb, the distant hum of the city filling the silence Beomgyu had left in your head.

When Yeonjun’s car pulled up a few minutes later, you moved toward it, already feeling the tension ease at the thought of greasy food and whatever chaos he and Kai were on tonight. But as you reached for the door handle, your eyes flickered to the side.

There, a few feet away, Beomgyu stood near the entrance, Soobin beside him, waiting for their own ride. You weren’t sure if he saw you first or if he was already looking, but when your eyes met, something heavy passed between you.

His gaze shifted to Yeonjun in the driver’s seat. Then back to you. You stepped into the car, shutting the door behind you.

"Why do you look like you’ve seen a ghost?" Yeonjun asked as you buckled your seatbelt.

"Nothing," you muttered.

Through the glass, you caught one last glimpse of Beomgyu, standing there with Soobin, hands shoved into his pockets, his gaze still following you as the car pulled away. Something about the way he looked at you sat uncomfortably in your stomach, like he was trying to figure something out but refused to admit he cared enough to.

You turned away, resting your head against the seat.

Beomgyu watched the car disappear down the street, jaw tightening.

Soobin, who’d been standing quietly next to him this whole time, finally spoke, breaking whatever strange daze Beomgyu had fallen into. "So… that guy in the car," he nodded toward the street where Yeonjun’s car had disappeared, "is that her boyfriend?"

Soobin let out a short laugh, "Yeah," he said, nodding slowly. "That’s definitely something someone who doesn’t care would say."

Beomgyu didn’t respond. Mostly because he couldn’t. Because Soobin was right. And that fact made something burn in his chest in a way he didn’t know how to handle.

It wasn’t like he cared who you left with. So instead of acknowledging whatever the hell this feeling was, Beomgyu just scoffed, shoving his hands deeper into the pockets of his jeans. "Whatever," he muttered. "She’s not that interesting anyway."

Soobin snorted. "Yeah, keep telling yourself that."

Beomgyu shot him a glare, but Soobin just grinned, already knowing exactly what was happening. Because it was obvious to everyone but Beomgyu. He wasn’t just annoyed with you. He was already losing. And worse, he didn’t even realize he was playing.

The weekend passed in a blur of chaotic laughter and burnt virtual pizzas. You'd spent most of it holed up in your apartment, playing Overcooked with Yeonjun and Kai. Between screaming at each other in the kitchen and ordering way too much takeout, you actually felt… okay.

It was easy to forget about Beomgyu when you were surrounded by Yeonjun’s easy energy and Kai’s ridiculous commentary. Easy to forget how weird you’d felt after that conversation outside the party. How something about the way Beomgyu looked at you that night had stuck to your skin, refusing to leave.

But now, Monday morning had arrived, dragging you back to reality.

Yeonjun’s car rolled through the streets of Seoul, the city still half-asleep as the sun painted soft light across the buildings. You stared out the window, anxiety already bubbling in your chest at the thought of stepping into that studio again.

"You’re spiraling," Yeonjun said, breaking the silence.

You turned to him with a frown. "I’m not spiraling."

"You are," he replied easily, eyes still on the road. "You always do this before big projects. You convince yourself you're not good enough, overwork yourself to the point of insanity, and then act surprised when you have a breakdown in the bathroom."

"That happened one time," you muttered. Yeonjun shot you a look "Okay, twice," you admitted.

He sighed, softening. "You’re too hard on yourself, Y/N. You’re one of the most talented people I know. You just… need to stop letting other people’s opinions get in your head." You chewed on the inside of your cheek, not fully convinced but too tired to argue. When Yeonjun pulled up in front of the HYBE building, he shifted in his seat to face you. "Don’t let him get to you," he said, like he could read your mind.

Your stomach twisted. "Who said this is about him?"

You smiled despite yourself. "You’re so cringe."

"And you love it."

You rolled your eyes and stepped out of the car, shutting the door behind you.

As Yeonjun drove off, you turned toward the entrance, and immediately froze. Beomgyu stood a few feet away, leaning against the building’s brick wall, cigarette balanced between his fingers. He was watching you, eyes slightly narrowed, hair messy like he’d been here for a while.

You blinked, caught off guard. "Since when do you smoke?" you asked, voice laced with confusion.

Beomgyu brought the cigarette to his lips, inhaling slowly before replying, "Felt like it."

His voice was flat, uninterested, but his eyes lingered on you a second too long. You didn’t know what you were expecting, maybe some cocky remark, some teasing jab about how you were already looking for him first thing in the morning, but this wasn’t that.

Your eyes flickered over him. Messy hair, dark hoodie slightly wrinkled, the usual sharpness in his gaze dulled by something you couldn’t quite place. You weren’t sure if it was exhaustion or irritation or something else entirely, but the longer you looked at him, the more uneasy you felt.

You glanced at the cigarette between his fingers, then back at him. "You know," you started carefully, "when I offered you one at the party, it wasn’t supposed to be, like, an invitation to pick up a habit."

Beomgyu finally looked back at you then, eyes dark, unreadable. "And yet," he said, taking another drag, "here we are."

You sighed, rubbing a hand over your face. "Beomgyu."

"What?" he muttered, flicking ash onto the pavement.

You hesitated. You didn’t know what you wanted to say, really. That he looked like shit? That something about him felt off, wrong, like a version of him you weren’t used to seeing? That, for some reason, it actually bothered you?

Instead, what came out was: "You shouldn’t."

He scoffed, shaking his head. "You shouldn’t either." You opened your mouth, then shut it. He wasn’t wrong.

A heavy silence settled between you. You weren’t sure how long you stood there, watching the embers at the tip of his cigarette burn down, before he finally crushed it under his shoe.

"You’re gonna be late," he muttered, nodding toward the entrance.

You studied him for a beat longer, but whatever was going on with him, he clearly wasn’t going to tell you. And you weren’t about to push. So, you simply nodded and stepped past him, heading toward the doors.

Beomgyu watched as you stepped inside without another word, your expression unreadable. Something about it left a bitter taste in his mouth.

He clicked his lighter open and closed absentmindedly, the metallic snick breaking the early morning quiet. His fingers itched to pull out another cigarette, but he hesitated, staring at the crushed remains of the last one under his shoe.

This wasn’t supposed to bother him. None of this was supposed to bother him.

His eyes drifted toward the spot where Yeonjun’s car had been parked just minutes ago.

He knew who Yeonjun was—everyone did. One of the youngest producers at SM, annoyingly talented, the kind of guy whose name always came up in conversations about industry golden boys. Beomgyu had seen his work before, even respected it in a distant, objective way. But what he hadn’t known was that you and Yeonjun were close.

Beomgyu had never cared to pay attention to your life outside of work. As far as he was concerned, you existed within the walls of HYBE, always one step ahead of him, always in his way. That was just how things were. But now, his brain kept circling back to the sight of you stepping out of Yeonjun’s car, back to the way Yeonjun had leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead like it was second nature.

His grip on the lighter tightened. He didn’t understand it.

It wasn’t like you didn’t have a life outside of the studio. It wasn’t like he expected you to just… exist in the same orbit as him, only crossing paths when necessary. It wasn’t like it bothered him.

Beomgyu scoffed under his breath, shaking his head. What does it matter? It doesn’t. It’s none of my business.

He reached for another cigarette, but before he could light it, his fingers hesitated over the lighter. Instead, with a sharp exhale, he shoved both back into his pocket and pushed himself off the wall. There was work to do.

The pre-chorus had been frustrating you for days, and as much as you hated to admit it, Beomgyu had an ear for this kind of thing, he always knew how to make a build-up feel effortless, how to land the right emotional weight in just a few bars. You could spend another three hours trying to figure it out yourself, or you could go straight to the person who could fix it in ten minutes.

You exhaled sharply, running a hand through your hair. The last thing you wanted to do was go to his studio. But you weren’t about to let your own stubbornness slow this project down. So, before you could second-guess yourself, you grabbed your notebook and pushed yourself up from your chair.

When you knocked on the door, there was no immediate response. You hesitated before pushing it open anyway, Beomgyu never cared about formalities, and you weren’t in the mood to wait around.

The room was dimly lit, monitors casting a faint glow against the walls, soundproofing panels muting the outside world. Beomgyu was at his desk, hoodie draped loosely over his frame, fingers tapping absentmindedly against the surface as he stared at his screen.

He didn’t look up when you walked in. "You busy?" you asked.

There was a pause before he finally sighed, dragging his gaze away from the monitor. "What do you want?"

You frowned at his tone, disinterested, distant. "I need a second opinion on the pre-chorus," you said simply. "Something’s off, but I can’t figure out what."

He nodded once, pushing his chair back and gesturing lazily at the extra seat beside him. "Fine. Play it."

You sat down, plugging in your USB and pulling up the track. The moment the instrumental filled the room, you forgot about everything else. Your frustration, his mood, it all faded into the background as you focused on the music.

Beomgyu listened in silence, his expression blank as the pre-chorus built up, then crashed into the chorus. When it ended, he rolled his chair slightly forward, resting his elbow on the desk.

"The chord progression in the build-up is too predictable," he muttered. "You need more tension before the drop, otherwise it just falls flat."

You nodded, adjusting some of the notes. "Like this?"

Beomgyu leaned in slightly, watching the screen. "Move that second chord up a half step. And stretch the last measure—make it drag just a little longer before the hit."

You followed his instructions, layering in the adjustments before playing it back. This time, the build-up carried more weight, pulling in a tension that hadn’t been there before.

You turned to him, and for the first time since you walked in, you saw a flicker of something in his eyes, satisfaction, maybe. But just as quickly as it appeared, it was gone. "Better," he said simply.

You studied him for a beat, something about his demeanor still nagging at you. Normally, Beomgyu would’ve had more to say—some kind of sarcastic comment about how he had to fix your mess again, or at least a self-satisfied smirk. But instead, he just leaned back in his chair, looking tired.

You debated saying something, asking something, but before you could, he spoke again. "That all?"

It wasn’t sharp, but it wasn’t warm either. Just neutral. And for some reason, that made your stomach twist. "…Yeah," you muttered. "That’s all."

You unplugged your USB, pushing your chair back. Beomgyu didn’t say anything else, just turned toward his screen like you had never been there in the first place.

Then, without another word, you turned and walked out. The door shut behind you with a quiet click, leaving Beomgyu alone in the dim glow of his studio, the silence stretching longer than it should have.

You had been in the studio for hours.

The kind of hours that made your back ache from sitting too long, that made the glow of the screen start to blur, that made every melody sound wrong no matter how many times you tweaked it. It just wasn’t clicking today.

You had gone through four different versions of the same verse, rearranged the chord progression twice, even scrapped an entire section just to start over, only to end up in the same place, frustrated and stuck.

You hated this feeling. It wasn’t the kind of creative block where nothing came to you. It was worse. The kind where everything came to you, but nothing sounded right. Nothing felt like it was enough.

By the time you checked the clock, it was already late. Later than you realized. With a heavy sigh, you shut your laptop and rubbed at your temples, willing the tension headache forming behind your eyes to go away. You weren’t going to get anything done like this.

So, you grabbed your bag, checked your phone, and sent Yeonjun a quick text.

[you]: can you pick me up? i’m done for today. [yeonjun]: omw. 10 min.

You exhaled, pocketing your phone before stepping out of the building.

The night air hit you immediately, crisp and cool against your skin. The city was quieter at this hour, the usual rush of people and traffic subdued into a low hum. You stood near the curb, crossing your arms as you waited, letting yourself breathe for what felt like the first time today.

And then, of course, you spotted Beomgyu. You hesitated before walking over, stuffing your hands into the pockets of your jacket. The familiar scent of cigarette smoke hung in the air, curling around the dim glow of the streetlights.

You stared at him, momentarily taken aback. "You shouldn't keep smoking," you said, your tone quieter now.

His fingers twitched slightly around the cigarette, but he didn’t respond right away. Instead, he brought it back to his lips, inhaling like he was trying to make a point, though you weren’t sure if it was to you or to himself. "Look who's talking" he muttered.

You watched him carefully, the way his jaw tensed, the way his shoulders sat just a little heavier than usual. This wasn’t the same Beomgyu who spent half his time annoying you, smirking like he had the whole world figured out.

You hesitated before speaking again. "It wasn’t a good day."

Beomgyu let out a short, humorless laugh. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." You exhaled. "I couldn’t get anything to sound right. I swear, the harder I tried, the worse it got."

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there, the faint glow of the cigarette flickering between his fingers. "You’re too hard on yourself."

You blinked, turning to him. "What?"

Beomgyu flicked the ash off the end of his cigarette, his expression unreadable. "You think too much. You want everything to be perfect on the first try."

Your brows furrowed slightly. "That’s how it works, though. If it’s not good enough, then I have to keep going until it is."

His lips curled slightly, not a smirk, not a frown. Something in between. "And what if you’re the only one who thinks it’s not good enough?"

You didn’t have an answer to that. Beomgyu didn’t wait for one. He took another slow drag, then exhaled, watching the smoke disappear into the air. You glanced down at your phone, checking the time. Yeonjun would be here soon. Beomgyu, ever observant, noticed.

His voice was colder when he spoke next. "Waiting for your boyfriend to pick you up?"

You blinked, caught completely off guard. "What?"

Beomgyu gestured lazily with his cigarette, his expression unreadable. "That guy. The one who dropped you off this morning."

You stared at him for a second, processing. And then, a laugh bubbled out of you, unexpected and breathy. "Yeonjun?" Beomgyu didn’t react. Just stared at you, like he was waiting for an answer. You shook your head, still half-amused. "He’s not my boyfriend."

Something flickered in his expression, too quick for you to catch. But before you could think too hard about it, a familiar car pulled up to the curb.

Yeonjun honked the horn once, rolling down the window. "Let’s go, loser."

You pushed off the railing, turning back to Beomgyu. "See you tomorrow."

He only nodded, taking another slow drag of his cigarette. And as you walked toward the car, you didn’t notice the way his gaze lingered on you a second too long.

Beomgyu's drive home felt longer than usual. Maybe it was because the city was too quiet at this hour, the usual rush of people and traffic reduced to distant hums. Maybe it was because his thoughts had been too loud all day, refusing to settle even now.

Or maybe it was because of you.

Beomgyu clenched his jaw, fingers tightening slightly around the steering wheel. He didn’t like that. Didn’t like the way you lingered in his mind long after you had already left. The way your voice still echoed in his ears, the way your laugh, short, breathy, surprised, had caught him off guard when you realized he thought Yeonjun was your boyfriend.

Why the hell did I even ask that? He scoffed under his breath, shaking his head. It didn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter.

In the week that followed, something had shifted.

It wasn’t obvious at first, just small things. A missed comment here, a glance avoided there. But as the days passed, it became impossible to ignore. Beomgyu was different.

You had spent so much time fighting him for space, rolling your eyes at his smug remarks, bracing yourself for whatever new way he’d find to get under your skin. And now, suddenly, there was nothing.

No teasing. No playful jabs. No sarcastic smirks across the studio. It wasn’t that he was rude. If anything, he was polite, too polite. The kind of detached professionalism that you had never associated with Beomgyu before. It was driving you insane.

You barely saw him on Tuesday. Which wasn’t uncommon, sometimes, you worked separately, each focused on different aspects of the album. But usually, even on those days, you’d cross paths in the break room, or he’d pop into your studio just to complain about how much better his demos were than yours.

Beomgyu was already in the studio when you arrived on Wednesday morning, sitting at the mixing console with his headphones on, completely absorbed in whatever track he was working on.

You hesitated in the doorway for a second, waiting for him to acknowledge you. He didn’t. Not until you cleared your throat and said, "Morning."

Only then did he glance up, giving you a small nod. "Morning."

That was it. No comment about how tired you looked, no sarcastic Wow, you actually showed up on time?—just morning. You forced yourself to ignore the weird weight in your chest as you sat down and pulled up your own files.

On Thursday, when you arrived at the HYBE building that morning, something about the usual rhythm of your day felt… off.

And then it hit you. Beomgyu wasn’t here. Beomgyu never worked on Thursdays.

The hours passed, your progress slower than usual. By lunchtime, you gave up and went to the break room, hoping food would help clear your head.

Enhypen was already there, sprawled across the couches and chairs like they lived in this building. You slid into a seat next to Jake, barely registering the conversation around you as you scrolled through your phone.

"You good?" Jungwon asked, eyeing you over his drink.

You blinked. "What?"

"You just seem distracted," he said. "More than usual."

You shrugged. "Just a slow day."

Jake nudged your arm. "Maybe you just need to get out of the studio for a bit. Reset your brain."

"Maybe," you muttered.

A pause. Then, before you could stop yourself— "Did Beomgyu eat before he left yesterday?"

The words left your mouth before you even thought about them, and immediately, you regretted it. Heeseung raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

"No reason," you said quickly, looking down at your phone. "I just… I know he forgets to eat when he’s working."

Heeseung hummed. "Honestly? I have no idea."

Sunghoon glanced up from his drink. "You could just text him and ask, you know."

You scoffed. "Like I care that much."

Jungwon smirked. "Uh-huh." You ignored them, tapping your fingers against your cup. It wasn’t a big deal. Beomgyu could take care of himself. That’s why, on Friday, you gave up.

If Beomgyu wanted to be distant, then fine. Let him be distant. You weren’t going to sit here and try to figure out why he had suddenly decided to act like you were nothing more than a coworker.

At least, that’s what you kept telling yourself. But when you walked into the studio that morning, the first thing you noticed was that his bag was already there. You weren’t sure why that made your shoulders relax slightly.

You ignored the thought as you set your things down, pulling up the demo you had been struggling with all week. Your goal was simple: work, focus, and not let whatever this was with Beomgyu get in your head.

But apparently, he had other plans. Because suddenly, after an entire week of acting like you barely existed, he was everywhere.

The first time he appeared in your studio, you barely reacted. "Hey," he said casually, leaning against the doorframe, hands stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie. "Can you listen to something real quick?"

You gave a short nod, sliding your headphones down to your neck as he walked in. He played a section of the track he had been working on, something stripped down, mostly just melody and chords. "It feels empty," he muttered, frowning slightly. "I don’t know if it needs more layering or if I should just change the chord progression entirely."

You listened, trying to focus on the music instead of the fact that this was the most he had spoken to you all week. "It’s fine," you said, keeping your tone neutral. "Just needs a little more texture."

Beomgyu nodded, thoughtful. "You wanna add something?"

You hesitated, fingers hovering over your keyboard. "You don’t need my help."

He shrugged, tilting his head slightly. "Yeah, but you’re good at this part."

You blinked, caught off guard by the compliment. But instead of responding, you just reached for your mouse and started tweaking the mix, ignoring the way he stood behind you, watching.

By lunchtime, you had stopped keeping track of how many times he had walked into your studio.

"Hey, quick question—" "Hey, do you have the latest version of—" "Hey, can I borrow—"

It was endless. At first, you had answered him normally, keeping things short, professional. But the more he did it, the more irritated you became. Not because he was being annoying. But because why now? Why spend an entire week pretending you didn’t exist only to suddenly act like everything was normal? You weren’t going to play along.

So, by the fourth time he showed up at your door, you barely even looked up. "I’m busy," you muttered, clicking through your project files.

Beomgyu blinked. "I didn’t even say anything yet."

"You were going to."

He hesitated, then let out a small chuckle. "Damn. Am I that predictable?"

You didn’t answer, just continued working. For a moment, he didn’t move. Then, out of the corner of your eye, you saw him shift slightly, like he was about to say something.

But instead, he just exhaled and muttered, "Never mind," before walking away. You ignored the strange twist in your stomach and forced yourself to focus on the screen.

You had just finished saving your project when you decided to take a break, stretching your sore muscles before stepping out into the hallway. You weren’t planning on running into anyone, but as soon as you turned the corner, you nearly walked straight into Seungcheol.

"Oh," you said, stepping back slightly. "Sorry."

He smiled, easy and confident. "No need to apologize."

You already knew him, Baekhyun had introduced you two at the HYBE party last week. And while your first meeting had been brief (and rudely interrupted by Beomgyu), you remembered how intently he had listened when you talked about your work.

"You’ve been keeping busy," he mused, crossing his arms. "Baekhyun showed me some of the demos from your sessions. I was impressed."

Something warm settled in your chest. "Really?"

Seungcheol nodded. "You have a good ear. I meant to follow up after the party, but you disappeared before I could."

You huffed a small laugh. "Yeah, sorry about that."

Seungcheol’s gaze stayed steady. "If you ever want to share more of your work, my office is always open. I’d like to hear what else you’re capable of."

It wasn’t an empty offer, you could tell. This was an opportunity. And you weren’t about to waste it. "I’d love that," you said sincerely.

Seungcheol smiled, lingering for just a second longer than necessary before nodding. "I’ll be waiting, then."

And with that, he walked past you, disappearing down the hall.

You barely had a second to process before you felt it, that shift in the air. A presence behind you. You turned slightly, and there he was. Beomgyu was standing just a few feet away, hands shoved deep in his pockets, expression unreadable. Your breath hitched slightly, but you forced yourself to act normal.

Beomgyu's gaze flickered briefly down the hallway where Seungcheol had disappeared. Then, finally, he looked back at you. "You should be careful with him," he said, voice flat.

You frowned. "What?"

Beomgyu tilted his head slightly. "Seungcheol. He doesn’t offer that kind of thing just to anyone."

There was something in his tone, something that wasn’t quite neutral. You crossed your arms. "I know that. He’s creative director. It’s literally his job to look for talent."

Beomgyu scoffed, gaze dark. "Right. Sure."

Your frown deepened. "What’s your problem?"

"Nothing," he muttered, already turning away. "Forget it."

And just like that, he walked past you, heading back to his studio without another word. You stood there, confusion and irritation swirling in your chest. What the hell was that?

So, after that, you had spent the entire day locked in your studio.

It wasn’t intentional at first, you had just wanted to get some uninterrupted work done, to make up for how frustrating this week had been. But one track turned into another, one minor adjustment turned into an hour of tweaking, and before you knew it, the sun had set and most of the building had emptied out.

You barely noticed. At some point, Taehyun had texted asking if you wanted to grab dinner, and you had ignored it, too caught up in your work to even think about food.

It was only when your screen blurred in front of you, exhaustion pressing against your temples, that you finally admitted defeat. You packed up slowly, rubbing at your tired eyes as you stood. The quiet hum of the studio, once comforting, now felt suffocating after being inside for so long. You needed air.

When you opened the door, ready to leave, you nearly tripped over something. A cup. An iced americano, sitting neatly in front of your studio, condensation beading against the plastic.

You stared at it, confused, before noticing the small note taped to the lid. Your brows furrowed as you peeled it off, unfolding the paper between your fingers. The handwriting was messy, slanted, but familiar.

don’t pass out in there

Your lips parted slightly. There was no signature, no indication of who it was from. But you knew. Of course you knew, it was Beomgyu's handwriting.

Your fingers tightened around the note as your heart did something stupid in your chest, something warm, something soft, something you did not want to acknowledge.

Because what the hell was he doing? He had spent the entire week keeping his distance, barely speaking to you, only to suddenly spend the whole day in your space asking for your help. And now this?

You exhaled sharply, trying to shake off the strange feeling settling in your stomach. Maybe this was just some weird attempt at making up for how weird he had been all week. Or maybe he was just screwing with you again, playing some long game you didn’t understand. Or maybe… maybe he just noticed.

Noticed how hard you were working. Noticed that you hadn’t taken a break all day. Noticed you.

You clenched the note tightly before shoving it into your pocket. Your confusion hadn’t gone away. If anything, it had gotten worse. But as you picked up the coffee, taking a slow sip, you realized something else. For the first time all week, Beomgyu had made you smile.

When Saturday morning arrived, you forced yourself to push work aside. No checking mixes, no tweaking arrangements, no thinking about deadlines. Instead, you spent most of the day in the apartment, lounging on the couch while Yeonjun flopped down beside you, mindlessly flipping through TV channels.

"Are you actually not working today?" he asked, stretching his arms above his head.

"I told you I’d take a break," you muttered, though even as you said it, your fingers twitched with the urge to check your email.

Yeonjun narrowed his eyes. "Yeah, but you suck at taking breaks."

You rolled your eyes. "I’m trying."

"You better be," he said, nudging your leg with his foot. "We have a big night ahead."

Ah. Right. The party. You had promised Yunjin and the others that you’d actually go out tonight, no bailing at the last minute, no pretending you were too busy with work.

It wasn’t that you didn’t like going out. It was just that sometimes, after spending all week drained from work, the last thing you wanted was to force yourself to be social.

But tonight, you needed it. So when evening rolled around, you found yourself in front of your closet, sifting through outfits while Yeonjun lounged on your bed, watching with an amused expression.

When you were finally ready, Yeonjun whistled. "Damn. If I didn’t know you, I’d think you actually wanted to impress someone tonight."

You scoffed. "I just want to have fun."

Yeonjun smirked, but thankfully, he didn’t push it. Instead, he just slung an arm around your shoulders as you both headed out.

The place was already packed when you arrived, the bass from the music thrumming through the floors as bodies filled the space. You spotted Yunjin first, standing near the bar with Hueningkai, Taehyun, and a few other familiar faces. She waved excitedly when she saw you, immediately pulling you into a hug.

Yeonjun handed you a drink, and you gladly took it, letting the warmth of alcohol relax your shoulders as you settled into the atmosphere. For the first hour, it was easy. You danced with Yunjin, laughed at Taehyun’s terrible attempts at flirting with someone near the bar, took ridiculous selfies with Hueningkai.

It felt normal. And then, as you were making your way back from the bar with a fresh drink in hand, you saw him.

Beomgyu.

Your steps faltered for half a second before you recovered, eyes flickering over the scene in front of you. He wasn’t alone, he was with Soobin, Heeseung, and Jungwon, all of them gathered near a booth in the corner.

But what caught your attention wasn’t the fact that he was here. It was the fact that he was already drunk. You could tell immediately, the way his smile was looser than usual, the way he leaned slightly against Soobin as he talked, the way his gaze was just a little too unfocused.

And then, as if he could feel you looking, his eyes found yours. For a second, neither of you moved. Then—

A slow, lazy grin spread across his lips. You barely had time to process before he was pushing off the booth, making his way toward you. You braced yourself.

"Look who it is," he drawled, stopping in front of you. His voice was warm, teasing, the opposite of how he had been all week. "Didn’t think I’d see you here."

You raised an eyebrow. "Didn’t think I’d see you here either."

Beomgyu let out a breathy laugh, tilting his head slightly. "Why? You think I just sit in the studio all day?"

You crossed your arms. "You literally do."

"Fair point." He took a sip of whatever drink he was holding before glancing over your shoulder, his gaze flickering toward the group of people you had been with. "You come with Yeonjun?"

You blinked at the question, caught off guard. "Yeah?"

He hummed, expression unreadable. Before you could say anything else, Soobin and Heeseung appeared beside him, greeting you easily. "Hey," Heeseung said, flashing his usual friendly smile. "Didn’t expect to run into you tonight."

You shrugged. "Trying to be social for once."

Soobin chuckled. "That’s new."

Jungwon, who had been hanging back slightly, smirked. "Are you guys gonna fight here, too, or do you save that for work?"

You rolled your eyes. "We don’t fight."

Beomgyu snorted. "Oh, we definitely fight."

The group laughed, and despite yourself, you felt your shoulders relax slightly. This was weird. You weren’t used to seeing Beomgyu like this, loose, relaxed, actually enjoying himself instead of glaring at a screen for hours. For a second, you let yourself take him in.

Beomgyu looked… different. Not in a drastic way, but enough for you to notice. He wasn’t in his usual oversized hoodie or the comfortable, slightly-wrinkled clothes he practically lived in at the studio. Instead, he was wearing a black shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the fabric slightly unbuttoned at the top, showing just enough skin to be annoying. His silver jewelry caught the dim lighting of the room, glinting slightly as he shifted his drink from one hand to the other.

It suited him way too well. You hated that you noticed that. And then, just as you were about to shake the thought away, his gaze flickered over you.

You raised an eyebrow. "What?"

He took another sip of his drink, tilting his head slightly. "I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear color."

It wasn’t true, not entirely, but the fact that he had even noticed made something twist in your stomach. "You don’t exactly pay attention to what I wear, Beomgyu," you shot back, crossing your arms.

Beomgyu hummed, his eyes still on you, dark and unreadable. "You think I don’t?"

There was something about the way he said it, something that made your throat go dry. You refused to acknowledge it. Instead, you forced a scoff, shaking your head. "You’re drunk."

"So?" He took another sip, then smirked. "Still got eyes, don’t I?"

And then, just as quickly as it appeared, Beomgyu leaned back, shifting the energy entirely. "Anyway," he drawled, glancing over at the people you had been with earlier, "are you gonna introduce me to your little friend group, or are you scared they’ll like me more than you?"

You blinked, thrown off by the sudden change. "What?"

He gestured vaguely with his drink. "I don’t know half the people you hang out with. Thought I’d be polite and say hi."

You narrowed your eyes. "Since when are you polite?"

Beomgyu tilted his head, studying you like he was trying to figure something out. His smirk wasn’t as sharp now, still there, still insufferable, but softer around the edges, like he was letting himself enjoy this. "Come on," he murmured, leaning in slightly. "Introduce me."

You scoffed. "Why do you even care?"

"Maybe I just wanna see how you talk about me when I’m not around." He grinned, slow and teasing. "Bet you make me sound like a villain."

"You are a villain," you shot back.

"And yet," he mused, taking another sip of his drink, "here you are, still standing here with me instead of running back to your actual friends."

You opened your mouth to retort, but before you could, a voice cut in.

"So," Yeonjun mused, stepping up beside you, eyes flickering toward Beomgyu. "You’re the Beomgyu, huh?"

Beomgyu didn’t miss a beat. "And you’re the Yeonjun."

Your stomach dropped. This was not happening.

They stared at each other for a moment, taking the other in. Yeonjun looked relaxed, but his sharp gaze held a flicker of curiosity, like he was trying to decide if Beomgyu was worth his time. Beomgyu, for his part, seemed perfectly at ease, his usual smirk still playing at his lips, shoulders loose, like he found this whole thing amusing.

And then, to your horror, they both grinned. "I’ve heard a lot about you," Yeonjun said, crossing his arms.

"Same," Beomgyu replied. "Didn’t think we’d actually meet like this."

You narrowed your eyes. "You two know each other?"

"Not personally," Yeonjun said, shrugging. "But come on. We work in the same industry. I know his work. He’s good."

Beomgyu smiled, tilting his head. "I know your work too, by the way. Not bad."

Yeonjun raised an eyebrow. "Not bad?"

Beomgyu grinned. "I’d say pretty good, but I don’t wanna inflate your ego this early in the conversation."

Yeonjun laughed. "Fair enough."

You looked between them, deeply suspicious. "Why does it feel like you two are getting along?"

Beomgyu glanced at you. "Why? You want us to fight?"

Yeonjun rolled his eyes. "Relax, Y/N. Not everything has to be a battle."

You huffed, taking another sip of your drink. "So," Beomgyu mused, eyes flickering between you and Yeonjun, "how do you two know each other anyway?"

Yeonjun barely hesitated before answering. "College," he said with a small grin. "We met during our first year and just… clicked. Ended up being inseparable after that. And now, we live together."

Beomgyu’s brows lifted slightly, his expression shifting, not in surprise, not in jealousy, but something closer to genuine interest. "Oh, that’s cool," he said, nodding. "Didn’t expect that, but it makes sense."

You glanced at him, skeptical. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

Beomgyu shrugged, looking at you. "I don’t know, I just didn’t really picture you as the roommate type. I figured you’d be one of those people who hates sharing a space with someone."

Yeonjun snorted. "Oh, she definitely does."

You shot him a glare. "I do not."

"Sure," Yeonjun said, amused. "That’s why you leave your headphones on all the time and act like I don’t exist when you’re in work mode."

Beomgyu laughed. "Yeah, that checks out."

You rolled your eyes. "Are you two bonding over making fun of me?"

"Absolutely," Beomgyu said easily.

Yeonjun grinned. "It’s kind of fun."

You groaned, rubbing your temples. Beomgyu ignored you, still focused on Yeonjun. "So what’s it like living with her?"

Yeonjun hummed, considering. "Honestly? Not bad. We’ve got our system. We both get busy with work, so we give each other space, but it’s nice having someone around who actually gets it, you know? Plus, she’s a decent cook."

You scoffed. "Now that is a lie."

"It’s not!" Yeonjun defended. "She has, like, three solid recipes."

Beomgyu laughed. "Okay, now I really need to know what these are."

Yeonjun counted on his fingers. "Kimchi fried rice, pasta, and… something that she refuses to name, but it’s actually good."

Beomgyu turned to you, intrigued. "What’s the mystery dish?"

You crossed your arms. "I’m not telling you."

Yeonjun smirked. "She’s embarrassed because it started as a ‘let’s throw random shit together and see what happens’ meal, but it accidentally turned out good."

Beomgyu grinned. "That’s kind of impressive."

You sighed, shaking your head. "Why are we even talking about this?"

"Because I’m curious," Beomgyu said simply.

You didn’t really have a response to that.

Something about the way he said it, not teasing, not smug, just genuinely interested, made you feel a little off balance. You were used to bickering with him, used to sharp words and playful jabs. But this? Him actually wanting to know about your life? That was new.

And for some reason, it made your stomach flip.

Yeonjun glanced over his shoulder toward the bar, then let out an exaggerated sigh. "Well, as fun as this has been, I gotta go. Yunjin’s waiting on her drink, and if I take too long, she’s gonna start a manhunt."

With a final chuckle, Yeonjun clapped a hand on Beomgyu’s shoulder, shot you a look that was somewhere between good luck and I’m enjoying this way too much, and disappeared into the crowd.

You exhaled, already bracing yourself for whatever Beomgyu was about to say now that you were alone. But instead, "So," he said, turning to you, eyes practically shining. "Did you like the coffee?"

You stilled. You had known it was him the second you saw it, left outside your studio door Friday night, your exact order scribbled on the side of the cup in handwriting you recognized immediately. He hadn’t signed his name, hadn’t said anything, just left it there like some anonymous act of kindness.

You sighed. "It was fine."

"Fine?" he repeated, looking personally offended. "That was good coffee."

You narrowed your eyes. "Why did you even do that?"

He blinked. "Huh?"

"The coffee," you said, crossing your arms. "Why’d you leave it?"

He scoffed, like the answer was obvious. "You were working too much."

You frowned. "And?"

"And," he said, dragging the word out, "I saw you in there, looking half-dead, and figured you needed it." Your lips parted slightly. It was such a simple explanation. No teasing, no ulterior motive, just that. Beomgyu, meanwhile, seemed completely unbothered by your confusion. "I mean, I could’ve let you pass out on your keyboard, but I’m a good person," he said, grinning.

You scoffed. "Sure. That’s why you did it."

"Obviously," he said. Then, with zero hesitation—"Hey, you smoke, right?"

You blinked at the sudden shift. "What?"

"If you wanna go outside for a bit, I’ll come with."

Your brows furrowed. "Why?"

He shrugged, still smiling. "Why not?"

You stared at him, trying to figure out what the hell his angle was here. This was strange. All of this was strange. Beomgyu wasn’t being mean. He wasn’t teasing you just to get under your skin. He wasn’t smirking like he had some grand plan to annoy you. He was just… talking. Open. Chatty. And worst of all, nice. You didn’t trust it one bit. But still, for some reason, you found yourself nodding.

"Fine," you said, already turning toward the exit.

And as the two of you stepped outside, you couldn’t help but feel like you had just agreed to something far more complicated than a smoke break.

The night air was crisp as you stepped outside, the cool breeze biting at your skin. The distant hum of the city filled the silence, car headlights flashing by, conversations drifting from people walking past. Beomgyu fell into step beside you, hands shoved into his pockets, his presence oddly easy despite how complicated he made everything feel.

The two of you had been in sync somehow. You weren’t used to that. With Beomgyu, everything was usually sharp edges and competition, but tonight had been… easy. And now, out here, with no studio walls between you, no music to drown out the noise in your head, you felt like you should say something.

You were still trying to figure out what the hell was up with him tonight when a voice called your name.

“Y/N?”

You turned toward the sound, and your stomach immediately flipped.

Yunho.

The last person you expected to run into tonight.

He was leaning against the railing near the edge of the building, dressed in a fitted black turtleneck and an open wool coat, the kind of outfit that made it impossible to forget just how unfairly good-looking he was.

You two used to hook up a while ago, and you hadn’t seen him in months. Hadn’t spoken since things had fizzled out, no big falling out, no dramatic ending, just… a slow, mutual silence.

You barely had time to react before he was stepping closer, wrapping his arms around you in an easy, confident embrace.

“Been a while,” he murmured, voice warm against your ear.

The hug lingered. A little longer than it should have. Beomgyu hadn’t said a word, but you could feel him there. Standing just a few feet away, watching.

When Yunho finally pulled back, his hands slid down your arms before he let go completely. His gaze flicked past you, landing on Beomgyu, curiosity sparking behind his eyes. He waited, expectant.

You hesitated. Just for a second. “This is Beomgyu,” you said, forcing your voice to stay even. “He's my… coworker.”

The second the word left your mouth, you knew it was the wrong one. You didn’t have to look at Beomgyu to know he heard it loud and clear.

Yunho’s expression didn’t change, if anything, his amusement deepened as he extended a hand toward Beomgyu. “Nice to meet you, man.”

Beomgyu took it, but the shake was brief, impersonal. “Yeah,” he said flatly.

The energy shifted, thickening with something unreadable. You could feel it brewing, creeping into the air like a storm about to break, but Yunho didn’t seem to notice. Or if he did, he didn’t care. Instead, he turned back to you, eyes glinting with something playful. “I was actually heading out, but if I’d known you were here, I would’ve stuck around longer,” he mused, tilting his head. “Maybe next time.”

The words were casual, but the way he said them? Not so much. And Beomgyu caught it. You saw it in the way his jaw tightened, the way his fingers curled slightly in his pocket, the way his shoulders squared just a fraction.

Yunho shot you one last lingering glance before stepping away. “See you around, Y/N.” He turned around, and silence settled between you and Beomgyu, thick and suffocating.

You let out a slow breath, bracing yourself for—what? A sarcastic comment? A joke? Some passive-aggressive remark about your taste in men? Something. Anything.

But Beomgyu just pulled out a cigarette, placed it between his lips, and lit it, his expression unreadable. He didn’t look at you. Didn’t say a thing. You frowned, watching as he took a slow drag, exhaling a stream of smoke into the cold air.

“Hey,” you said finally, tilting your head at him. “You okay?”

Beomgyu exhaled another lazy puff of smoke, gaze still fixed somewhere off in the distance. “What do you mean?”

Your frown deepened. “You’re suddenly being quiet.”

He let out a humorless chuckle. “And?”

You huffed, crossing your arms. “Seriously, what’s your problem?”

“No problem,” he murmured. “Just enjoying my smoke break.”

Something inside you twisted. You took a deep breath, trying to keep your patience. “Beomgyu—”

“You don’t have to explain yourself, you know.” He finally glanced at you then, dark eyes half-lidded, his expression unreadable. “That guy,” he said simply. “You don’t have to explain anything about him.”

The words shouldn’t have bothered you. But they did. “Jesus Christ,” you muttered, shaking your head. “I wasn’t planning on it.”

“Good,” he said. And just like that, he looked away again, as if that was the end of the conversation. As if he didn’t care.

And that—finally, finally—pushed you over the edge.

You let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “You’re fucking unbelievable.” Beomgyu didn’t react. Just took another slow drag of his cigarette. That only pissed you off more. “You keep doing this shit,” you snapped, voice rising. “One second you’re nice to me, then you’re cold again. Then you’re pushing my buttons just to get a reaction—what the fuck do you want from me?”

Silence. Beomgyu’s expression didn’t change, but his grip on the cigarette tightened just slightly.

You shook your head, letting out a sharp breath. “I swear, I don’t get you. You act like you hate me, but then you do shit like leave me coffee. You act like you don’t care, and then you get all weird and broody all of the sudden. You make no fucking sense.”

Beomgyu took one last drag before flicking the cigarette onto the ground, grinding it out with his shoe. “I never said I hated you.”

Your breath hitched. It was quiet. Just five words. But something about the way he said them, low and deliberate, made your pulse stutter. His gaze was steady, fixed on you with an intensity that made your skin prickle. And suddenly, you realized, this was the first time either of you had ever really talked about it. About whatever this was.

Beomgyu shifted, hands slipping back into his pockets. His voice dropped just slightly, almost like he didn’t want you to hear it. “But you’re right about one thing.”

You swallowed hard. “What?”

He took a step closer. Not much, but enough that you could smell the faint trace of smoke on his clothes, feel the warmth of him even in the cold. “I do like pushing your buttons.” His lips twitched—just barely, just enough to let you know he wasn’t done. He tilted his head slightly, dark eyes flickering with something unreadable. “It’s fun watching you try so hard to pretend you don’t like it.”

And just when you thought that was it, that he was done messing with your head for the night, he added: “But don’t worry.” His voice was light, almost casual. “I don’t care either way. After all, like you said… I’m just your coworker.”

No.

You weren’t even gonna finish that thought.

my masterlist | previous fic | READ PART 2 HERE

author's note: ok so i KNOW this fic got way longer than i originally planned but here we are lmaoo. part 2 is out and really hope you like it!! also, i wanted to have this done in time for beomgyu’s birthday but yeah… that didn’t happen lol. anyway, hope y’all enjoy <3

1K notes · View notes

joelsrose · 2 days ago

Text

hey angels, i'm back! here is part 3!

i'm so sorry but i wont be doing a taglist because it gets so confusing!!! hope you understand

im so glad everyone is enjoying this series so far and i had so much fun writing it. part 1 and part 2 are here!

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

Joel woke the next morning already muttering under his breath, half-formed curses strung between his teeth as he sat on the edge of the bed and yanked his boots on with more force than necessary, like the act of getting dressed itself was an inconvenience, like the cold floorboards and the memory of what he’d said weren’t already chewing at his thoughts.

“This is stupid,” he grumbled to the empty room, rubbing a hand over his face, jaw still clenched from a restless night. “Ain’t nothin’ to fix.”

But still—he tugged his jacket on.

Still—he grabbed the folded cloth bundle off the counter, the one with the damn bread he made that morning even though he told himself it was just habit, just something to do with his hands.

And still—he left the house, boots crunching against gravel, the sky above streaked with soft clouds, pale light pouring through the breaks like the morning itself hadn’t quite decided what kind of day it wanted to be.

He didn’t know exactly what he was going to say. He never did.

But he walked anyway.

Down the worn trail between cabins, past the little wooden fence where Benji’s toys were still scattered in the dirt from yesterday’s visit, past the quiet murmur of townsfolk just beginning to stir.

His shoulders were hunched slightly against the cold, but his hands were steady, and his steps had that slow, stubborn rhythm—the kind he got when he was doing something he didn’t want to admit he cared about.

He knew where you’d be.

You always helped unload the greenhouse supply crates on Wednesdays, that gentle routine of yours as predictable as sunrise.

He imagined you there now, bent slightly at the waist, sleeves pushed up as you wiped your hands on your apron, maybe tucking that strand of hair behind your ear the way you always did when you were focused—so damn kind it irritated him, so soft he wanted to look away from it but never could.

And as he reached the edge of the garden path, his boots just shy of the gravel turn where your shadow flickered against the greenhouse wall, Joel took a breath that felt too tight in his chest, cleared his throat like he could clear the guilt right along with it, and prepared himself to do the one thing he hated more than almost anything else.

Try.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

You didn’t see him at first—not until you turned, arms full of empty baskets, ready to head back toward the shed and put some space between you and the ache still lingering at the edge of your chest—and there he was.

Joel.

Standing awkwardly at the far end of the garden path, backlit by the pale morning sun, looking far too large for the little patch of earth beneath his boots, with a bundle clutched in his hands like he wasn’t sure whether he meant to offer it or throw it away.

His shoulders were stiff, like they hadn’t decided whether this was worth the embarrassment, and his mouth was set in that same unreadable line that had pushed you away the night before.

And your first instinct—stupid and human and wholly unprepared for this—was to turn.

To leave.

To slip out of reach before he could speak, before he could say something else that might finish what yesterday’s silence had started.

You mumbled something half-formed, barely audible—“I should—sorry, I didn’t realize—” and took one uncertain step backward, your gaze fixed somewhere near the dirt, anywhere but his eyes.

But his voice stopped you.

Low. Rough. The kind of quiet only a man like Joel could make sound like a command.

“You don’t gotta run.”

The words landed soft but heavy, like the earth had exhaled with him.

You froze, your fingers tightening around the handle of the basket, not out of fear—but out of that unbearable vulnerability, the kind that comes when someone you want to care has already proven they can hurt you.

He took one step forward, not enough to close the space, but enough to be noticed.

“I, uh…” he started, then paused, his eyes dropping to the bundle in his hands like maybe it could speak for him. “I made this. S’just bread.”

You looked up slowly, cautiously, as if any sudden movement might shatter the moment between you—and sure enough, in his hands was a folded cloth, still faintly steaming at the corners, the scent of rosemary and flour curling into the cold morning air like some kind of truce.

“I ain’t…” he tried again, then cleared his throat. “Ain’t good at talkin’. Or… at fixin’ shit I broke.”

There was a beat of silence, the kind that stretched long and uncertain but didn’t hurt the way it had the night before.

You stepped forward, just slightly, just enough to meet him in the middle, your voice smaller than usual but steady.

“Is this an apology?” you asked gently, a ghost of something like hope threading through your words.

Joel exhaled through his nose, eyes dropping to the ground, jaw tight.

“It’s bread,” he muttered.

You bit your lip, fighting a smile you hadn’t expected to feel.

“Okay,” you said, reaching out to take it from him, your fingers brushing his just slightly, like the contact didn’t mean anything and meant everything all at once. “I like bread.”

He nodded once, then again, like maybe twice would make it feel less like something important had just happened.

You stood there for a long moment, two people surrounded by garden beds and quiet things beginning to grow.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

You two were back at yours now, the walk from the garden long enough for the silence to soften into something companionable, almost shy, like neither of you quite knew how you’d gotten here but both were willing to let the moment stretch a little longer just to see where it went.

Joel had never been to your house—not that there’d ever been a reason for him to be—and yet the second he stepped through the door, he felt like he was intruding on something tender and private and irrevocably you.

There were wildflowers tucked into jars on every windowsill, their petals curling toward the sun like they belonged in your palms; a pink throw blanket draped over the arm of the couch; a little ceramic dish shaped like a heart filled with gold rings and mismatched earrings by the sink; and the faint scent of rosewater and vanilla that hung in the air like a whisper of someone who believed—deep down, in spite of everything—that love was still something worth inviting in.

It was small, sweet, soft around the edges in a way Joel had never let his life become.

And now he sat awkwardly at your tiny coffee table, a mug between his hands that read “love you, mean it” in swirling cursive, drinking coffee that was far too sweet, far too creamy, far too… you—and yet he didn’t complain, didn’t grimace, didn’t say a word.

He just sat there like a piece of furniture out of place, this broad, battle-worn man folded into your dainty, lavender-drenched kitchen like someone waiting for a punchline.

You watched him from across the table, cheeks warm with amusement, lashes fluttering as you stirred a second sugar cube into your own mug—your voice soft and curious when you finally spoke.

“So…” you said, cocking your head to the side just slightly, like you were trying to see if the light would hit him differently, “what made you change your mind?”

He didn’t answer right away—just sighed, long and low, like the breath had been sitting in his chest for years, waiting for the right moment to leave.

His thumb ran over the rim of the mug, slow and absent, eyes fixed on the table, not yours.

“I didn’t,” he muttered. “Not really.”

You blinked, heart skipping once, but said nothing.

Joel shifted slightly, his broad shoulders hunched in on themselves like he was trying to make himself smaller in a space too delicate to hold him.

“I just figured…” he continued, voice rough but quiet now, “if it meant you’d stop lookin’ at me like I kicked your damn puppy... I’d let you try.”

Your lips twitched, a laugh almost escaping—but it caught in your throat, tangled in something softer, something more fragile, because there was a flicker of something beneath his words. You could’ve pushed. Asked again. Called out the lie—because you knew Joel Miller didn’t change his mind for no reason, especially not about something as small and inconvenient as feelings. But instead, you let him sit in it. Let him keep his pride. Let him lie.

“Well,” you said, wrapping your hands around your mug and letting your thumb trace the rim the way he had, “I promise not to pair you with anyone who hates dogs.”

Joel huffed a low breath through his nose.

“Okay,” you said brightly, already shifting into your element, that familiar spark lighting up your features as you leaned forward and reached into the woven basket beside your chair.

Joel watched you warily as you unfolded your reading glasses—thin, gold-rimmed, delicate little things that perched on your nose like they belonged in a much gentler world.

And then—like magic, like some conjurer of hearts and chaos—you pulled a small, worn notebook from seemingly nowhere, its edges dog-eared, spine cracked, and corners filled with little stickers and loops of hearts, as if you couldn’t quite help decorating love wherever you touched it.

Joel blinked at the sight, his frown deepening.

“The hell is that?” he asked, suspicion laced thick in his voice, like you’d just pulled a grenade pin instead of a spiral-bound pastel journal.

You flipped it open with a satisfying little flutter of paper, your fingers brushing gently across the pages like they were sacred, until you landed on one in particular—a page that had clearly seen better days, with a name at the top that had been written in bold cursive, then scratched out, rewritten, circled, underlined, and scratched out again in a mess of exasperated swirls.

“It’s my matchmaking journal,” you said sweetly, tapping the page with your pen as if that explained everything.

Joel squinted. “Your what?”

“My matchmaking journal,” you repeated, pushing your glasses up your nose in that distracted, charming way of someone who was already too deep in thought. “It’s where I write down all my pairings, compatibility theories, failed first dates—oh, and moon sign clashes. That’s a big one.”

Joel just stared. At the journal. At you.

At his name, scratched out no less than three times.

And then back at you again.

“You’ve got moon signs in there?”

“Mhm.”

“And me.”

“Yes.”

“Scratched out.”

You blinked innocently. “You weren’t very cooperative.”

Joel leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, and let out a low, grumbled exhale—the kind that said this is ridiculous.

“You’re serious about this?”

“As a heart attack,” you said brightly, flipping the page and clicking your pen like a surgeon preparing for something far more dangerous than romance. “Now, let’s start.”

Joel muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a prayer.

But he stayed.

And you smiled.

And maybe—just maybe—this was going to work.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

You started off simple—careful not to spook him, not to dive too deep too fast. The page, faintly crinkled from how many times you'd opened it, bore his name in bold ink: Joel Miller, underlined twice, as if writing it down could make sense of him.

You chewed the end of your pen for a moment, eyelashes fluttering in thought before you began speaking aloud, mostly to yourself but loud enough that the grumpy man across from you could hear every word.

“Joel Miller,” you read softly, tilting your head. “Fifty-six years old… former contractor… current grumbler…”

Joel shot you a look. “What?”

You smiled sweetly, tapping your pen against your chin. “Nothing. Just jotting down your strengths.”

He raised a brow. “That’s a strength?”

You nodded, scribbling something else down. “You’re consistent. Consistency is a green flag.”

He scoffed. “That what passes for romance these days?”

“Oh, I never said you were romantic,” you hummed, flipping the page to one with a soft pink sticky note that read Miller, Joel – High risk / High reward? in your looping script. “But that’s what I’m here for. We build from the rubble.”

Joel looked like he might argue. Or leave. Or groan loud enough to shake the walls. But he didn't, the calloused pad of his thumb brushing along the handle of his mug, saying nothing.

“Okay,” you said brightly, flipping a fresh page in your notebook, pen poised like you were about to solve a case. “Let’s start with something easy. What are some of your hobbies?”

“I ain’t got hobbies,” he muttered, not even bothering to look up from the swirl of black coffee in his cup.

You frowned, nose scrunching slightly as you tapped the pen against the notebook. “That’s not true. Everyone has hobbies.”

“Not me,” he said again, firmer this time, like the topic was already closed.

You exhaled through your nose, more amused than frustrated, and scribbled something down anyway.

Joel squinted across the table. “What’re you writin’?”

“Just… that your hobbies include cooking.”

“That ain’t a hobby,” he grunted, frown deepening.

“Yes it is,” you insisted sweetly, lips quirking as you glanced up at him. “And you’re good at it.”

He shifted slightly in his chair, the faintest twitch of discomfort in his jaw. Joel Miller was not a man used to compliments—at least, not the kind that came with soft smiles and genuine warmth. He grumbled something incoherent under his breath, but you caught the way his ears turned a delicate shade of pink, like embarrassment blooming just beneath the skin.

You smiled to yourself and closed the book gently. You met his eyes then—steady and warm—and tilted your head.

“Okay. How about we try this instead,” you said, voice softer now. “What do you look for in a partner?”

Joel’s sigh was long and heavy, dragged from somewhere deep in his chest like it hurt to even entertain the thought. He rubbed a hand down his face, fingers catching on the roughness of his stubble.

“I ain’t lookin’ for a partner,” he said finally, voice low, like he meant to end the conversation right there.

You exhaled softly and gave him a small, patient smile and said, “Joel. You said you’d do this. So if you’re going to—if you’re really going to—we might as well try.”

Joel just sat there in the soft golden quiet of your kitchen, shoulders hunched slightly forward, eyes fixed on the coffee in his mug like maybe it held a better answer than he could ever offer. The silence stretched for a moment too long, not tense exactly, but brittle.

“If it’s easier,” you offered gently, tilting your head, your voice that same calm lilt you used with nervous couples on their first matchmaking visit, “what kind of women did you used to date? You know… before all of this.”

He finally looked up, brows tugging together in a way that made the lines on his forehead deepen, like they’d been carved there by years of grief and sleepless nights. He squinted at you, skeptical. “You mean like… twenty years ago?”

You nodded, lashes fluttering once as you rested your chin in your hand, the pen still tucked between your fingers like you were ready to write down anything he might dare to say.

Joel exhaled, low and rough. “Jesus,” he muttered, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Ain’t thought about that in a long time.”

You stayed quiet, letting him take his time.

He gave a small shrug, eyes drifting toward the window. “Guess I used to go for women who didn’t take shit from me. Strong. Didn’t scare easy. Had their own lives, their own jobs… smart, too. I liked that.”

You smiled softly, already scribbling something in your notebook - something along the lines of - Looking for someone strong. Opinionated. Doesn’t back down. Smart. - Sally from the infirmary maybe???

He glanced at you, almost defensively. “That don’t mean I’m lookin’ for anyone now.”

“I know,” you said, that little smile still playing on your lips. “But it helps. Just paintin’ the picture.”

Joel grunted again—his signature form of communication, really—but it wasn’t the sharp kind anymore. More like a low, irritated rumble that said I’m only tolerating this because you made the coffee. He scratched at the side of his jaw, where the stubble had turned nearly silver, and narrowed his eyes at you as if you’d just asked him to solve advanced calculus.

“Okay,” you said, undeterred, pen poised above the notebook with a hopeful gleam in your eyes, “do you have any deal breakers? Like kids? Pets? A specific age range? Blondes? Brunettes? People who clap when the plane lands?”

That earned you a look. Flat, squinting, vaguely appalled.

“I ain’t orderin’ off a damn menu,” Joel muttered, leaning back in the tiny kitchen chair that looked about two seconds from surrendering under his weight. “This ain’t the goddamn Cheesecake Factory.”

You bit back a giggle, twirling the pen between your fingers. “So… no preference?”

He gave you a long, unimpressed stare. “My preference is peace and quiet.”

You gave him a look then—not judgmental, not pushy, just something warm and amused beneath your lashes, the kind of expression that made people feel safe enough to say things they didn’t mean to.

You tucked your pen behind your ear like you’d done this a hundred times before, and folded your hands in your lap, watching him with that unshakable patience he found both infuriating and disarming.

Joel exhaled through his nose, slow and rough, eyes dropping to his coffee as if it might offer him a way out.

The silence stretched between you for a beat, maybe two, and just when you thought he might clamp down entirely, he spoke—gruff, honest, voice low like he didn’t much care to hear it out loud.

“Someone kind,” he muttered. “Someone who doesn’t—doesn’t need me to be anything more than I am. Ain’t lookin’ to be fixed. Just… someone real. Good with quiet. Good with… mess.”

Your gaze softened, a small shift in your posture like you were trying to absorb the weight of what he’d said without frightening it back into hiding.

You didn’t say anything, didn’t tease, didn’t scribble it down like you had the other answers. You just looked at him, like maybe you understood the kind of ache he carried.

Joel cleared his throat then, uncomfortable with the silence, with your eyes on him like that. “But I still don’t want no one clappin’ when the plane lands. That’s just—hell no.”

You laughed, and it was light and musical and so very you, and for the first time since walking through your door, Joel didn’t feel like bolting.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

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thisapplepielife · 3 days ago

Text

Written for the @corrodedcoffinfest Somewhere Over the Rainbow pop-up event.

born to run

Prompt: Red | Song: All Too Well by Taylor Swift | Word Count: 1978 | Rating: T | POV: Eddie | CW: Self Isolation, Language | Tags: Post S4, Eddie Munson Lives, But He's Isolated, And Steve's Having None of It, Good Uncle Wayne Munson, Getting Together, Friends to Lovers, First Kiss, Lots of Springsteen References

'cause there we are again on that little town street, you almost ran the red 'cause you were lookin' over at me

The criminal case had fizzled into nothingness, dismissed before it began with some strings pulled from places higher than Eddie will ever understand. Of course, the court of public opinion has been less forgiving. Eddie's not surprised, not at all. It's always that way for guys like him.

Different. Weird. Freak.

Guilty.

Even if he's not.

He still feels trapped, caged, locked up. Like he can't leave the house. And as someone who wants to run by nature, that's been torture.

At the new house, the backyard is fenced, and that's Eddie's prison yard. He walks the fenceline, pacing in a big circle, the only energy outlet he has. Just a never-ending loop, wearing a path into the grass. Alone with his thoughts.

Unless he isn't. He hears footsteps brushing through the leaves, and freezes. Then he sees the hands reach up and grasp the top of the tall wooden fence. Seconds later, Steve is hoisting himself over the backyard wall with ease, like some sort of knight in shining armor.

Eddie laughs, though his heart is still beating against his chest, just a little.

"Front door didn't work?" Eddie asks as Steve swings his body over, sliding to the ground.

"Uh, forgot my key. You didn't answer. I knew you had to be out here," Steve says, wiping his hands on his jeans, "And look! You were!"

It's far too excited of a tone, especially when there was nowhere else Eddie could have possibly been. It's not like he leaves the yard. Eddie starts pacing again, and Steve falls into lockstep. Walking in circles right beside him.

He'd never tell Gareth, wouldn't even admit it under pain of death, but Steve's been the best friend he could ask for these past months. Nobody else is even close. It's just different. What they both know. What they've been through. Seen. Survived. Together.

He finally gets the old war buddy bond that Wayne talks about. It's no joke.

"I'm going stir crazy in this prison," Eddie says, because there's never a reason to lie to Steve.

Steve's seen his worst days. Maybe someday he'll see his best, too. Eddie is optimistic that this isn't forever, even if it feels like it right now.

Jogging a couple steps ahead, Steve turns so he can walk backwards ahead of Eddie.

"I have an idea."

"And that idea would be?" Eddie probes. He's open to anything right now.

"It's your birthday, right?" Steve asks, and Eddie didn't even realize he knew that.

"Uh, yeah. Tomorrow."

"Come for a ride with me," Steve says, and Eddie's already shaking his head. No way.

Steve's eyes are pleading, but Eddie can't.

"Later tonight. When the town is quiet. Nothing will happen. Not while you're with me. Not on my watch," Steve says, and Eddie feels his resolve crumbling. He doesn't want to leave the house, but Steve's using those fucking eyes of his against Eddie. It's really, truly unfair.

Eddie doesn't say no, but he doesn't say yes either.

For now, they'll just pace the yard, loop after loop.

Laying on Eddie's bed, Steve's got a cigarette dangling from his lip, head upside down off the edge of the bed as he holds up the liner notes of Born to Run, reading them. It was Steve's turn to pick the record. Some of Steve's have slowly migrated to Eddie's room, collection intermingling.

"Hey, Eddie, this guy, he's the real thing," Steve says, just before Springsteen sings the same line of lyrics.

Eddie laughs.

Steve's proving a point with this album, has been all night. He wants to hide out on the backstreets. Wants a meeting across the river. He wants to ride out tonight to case the promised land.

Eddie, after all, is born to run.

Wayne appears in the open bedroom door, and they both look over at him. He's got a six-pack held up, "First legal drink on me."

"I'm not twenty-one yet," Eddie banters, tapping his watch.

"Well, I gotta get to work, wise guy. Show some restraint for once and don't crack one open until after midnight."

"What about Steve?" Eddie teases. "He's a minor. Don't make me call Chief Hopper."

Wayne laughs, putting the beer down on the desk, having to scoot some shit to the side to make room for it, "What I don't know won't hurt me."

Eddie grins. He knows before all this bullshit happened, Wayne would have taken him out to his favorite bar for that first drink. That's not really an option now, unfortunately.

Wayne smiles back at him, "Happy birthday, kid."

"Thanks, old man."

"Birthday breakfast?" Wayne asks, "Both of you?"

And they both nod. Eddie tries to not read into the fact that Wayne just assumes Steve's staying all night. Eddie knows he probably will. Steve's made it his personal mission to keep Eddie company.

"Stay out of trouble," Wayne says, a relic of years gone by. And then he's gone. Eddie's definitely not getting into trouble these days.

Steve goes back to studying the lyrics printed on the album flap.

"This town rips the bones from your back," Steve reads, and then looks up at Eddie, "Who knew Springsteen has been to Hawkins?"

Eddie laughs. Ain't that the goddamn truth. It is a death trap. But maybe that's a more universal feeling than he's considered it to be.

It's quiet for a while, Steve reading, both of them smoking. Springsteen crooning from the corner.

"Wanna go for that ride?" Steve asks, interrupting the silence, looking hopeful and earnest.

Eddie shakes his head on instinct, but for some reason he still agrees anyway. For Steve.

"Okay, big boy. Take me out into that town full of losers."

Playing it safe at first, as promised, Steve hugs the side streets. Long patches of inky darkness only broken up by dim street lights on corners. Revealed with the soft swish of the windshield wipers. A summer shower that'll probably stop as quickly as it started.

Eventually they move out onto the main drag. Eddie isn't sure how it looks exactly the same, but also so different. They've cleaned it up well. Fast. He's shocked. The world, the town, is spinning on without him as he stays stagnant, trapped in that house.

Steve's looking at him. Staring. Eddie can feel his eyes on him.

The light changes.

"Red," Eddie says.

"Huh?" Steve asks, brow furrowing.

"Light's red!" Eddie shouts, and Steve slams on the brakes. Sliding a little on the wet road before coming to a stop. Squeezing the steering wheel, laughing.

There's not another soul on the road, but they still stop and wait for it to change back to green.

"Green means go, red means stop," Eddie mocks.

"One stoplight in town, and I almost ran it," Steve giggles, looking back over at Eddie, just like he had been before the jarring stop. Eddie can't help smiling. It's nice, and Steve's car feels safe. Like the house, like the backyard. Another extension of home.

That's all Steve.

When the light changes, he pulls away from the intersection and the wind whips through Eddie's hair.

The clock flips over to midnight, and Eddie's a year older. Maybe this one will be different. Better.

"Happy birthday," Steve says.

"It's just another day," Eddie answers, because he can't get his hopes up for anything to change.

Steve reaches over and rests his hand on Eddie's knee, and it's shocking and comforting and inevitable, "You're turning twenty-one. That's supposed to be fun."

Eddie covers it with his own, and feels his heart flip in his chest.

"You're a poet and didn't even know it," Eddie says, deflecting, because anything else feels too big, too real.

Steve laughs and pulls his hand back to his own lap.

Eddie misses it, immediately.

So much for a summer shower. It's a full-on downpour by the time they pull back into the driveway. They run back into the safety of the house, laughing, Steve locking the deadbolt behind them. Then his hands are on Eddie. One hand sliding around the back of Eddie's head, tangling in his damp hair, pulling him close.

Looking right in his eyes, Eddie feels trapped, pinned down in another way now.

This way is much better.

"Green," Eddie whispers, and Steve furrows his brow just for a second, then he smiles.

"Green means go," Steve says back, and hell yes it does.

Steve goes, because he's brave, and Eddie feels Steve's mouth covering his for the first time. Eddie reaches for him, clings to him, kissing him back.

After three months in the grave, locked away in this tomb, Eddie feels alive again. Warmth flooding his cheeks, kissing Steve Harrington.

It suddenly feels like a home, not a prison. Just like that. Eddie's world shifting, being illuminated with the warmth that Steve has offered him.

Eddie squeezes Steve's biceps, and Steve walks him back towards his bedroom. And Eddie goes more than willing, letting Steve pull off their damp clothing, tossing them away. He sighs as Steve presses him down into the mattress, covering Eddie's whole body with his own. Shielding him, protecting him, still.

Harrington's got him.

Steve finds his hand, laces their fingers together, squeezing tight. Eddie tilts his head, deepening the kiss. Humming with happiness as Steve eventually pulls back, and moves to kiss his neck instead. Lips dancing across his skin, his tongue peeking out, brushing against the juncture of his neck, making Eddie laugh, delighted.

It's soft, and sweet.

It's everything Eddie never knew he needed.

Even in their underwear Steve isn't asking for anything other than this, even if Eddie would willingly give it. This is enough, more than. Steve's hand holding his tightly, his body grounding Eddie's to his own, to the bed, to the world.

The noise of Hawkins, of death, of destruction finally pushed to the back burner with Steve lighting better fires to attend to with his mouth, his fingers.

Eddie's never had this, what feels like hours of staying so close, kissing, touching, just holding onto one another. They've shifted, now face-to-face in Eddie's bed. Steve's hand holding his. Like he might never let go.

He hopes he doesn't.

This was overdue, Eddie realizes.

Inevitable.

"Tramps like us," Steve says, and Eddie laughs, rolling on the bed, but not letting go. And he lets Steve tug him closer. There's no place left to hide.

Nowhere to run.

Eddie can't tell him he loves him. Not yet. Even if he knows he does. Probably has since he was stumbling through the woods of the Upside Down, trailing after Steve Harrington like a lost puppy.

Thinking he had no chance. Flirting to flirt, teasing to tease.

"Wild and real," Eddie says instead, and the way Steve smiles means he gets it. He knows what Eddie is saying without saying it.

Steve Harrington speaks in Springsteen, and after being around him for months, Eddie does, too.

Eddie surges forward this time, taking the lead, kissing Steve again. He never wants to stop kissing him. He never wants to stop loving him with all the madness in his soul.

He's the one.

In the morning, they drink Eddie's warm birthday beer with breakfast. If Wayne notices that things have changed between them, if he sees their swollen lips and their stupid grins, he definitely doesn't mention it.

He just slides eggs and bacon and toast onto their plates before joining them at the table. Smiling as he gets to share that first legal drink with Eddie after all.

Wayne clinks his bottle against Eddie's, "Twenty-one will be better than twenty. You'll see."

Eddie grins, eyes cutting over to Steve who's already eating, wearing one of Eddie's threadbare shirts, a hickey on his neck.

Looking back at Wayne, Eddie smiles, maybe bigger than he has since before.

Fuck yeah, it will.

And if you want to write your own, or see more entries in this pop-up, check out @corrodedcoffinfest to see other entries for the Somewhere Over the Rainbow popup event!

Notes: Let's be so for real. Wayne totally already thought they've been together for months. 🤣

Tons of references to the album Born to Run in this one. Maybe more than the Taylor song that it was built around after all was said and done, lol.

#corrodedcoffinfest: somewhere over the rainbow #corrodedcoffinfest #eddie munson #steve harrington #steddie ficlet #stranger things #thisapplepielife: corrodedcoffinfest #thisapplepielife: short fic #steddie fic #steddie fanfic #steddie #steve x eddie #steddie fanfiction #wayne munson #eddie munson fanfic

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girly-girlk · 9 hours ago

Text

firehouse family

firefighter!rafe cameron x reader

summary: rafe loves bringing out to the station

you’re pretty sure the guys at the station see you more than their own families at this point.

every week, you’re there—dropping off lunch, hanging around while rafe finishes his shift, getting roped into card games, or baking for “the crew,” aka the loudest, messiest, most chaotic group of grown men you’ve ever met.

it started with cookies. just a little batch—something simple you made while bored one night. you brought them in for rafe, expecting him to keep them stashed in his locker.

but no. he had to share.

now? you’re basically the station’s unofficial pastry dealer.

“where’s my girl?” captain brigg’s voice booms as soon as you step inside, flour still dusted on your shirt.

you raise the tupperware box like a white flag. “don’t worry, cap. i brought the good ones.”

“god bless,” he mutters, already snatching a cookie like it’s a ration in a war zone.

rafe’s leaning against the wall behind him, arms crossed, wearing his navy blue station shirt and that slight smirk he only gets when he’s watching you interact with his world.

he doesn’t say anything, just raises a brow like, you really are feeding the entire station again?

you stroll over, press a kiss to his jaw—he tilts his head just slightly to meet you—and whisper, “don’t act like you didn’t beg for me to make them.”

“i did not beg.”

“oh, you begged. you sent three texts and a shirtless pic.”

he shrugs. “gotta use what works.”

⸻

somehow, you end up curled on the worn leather couch in the rec room, your legs over rafe’s lap, while the rest of the crew throws popcorn at the tv during a terrible movie night.

captain brigg’s is in the recliner, snoring lightly. two rookies are playing some loud card game at the table, and someone’s burning popcorn in the microwave.

it’s chaos, but it’s homey.

you glance at rafe, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. he looks more relaxed here than anywhere else, like he belongs to this world of soot and sirens and brotherhood.

“you ever think about doing this forever?” you ask quietly, not wanting to disturb the peace.

he glances down at you, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “you mean firefighting?”

“no,” you say, nuzzling into his shoulder. “this. you. me. them. this kind of weird little family.”

for a second, he doesn’t answer. you think maybe he didn’t hear you.

but then he says, “i think about it all the time.”

your heart squeezes.

“they’re kind of obsessed with you,” he adds dryly. “briggs called you ‘his girl’ yesterday and threatened to fight me if i broke your heart.”

you blink. “captain briggs said that?”

“mhm.”

you pause. “wait—would he win in a fight?”

rafe gives you a look. “you think that man could take me?”

“i think he’s scrappy. and he’s got the dad strength.”

rafe pinches your side. you yelp and wiggle closer to him, giggling.

the moment stretches—soft and warm and full of that quiet, burning feeling you only get when you know you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be

⸻

a loud beep-beep-beep interrupts everything.

the station lights flash red. dispatch.

rafe is up in a second, his gear already halfway on, kissing the top of your head as he goes. “gotts run. be back soon.”

you nod, heart always catching when he leaves, but you smile anyway. “i’ll be here.”

as the truck pulls out, sirens wailing, you sit back down on the couch—captain briggs now fully awake and already reaching for another cookie.

“you know,” he says, looking over the rim of his coffee mug, “you’re good for him.”

you glance up, surprised. “yeah?”

“yeah. he used to be all edge. sharp and mean. now he’s still an asshole, but he smiles more.”

you laugh softly. “he’s not that bad.”

briggs grins. “that’s love talk. you’re too far gone.”

maybe you are. but honestly?

you wouldn’t have it any other way.

#rafe cameron #rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron fluff #rafe cameron x y/n #rafe cameron x you #rafe cameron x reader

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nightcourtnovels · 12 hours ago

Text

Matchmaker

Azriel x reader (part 5)

Summary: Reader finally makes it to Velaris for Starfall. Shopping and shadows are included. Plus, a meddling High Lord and Lady.

~~~~~~~~~

Velaris smelled like fresh rain.

Y/N stood at the edge of a narrow, flower-lined path, her eyes wide as she took in the city stretching before them in soft morning light.

The sky was blue, clouds stretched on for miles, and the Sidra glittered by them in the morning light. Sunlight caught on glass balconies and on the archways of bookstores and cafes

“Sweet Mother,” Selene breathed beside her as they walked along the cobblestones. “I think I just fell in love.”

Y/N didn’t answer, too busy drinking in every detail—the quiet, glowing warmth of the city. The birds singing from rooftop gardens. The scent of citrus bread wafting from a nearby bakery. The way every part of Velaris felt like it had been painted by a dreamer.

Their boots tapped down the path as they approached a townhouse tucked between two larger ones, its exterior covered in soft ivy and pink climbing flowers.

Selene turned with a grin. “This is the one.”

Y/N blinked. “Are you sure? This looks… like someone’s actual house.”

Selene didn’t answer—just twisted the ornate golden knob and pushed the door open.

Inside was bright and clean. Golden light spilled into the entryway from tall windows, reflecting off gleaming hardwood floors. The white walls, a staircase curling up to the second floor. It was beautiful—simple, but clearly expensive.

They both stood there for a second, looking around.

Y/N stepped in slowly, awestruck. “We’re really here.”

Selene dropped her bag with a soft thud and twirled in a circle. “I know. I can’t believe it either. Look at this place! This is nicer than any house I’ve ever stayed in. It’s like a dream!”

Y/N turned in place, trailing her fingers over a carved table set with a vase of fresh flowers. “How in the Cauldron did you make this happen?”

Selene bit her lip, eyes dancing. “I had… a little help.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes. “From who?”

A smug smile. “Helion.”

Y/N’s eyebrows shot up. “Excuse me?”

“Helion owed me a favor,” she said with a shrug, clearly enjoying this. “I mentioned your birthday. And Starfall. And how you were being annoying and mopey—”

“I was not mopey.”

“—and he wrote to Rhysand.”

Y/N just stared at her. “Rhysand. High Lord of the Night Court.”

“Yep. Apparently he was thrilled to help. Told Helion your boy has been in a mood since they got back from Day.”

“A mood?”

Selene wiggled her eyebrows. “Quote: ‘broody shadowsinger has been sighing dramatically in every meeting and scaring others with his glowering.’”

They both stared at each other for a beat.

Then collapsed into giggles.

“Does he not know I’m here?”

“Um maybe? No? I don’t think so.” Selene said.

Y/N laughed again, then looked back around the townhouse. “I still can’t believe we’re actually in Velaris.”

“Believe it,” Selene claimed, already heading toward the stairs. “Come on, we’ve got to see the rest.”

They ended up running from room to room like kids. Every few seconds one of them would yell something from across the house.

“There’s a bookshelf built into the wall! With a ladder!”

“This tub is the size of my entire apartment!”

“Fit for Illyrian wings!”

“There’s wine already in the kitchen!”

Y/N opened a window in the upstairs bedroom and leaned out, the river just barely visible in the distance. “This is insane.”

Selene flopped onto the bed. “This is awesome. Admit it.”

Y/N turned around. “It’s awesome.”

They both sat for a second, catching their breath, bags forgotten by the door.

“So what now?” Y/N asked turning towards her friend.

Selene stretched. “We relax. We drink something bubbly. You pick out a book to pretend that’s the reason you’re here. And then… we plan our outfits for Starfall.”

Y/N shook her head, still smiling. “You’re out of control.”

Selene grinned. “And you love me for it.”

Y/N let her head fall back against the cushions, a giddy grin still tugging at her lips.

She had no idea how tomorrow would go.

But for now, she was here.

In his city.

In this townhouse.

And for the first time in weeks, she felt like maybe—just maybe—the stars were on her side.

Later on, Selene leaned against the doorway of the townhouse, sipping from a chipped mug one of them had found in the cabinet. “So… what does one wear to Starfall?”

Y/N flopped back on the couch, arms spread out like she was about to sink into the cushions. “Something sparkly, I think. Flowing. Ethereal. But not too ethereal. Like, ‘I might vanish into the stars but only after I get three drinks and some compliments.’”

Selene snorted. “So basically, we’re going shopping.”

Y/N sighed, then nodded. “Yeah. I’m not showing up to some Night Court event in a three-year-old dress that smells like the back of my closet.”

And with that, the two decided to change and fifteen minutes later, they were out the door.

The streets of Velaris were already stirring. The river glinted in the distance, and the scent of bread and flowers carried on the wind. It felt like the city itself was stretching awake, alive and humming.

Y/N let her eyes drift across the buildings, the sky, the faces they passed. There was something unsettling about how right this place felt, like slipping into a memory that hadn’t actually happened yet.

She couldn’t help but let her thoughts drift to Azriel.

This is where he lives.

He gets to wake up to this.

He belongs here.

She imagined him somewhere above them, maybe on a rooftop, maybe in the House of Wind, brooding and unreadable. Wondered if he was training. Wondered if he was still chasing Nyx around. Wondered if he even knew she was here.

A tug stirred deep in her chest. She scowled at it.

“Snap out of it,” she muttered under her breath.

Selene glanced over. “You good?”

“Yeah. Just... trying to keep my brain from spiraling.”

“Classic pre-shopping jitters.”

They stopped for coffee—iced, with a splash of something fruity that neither of them could pronounce—and wandered another block before spotting it. A boutique with gold-trimmed windows, racks of shimmering gowns catching the light inside.

“Oh,” Selene said.

“Yeah,” Y/N agreed.

They walked in.

The shop was an explosion of texture and color—tulle and sequins, velvet and glass beads, gowns in every color you could imagine, drifting on enchanted racks that floated gently above the floor.

A fae woman with silver hair and sun-glow skin greeted them with an excited wave. “Welcome! I’m Laila. Are we dressing for Starfall?”

Selene grinned. “We are. We need dresses that make jaws drop.”

“Done,” Laila said immediately, turning like she already knew what they needed. “Come, come.”

She led them through the racks, pulling dresses left and right, sizing them up in two glances. She held a deep wine-colored gown up to Selene and nodded in approval before turning to Y/N.

“Okay. What color are we thinking for you?”

Y/N hesitated. “Um… blue?”

Selene snorted. “Of course.”

Y/N gave her a look but smiled. “I want to stand out. Something that… makes someone notice. From across the room.”

Laila raised her eyebrows. “Ooh, is there someone you want to stand out for?”

Y/N felt heat creep up her neck. “Maybe.”

Laila winked and vanished between the racks like a huntress on a mission. Minutes later, she reappeared with something folded over her arm.

“I think this might be the one,” she said, handing it over.

The fabric shimmered in the light—pale blue with hints of silver, delicate and sparkling like moonlit water.

Y/N stepped into the fitting room and carefully changed into the dress. It hugged her like it was made for her—shimmering, cool-toned blue with intricate beadwork that caught the light with every tiny movement. The bodice fit like a glove, dipping just enough in the front, and the skirt fell in soft waves around her feet, layered and glittering like it was made..

Made for her.

When she stepped out, both Selene and Laila turned and froze.

Selene gasped. “Okay. That’s it. That’s the one.”

Laila clapped her hands together. “Oh my gods, yes. You look like Starfall was designed just for you.”

Y/N turned toward the mirror. She barely recognized herself. Elegant, sharp, confident—but still her.

There was something about this dress—how it caught the light, how it made her feel like she could belong here, even if just for one night.

Would he notice?

Would he stop whatever he was doing if he saw her in this?

Would it undo him like he’d been undoing her?

Her heart beat a little faster. She told herself it was just the excitement.

So, she swallowed the thoughts down and focused on how the dress moved when she turned.

After awhile, they both found their dresses—Selene picked a deep emerald gown with a high slit and an open back that made her look like trouble in heels—and headed to the counter to check out.

“What should we do tonight?” Selene asked as she leaned on the counter.

“Dinner? Trouble? Dancing?”

Laila looked up. “You two need to go to Rita’s.”

Both girls looked at her.

“Rita’s?” Y/N asked.

“Yep,” Laila said, sliding their dresses into garment bags. “Best drinks in the city. Best dancing. Good chaos. If you’re up for it… I can take you.”

Selene’s eyes lit up. “We are absolutely up for it. Would you want to join us for dinner before?”

Laila giggled, “Only if there’s wine involved.”

“There’s always wine involved,” Y/N said.

So, with that, plans were made and the two girls walked out with dresses slung over shoulders like prizes.

However, a few steps out the door, Y/N slowed.

She felt it. Just barely. A wisp of something trailing along her calf like a passing breeze. Something cool and familiar and—

She spun around. Nothing.

Just the street behind them. Busy. Normal.

Selene didn’t notice, still talking.

But something had touched her. She felt it.

Y/N looked again, scanning the shadows between buildings.

Nothing.

No sign of him.

She decided to just shake it off and continued on looking at a few more shops, before deciding to head back toward their temporary home.

But her skin still tingled.

Azriel had just stepped into the House of Wind when Feyre intercepted him like she’d been waiting for the sound of his boots on stone.

He paused, wings still slightly unfurled, the weight of travel clinging to him like mud. “I just got back.”

“I know,” Feyre said, her smile far too sweet. “But I need a favor.”

He exhaled, already regretting walking through the front door. “Rhys is in the next room.”

“Busy with Nyx,” she answered quickly. “You’re the only one who can help me right now.”

Azriel’s eyes narrowed. “Feyre.”

She held up both hands in defense. “It’s a simple errand. I swear. Just—pick up my Starfall dress. The boutique is on the main strip in town, near the coffeehouse with the painted windows.”

“You’re sending me to pick up your gown,” he said flatly.

““They’ll only hand it over to family,” she added with a shrug. “And Cassian’s still in Windhaven. So it has to be you.”

“Your sisters? You?”

“Um they are busy getting their own things for tomorrow and well I have this thing.” Feyre said.

“You’re manipulating me.”

“I’m asking nicely. Pretty please?” She clasped her hands and gave him the wide-eyed, over-the-top expression Nyx had clearly inherited. “You’re already dressed. You won’t even need to stay long.”

He rubbed a hand down his face. His wings ached. His shoulders felt like stone. He wanted two hours in silence and a hot bath, but instead—

“Fine.”

She clapped her hands, victorious. “Thank you! Name of the shop’s on the entry table.”

He turned to leave and heard her voice again, too casual.

“Oh—and maybe grab a coffee while you’re down there. I hear it’s busy today. Lots of newcomers for Starfall.”

He looked back at her, but she was already walking away quickly, humming.

Suspicious.

But whatever. He just wanted to get it over with.

So he flew again.

The drop from the House to the city was smooth, the wind cool against his face, but his shadows stirred oddly around him—too quick, too restless.

They twitched around him, stirring like restless birds, brushing over his shoulders and circling his ankles. The closer he got to the heart of the city, the more erratic they became.

“What’s gotten into you?” he muttered, pulling them back in tight once he landed.

They didn’t answer. One slid forward again, darting ahead into the city. Another followed, and when he tried to yank them back, one resisted completely.

Azriel frowned.

He adjusted his path, scanning the streets. The square was packed with mid-morning foot traffic—fae lingering at flower stalls, children running, others laughing over pastries at café tables.

He was too busy dodging the running children when he heard it.

A laugh.

Bright. Real. Familiar in a way that made him go still.

And something in his chest went still.

He turned just in time to see a figure ahead of him—brown hair caught in the wind, laughing with another woman as they moved through the crowd.

One of his shadows reached out—sliding along the cobblestones and up, curling around her ankle like it was drawn to her by instinct.

Azriel’s chest tightened.

He knew that sound.

That hair. He had his hand curled in it weeks ago.

But, it couldn’t be her. She wasn’t supposed to be in Velaris. No one said anything. Rhys would’ve told him. Feyre—

He pushed forward through the crowd, trying to get a better look. The wind shifted. Her profile turned—only for a second—but he couldn’t be sure. He couldn’t be sure.

“Excuse me,” he muttered as a group of people walked in front of him.

Yet, by the time he cleared the group, she was gone. Vanished between two side streets or ducked into a shop, he couldn’t tell. All he had was the ghost of a laugh and the weight in his gut that said he’d missed something.

Soon, his shadows slithered back to him one by one, swirling around his boots like smoke curling low over water.

Then one of them whispered, clear as anything.

Here.

Azriel’s brows pulled together. “Who?”

The shadows didn’t elaborate. They only repeated it again. Here. Finally.

His throat dried out.

He didn’t let himself believe it. Couldn’t afford to. Not until he saw her with his own eyes.

Azriel stared at nothing for a long beat. Then shook his head.

“Too long without sleep. I’m seeing things,” he muttered, stepping toward the boutique’s door.

The bell above it chimed as he walked in, the warmth and sparkle of the shop immediately hitting his senses.

But even as Laila greeted him with a surprised smile and went to retrieve Feyre’s dress, his mind wasn’t on the dress.

It was on that laugh.

And the shadow that had disobeyed him.

And the whisper that still echoed in the back of his head like prophecy.

Here.

A/N: just a lil teaser before we get into the love;) what could possibly go wrong when you throw alcohol, dancing, Ritas, and of course the inner circle together the night before starfall.

#acotar #azriel x reader #azriel #azriel fic #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x female!reader #acotar x reader

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theastralsage · 22 hours ago

Text

Folded Hands

❤︎ tags and content: strip poker, friends to lovers, emotional sex, soft dom caleb, possessive, praise kink, table sex, first times, caleb x f!reader ❤︎ author note: reuploaded 🔞NSFW content - Minors DNI 🔞 Dividers: @/omi.resources ©2025 theastralsage do not repost, copy, translate, or modify

It starts with a bottle of wine and an innocent game of poker—just a quiet night on Skyhaven, something light to pass the time between missions and memories. But when the clothes begin to come off, the stakes rise higher than either of you planned.

For Caleb, restraint has always been second nature: in battle, in command, even in love. But when he sees you again—sitting before him, laughter on your lips and old longing in your eyes—he learns what it means to fold.

You don’t warn him that you’re coming.

You know his schedule by now—know the window when patrol shifts ease and the briefing rooms go quiet, when he might have a sliver of time to breathe without a headset pressed to his ear or someone barking his title down a comm line. It’s selfish, maybe, showing up unannounced, but something about Skyhaven’s artificial skyline and the faint hum of the platform beneath your boots feels too sterile without him.

You pass two levels of clearance before reaching his wing. The security personnel stationed outside glance at you but don’t question a thing—they know your face, probably know your name too. Caleb’s name gets you into places most people never dream of, and the thought settles strangely in your chest.

You pause outside his door, hand hovering near the chime for a beat longer than you mean to. Then, with a quiet breath, you press it.

The door slides open almost immediately, like he was already on the other side.

He doesn’t speak at first—just stands there in the entryway, jacket sleeves rolled to his elbows, dog tags peeking from beneath the collar of his half-buttoned shirt, hair still damp from a recent shower. There’s a moment of silence, but it isn’t awkward. If anything, it stretches soft and golden between you like the sun lingering just a little longer on the horizon.

Finally, his voice breaks it. “Pipsqueak. You came.”

You smile, tucking your hands into your jacket pockets. “I figured you might need someone to make sure you were still eating real food and not surviving off nutrient packs again.”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “Guilty as charged.”

You expect him to step aside, to usher you in like he always does, but instead he studies you for a second longer—eyes flicking briefly down your frame, as if double-checking you’re really there and not some illusion conjured by exhaustion or hope. Then he steps back, wordlessly holding the door open.

The moment you cross the threshold, the quiet hum of Skyhaven gives way to something softer—his space is dim, cozy, nothing like the sterile exterior of the station. A warm light glows from a small lamp near the couch, casting lazy shadows across the room. There’s a pot simmering somewhere beyond the partition, faintly spicy and comforting. And the faintest trace of your favorite scent lingers in the air—subtle, but unmistakable.

“Been working late?” you ask, shrugging off your jacket and draping it over the back of his chair.

“Always,” he says, closing the door behind you. “But… I’m glad you’re here.”

You glance toward the source of the smell, eyes flicking toward the kitchen. “You cooking?”

He nods, sheepish. “Trying to, anyway. Got roped into making a proper meal tonight. I may or may not have bribed someone on the logistics team for decent ingredients.”

You raise a brow, mock seriousness. “You bribed someone for dinner?”

“Only a little,” he says, lifting one hand in mock surrender. “I didn’t know you were coming, but there’s enough for two. Stay?”

You don’t even have to think about it. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

He doesn’t move right away. Just watches you for a moment longer, the faintest crease between his brows, like he’s still calibrating the reality of you standing in his space. Then something eases in him—shoulders relaxing, expression softening—and he gestures toward the small dining nook by the window.

“I’ll plate up,” he says. “Make yourself at home.”

And just like that, you’re back in orbit around him again, the two of you drawn together in quiet gravity, as if no time has passed at all.

Dinner is quieter than you expected, but not in a bad way. Caleb sets the table with military precision—two bowls of something simmered and savory, still steaming from the pot, a bottle of wine between you, half-full glasses catching the soft light like blood-red glass. You’re close enough to see the fine scar just under his jaw when he leans forward, but far enough that you still feel the distance he keeps around most people.

Except you’re not most people.

He waits until you’ve eaten a few bites before speaking, and when he does, his voice is softer than usual.

“So,” he says, watching you over the rim of his glass, “how’ve you been holding up?”

You shrug, rolling your shoulders as if it’ll shake off the weight of everything. “Same as always. Working, reporting, picking up intel where I can. Got clipped by a rogue Wanderer last week, but it wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle.”

His jaw tightens just slightly. You catch it even if he thinks you won’t. “You shouldn’t be dealing with that alone.”

You offer a small smile, lifting your glass to your lips. “I wasn’t alone. Zayne had my back. We made it out clean.”

He’s quiet for a moment, eyes dropping to his plate. When he speaks again, it’s low, almost like he’s talking more to himself than you. “I hate that you’re still in the middle of all that.”

You tilt your head. “You think I should be locked away in here with you?”

He looks up sharply, but there’s no bite to your words—just a trace of amusement, tempered with something softer.

“I think,” he says after a pause, “that I’d sleep better if I knew you were safe.”

You don’t answer right away. The silence stretches, not uncomfortable, but full—like a breath you’re both holding, unsure when to let it go.

Eventually, you break it with a quiet laugh. “God, this wine is strong.”

He glances toward your glass, brow lifted. “Already feeling it?”

“Maybe a little,” you admit, nudging your plate away. “But in a good way. I think I needed this.”

There’s a flicker of something in his expression. You lean back in your chair, swirling the last of your wine lazily, and glance toward the side table where the deck of cards sits, half-hidden under a data tablet.

“Hey,” you say, catching his gaze, “still keep a deck around?”

His eyes flick toward the cards, then back to you. “Always.”

“Good.” You smirk, setting your glass down. “You up for a game of poker?”

He leans back, arms folding across his chest, that familiar amused glint in his eyes returning. “You’re tipsy.”

“Which means I’m just reckless enough to win,” you shoot back, giving him a mock-challenging look. “Unless you’re scared I’ll beat you again.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, already reaching for the deck. “You cheated last time.”

“Did not.”

“You stacked the deck when I blinked.”

“Prove it.”

He stands, pulling the cards free with a flick of his wrist, and walks slowly back toward the table. “You’re on, then. But I’m warning you... I play for keeps.”

You look up at him, heartbeat catching just a little at the way the warm light slides over the edge of his jaw, the faint smirk at the corner of his mouth.

“That so?” you murmur, voice soft with challenge. “Guess we’ll see what you’re willing to bet.”

And just like that, the room feels warmer. Not just from the wine. Not just from the way his eyes linger on you a second too long. But from something simmering beneath the surface—just waiting for one of you to fold.

The cards move fluidly between Caleb’s fingers, shuffling in smooth, practiced motions, each flick of the deck precise in a way that feels entirely him—controlled, deliberate, like even this moment of downtime is something he needs to master. He sits across from you now, long legs stretched under the table, sleeves pushed to his elbows, the fitted line of his jacket hugging his frame like it was made for him. There’s a slight crease between his brows as he cuts the deck, but it softens the moment he glances up and catches your gaze, a spark of amusement flickering there.

You lean into your hand, the curve of your mouth lazy. “You gonna deal, or just admire the cards all night?”

His gaze lingers on you, eyes half-lidded, voice low. “Thought I was admiring something else.”

Your stomach tightens, not because of the wine—but because of that voice, that look, and the way he says it like he means every word.

He starts to deal, and the first few rounds pass easily—banter traded, hands won and lost. You bluff; he calls it. He folds; you grin. There’s tension simmering under the surface now, subtle but growing with each glance, each casual brush of fingers on the table or leg beneath it. The room is too warm. Or maybe it's just him.

“So,” Caleb says, tapping his cards against the table, “what exactly are we playing for?”

You shrug, watching the way the light catches in his hair, casting faint gold at his temples. “Didn’t set terms.”

He hums, as if weighing options. “We could make this interesting.”

You arch a brow. “Interesting how?”

He lifts his glass for a slow sip, gaze unwavering. “Loser of each hand removes something.”

There’s a quiet beat—just a moment where the air stills and your breath stalls—but then you set your wine down, fingers brushing your cheek as you pretend to think.

“You’re serious?”

He shrugs one shoulder. “Only if you are.”

You meet his eyes, steady. “Alright, Colonel. But you’re going to regret this.”

He grins, all confidence and something darker beneath it. “Can’t wait.”

The cards are dealt. You lose the next round, of course—whether by fate or the fact that your mind is no longer entirely on the game. With an exaggerated sigh, you slide your sweater off your shoulders and toss it over the arm of the couch behind you. You don’t look at him, not directly, but you feel his eyes track the movement like a predator watching the first sign of weakness.

The round after that, he folds way too early.

You tilt your head, not bothering to hide your smirk. “Really? You’re giving up that easy?”

“Maybe I just wanted to even the field,” he says, and this time, he unzips his jacket.

He peels it off in one slow, smooth motion, the fabric whispering over his skin as he drapes it over the back of his chair. The dark shirt beneath fits him too well—clinging to the curve of his shoulders, the line of his arms, like a second skin. You swallow a little too quietly.

The game continues, barely. Small losses, smaller victories. Neither of you’s really trying it seems. Your bracelet ends up on the table. His socks go next. It’s almost ridiculous, but neither of you laughs.

It’s your deal. You flick a card onto the table with the sort of flair only three glasses of wine can inspire. “Call it.”

Caleb leans forward, folding his arms against the table, his voice quieter now. “Don’t tell me you’re throwing this one too.”

You shrug, feigning innocence. “Who says I’m not just bad at poker?”

He tilts his head, studying you with a gaze that sees straight through your act. “You forget I grew up with you. I know when you’re pretending.”

You hold eye contact, the challenge clear, but so is the invitation. “Your turn.”

He looks at his cards, then at you. There’s a slow exhale, almost like he’s bracing for something—and then he lays them down.

A flush. A clear win. But he doesn’t smile.

“I had a choice,” he says softly. “And I’d rather lose to you.”

Then—without waiting—he reaches for the hem of his shirt.

This time, the motion isn’t quick. There’s no humor in it, no shrug. Just slow, deliberate movement as he drags the fabric up his torso, revealing inch by inch the toned expanse of his chest—cut with lean muscle, marked by faint scars, the synthetic gleam of his right shoulder catching faint light. His eyes don’t leave yours. If he’s giving you a show, it’s intentional. If he’s waiting to see how you’ll react—he’s watching closely.

The shirt hits the floor shortly after. And when the silence stretches, heavy and filled with a different kind of charge now. Caleb doesn’t reach for more wine. He just breathes slow and deep, bare and still, like the next move is yours to make.

You should have folded.

The thought hits you a moment too late—right as Caleb places his hand down on the table with quiet finality, his cards a clean, easy win. He doesn’t gloat. He doesn’t need to. The way he looks at you, eyes steady and dark with quiet heat, is far more effective than any smirk or tease.

The silence that follows stretches, weighted and slow, and you feel it settle over your skin like the hum of something electric waiting to arc.

There’s no way out. You’ve lost the round. You take a breath, steadying your hand as you reach down to the hem of your shirt, feeling the faintest tremble in your fingertips—not from nerves, not exactly, but from the awareness that this moment has long since stopped being about poker. With careful fingers, you lift the shirt over your head and pull it free, the air cool against your skin as your bare shoulders meet the open room. You’re still in your bra, modest and simple, but under his gaze, it might as well be nothing at all.

You place the shirt beside your jacket with what you hope is casual ease, though you can feel your heartbeat stuttering just beneath your ribs. When you glance up, Caleb is watching you, unmoving, his expression unreadable—but the tension in his jaw, the way his gaze lingers, betrays him.

You clear your throat softly, needing something—anything—to cut through the moment.

“I, um… I need more wine,” you say, pushing up from your seat before he can respond.

You cross the room with too much purpose, your steps just a little too quick, the air against your skin feeling too sharp now, too exposed. Your fingers reach for the bottle, more for something to do than for any real need to drink. You’re not even sure if you meant to escape the moment, or if part of you just wanted to feel the cool glass in your hands before the warmth burning in your chest gets too much to hold.

But before you can pour, you hear the quiet scrape of a chair behind you, the soft sound of his footsteps—slow, deliberate—drawing closer.

You don’t turn. You don’t have to.

His presence fills the space behind you like a shadow stretching in the light—close enough that you can feel the heat of him ghosting along your back, but still not touching, not yet.

“You sure you need more wine?” he asks, voice low, with just the barest hint of gravel at the edges.

Your fingers pause on the neck of the bottle. “I’m just... cooling off,” you murmur, trying to sound breezy, unaffected, though your voice is already tighter than you’d like.

There’s a beat of silence, and then he hums—not skeptical, exactly, but amused in a way that makes your skin prickle with awareness.

“That why you’re trembling?”

The words land too softly to be accusatory, but they knock the breath from you all the same. You close your eyes, just for a moment, and instantly regret it—because now every inch of him feels closer, like the air has folded in around you, and you’re standing in the center of a storm that’s just barely restrained.

You turn your head slightly, just enough to look at him over your shoulder, and you find him already watching you—his gaze pinned to yours like it’s holding you in place.

“I thought you said you play to win,” you manage, your voice low, barely more than a breath.

There’s something in his eyes now, something deeper—desire, yes, but also something rawer beneath it, something like vulnerability wrapped in steel. He lets his gaze drop, tracing the line of your jaw, the curve of your lips, then lower, lingering at the bare skin of your shoulder before meeting your eyes again.

“Maybe I’m tired of pretending I don’t want to lose,” he says softly, and there’s no teasing left in him now—just honesty, quiet and bare and thick with everything neither of you has said aloud.

You don’t speak. You don’t have to. Because then his hand lifts, slow and careful, and his fingers brush the side of your arm with a touch so light it barely registers as contact—just a whisper of skin against skin, a question asked without words.

You don’t pull away. And in that silence—warm, charged, breathless—the line you’ve both been toeing begins to blur, then fade entirely.

Caleb’s fingers linger at your arm, unmoving for a breath, and then they trail upward—slow and deliberate—sliding over the curve of your shoulder and up along your neck, his touch featherlight but sure. He’s watching you closely, as if waiting for hesitation, for a sign that you’ll step back.

But you don’t.

Your breath catches as his hand finds the edge of your jaw, thumb brushing just below your cheekbone, his palm warm and steady against your skin. And still, he waits—so close now you can feel his breath on your lips, but he doesn’t move that final inch until you do.

You lean into him, just barely, and that’s all it takes.

He closes the distance like gravity finally winning—no pretense, no gentleness, just years of wanting poured into the kiss as his mouth crashes into yours with an intensity that steals the air from your lungs.

It’s not soft. It’s not polite. It’s a question, a claim, a thousand unsaid things slammed into one desperate kiss. His hand tilts your jaw up, deepening the angle, and you meet him with just as much urgency, fingers digging in the bare line of muscle at his side, pulling him closer, like you’re afraid he’ll disappear if you don’t hold onto him. His other hand braces at your waist, grounding both of you as your bodies come flush, heat meeting heat with nothing left between but breath and skin.

You sigh into his mouth—soft, shaky—and he swallows the sound like it’s the only thing he’s needed since he came back from the dead. You can feel it in the way he kisses you: the hunger, yes, but also the grief, the guilt, the impossible devotion he’s been carrying like armor. His mouth moves with desperate precision, lips parting yours like he’s memorizing every second of this in case it gets torn away again. When you pull back for air, just barely, his forehead rests against yours, breath ragged, eyes fluttering shut like the moment is too much to hold.

“Tell me this is real,” he whispers, voice rough, thick with something cracked open and raw.

You nod, your fingers curling against the base of his spine. “It’s real.”

And then he kisses you again.

The second kiss is deeper, hungrier—less careful now, as if something inside him has cracked open and there’s no point in trying to put it back. Caleb’s hands slide down your back with firm, reverent pressure, like he’s relearning the shape of you by touch alone, his grip tightening when you arch into him.

Then—without a word—he pulls you back toward the table. With one swift motion, he sends the deck of cards, the half-empty wine glasses, everything scattering to the floor with a crash that makes your heart leap. The sound doesn’t faze him. If anything, it makes his breath deepen.

He looks at you, chest rising and falling with barely leashed control, his hands already sliding down to your hips, guiding you back until your thighs press against the table’s edge.

“I’ve been patient,” he says, voice hoarse and low, each word like gravel dragged across silk. “For years, I waited… I held back… but not anymore.”

You don’t speak—you can’t. Because the way he’s looking at you, like you’re the only thing left in the universe that matters, steals every coherent thought from your mind.

He turns you with careful insistence, hands firm but reverent as he guides your body to face the table. You grip the edge, breath catching, the cold surface against your palms a stark contrast to the heat that radiates from him behind you.

When his hands return, they’re rougher now—claiming. He drags them slowly over your sides, then up your back, the tips of his fingers teasing the band of your bra. He bends down, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, then another, slower, teeth grazing the skin just enough to make you gasp.

“You have no idea how many times I dreamed of this,” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear as one hand slides around your waist, the other flattening over the small of your back. “Of you, right here—mine.”

The last word is a growl.

He presses against you, chest to your back, hips flush to yours, and you feel how hard he is already, the heat of it grinding just enough to make you whimper. His metal arm braces against the table beside yours—cold steel humming with quiet energy—and when you shift your hips back into him, he curses under his breath.

“That’s it,” he growls, one hand sliding between your thighs, forcing them to part. “Keep doing that and I won’t last.”

He dips his head again, this time kissing down your spine, slow and reverent, but each kiss feels like a brand—like he’s marking you one breath at a time. His hands return to your hips, and when he straightens, you feel the weight of his stare on your back like a spotlight.

“You don’t get to hide from me anymore,” he says, hands gripping your waist like you might vanish if he lets go. “You’re mine now. Say it.”

You bite your lip, breath ragged. “I’m yours.”

Your breath catches when you feel Caleb’s fingers slide into the waistband of your pants, his touch both reverent and possessive, and though his movements are deliberate, there’s no mistaking the weight behind them—he’s not teasing anymore; he’s unraveling, and he’s going to take you with him.

He leans in close, his mouth grazing the shell of your ear as he murmurs, “Don’t move,” and the way he says it, low and threaded with rough restraint, leaves no room for disobedience, only heat curling low and fast through your core.

You brace your hands against the table as he begins to tug your pants down your hips, dragging the fabric with agonizing slowness, like every inch he reveals is something sacred, something he’s waited too long to see again. His knuckles brush your thighs, his breath warm against the back of your neck, and when your pants pool around your ankles, he lets out a quiet, nearly broken groan that vibrates straight through you.

It’s your panties he lingers on.

His fingers trace the waistband, sliding along your skin like he’s memorizing you by feel alone, and then, without warning, he curls his fist into the lace and tears it clean in one savage motion—just a sharp, decisive snap, and then nothing but cool air on bare skin and the hot, heavy sound of his breathing behind you.

“I’m not waiting anymore,” he says, almost like a confession, and the ruined fabric is discarded without care as his hands return to your hips, steadying you, grounding you, claiming you all over again.

His touch drifts lower, smoothing over the curve of your ass, then up the small of your back, the contact so firm and slow that it borders on worship, his thumb brushing along the dip of your spine like it belongs there. He leans down, lips pressing against your shoulder, trailing heat with every kiss as he works his way downward, pausing only to let his teeth graze lightly against your skin, the quiet sound of your gasp spurring him on.

“You have no idea,” he whispers, voice hoarse with the weight of everything he’s been holding back, “how many times I dreamed of this—of you, bent over in front of me, mine to touch, mine to take.”

The sound of his belt unfastening fills the silence like a drumbeat, followed by the low scrape of a zipper and the shuffle of clothing pushed hastily down his thighs, and then he’s behind you again, thick and hot and hard, the head of his cock sliding through your folds, coating himself in the slick evidence of how ready you are for him.

He doesn’t press in—not yet.

One hand anchors you by the hip, the other coasting along your front, splaying across your belly before drifting downward, parting your thighs further until you’re open for him, exposed and trembling beneath his touch.

“I thought I’d lost you forever,” he murmurs, his voice cracking on the edge of a growl as he guides himself to your entrance, teasing the sensitive skin with slow, shallow strokes. “Thought I’d never get to fuck you like I always wanted.”

When he finally pushes in, he does it in one slow, brutal thrust, the force of it knocking the breath from your lungs as your body stretches to take him, your hands clutching at the edge of the table for dear life. He doesn’t move right away—just stays buried inside you, fully sheathed, his hands tight on your waist as if he’s holding himself back from coming right then and there.

“Fuck,” he groans, low and guttural, his mouth pressed against your shoulder blade. “You feel like heaven.”

And then he begins to move.

Each thrust is hard and deep, perfectly paced to drive you wild, his hips slamming into yours with a rhythm that’s all hunger and dominance and years of frustration finally, finally, breaking loose. The table creaks beneath you, your legs spread wide, the sound of skin against skin echoing through the room with every punishing snap of his hips.

His hand slides up your back, pressing between your shoulder blades and urging you further down against the table, and when your cheek hits the cool surface, your breath escapes you in a soft, desperate moan.

“You were made for this,” he growls, his mouth near your ear, the heat of his voice sinking into your skin like a brand. “For me. This body, this sound—mine.”

You manage his name on a broken gasp, your voice shaking, your body already on the verge of losing itself entirely as he continues to thrust into you, each movement rougher, deeper, more desperate than the last.

His hand slides between your thighs again, this time to circle your clit with unrelenting pressure, the pads of his fingers slick and confident, and when you cry out, he doesn’t stop—he doubles down, whispering, “Come for me. Let me feel you fall apart.”

And gods, you do.

The orgasm crashes into you like a storm, seizing you from the inside out, your entire body tensing, walls clenching around him as pleasure tears through your spine and explodes behind your eyes. You sob his name, breathless and undone, and he holds you through it, his hand on your hip tightening, the rhythm of his thrusts faltering as he loses himself in the feel of you shattering around him.

“Ah—fuck—gonna come inside you,” he groans, every muscle in his body going taut as he drives into you one last time and stills, buried deep, spilling into you with a guttural moan that’s as much pain as it is relief. His chest presses flush to your back, arms wrapping around your waist like he’s anchoring himself there, like he can’t bear the thought of letting go.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. The air is thick with heat, your bodies tangled, breath syncing in a slow, uneven rhythm that speaks more than either of you could right now.

He doesn’t say anything, but the way he holds you, the way his lips brush the side of your neck in a kiss so soft it almost breaks you, says everything he can’t.

The silence that follows is heavy. It’s the kind of quiet that settles deep into your bones, warm and full, like the world has finally stopped spinning long enough to let you catch your breath. Caleb doesn’t move for a long moment, his chest still pressed against your back, his arms wrapped around your waist like he’s anchoring you to the earth itself. His breath ghosts over your shoulder in slow, unsteady exhales, his body still trembling faintly against yours as the aftershocks roll through both of you.

Then, with a gentle murmur—your name spoken like a vow—he presses a kiss to the back of your neck and pulls out of you slowly, carefully, as though he’s afraid he might hurt you if he moves too fast. He catches your waist as you sway slightly, already reaching for you before you even realize you need the support.

“Easy,” he says, voice low and still rough at the edges, but his hands are impossibly gentle. “I’ve got you.”

And you believe him. You always have.

He helps you straighten, one arm still firmly around your middle as the other brushes a loose strand of hair from your face. When you glance up, your eyes meet his, and for the first time tonight, you see all of him—not just the soldier or the survivor, not the boy who left or the man who came back, but Caleb, who looks at you like you’re the one thing that kept him tethered while the rest of his world burned.

Without a word, he leans in and kisses your temple, slow and soft, before guiding you gently toward the bed in the corner of the room. The lights dim as you pass—probably movement-commanded, but it feels like the room itself is exhaling.

“Stay,” you murmur, already missing the warmth of his body as he helps you sit at the edge of the bed.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says immediately, brushing his thumb over your thigh as if to reassure himself more than you. “Just getting something.”

He returns a moment later with a warm, damp cloth and a fresh towel, kneeling in front of you like you’re something precious, like tending to you is the most natural thing in the world.

Caleb’s silent as he cleans you—tender, focused, his touch slow and steady as he wipes between your thighs, along the insides of your legs, his hand cupping the back of your calf as he works. There’s nothing hurried or clinical in his movements; everything about the way he touches you now speaks of devotion, of reverence, like this is part of the ritual. Like this is sacred, too.

“You okay?” he asks quietly, eyes flicking up to meet yours as he dabs the cloth gently between your legs.

Your voice is small, but sure. “Better than okay.”

A soft smile tugs at his lips, and he presses another kiss—this time to your knee—before setting the cloth aside and wrapping the towel gently around your hips. He helps you ease back into bed, pulling the blankets up over your shoulders, and then, finally, finally, he slips in beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight as his arms curl around your body and bring you close again.

You rest your head against his bare chest, listening to the slow, rhythmic thud of his heart as his hand drifts through your hair in lazy strokes, his other arm banded around your waist, holding you like you’re the last thing worth protecting in the universe.

“I missed you,” he says after a while, voice barely more than a breath. “Just—” his hand squeezes gently at your waist “— you. Everything about you.”

You tilt your head, fingers brushing lightly over the scar near his ribs. “You always had me. Even when you weren’t here.”

He doesn’t answer with words—just a long exhale, a kiss pressed to your forehead, and the way he holds you tighter like he’s finally allowing himself to believe it.

And in the quiet hum of Skyhaven, tangled in Caleb’s arms, with nothing between you but skin and truth, you feel more safe, more known, more his, than you ever have before.

#love and deepspace #lads #lnds #lads smut #lnds smut #lads caleb #lnds caleb #caleb x reader #caleb smut #xia yizhou #.aslads

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solrburst · 20 hours ago

Text

say it — pedro pascal x reader

𝒮ummary: You and Pedro had a thing time ago, and now you reunite for a movie... and maybe more.

𝒲arnings: sub!pedro, dom!reader, unprotected sex, kinda second chance, actress!reader, oral sex (f!receiving),

𝒜uthor’s 𝒩ote: tbh i really can't see pedro not being this submissive bitch im sorry

𝒲ord 𝒞ount: 4k

You hadn't even taken three steps into the studio when the first assistant director called for a break. Not a bad start — barely on the clock, already ahead. The lights above burned hot, the air buzzed with fake laughter, the smell of foundation and hairspray, and somewhere near craft services, someone had already spilled coffee. Typical.

You adjusted your oversized sunglasses, mostly for flair, and strutted toward your mark, heels clicking with a kind of smug rhythm. You knew you were a problem — talented, sure, but hell on wheels once provoked. And right now? You were in a very specific kind of mood. The kind that remembered.

“Pedro’s on his way,” one of the producers warned, polite, oblivious.

You smiled. “Perfect. Let the guilt-tripping begin.”

You didn’t need to see him to feel him. He walked like someone who had nothing left to prove — slow, grounded, with that husky voice that got into your bloodstream. He was taller than you remembered, somehow, or maybe your memory had made him smaller so it hurt less.

Pedro Pascal. Movie star. Heartthrob. Forty-something and still charming like he invented the word. And right now, the man who once had his hands all over you—and then let go.

When he spotted you, his whole face softened. Like it always had. The kind of expression that said he remembered everything.

“Hey,” he greeted, warm as ever, eyes scanning you with a flicker of caution.

You tilted your head and offered a slow, lazy smirk. “Pedro. Wow. You aged okay.”

He laughed — genuine, rumbling, like it cracked his chest open a little. “You’re still trouble.”

You walked right up to him, close enough that the camera crew looked uncomfortable. “And you’re still a coward.”

He blinked, but didn’t deny it. His silence was admission.

The director called for a rehearsal. The script? Cute. Flirty. The two leads — a jaded celebrity chef (you) and a brooding, semi-retired travel writer (him) who’d sworn off love until they were forced to fake-date for a reality show. Classic enemies-to-lovers arc. Hollywood fluff. But with you two?

It had teeth.

You were on take fifteen of a simple scene: he leans in, you hesitate, your lips almost touch. Chemistry test. Firestarter.

And every time, you dragged it out.

You’d linger just a second too long, whisper a line slightly different than the one written.

“Still scared of the real thing, Pedro?” you whispered under your breath, just loud enough for him to catch.

His eyes narrowed, just slightly. “Still playing games, aren’t you?”

“Always.”

Then the director yelled cut. Again.

Pedro exhaled through his nose, rubbed his jaw, and glanced over. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

You shrugged. “Doing what on purpose?”

“That mouth. That look. You want to start something again?”

You bit your lip. Didn’t smile. Just stared up at him and said, “No, you ended it. I’m just here to make sure you remember what you walked away from.”

He looked at you like a man trying not to drown in old waters.

And failing.

The set was dressed like a rustic Italian villa — candlelight flickering against wine glasses, fake breeze rustling the olive branches in the background. Everything soft and romantic, artificial in the way only a million-dollar production could be. But none of that mattered.

What mattered was that you were sitting across from Pedro, in that stupidly perfect dress wardrobe had chosen, the color making your skin glow like you’d been dipped in gold. He looked like sin in a collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Older, yes. Tired in the eyes. But he’d never looked better — or more dangerous.

The scene was simple: You two have dinner, argue about something meaningless (editing rights on the reality show footage, who cares), then… you lean in and kiss him. Quiet. Slow. Soft. No fireworks, just inevitability.

At least that’s what the script said.

“Rolling,” came the cue.

You took a breath. Met his eyes.

His voice was low, in character but somehow more real than anything that had come before. “You push everyone away before they can get close. That’s not strength.”

“And you run,” you shot back, eyes glinting. “Call it noble, call it wisdom—but it’s still running.”

You weren’t acting anymore. Not really.

He swallowed. You saw the tension in his jaw. “I didn’t run. I pulled back before I hurt you worse.”

“You think you didn’t?” you whispered.

Then came the moment. That pause. The lean.

You kissed him. Or he kissed you. There was no clear line. Your mouths met slowly, like tasting something familiar after years of drought. His hand found your cheek — not scripted — and yours gripped his shirt like a reflex, like your body had never really gotten the memo that this was over.

It was supposed to be soft. Sweet.

Instead, it deepened.

Lips parting. Breath stolen. A sound left you that wasn’t in the script — something small and traitorous, and his hand faltered at your jaw for a second like he’d heard it too. His thumb stroked your skin.

You melted into him, for just a breath too long. Felt his body tense, then pull you closer.

"Cut."

But no one said it.

Because the director and the entire team were watching in stunned silence, eyes darting between you two as if they weren’t sure if it was still part of the scene. Even the boom mic dipped too far into frame. No one cared.

You finally pulled back. Barely. Your nose brushed his.

You blinked, trying to collect yourself.

Pedro looked... devastated. Or furious. Or something between the two.

Then someone — probably the PA — finally croaked out, “Uh. That was… amazing. Really… really honest.”

You pushed your chair back, stood up slowly, and said just for the man to hear, “Wasn’t acting.”

Then you walked off set, heels clicking like punctuation.

Leaving Pedro sitting there, staring after you, his lips still parted, his chest still rising too fast — like he was remembering everything all over again, and had no idea what the hell to do about it.

Your trailer was small, cluttered, and half-lit by the soft yellow glow of the vanity bulbs. A script lay facedown on the couch, ignored. Your dress was still half unzipped, but you hadn’t bothered to finish taking it off. You just sat there, one leg tucked under you, a glass of something stronger than tea in your hand.

Your heart hadn’t settled since the kiss.

You weren’t thinking about the script, the crew, or the fact that twenty people probably saw something they shouldn’t have. You were thinking about his mouth. The way it remembered you without hesitation. The way his hand still knew exactly where to go, like no time had passed.

Three knocks on the door. Not rushed. Not tentative either.

You didn’t move. Just sipped your drink and yelled, “If it’s PR, I’m already naked and crying. Go away.”

The door creaked open anyway.

You didn’t have to look. You knew.

“Pedro,” you said, his name like a taste on your tongue.

He stepped inside. Closed the door behind him with a slow click.

You finally glanced over. His hair was a mess — like he’d run his hands through it five times since you left. He looked thrown. Like he was walking into something he’d told himself he wouldn’t touch again.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he said.

You raised a brow. “Then why are you?”

He didn’t answer immediately. He just stood there, eyes raking over you in that dress, the bare skin of your back, the glass in your hand, your mouth still red from him.

“I wanted to make sure you were okay,” he said, but even he didn’t believe it.

You let the silence hang heavy for a moment. “You came to check on me? Or you came because that kiss scared the shit out of you?”

His jaw worked. “Both.”

You smiled without humor. “So what now, Pedro? Gonna give me another speech about how I need someone my age? Or maybe just another one-night rewrite before disappearing again?”

He stepped closer. Not far. Just enough that you could smell him. That warm scent of cedar and guilt.

“I never stopped thinking about you,” he said quietly.

You looked up at him, eyes sharp. “Then why did you throw me away like I was bad for you?”

He flinched. Real. Visceral.

“I didn’t think I deserved you,” he said.

You scoffed. “That’s not romantic. That’s pathetic.”

“Maybe,” he murmured, “but it was the truth.”

You stood, now inches from him. The air was tight. Tense. You could feel the electricity snapping again between you like wires exposed.

“So what? You want to make it worse now? You want to get me used to you again just so you can vanish when it gets too fucking real?”

He didn’t answer with words.

He reached up, slow, hand brushing your cheek with that same maddening gentleness that had made you fall for him the first time. His voice was barely a breath.

“Everything about that kiss was real.”

You swallowed, your eyes flicking to his mouth.

“And what if I kissed you again?” you whispered.

His thumb traced your bottom lip, and his voice dropped.

“Then I’d never stop.”

And when you kissed this time — no one watching, no director calling action — it was messy, raw, the kind of kiss that spoke in apologies and old fire. It was real.

His hands were in your hair, yours under his shirt.

The kiss started confessional. That dangerous in-between where want still dressed itself up in restraint. But your body didn’t want restraint. It wanted everything it remembered—and everything it was denied.

His mouth moved against yours like he’d been starving. Hands cupping your face first, reverent almost, but that reverence didn’t last long. He kissed you deeper. Greedier. As if he’d been waiting all these months to taste you again and couldn’t believe he finally could.

You reached for his shirt, yanking it out of his waistband, fingers sliding underneath to feel the familiar warmth of his skin. He made a sound—low and broken—and pressed his forehead to yours.

“Tell me to stop,” Pedro rasped. His voice was frayed. Rough velvet. “You need to say it now. Because if you don’t…”

You grabbed his wrist and dragged his hand down.

“No more warnings,” you whispered, guiding his palm over your hip, under the edge of the dress. “You gave me those when you left. I'm not listening anymore.”

His hand slipped beneath the fabric. You weren’t wearing anything underneath. No bra. No panties. Just skin. Bare and waiting.

His breath hitched hard. His other hand clenched at your waist, like he needed to hold you still or he’d lose it.

“You’re killing me,” he murmured.

“Good.”

He kissed you again, harder now, and you could feel how badly he wanted this—wanted you. His hand moved over your bare skin like he needed to memorize it all over again, tracing the curve of your ass, the dip of your lower back. He lifted the hem of the dress as he pushed you back toward the small couch, not bothering to unzip it.

The dress fell off your shoulders. Slid down in a whisper of fabric.

You stood there, bare, defiant, daring him to look. Daring him not to.

Pedro stepped back half a pace, chest rising like he’d just been hit. “Fuck,” he breathed. “You’re…”

“Don’t say beautiful,” you said, voice a little breathless. “Don’t try to romanticize this now.”

He stepped forward again and didn’t say a word. Just kissed you like punishment and apology, hands everywhere—palming your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples until your breath hitched sharply against his lips. He walked you back until the backs of your knees hit the couch and pushed you gently down onto it, standing above you, shirt undone, belt already halfway off.

You looked up at him, flushed and bare, legs parted slightly where you sat, body warm and aching.

“Take it off,” you said.

He stripped for you like it was a confession. Slow, quiet, no performance. When he was finally in front of you, hard and heavy and no longer gentle, he knelt down between your thighs and kissed the inside of your knee.

“You’re still so fucking reckless,” he whispered, voice thick.

“And you still love it,” you shot back, fingers sliding through his hair, pulling him closer.

He didn’t argue.

He didn’t need to.

Pedro’s mouth hovered just above the inside of your thigh, his breath hot against your skin. His hands gripped your hips, holding you in place like he didn’t trust himself not to get lost the second he started. You were already flushed, spread open for him on the narrow couch, your skin fever-warm, nipples peaked from his earlier touch.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured, kissing higher. “You used to pretend I didn’t do that to you.”

You gave a low laugh, breathless. “I’m not pretending tonight.”

Then his mouth was on you.

The first drag of his tongue made your hips twitch, made you gasp—sharp and sudden, like a curse slipped out against your will.

“F-fuck, Pedro…”

He groaned low at the sound of his name like that. One hand slid up your thigh, thumb pressing into the crease where your leg met your hip, holding you wide open. He licked you again—slow, purposeful—then circled your clit, tongue flicking just enough to tease before he backed off, lips slick, eyes burning.

“I almost forgot how good you taste,” he rasped, before diving in again, hungrier now.

You moaned louder, head falling back, hands gripping the edge of the couch. “Jesus, you never forget that. You’d come back from hell itself just to eat this pussy.”

His growl vibrated against your core. He doubled down.

You bucked against his mouth and he held you there, tongue working in filthy, expert rhythm, and you could barely keep up with your own breath.

“Fuck—fuck, yes, that’s it—god, Pedro. Look at you. Down there like you missed it more than anything.”

His fingers dug into your thighs, his mouth relentless now, tongue flattening and curling against you like he had really missed it. Every sound you made only made him worse—messier, deeper, tongue sliding lower to taste everything, jaw moving like a man feeding on something sacred.

Your hand threaded through his curls and pulled.

“You gonna make me come on your tongue like a good little regret, huh?” you gasped. “Is that what you want? Want me soaking your face while you think about how fucking stupid you were to leave?”

He groaned into you again, lips wrapping around your clit, sucking hard enough to make your thighs tremble. You cried out—sharp, raw, high—and your whole body jerked with it.

“Shit—shit, don’t stop, Pedro—don’t you dare—”

He didn’t. He couldn’t. He kept going until your back arched off the couch, a long moan ripping out of your throat as you came hard, mouth open, body shaking. You clenched around nothing, needing more, and he stayed with you through it, tongue softening just enough to let the waves ride out while your fingers twisted in his hair like a lifeline.

When you finally stilled, legs trembling, chest heaving, he looked up.

His mouth was wet. His chin slick. His eyes dark as sin.

You met his gaze with a ruined grin.

“Next time you leave me,” you panted, “you better be on your knees just like that.”

He kissed your inner thigh, voice wrecked.

“Next time I leave you, it’ll be because you told me to.”

You were still catching your breath when Pedro stood. The sight of him like that—lips swollen, chin glistening with your slick, eyes heavy with something feral—made your core pulse all over again. You didn’t say anything. You just reached for him and pulled him down into another kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue.

It was messy. Desperate. His hands groped at your waist, your ass, anywhere he could anchor himself as you dragged him with you across the trailer, knocking into the table, the chair, laughing against his lips because you wanted it messy. You wanted him marked by this.

You fell onto the bed with a gasp, pulling him down on top of you. His cock pressed against your belly, heavy and hot, and you wrapped your legs around him, rolling your hips slow just to feel him groan into your mouth.

“I missed that fucking mouth,” you whispered, teeth grazing his jaw. “Missed the way you beg without saying anything.”

“I don’t beg,” he muttered, already breathless.

“Oh, you almost forgot about that too?”

You pushed him onto his back, straddling him in one smooth, lazy roll of your hips. His cock throbbed between your thighs as you ground down, slick still coating you, teasing both of you with the heat of what was about to happen.

You sat up on him, slow and deliberate, hands on his chest, nails dragging lightly across skin.

He looked wrecked beneath you—hair wild, chest heaving, lips parted. His hands reached for your hips, but you slapped one of them away.

“No,” you whispered with a wicked smile. “You don’t get to touch until I say.”

Pedro’s eyes darkened, jaw clenched. “You’re fucking evil.”

You reached between you, lined him up, and slid the head of his cock through your folds, slicking him with your arousal but never giving him what he wanted. Your hips rolled forward again, dragging him against your clit.

“I’m your punishment,” you said, voice honeyed and lethal. “You knew that the second you walked in here.”

Then, finally, you sank down onto him.

Both of you gasped, bodies going still for a beat, the stretch and heat of it lighting your nerves up like fire. He was thick, and the way you eased down so slowly—inch by inch—was torment. He groaned beneath you, head falling back, hands fisting in the sheets beside him.

“Jesus fuck,” he hissed. “You’re doing it on purpose.”

“Of course I am.”

You started to move—slow, grinding circles, not even lifting yet—just milking him from the inside. Your hands braced on his chest as you rocked your hips, clenching around him like a vice.

He tried to thrust up.

You stopped him with a sharp roll of your hips and a glare.

“Uh-uh. You take this,” you whispered, voice pure sin. “You don’t get to fuck me. I ride you. You’re mine now, baby.”

His breath hitched. His hands trembled against the mattress.

You leaned forward, breasts brushing his chest, your mouth next to his ear.

“Bet you thought about this when you were pretending to move on. Bet you came in your hand picturing me on top, dragging it out just like this—rubbing your cock raw while thinking about how I sounded the last time I came on it.”

He let out a broken noise—half groan, half growl—and you clenched around him again, just to prove a point.

“Say it,” you whispered.

He swallowed hard. “Yes.”

“Say what you thought about.”

“You,” he gasped. “Your voice. Your cunt. The way you take control. The way you ruin me.”

You grinned. Victory laced in every curve of your mouth.

Then you started to bounce—slow at first, your rhythm cruel and steady, grinding at the bottom of every thrust like you were trying to unravel him cell by cell. The slap of skin got louder. His moans got rougher. Every time he looked like he might break, you slowed down again—torturing him with that pace, keeping him right on the edge.

You dragged your nails across his chest and leaned in again.

“Don’t you dare come,” you whispered, biting his lip. “You don’t get to finish until I say.”

He looked up at you, jaw clenched, sweat at his temples.

And he nodded.

Wrecked. Worshipful.

Utterly at your mercy.

Pedro was panting beneath you, arms trembling, sweat glistening across his chest. You could see it in the way his muscles tensed and released, the way his jaw clenched so tightly you thought it might crack—he was hanging on by a thread. His cock throbbed inside you, twitching helplessly as you rode him with punishing control, dragging out every roll of your hips, every clench of your slick heat around him like a noose.

You had him exactly where you wanted him.

“Look at you,” you murmured, fingertips tracing down his throat, your nails dragging with purpose. “You’re fighting so hard. For what? To prove you're still in control?”

He groaned, eyes fluttering shut, lips parted.

You stilled on top of him, cock buried deep inside, and he whined.

It broke out of him without warning, pure instinct. A wounded, desperate sound.

Your smirk was wicked. “Oh, baby. You remember now what I said about begging?”

He opened his eyes—wet, dark, wide. Like he hated how much he needed this.

You leaned down, mouth brushing his, breath warm and slow. “Say it.”

He swallowed. Shook his head once, as if he still had pride left.

You clenched around him, slow and hard, hips barely moving—just enough to make him twitch, make him shake.

“Say it, Pedro.”

His voice cracked. “I—I need—”

“Need what?” you whispered, licking the shell of his ear. “Say it like you mean it. Say what you can’t tell anyone else.”

You started to ride him again—slower this time, deeper. Grinding. Just enough to make him feel everything but never enough to let him tip over.

He choked on a groan, eyes wide, head tossed back into the pillow. “Please. Fuck—please let me come. Please, I—I need it.”

You bit his shoulder lightly, fingers tangled in his hair. “You need it? Or do you need me to give it to you?”

He shuddered beneath you.

“I need you,” he said, barely more than a breath. “Please, I need you to let me. I need you to—fuck—I need you to use me. Just—please.”

Something in you purred at that. Not just the words, but the way he meant them. The way he was letting himself break for you—no shields, no performance. Just raw submission. Just yours.

You sat back, hands on his chest again, and finally—finally—started riding him for real. Not teasing. Not denying. You fucked him like he was your favorite toy, your oldest sin, and he took it with everything he had. His hands were fisting the sheets now, moaning deep and wrecked beneath you, body jerking every time your hips snapped down.

“You’re so fucking good when you give up,” you panted, grinding hard, clit catching just right. “You need to be owned. You need someone to ride you until you’re begging like a—”

“I’m begging,” he groaned, voice gone. “Please, I’m begging—let me come, I’ll do anything, I need it—”

You leaned forward, wrapped your hand around his throat—not hard, just enough pressure to make him tremble—and whispered right into his mouth:

“Then come for me, Pedro. Right now.”

He shattered.

Came with a full-body spasm, a raw, broken sound that tore from his chest, cock pulsing deep inside you as he spilled himself in desperate, twitching waves. His hands finally grabbed your hips—clung to you—while his body arched and trembled beneath you.

You didn’t stop riding him. Slowed, yes, but kept going—milking him through it, your own orgasm cresting as he throbbed inside you, your body clenching around him, shaking with it.

You both collapsed together, breathing hard, tangled in sweat and heat.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Then he whispered, barely audible, “You always knew this about me… didn’t you.”

You smirked against his throat, lips brushing his flushed skin.

“I knew the second you got down on your knees for the first time.”

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfic #pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal x reader #smut #fanfic #gia writes pedro ⋆ 𐙚 ̊.

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biellescouts · 2 days ago

Text

days

jeong jaehyun x f!reader

« you weren’t a part of me, what did i lose? »

a/n; ouuuu sorry guys🙂‍↔️

cw: jae being a dumbass? i’m running out of adjectives for him lowkey, arguement, angsty, realisation… 😛

summary: jaehyunnie pulls you in for a chat babes x

<- back to pt1

jae cracks his eyes open slowly. a stinging pain twangs in his head, at which he winces— he’s hung over as fuck. and when he fully opens his eyes to take in his surroundings, he realises he’s not even home but in what looks like a girls apartment. & i mean shit!

all he can do is sigh and remain completely still, careful not to move and wake the woman beside him. he moves at snail pace to slide his phone out from under the pillow and check the time. 8:53am. and almost as if she can hear him frantically planning his escape, her hand starts to drift around from its place on his chest.

“hi, you.” she smiled at him and sat up on her elbow. “you’re awake?”

no response.

“hey, don’t try to play me i know your awake.” she huffs poking his cheek and he can’t help but crack an embarrassed smile. she returns it.

“you got me.” he sits up in the bed and looks around. the words ‘i have to go.’ are just ringing in his head as he ruffles his own hair roughly. almost as if he’s looking for something. maybe why he even did what he did this.

jae rolled himself off the mystery woman’s bed with a huff and rapidly collected his clothes off the floor before tiptoeing towards the bedroom door as if the girl wasn’t already awake.

“so am i gonna see you again, or what?” the girl yelled as he started sliding on his sweats.

“not likely!” he flashed his panty-dropping smile at her and then he was gone. he could hear her exasperated sigh from when he reached the door which evoked a sigh out of him. he didn’t like to hurt people and yet he had just killed two birds with one stone. deep down he knew that you and mark would have never done anything, but he was driven by emotion last night. just the idea of it was enough to set him off. and did.

it wasn’t like you and jaehyun liked eachother or any of that gross stuff, but before you had started your little arrangement, you had explicitly told him that you could not go through with it if you were going to fuck loads of other people— too messy. and at the time he had ensured you, promised you, that he wouldn’t break this rule. now he knew he was fucked.

he had to think, hard, about how he would go about this. would he sit on the information and wait for it to come out in the worst way possible? perhaps not. he knew he had to talk to you about it. and he was hugely dreading it.

the first thing he did when he got home was fish his phone out of his sweats pocket dial your number. and when you saw his name light up on your phone, you immediately knew something was off— he never calls.

“y/n?”

“mhm, you okay? you never call. always fuckass insta dms” you laughed.

he sighed. ‘you okay’ ? way to make him feel worse.

“i’m fine, but i think you should come over.”

“oh you think so? i don’t. i’m kinda mad at you, sir, if you didn’t catch that from last night.” there was a playfulness in your tone.

“i just think, we need to talk.”

your heart dropped, “oh.”

you arrived to his apartment in a comfortable, baggy outfit— ready for any heavy news, and quickly greeted his roommates before following him into the living room.

“what’s up, jae? you look.. kinda like shit.” you tried to smile at him but he didn’t return it.

“i’m hungover.”

“ah.”

it was never usually awkward between you, but the silence you sat in was excruciating. jaehyun’s brows were knit together and you could almost hear the thoughts fluttering round his head. “uhm, say your piece, jae.”

“i- la- uhm, last night? i slept with someone. like i went home with someone, a girl.”

you were stunned. on your way over, you had a deep down feeling that it would be something like this, something along those lines, but hearing out loud made it real. and it was crushing.

as much as you hated to admit, under all the thick layers of your cool girl facade, you viewed you and jaehyun’s relationship to be somewhat.. important. you, maybe, didn’t rely on him for all things in the same way you would in a relationship. you didn’t really feel the need to tell him you loved him, or even want to spend all of your time with him, but the time you did spend together was special to you. in some sense. you viewed your monogamy sort of like a pinky-promise to eachother. there was a level of devotion there.

so to hear that he had blown that devotion off, didn’t care in the same way that you did? made you feel hurt and a little tiny bit delusional. you sighed heavily.

“jaehyun? be serious right now.”

“i am.” he closed his eyes, raising his fingers to the bridge of his nose.

“you broke our one rule?”

“yes.”

“wow.” you got up.

“and i’m sorry! but i need to explain,”

“dude, what is there to explain? it was only one rule. pretty simple, you broke it.” you shrugged. and he stayed silent, trying to figure out if.. you even cared.

“why are you so mad?” — & maybe this was the wrong way to go about finding out. you froze in your tracks and just laughed, incredulously. jaehyun tried to save himself, “like-

“the reason i’m mad is because you freaked out over me driving mark home! then you go and break the one promise we had made to eachother! why wouldn’t i be mad?”

“look, this should be something we can just get over, it’s not like we’re dating. you dont have to leave like this.” ‘it’s not like we’re dating’ …

“jae, like what?” you just rolled your eyes.

“mad at me… we’re supposed to make up, that’s why i called you over.” he furrowed his brows, rubbing the back of his neck.

“you’re ridiculous, jaehyun. you know, you can’t just do something that you know is wrong and then call me to come over and forgive you.”

“i’m sorry. i just-“ he sighed and it was clear he was struggling with what he was about to say, “seeing how much mark was making you laugh made me uncomfortable as fuck for some reason.”

you furrowed your brows at him.

“and then you left with him? and something in me was like ‘they’re fucking in her car.’ and i freaked out.”

“so, because you thought i broke our rule, you went and did the same?”

“no i- i know you hadn’t. and it’s not even about the rule, it’s about.. my feelings—

“you know what? i actually just don’t wanna hear it. nothing you can say right now can change what you’ve already done.”

“y/n—”

“i’m gna go, mkay?”

“‘kay fine.” sighing, jaehyun ran a hand through his hair. it was weird how calm you were being, almost scary. of course, he didn’t break your rule to upset you, but deep down he knew it would have some effect. or at least, he thought it would. he stood up to see you off but you had already left the room before he could. he sighed out a heavy breath.

you smiled and waved at ten and taeyong in the kitchen on your way out of the apartment before going down to your car. slowly you lowered your head down to the wheel and scrunched your eyes shut.

literally why should you care? why would you care?

you headbutted the wheel.

“fuck, man.”

a/n; mmmm maybe YOU should have stayed a little while to hear him out.. maybe YOU would have had a different reaction. but alas.. it’s too late for that now. [🤣] yalllll don’t hate me

#fem!reader #poc!reader #jeong jaehyun imagine #jeong jaehyun x reader #jaehyun x reader #jeong jaehyun #jaehyun imagines #jaehyun fanfic #jaehyun #nct x reader #nct imagines #nct fanfic #nct 127 #nct

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svt-ara · 2 days ago

Text

𝓚 𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘢𝘳𝘢 𝘪𝘴 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 '95 𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘳𝘴

꒰୨ 𝓜asterlist ୧꒱

⁺ ⑅ ꫂ ၴႅၴ 𝓢.𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘱𝘴 ꕀ

# 𝗗𝗬𝗡𝗔𝗠𝗜𝗖 જ⁀➴ protective big bro & sassy lil sis

# 𝗡𝗔𝗠𝗘 જ⁀➴ cheolA / seara

# 𝗣𝗢𝗣𝗨𝗟𝗔𝗥𝗜𝗧𝗬 જ⁀➴ 90%

꒰ 𑄽୧ ꒱ 𓈒 since ara is the only female in the group, from day one seungcheol felt like she was his little sister— someone he needed to protect, even if they are only a year apart. back in the traniee days, even though the choice to add a girl to the group last minute seemed strange to him, he couldn't bring himself to not want her. he could see how troubled she was— she didn't want to mess up all the dynamics had already been built, but at the same time, she didn't want to turn down an opportunity like this. even if she already was an extroverd, she didn't want to overstep and seungcheol could tell. that's why he adopted her immediatly and scolded the member who— lowkey, weren't nice to her.

as someone said— somethings never change, and that was their case. if not, their bond only became stronger as the years passed and suddently ara wasn't just the girl who randomly joined. the girl always looks out for the leader who is completely down for her— sometimes the members even call him out mentioning the fact she is the favorite child and he didn't even try to hide it.

one time, they were on a variety show, and when the mc asked who was the member the leader would never scold, half of them answered without even thinking— mentioning how shamelessly obvious he was about it. another time, during a fansing, a fan asked him who he would trust the most if he had to step down, his eyes immediately spotted the long haired girl among all the members saying how she already kept all of them in line when he wasn't around.

on the other hand, ara is way sassier than seungcheol. ofcurse she will always admires his hard work as a leader and how well he took care of her when she was just a small fish in a big pond, but teasing is part of her and hes no exception. shes always teasing him about how he is "down for her", and no matter how much she jokes around, it doesn't change the way he treats her.

# 𝗖𝗔𝗡𝗢𝗡 𝗘𝗩𝗘𝗡𝗧𝗦 જ⁀➴

aras leaning on his shoulder backstage when she is tired

when the tension is tick between members maybe because something happened, ara cracks a joke and he is always the frist one to smile

sometimes ara calls him "big bro" and he gives her a playful scold or a playful pout

⁺ ⑅ ꫂ ၴႅၴ 𝓙𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘩𝘢𝘯 ꕀ

# 𝗗𝗬𝗡𝗔𝗠𝗜𝗖 ��⁀➴ partner in crime, mbti compatible duo

# 𝗡𝗔𝗠𝗘 જ⁀➴ arahannie

# 𝗣𝗢𝗣𝗨𝗟𝗔𝗥𝗜𝗧𝗬 જ⁀➴ 94%

꒰ 𑄽୧ ꒱ 𓈒 knowing jeonghan, he teased ara since day one. ara still doesn't know to this days if he was just messing around with her or if he genuinely didn't like the way she suddently showed up and sneaked into something. he was— and wanted to be, lowkey mean but he always got away with it thanks to his angel-look-like face. basically, he didn't liked her at all but he didn't ignored her. he used to call her some weird and funny nicknames or mimicked her accent— and yet he was always there, oddly enough he never treated her badly

with the time, ara realized that was his weird way of welcoming her. he included her in the chaos, dragging her into pranks and let fall the blame mostly on her, prentending to blame her when things went wrong, he made sarcastic comments under his breath so only her could hear and shared snacks with her when he thought none was looking. he was annoying— very, but present.

he didn't obviously affection, he did playful bickering, dramatic sighs and "ugh, why are you sitting next to me again?" but his voice slightly cracked because of his smile betrayed him every time. and ara played along, teasing hin right back and somewhere in between fake argoument and secret shared snacks, they clicked. jeonghan practically raised her to be a mini him. he taught her how to lie with a straight face, how to play everyone during games and how to stretch the trurth to avoid problems.

post-debut things only got worse— jeonghan loved causing chaos and then blaming it on ara when things went too far and he didn't know how to defend himself. during one of their going seventeen, he looked at the members and blamed everything on her "don't look at me, ara did. shes evil". or when during a weverse live someone asked who he respected the most among the members and he casually said her name just because "she lies well".

# 𝗖𝗔𝗡𝗢𝗡 𝗘𝗩𝗘𝗡𝗧𝗦 જ⁀➴

jeonghan randomly patting her head with a proud smirk

joking about how among 13 other mbti type, they only get along well with each other

sarcastly arguing on weverse and one time they even pranked everyone by pretending to argue mid-live

him making a nickname for her by taking the frist letter of her surname and of her name, taking the "y" and the "a" so it sounds like jagiya

⁺ ⑅ ꫂ ၴႅၴ 𝓙𝘰𝘴𝘩𝘶𝘢 ꕀ

# 𝗗𝗬𝗡𝗔𝗠𝗜𝗖 જ⁀➴ californian buddies

# 𝗡𝗔𝗠𝗘 જ⁀➴ joara

# 𝗣𝗢𝗣𝗨𝗟𝗔𝗥𝗜𝗧𝗬 જ⁀➴ 73%

꒰ 𑄽୧ ꒱ 𓈒 from the very frist days as trainees, joshua and ara naturally found each other. they were both coming from california, they didn't just share the birthplace and the language, also the culture. joshua, thinking back to those times, says she really helped with the languange struggle— english was their secret comfort. ara still remembers the frist time joshua noticed she was overwhelmed after a long day in the loud green room— he offered a granola bar and reassured her shed get trough it. well, it wasn't that helpful in that moment, but it still meant a lot to her. plus, with that cute smile and his crescent moon eyes maybe something was really fixed.

their bond wasn't usually lound and dramatic, it was steady and calm. they became each other safe place when the pressure got too much, sitting togheter during breaks, sharing playlist with a lots of english songs recommends or just sitting in silence trying to recover from the loud chatter.

even if after their debut the schedules were even more demanding, joshua and ara still found the time to connect in their quiet way. it didn't matter whether it was— if sharing late night text messages or small moments backstage when the noises died down. but hers— or their— tease never missed like the time when joshua caught ara sneaking snacks from the dance pratice fridge and jokingky called her the "official food thief" of the group. ara laughed it off and dared him to tell anyone— which, of curse, he did in insomnia-zero

# 𝗖𝗔𝗡𝗢𝗡 𝗘𝗩𝗘𝗡𝗧𝗦 જ⁀➴

sharing airpods and playing their shared playlist

giving her the nickname of raye because it sounds like "ray" in english

still helping him with korean, but it just ends up with both of them being confused

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sauce-salad-bowl · 11 hours ago

Text

hey i love you here’s a silly sequel:

‘omg, loved this sm!! (y/n) was sooo in character!! great job sapienfan420! ^.^’

Sans stares blankly at the comment on his screen, a tiny feeling of pride inching up his spine. He’s surprised that anyone had bothered to read the thing at all.

There’s a small voice, itching in the corner of his soul: ‘course they’re in character. i know ‘em inside and out.’

He immediately feels silly. Yes, he thinks he knows technically everything about you. Every line written in your font. Every file in your code. Every single option.

Because you’re not real. Code and files is all he can get. No matter everything he learns, every piece of you he peels through, it never really feels like enough. It’s why he started writing.

It’s been a few weeks since Sans started indulging in his little hobby. That’s the only way he’s willing to describe it, because anything else sounds a little mortifying. He’s created an anonymous UnderNet account to write pages and pages about you, behind the safety of his screen. That sounds very normal, if you ask him.

And it’s been going well so far, but he has to admit he’s apprehensive about posting his stuff. The Underground is a small place— even online, it’s hard to maintain anonymity. Although he doesn’t really think anyone will judge him if they found out, he’s not sure if he’s ready for everyone to know about it, either.

But at the same time, if he didn’t post his thoughts about you, where would they go? You didn’t exist to pour them into. They would be stuck, rattling around his empty skull, like a cave with a dreary echo. By writing it all down, it really does feel like…

…It really does feel like he’s telling it all to you.

Is it strange how happy that makes him? Even if it’s not real, the ability to say it all to you is freeing. The ability to bring you to life is freeing. It fills that empty spot, the one he feels when he’s done thumbing through everything about you for the millionth time. When he writes, he just feels a little less hollow. A little more full.

Is this enough? To have only your words towards someone, and nothing else?

“SANS!” His brother’s booming voice cuts through the house and his thoughts. “SANS, COME QUICK!”

Sans sighs, shutting his laptop and stretching until his joints pop. Paps must be back already. As slowly as possible, he slinks out of his chair and makes his way to the stairs, where his brother awaits him at the bottom.

“heya, bro. what’s down?”

A look of annoyance crosses his face. “I THINK YOU MEAN, ‘WHAT IS UP’, BOTHER.”

“nothing much, what’s up with you?” Sans knows it’s cheap, but Papyrus’ strangled noises makes it worth it. After fuming for an appropriate amount of time, Papyrus ignores his antics and continues.

“SANS, LOOK WHAT TREASURE I HAVE FOUND FROM THE GARBAGE PILES OF WATERFALL!” Papyrus outstretches his gloved hand, which is clutching a plastic bag tightly.

Papyrus goes through the items quickly, tossing them to the floor until they create their own little pile of garbage. He lists them all like spitfire, and Sans almost has trouble keeping up.

“A BROKEN YO-YO, A USED RETAINER, HALF A YARN BALL…” he lists, “AND THIS!”

He pulls the last item out triumphantly, a ridiculous smile on his face. It takes a moment for it to register to Sans what his brother is holding.

“is that… (y/n)?”

“PRECISELY!” Papyrus bounds up the stairs, a plush doll of you tight in his grasp. “I FOUND IT AND IMMEDIATELY THOUGHT OF YOU! THEY’RE YOUR FAVORITE, ARE THEY NOT, SANS?”

Sans feels his cheekbones heat up, a bashful smile on his face. “how’d, uh, y’know that?”

Papyrus guffaws. “PLEASE, SANS. YOU ONLY TALK ABOUT THEM ALL THE TIME. ANYONE COULD SEE IT, EVEN SOMEONE NOT AS GREAT AS ME!”

The doll is suddenly pushed into his hands. It looks pretty close to you, he has to admit. They got your eyes right, and your outfit, though maybe your smile could be a little more crooked…

His chest warms when his brother’s words finally absorb. Paps got him this because when he saw you, he thought of Sans. He can’t pinpoint why exactly that makes him so giddy, but it really does.

“SO I WAS CORRECT? YOU’RE HAPPY WITH YOUR GIFT?”

Tentatively, Sans takes the plush from Papyrus, his permanent smile growing. That strange feeling, that doubt that clouds his mind about his writing, about you, melts away.

“it’s perfect, bro. thank you.”

So maybe you’re not here. Maybe that can be okay.

Maybe it can be enough that he can bring you to life, just for a second, and nothing more.

He tells himself this, because there’s nothing else for him to do.

+++++

sorry if the ending is a downer, ik ppl wanted to see sans find MC, or at least a version of them. but that’s not really how these things go.

drabble idea where sans is an author underground and reader is just a video game character okay send blog post it’s under there 🤝🤝

This is embarrassing. He doesn’t even know what to write. Sans scoots away from the empty document on his computer, face buried deep in his hands. Maybe he should just cut his losses and go to sleep. Again.

But he doesn’t go to sleep. He mopes for a minute, then glances back at his computer and sighs, pulling himself closer again. Instead of agonizing over the blank page, he opens the UnderNet.

Scrolling will totally help him forget his problems.

And it does, for a few minutes.

He leaves five or twelve comments on Papyrus’ page, swipes through a few videos, only to quickly stumble onto another drawing of you. The caption says:

‘miss this game sm. who’s ur fave character? ^.^’ His thumb hovers over the keypad for a moment, then he ‘likes’ it.

It was a few years ago from now when he was getting coffee with Alphys, and she was gabbing to him about the things she had found in Waterfall. He was surprised when she handed him a copy of a video game he had never seen before.

“keep it, alph. you’ll appreciate it more than me.” Sans tried to respectfully decline, honestly thinking he’d be too lazy to play.

But Alphys insisted, her claw tapping the package. “I found a b-bunch of copies, actually. I-I’ve been trying to p-pass them around, get a bunch of p-people i-into it.”

“and how many you got so far?” he asked, placing his skull in his palm.

“Uhm, Undyne! A-and Asgore, for a f-few minutes…” She pushed the game towards him on the table. “And th-they both liked it! C-Can you just try it out?”

Sans shrugged and took the game from her, doubting that he would. But he could give it to Papyrus, maybe he’d get a kick out of it. He glanced at the cover, decorated with humans in odd-looking outfits. You didn’t stick out to him, not at first.

The video game ended up on the bookstand, under his quantum physics/joke textbook, for weeks. He was a busy guy, okay?

It would’ve sat there longer too, had Undyne not been over soon after. She grabbed the dusty case and insisted that they all play, waving it around wildly.

“It’s got swords and chainsaws, awesome characters, and a totally badass story! We’ve gotta take turns between levels!” Her eye had sparkled, and Papyrus had squealed at the thought, and that was how Sans found himself on the couch, sandwiched between them and watching them play.

It was a simple RPG adventure. And honestly, it didn’t seem like anything crazy to him, so he was content with just watching. But of course after a while his brother was shoving a controller in his hand and insisting he have a turn.

“alright, alright. ulna’t get your radius in a twist.”

“OH MY GOD, SANS. JUST PLAY.”

He snorted, but complied, actually enjoying solving some of the puzzles. He thought the art style was neat, too. And the NPCs were kind of interesting.

Especially you.

You were a loyal companion to Sans’ character, and he immediately noticed how… endeared he was by you. Your dialogue genuinely made him laugh out loud— he was definitely stealing some of your material. And your character just had this… aura, no, mystery about you, like you knew something more than he did.

Maybe this game was cooler than he thought.

Sans found himself quickly exhausting your dialogue options. He was just curious about what you had to say. When Undyne started to complain, he blinked, and handed the controller to her. He’d gotten distracted.

It’s only really spiraled from there. After playing the whole thing through right after Undyne left, he’s been a fan of the game ever since.

But if someone really asked him about it, he’s not sure what he would say. He liked it, but not much else. Because he wants to seem casual about it. He is casual about it.

That’s why he’s here now, a few years later, struggling to get down thoughts about you onto his keyboard. Super casual indeed.

He sucks in a breath, finally opening the document page again. You didn’t just fascinate him. He thought about you constantly, more than he’d like to admit. He found himself seeking you out outside your game, which worked well since it became pretty popular on UnderNet. He’s read his fair share of theories about you, only half of which he agrees with.

He wasn’t sure at all what to make of it, but he knew he liked thinking about you a lot. Sans had a lot of time for daydreaming as a sentry, since no humans ever actually came through. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t imagine you, shuffling past him in the snowy forrest.

Can he write about that? Sans puts down a few sentences, but it doesn’t really go anywhere, so he deletes it.

It’s not like he hasn’t tried with, y’know, real people. But he’s found that it’s a lot of effort to make relationships work. Sans has had a few great ones, but things always just sort of fizzled out. He hasn’t given up on it, but there are only so many folks down here. And he has a funny habit of finding his way back to you.

Is his little crush odd? Uh, yeah, maybe. But when his chest swells at the thought of you, or he thinks of a joke he just wishes he could tell you, he has to admit that he’s never really felt like this before.

He startles at the sound of pots banging downstairs. Papyrus, probably starting on dinner. For some reason, he wonders if you’d like his brother’s cooking. He pictures you at the table, eating and laughing with them in their living room. It’s sweet, but he shakes his head. Still underground. Not quite what he wanted.

When he thinks about what would really make him happy, he sees himself on the surface. The sun is hot against his face, and there’s a sky that somehow never stops. And when he looks, the hand entwined with his is yours.

Suddenly, he knows what he wants to write about.

+++++

hi what’d you think?? i was sitting in bed and gardening, and this idea that i’ve had for a while kept bugging me, so i opened my drafts and had to expel. i’ve had writers block all day so im hype that i actually came up with something, even if it’s not what i planned on writing.

uh i hope it makes sense?? its late where i am, cant tell if it makes sense!! im going to bed 🛌

#being normal about this concept is impossible i’ve quickly learned #i hope someone reads this 💀#is this a rant is this a vent i’m not quite sure but it is something #just uhm. feeling normal and adjusted about him.

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ramp-it-up · 13 hours ago

Text

Muse: The Cleo Era

Muse: Epilogue | Muse Masterlist

Summary: You and Ari will be parents. Here's the first part of the journey.

Pairing: Art Curator! Ari Levinson x Plus sized model!Reader

A/N: Y'all are getting this Muse Monday on a Tuesday this week. lol. This is in answer to these asks and I got deep so this is just the first part of Muse and Ari as parents. This is it! I already have another ask (thanks, Nonnie) so there will be more. Thank you to those of you who just get these two like I do. You know my heart. 🥹 Muse has been a series of one shots featuring Muse and Ari, and this is it. 🥲 This AU is the nexus, not only connected to the Peach and Knock You Down verses, but also the Minx verse. I love reblogs, replies, asks and likes. Let me have it! :)

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. SMUT! Read at your own risk; curate your own experience. Art Curator Ari. Plus sized model Reader, this fic focuses on pregnancy, and all that comes with it, birth, and the period after birth. A marriage. Mothers and mothers in law. Frumoasa and Peach and their children! Also, pregnancy cravings, pregnancy sex, body insecurity, pregnancy kink, Ari is obsessed, lots of oral (f receiving), SIZE KINK, tit worship, raw p in v.

I don’t have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post!

I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

---------

You didn’t notice at first.

Not with the whirlwind of the wedding and reception behind you, the press requests piling up, and the fall issue of Muse turning into a logistical beast.

Not to mention Ari bouncing between MoMA and Red Sea like he had clones.

You were both deliriously happy and utterly exhausted, too distracted to count days.

And too busy to notice your period hadn’t come.

It wasn’t until a shoot at the botanical garden, when the smell of roses made you nauseous and the heat left you dizzy, that it hit you.

You were late.

Really late.

You tried to brush it off.

Stress. Fatigue.

But the next morning, gagging over your toothpaste, you knew.

You didn’t say anything to Ari.

You threw a hoodie over your pajamas, bought a test from the bodega, and locked yourself in the bathroom at 6:30 a.m. while he slept.

The wait was short.

Two pink lines. Immediately, no question.

You sat on the edge of the tub, staring at it like it might blink first.

You were pregnant. Actually pregnant. Six, maybe seven weeks if the math in your head was right.

It may have even happened after the reception when you whispered that you went off the pill into your husband’s ear and he made good on every sacred filthy promise he’d made in response.

You had made her. Or him. Together.

Your eyes welled up. Your stomach turned again, but you smiled through it.

The floor creaked outside the door.

“Muse?” Ari’s voice was sleepy. “You okay?”

You opened the door slowly, test clutched in your hand. Ari blinked at you, shirtless, hair messy, and pajama pants low on his hips.

“What’s that?”

He stared at the stick. And then, like someone flipped a switch behind his eyes, he understood.

“You’re serious?” he asked, voice cracking.

You nodded.

“I think it happened the night of the reception. Maybe the elevator. Maybe the counter. Possibly the bed.”

A beat, then he laughed.

That laugh.

Full of disbelief and awe and all the things he couldn’t say fast enough.

He pulled you into his arms so hard you squeaked, then dropped to his knees, pressing his forehead to your stomach like he’d been waiting his whole life for this exact second.

“We made a person,” he whispered. “A fucking person. On purpose.”

You laughed, threading your fingers through his hair.

“I probably should’ve realized sooner. I thought I was just tired.”

“You’re growing a human,” he said, kissing your belly.

“Of course you’re tired.”

“Hi, baby,” he murmured. “I hope you are just like your mom. Beautiful, strong as hell and full of attitude.”

You rolled your eyes, brushing a tear from your cheek.

“This baby is going to own you.”

—

Three days later, Ari found you in the kitchen, standing in front of the open fridge like it had insulted your honor.

“You look like you’re about to fight someone,” he said carefully.

“There’s no fruit,” you said flatly.

A beat.

“There’s literally so much fruit,” he replied, opening the fridge like he needed to double-check.

You pointed dramatically.

“There are apples. Strawberries. Grapes. But no peaches. I want a peach, Ari. I want a cold, juicy, stupidly ripe peach and there are NONE.”

He blinked. And then, he moved, no hesitation. Just grabbed his keys, his wallet, and kissed your forehead.

“I’ll be back in fifteen,” he murmured, already halfway out the door.

When he returned, he had two brown paper bags and a look that screamed husband of the year.

“There were no fresh peaches at Whole Foods. So I hit up the bodega, then the farmer’s market on 12th.”

He laid out the goods like sacred offerings: yellow peaches, white peaches, canned in syrup, peach nectar, dried peaches.

You blinked. Then burst into tears.

“Oh my god. Who does that?

He pulled you into his chest.

“Husbands of hormonal goddesses,” he whispered, kissing the top of your head.

“Eat, baby. I got you.”

You ate three in a row over the sink, moaning through every bite.

Ari watched you like you were an art exhibit.

“I’ve never been more attracted to you,” he muttered.

You licked juice off your wrist, cheeks flushed, eyes glinting.

“Oh? You like the feral fruit goblin look?”

“I like the pregnant-with-my-baby look,” he said. “A lot.”

When you were done eating, Ari carried you to the shower and made love to you slowly, reverently, the scent of peaches still clinging to your skin.

——

At eight weeks, your skin broke out and your favorite perfume made you gag. The smell of espresso turned your stomach, a personal betrayal. You were bloated, irritable, exhausted, and more in love with Ari than ever.

When you cried over a dropped croissant, Ari didn’t laugh.

He just held you and whispered, “I’ve got you,” before coming back with four more.

He quietly took over your calendar and showed up to every OB appointment like it was a gala. At your first ultrasound, he didn’t blink, just stared at the grainy little smudge on the screen like it was the only thing that had ever mattered.

“That’s ours,” he whispered, awestruck.

You were bone-deep tired. Sex was still good, just less frequent. That didn’t stop Ari from pressing his mouth to your neck every night and whispering that you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

Then, around nine weeks, came a new craving.

You stood in front of the mirror in nothing but a bralette and the softest boyshorts, staring at your body like it belonged to someone else. Your belly hadn’t changed much, but your breasts were heavier, sore, almost unfairly full.

Your skin felt like it was buzzing. Not itchy. Not uncomfortable.

Just…strange.

You as Ari stood in the doorway, eyes dropping, then widening at the vision of you.

He closed the door behind him, already crossing the room.

“You okay?”

“No,” you whispered. “I think I’m losing my mind.”

He raised a brow, cautiously playful.

“That bad, huh?”

You reached for him, grabbing his shirt.

“It’s like, my skin’s too tight. Everything aches. But not in a bad way. I just…”

You leaned into him, mouth at his neck.

“I need something. I need…you.”

His breath hitched.

“You sure?”

You nodded, already pressing kisses under his jaw.

“I’m climbing the walls, Ari. I’ve been thinking about it all day. About you. Your mouth. Your hands. Your cock.”

A low growl rumbled from his chest.

“That’s a dangerous way to talk to your husband, sweetheart.”

“It’s the only way I know how to talk to you right now,” you panted. “I want you to fuck me.”

“Jesus,” he muttered, voice darkening instantly. “Come here.”

He didn’t make it to the bed. He backed you against the dresser, yanked your panties down, and kissed a path to your chest, pulling one aching nipple into his mouth.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” you gasped, hips canting forward. “I need it. Need you.”

He didn’t tease. Didn’t waste time. Just dropped to his knees and buried his face between your thighs, licking you like he’d missed it, even though he hadn’t. His tongue was hot and sure, curling deep, circling your clit until you were shaking, one hand in his hair and the other braced on the dresser.

You came with a gasp, loudly, thighs trembling around his ears.

“Don’t stop,” you begged. “Need you inside me.”

Ari stood and kissed you hard, then turned you around and bent you gently over the dresser, one large hand splayed on your lower back, the other stroking himself behind you.

“I love when you get like this,” he groaned. “Desperate. Greedy. So fucking hot.”

You felt the wide head of his cock press against your soaked entrance and pushed back, moaning as he slid into you slowly, fully, and deeply.

“Fuck. Tight,” he hissed. “You feel different. Even hotter. Damn.”

“Don’t stop,” you gasped. “Harder.”

And he did. He gave it to you deep, slow, and then fast and filthy, one hand gripping your hip, the other reaching around to rub your clit just the way you liked.

You came again before he did, your body clenching hard around him, milking him until he spilled inside you with a groan and a whispered “God, I love you.”

“They’re going to be wild,” you mumbled, still breathless.

“They’re going to be ours,” Ari whispered, kissing your spine.

He carried you to bed and tucked you against his chest, and whispered soft things into your hair until you melted. You thought he’d sleep. But when you stirred he shifted beside you.

“You awake?” he murmured, voice rumbling against your cheek.

“Mmm… kinda. What time is it?”

“Late enough,” he said. “You hungry?”

“For food or for sex?”

He laughed softly.

“You up for round two?”

You tilted your face up toward him. He was already looking at you like he couldn’t believe his luck. Like every time he saw you, it hit him all over again.

You smiled.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

He rolled you onto your back.

“You’re glowing already,” he murmured, dragging his mouth over you. “Like your body knows it’s doing something holy.”

“You’re obsessed,” you breathed as your fingers threaded through his hair.

“I am,” he whispered, kissing your belly. “You’re carrying my baby. Of course I’m obsessed.”

You felt yourself throb with the sound of his voice alone, and he slid between your legs, kissing the inside of your thigh.

“But I’m not just obsessed with this,” he said, his mouth hovering over your pussy.

“I’m obsessed with you. With how you taste, how you sound, how you fall apart when I…”

You gasped as he licked a long, slow stripe up your center.

“...do that.”

Your fingers gripped the sheets.

He licked you again. And again. He was both filthy and reverent. His tongue teased your clit, circled it, sucked softly before pulling back to kiss your hip. You moaned, already close, your thighs trembling around his head.

He didn’t stop, sliding one finger inside you, and curling it just right, while his mouth stayed latched to your clit. He worked you slowly, building the pressure until you were whimpering his name, eyes glassy, voice ragged.

“Ari! I’m gonna…”

“Let go,” he rasped against your skin. “Let me take care of my wife.”

That did it. You came hard, with a cry that echoed off the walls, your hips jerking up as your body clenched around his hand. He didn’t stop until your legs shook and your voice gave out.

Then, he kissed his way back up your body, murmuring between every kiss.

“So good for me. So fucking sweet. I’ll never get enough.”

When you kissed him, you wrapped your legs around his waist, and he sank into you in one deep, slow thrust.

This time was different. This was languid, molten, and deliberate.

“I love you,” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours.

“I love you,” you breathed back, clinging to him.

He came with a low moan, buried deep inside you.

You didn’t know how long you lay like that, wrapped up in him, warm and safe, heart racing in sync.

But you knew one thing.

You’d never been loved like this.

—-

By week 14, the nausea lifted like fog.

Your first real meal in days was Greek yogurt with honey, pistachios, and two-and-a-half nectarines. You sat at the table and sobbed through the entire thing. Ari sat beside you with a spoon in hand, feeding you bites like you were royalty.

He bought a crate of nectarines the next day.

Your skin became ethereal.

Your energy returned.

And the sex was outstanding.

By week 17, your bump started to show.

Ari stared while you brushed your teeth, then dropped to his knees and kissed your belly like it was sacred.

He spent the entire week painting one wall of the nursery, over and over, until it was the right shade of “sunlight through fog.”

At twenty weeks, the anatomy scan made everything real. The tech said she was healthy and “active.”

You watched her squirm on the screen and felt a flutter so soft you almost missed it. Ari sketched your face.

He’d started again after hearing Steve was an artist. He hadn’t done it since college. He said he never wanted to forget how you looked when you realized she was real.

Your dreams got weird. Gold-leafed babies, talking dolphins, a house made of socks. You mumbled them into Ari’s neck at 3 a.m., and he wrote them in a notebook by the bed.

One night, after a dream where the baby was late to a Vogue shoot, he rubbed your back and whispered, “She gets that from you.”

Your hips ached and your cravings changed weekly. One week, it was grilled cheese at 2 a.m., every night. The next, sour cherry popsicles. You ate one topless on the balcony and Ari almost dropped his drink.

The third trimester arrived and you couldn’t see your feet. Your ankles swelled if you stood too long and you wore Ari’s T-shirts inside out almost exclusively.

The baby kicked with force now, especially when Ari read aloud, which he did every night. She kicked hardest when he read Toni Morrison.

You swore she was trying to communicate.

Modeling stopped, but Muse didn’t. You ruled from a throne of pillows, compression socks, and croissants. Ari brought smoothies, kissed your belly, and whispered to the baby like she could answer.

The nesting hit like a fever.

You cleaned out the coat closet at 2 a.m. one night and reorganized every spice alphabetically. Ari didn’t stop you, just brought a chair when your back hurt.

You bought two bassinets, five swaddles, and an antique wooden sheep that cost more than your first car.

When Ari asked why, you said, “She’ll know it’s art.”

At thirty-six weeks, you only slept in short bursts because the pressure in your hips was brutal. You got Braxton Hicks, which you thought were real one night.

Ari threw the hospital bag in the car. Turned out it was nothing. He didn’t sleep for two days just in case.

You woke up crying one night after a dream where the baby looked up at you and said, “Thank you.”

Ari cried with you, then spooned you until sunrise.

At 39 weeks, you stopped wearing waistbands. You waddled and peed constantly yet Ari couldn’t stop touching you.

He whispered into your shoulder every night, “We’re so close.”

Your due date came and went; she didn’t. Until one morning, forty weeks and one day, you woke just after 3 a.m.

At first, you thought it was a dream. Then you shifted and felt it: a wet warmth soaking into the sheets. A slow, low cramp stole your breath as you gasped, sat up, and touched your belly.

Ari bolted upright beside you.

“Was that…?”

You nodded. Grinning. Eyes wide.

“It’s time.”

—---

The contractions started slowly; they were manageable.

You even joked through the first couple, sitting on a towel in the passenger seat while Ari broke the speed limit down the West Side Highway at four in the morning.

Ari was not calm. He kept glancing at you like you might break open in the front seat.

“You okay?” he kept asking.

“Yeah,” you breathed. “I think so.”

“You sure it’s not Braxton Hicks again?”

You glared.

“That was one time.”

“I still haven’t recovered.”

You huffed a laugh just as another wave slammed into you. You moaned and clutched the edge of the seat.

Ari reached over blindly, offering his hand without taking his eyes off the road.

You squeezed. And he didn’t flinch. He never did with you.

At the hospital, walking took effort. You paused every few steps, panting. Ari let you brace against him, murmuring, “I’ve got you,” over and over like a mantra.

Inside, everything blurred. Monitors. Nurses. Antiseptic. Wristbands. The contractions sharpened. Ari stayed right there, one hand in yours, the other brushing sweat from your brow.

Twelve hours in, things got real.

You were dilated enough to scream but not enough to push. Your back felt like it was splitting. Your stomach twisted with every wave.

Your eyes welled with tears and you weren’t sure if it was pain or fear or hormones.

“Fuck,” you gasped. “I can’t…”

“Yes, you can,” Ari whispered.

You shook your head.

“She’s never coming out. She’s going to live in there forever. I’m going to be the first woman to carry a full-grown adult.”

“She’ll be gorgeous,” Ari said softly. “But Baby, she’s coming. You’re doing so well. You’re strong. You’re already her whole world.”

Another contraction rolled through you like a storm. You screamed and gripped his shirt so hard the seams popped.

“I hate you!” you cried.

He nodded solemnly. “That’s fair.”

“I mean it.”

“Absolutely.”

“Don’t touch me.”

“Copy that.”

You leaned into his chest and sobbed.

“I’m so scared.”

His hands cradled your face.

“I know,” he whispered. “But I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

At sixteen hours, everything shifted. You dilated. They called the doctor. The nurse raised the bed. The lights got brighter.

And suddenly, it was time.

You were drenched in sweat. Crying without realizing it, and gripping Ari’s hand like a lifeline.

“You’ve got this, Muse,” he said, voice low and steady, even as his own eyes glistened. “Bring her home.”

The doctor’s voice cut through the noise.

“Next contraction, push,” the doctor said.

You nodded, jaw clenched, legs trembling.

And you pushed. Until your throat was raw. Until you saw stars.

And then, you heard her.

A sharp, keening cry. One that broke your heart and healed it at the same time.

You collapsed against the pillows, laughing and sobbing as the world tilted.

And then there she was, tiny and screaming her arrival.

Ari cut the cord with trembling hands. You watched him through tears as they placed her on your chest. Skin to skin. Warm and fragile and real. She blinked up at you, impossibly new. Lips parted. Fists curled. Her little chest was pumping.

You stared down at her and whispered, “Hey.”

She made a soft, searching sound and Ari sank to his knees beside you, head pressed to your shoulder. He was crying openly now.

“You did it,” he whispered. “You brought her home.”

“She’s perfect.”

“She’s ours.”

And for one long, breathless moment, the world disappeared.

—--

The room was quiet, lights dimmed, and the soft beep of the monitor the only sound. You ached in every limb, but your arms were full of everything that mattered.

She lay against your chest, skin to skin under a blanket, mouth parted in a perfect pout as she suckled in her sleep. Her heartbeat fluttered against you, fast and rabbit-quick.

Ari sat halfway on the bed, one hand tracing her spine, the other resting on your thigh like he couldn’t stop touching both of you at once.

“She smells like some kind of heaven,” he murmured.

You smiled faintly, dizzy with exhaustion and love.

“You’re just high on pheromones and baby shampoo.”

His smile flickered, eyes never leaving her.

“I don’t think I’ve ever believed in God until right now.”

A nurse stepped in to check vitals, and Ari gently lifted her from your chest. She curled into him instinctively, as if she’d always known the shape of his arms.

You watched him.

Big, strong hands holding her so gently, voice softer than you’d ever heard it. His whole body curved around her like a fortress.

The nurse smiled as she left.

“That one’s wrapped,” she said, nodding toward Ari.

You nodded too, your eyes misting.

—-

You hadn’t officially told anyone her name. Not even the nurses.

Not even your mother.

The hospital placard on the little bassinet beside your bed still read blank beside F: 6lb 7oz” and “June 21st, 6:32 PM.

Ari had insisted on waiting.

“It should come from you,” he said, fingers brushing the IV line taped to your hand.

“You carried her. You fought for her. You get to say it first.”

You looked at the bassinet, where she slept swaddled, lashes impossibly long, nose like a button. Then back at him.

“Are you sure?”

“Say it.”

So you did. You whispered the name you’d once typed half-asleep into a shared notes file, inspired by a shoot in Morocco and a poem tucked into a forgotten book.

Cleo Noor Levinson

Ari closed his eyes like it was a spell. Cleo, one of the nine Muses, and Noor, meaning light.

Ari closed his eyes like he’d been waiting to hear it his whole life. Cleo, one of the nine muses. Noor, meaning light.

He leaned in and kissed your temple. “I knew that would be it.”

“You did?”

He rose, picked up the dry-erase marker, and wrote it on the placard with the focus of a man signing a masterpiece.

And just like that, she had a name.

—--

Ari took leave the moment you were discharged.

No emails. No delegation. Just a single call to the board and a quiet, “I’ll be off for the foreseeable future.”

The man who once ran international exhibits down to the minute now lived in newborn rhythms, feedings, cries, the rise and fall of her breath against his chest.

“I’ve already got the only masterpiece I need,” he said one night, her tiny form tucked inside his hoodie.

You weren’t alone for a second.

Your mother arrived first with a suitcase and surgical efficiency. She reorganized your freezer, folded onesies, made gumbo, and commented on your curtains.

Ari’s mother followed, bearing folk remedies and weepy prayers. She sobbed the first time she held the baby, then tucked hand-knit booties under the bassinet like protective charms.

Trixie, your editor, breezed in wearing a leather trench and designer sunglasses, holding a tray of gourmet lactation cookies.

“I don’t know what your hormones are doing, babe, but if we shoot the maternity line in August, I’ll cry.”

You hadn’t slept in 48 hours. There was milk in your hair.

But you nodded, dazed, and said, “Sure.”

When Peach showed up, the door swung open with the wind, her four-month-old baby boy strapped to her chest, a pack of diapers under one arm and a bottle of prosecco under the other.

“You had a baby! I had a baby! Let’s compare battle wounds,” she cheered, already halfway in.

Peach’s baby, Kit Rogers, drooled into her blouse while she handed you nipple balm and kissed your cheek.

“This one spits up like he’s in a frat. Need help latching? I’ve got techniques.”

You blinked. “I’m…okay?”

“Let me know when you’re not.”

Then came Mrs. Barnes, glowing and exhausted, her two-year-old Luca trailing behind her, sticky-handed and singing a made-up song about blueberries. She was seven months pregnant again and still the most effortlessly elegant person in any room.

“I brought muffins,” she said. “And my toddler, who may try to feed your baby a raisin. Good luck.”

Within minutes, your apartment was full of babies, strollers, toys, lactation snacks, and the low-grade chaos of maternal love.

Then came the newborn photo shoot. It was Trixie’s idea, but Ari made it perfect.

“You’ll want to remember this,” he said as he helped you oil your skin and slip into a soft robe.

The photographer, a quiet friend, barely spoke. The windows were wide open. Morning light poured in.

Ari was bare chested and impossibly handsome, the kind of man you still couldn’t believe was yours.

You held Cleo in your arms, skin to skin, her curls damp and soft against your chest. Ari stood behind you, arms wrapped around both of you, his face at your temple, his body shielding yours.

At one point, he took her into his arms and you watched through the lens as he kissed her tiny forehead, the barest whisper of breath against her soft abundance of curls.

“That’s the one,” the photographer said.

It wasn’t posed. It wasn’t perfect.

But it was love.

—--

You’d delayed your six-week postpartum visit more than once, until your mother took matters into her own hands. She was at your door when you returned from third rescheduled appointment and practically shoved you out the door as you side eyed Ari.

"You two need a night. She’ll be fine. Go," she said, already bouncing the baby with one hand and waving with the other.

You looked at Ari like you might cry. He looked back like he might carry you to the car.

Ari had booked the hotel. Just one night a short drive away with robes, white sheets, and a view of the skyline you used to chase.

You felt like cancelling, but Ari reminded you of the doctor’s words: You’re healing beautifully. You’re clear to resume sexual activity whenever you feel ready.

And you’d clutched Ari’s hand, breath caught in your throat, unsure if ready was even a thing anymore or just an abstract concept.

—-

You stood in the middle of the hotel room, unsure what to do with your hands. Ari was already kicking off his shoes, eyes trained on you.

“I can order room service,” he offered gently. “Or we can just sleep.”

You nodded, then turned to face him.

“I missed you.”

His eyes softened instantly.

“I’m right here.”

“I don’t know what to do with myself,” you admitted softly.

He stepped behind you, just close enough to warm the back of your neck with his breath.

“I do.”

He eased off your shirt, his shirt, then your nursing tank, stopping at your bra.

“May I?”

You nodded.

He eased the bra straps down your arms, unclasped it gently, and let it fall. Your breasts were full, heavier now, darker at the nipples. You didn’t dare look at him. But he let out a breath like he’d been punched.

“Goddamn,” he whispered.

You crossed your arms instinctively, but he caught your wrists and kissed each one.

“Don’t hide from me. I want to see all of you.”

When he knelt, it startled you.

You looked down at him, this man, your husband on his knees for you. He slid your leggings and underwear down, kissed your knee, your thigh, the faint silver lines at your hips.

"These are mine," he murmured. "My favorite art."

“My body’s different.”

“It’s yours.” He looked up at you.

“She grew here. Right here. This body made her. This body fed her. Carried her. Protected her.”

He pressed a kiss just below your navel.

“I worship this body,” he said. “I will never stop.”

Your throat tightened. You reached down and threaded your fingers through his hair.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m yours.”

He stood then, shedding his own clothes piece by piece as he stepped toward you, letting you take in the long line of his torso, the soft trail of hair, the muscles still carved from habit and stress and devotion.

He wasn’t trying to be seductive. He didn’t need to.

You’d never wanted anyone more in your life. But…

“I’m scared,” you whispered. “Of it hurting. Of it… not feeling the same.”

He cupped your cheek and kissed your forehead.

“Then we’ll go slow. And if it doesn’t feel good, we stop.”

You nodded.

When he guided you back to the bed,you laid down and he hovered above you, eyes drinking in every sign that your body had been through something world changing.

“You’re so damn beautiful.”

His mouth found your throat first. Then your collarbone.

He kissed the heavier swell of your breasts, then ran his tongue slowly over your nipple before closing his mouth around it, sucking just enough to make your back arch. Your fingers gripped his shoulders.

“Still so sensitive,” he hummed, moving to the other breast. “I love how you respond to me.”

Then, he went down.

He kissed every stretch mark. Every inch of softened skin. Pressed his cheek to your belly and exhaled.

“I will never get over this body.”

And then his mouth was between your legs, and you forgot how to breathe.

He licked you with slow, purposeful strokes, his thumbs parting you gently. He wasn’t trying to make you come. Not yet. He was just reacquainting himself with you, but you came anyway, overwhelmed and sobbing.

“I’m yours,” he said, again and again, against your body. “Mine. Mine. Mine.”

You reached down and wrapped your hand around his cock, hard and heavy and slick.

“Please,” you whispered. “I need you inside me.”

He froze. Then nodded. Then he braced his thick head at your entrance, and slid in slowly. You gasped, biting your lip, feeling the stretch.

Your body remembering.

Relearning.

Accommodating him again.

When he was fully inside, he stilled.

“You okay?”

You nodded, eyes wide.

“You feel so good. ‘M so full.”

He moved, just a little, and you whimpered.

“Fuck,” he groaned, forehead to yours. “So tight. You’re still made for me.”

You held him close and rocked your hips, needing more. Wanting all of it. All of him.

When he started to thrust in earnest, you clung to him, hips meeting with slow, rhythmic intensity. You weren’t quiet, and neither was he; you sobbed into his shoulder, and he grunted into your neck.

He kissed your temple and murmured, “I missed you.”

“I missed us,” you whispered back.

You came again, more gently this time, your body fluttering around him.

Ari didn’t last much longer.

He buried his face in your hair as he spilled inside you calling your name.

“I love you,” you whispered.

“I love you more now than I ever knew I could,” Ari replied.

—--

You drifted for a while. And then his hands started to explore your body again.

“Ari,” you breathed.

“I know,” he whispered, his mouth already at your neck.

“But I need you again.”

This time, he didn’t wait. He rolled you onto your stomach and slid in from behind, one arm under your chest, the other gripping your hip. You gasped, the angle sharper, the stretch deeper. The sound you made drove him wild.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he groaned against your shoulder.

“Even tighter now. Wetter.”

He thrust deeper. Rougher. Every stroke coaxing louder cries from your lips. You reached back for him, nails digging into his thigh, as he fucked you slow and deep, hips snapping with practiced rhythm. You felt every inch, every ridge, and the weight of his need to claim you again.

When he came this time, he spilled into you thickly, whispering your name so angelically. Still, he didn’t stop touching you.

The third time came later, after water, midnight room service, a shower, and quiet laughter as you lay naked on the cool sheets.

You kissed him first, straddled him and took him in slowly, inch by inch, watching his face twist in pleasure.

“Oh fuck, baby,” he rasped.

“Ride me just like that.”

You moved slowly at first. Then faster. Grinding your hips until he couldn’t stop moaning. You came, your hips shaking. He came not long after, gripping your waist, panting into your mouth.

Then it was soft again, warm.

You laid side by side in the glow of the bedside lamp, your legs tangled and your foreheads pressed together.

You whispered about the baby, about how full your heart felt, how weird your body still was, and how you’d never been more in love.

He kissed your wrist.

You touched his hair.

Then, again.

Ari kissed down your stomach and between your legs. Slid his tongue into you and made you cum. And then he fucked you while sitting up, both of you facing the window, city lights flickering against your skin.

The last time, just before dawn, was the least careful of all.

He took you up against the bathroom counter after another shower. Your thighs were wet with slick. The mirror was fogged. And you were dripping down his cock before he even thrust inside.

He grabbed your hair, murmuring filth into your ear while he moved inside you, harder this time, like he couldn’t help himself.

“You missed this too, huh?” he growled. “Missed the way I fuck you? You gonna let me fill you up again, Sweetheart?”

You moaned your answer, half incoherent, and came around him again as he filled you once more, biting your shoulder as he spilled.

You were shaking when he cleaned you up and wrapped you in a towel.

He kissed your stomach as he knelt in front of you.

“I love this body. I love you,” he said again. “Every version of you.”

You barely made it to the bed before you passed out in his arms.

—---

The next morning, you barely had time to fumble with the keys before the apartment door opened. Your mother stood there, barefoot in sweats, cradling the baby against her chest and looking smug.

“Well,” she said, one brow arched as her gaze swept over you and Ari.

“You two look like you just got back from the honeymoon you didn’t take.”

You blinked at her, stunned. Ari chuckled under his breath.

You both did look different. Hair a mess, skin flushed. Your clothes were slightly rumpled from a morning of moving slowly and two pushed back checkouts because you didn’t want to leave that hotel bed.

Your mom’s knowing grin only widened when she took you in.

“You’re welcome,” she added, handing your daughter over with a kiss on her tiny forehead.

“She slept. I didn’t.”

You melted the moment your baby was back in your arms, her little fists curled under her chin, cheeks warm against your shoulder. Ari stood behind you, pressing a kiss to both your temple and hers, his hand resting on your lower back.

“Miss us, baby girl?” he murmured.

She cooed softly, half-asleep.

You and Ari exchanged a glance, melting, again, so in love it was hopeless.

—--

The next few days found you settling into something real, something new.

Your mother stayed for two more evenings, spoiling her granddaughter and watching you both with a kind of quiet satisfaction. Then, Ari’s mother arrived, sweeping in with meals, a silk wrap, and tears the second she held her grandchild.

“It’s not even fair,” she whispered one night, rocking the baby with a smile. “She got all the best parts of both of you.”

After that, the rhythm found its footing.

Mornings became sacred, half caf coffee, nursing, Ari holding the baby over his shoulder while you stole a shower, the quiet hum of domestic life.

Nights were warm and soft and sometimes sexy again.

Not every night.

But enough.

—---

Two more weeks and then it was time to go back to work.

Ari went back to Red Sea full-time. You weren’t ready for that pace yet, not with feedings and pumping and hormones and missing her every time you blinked. So you returned part-time at Muse, easing into editorial again with Trixie at your side.

You also began interviewing nannies.

Ari insisted on being there for every interview, sharp-eyed and surprisingly open-minded. Eventually, you found two who felt right, a weekday and a weekend rotation. Not to replace you. Just to help.

Your first real modeling job came a few weeks after that. Just a short editorial campaign.

You were nervous. But when you stepped into frame, something clicked.

And when Ari arrived at the end of the shoot, the baby strapped to his chest in a soft green sling, his eyes went wide.

“Holy shit,” he muttered, watching you pose with quiet intensity. “That’s my wife.”

The photographer caught him staring, and snapped a candid of you looking down at your daughter between takes, a beam of light catching the ring on your finger.

“She’s a goddess,” Ari said to no one in particular. “That’s my whole world right there.”

He worshipped you that night.

And your daughter giggled the next morning when he kissed you before breakfast, as if she knew that even now, you were still everything he wanted.

——

Love this little family. 🥹

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