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nerdycheol · 2 months ago

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Love, On Air || Choi Seungcheol (valentine's special)

♡ Pairing: choi seungcheol x f!reader

♡ Genre: best friends to lovers, romance, fluff, slice of life

♡ Word Count: 7.8k

note: Happy Valentine’s Day! 💖 This is a special Valentine’s edition based on the poll results(so if you voted—congrats, you manifested this 👀). A massive shoutout to @facethesunflower for proofreading and making sure this didn’t turn into a total disaster. 😆 Hope you enjoy this fluffy, slightly dramatic, finally-they-confess moment.

Remember: if your best friend is acting suspiciously like Cherry… maybe it’s time to connect the dots. 👀💕

The clock hits 9 PM. You take a deep breath, adjusting the headphones on your ears as the familiar hum of the radio booth wraps around you. The room is small, dimly lit by the soft glow of the equipment and the neon sign flashing LIVE on the wall.

"Alright, we’re live in 3... 2... 1..."

Your hand hovers over the soundboard as you smile into the mic.

"Good evening, lovely listeners, and welcome back to The Heartbeat Hour, your go-to late-night show where we talk all things love, relationships, and everything in between," you say, your voice smooth and warm, like a cozy blanket on a cold night. "I’m your host, __ , and tonight is extra special because we’re in the heart of Valentine’s week. So, buckle up, folks—this week’s all about confessions, crushes, and, of course, giving you some advice to help you sort through your feelings."

You press the button for the first song request, the soft strains of a romantic ballad filling the room. As the music plays in the background, your eyes scan the requests that have been flooding in. The chat box is constantly ticking with messages—listeners asking for advice, sharing their love stories, or seeking songs that speak to their hearts. You feel that rush, the adrenaline of knowing you’re connected to so many people in real time.

"Now, I’ve got a message here from a listener who needs a little help," you say, pulling up the request. "This one’s from 'Cherry,' who writes in: ‘I’ve been crushing on someone for a while, but I’m not sure how to confess. Any advice?’"

You let out a small breath, your fingers tapping rhythmically on the desk as you think. This one’s a classic. You've seen it all before, but every confession still feels fresh. You smile softly into the mic.

"Ah, 'Cherry,' I get it. Confessing your feelings can be scary, but it’s also one of the most real things you can do. Here’s my advice: Keep it simple. No need for grand gestures, no elaborate speeches. Sometimes, the best way to let someone know how you feel is through a small, sincere gesture. Maybe write a note or give them a little gift that shows you’ve been thinking about them. And when you tell them how you feel, just be honest—there’s no such thing as a perfect confession. Just be you."

You pause, feeling the warmth of the words settle into your heart. The music swells in the background, adding to the ambiance of the moment.

"Remember, 'Cherry,' it’s not about getting it perfect—it’s about being brave enough to say it. And hey, the worst that can happen is they don’t feel the same way. But you know what? You’ve still won because you were true to yourself. So take a deep breath and go for it. You got this.”

You let the silence linger for a moment, Cherry’s words still hanging in the air. Then, with a small smile, you reached for the controls.

"Alright, Cherry, and everyone out there holding onto feelings they haven’t found the words for—this one’s for you. Maybe it’ll give you the courage to say what’s in your heart, or at the very least, remind you that you’re not alone."

With a soft click, the studio filled with the delicate, wistful melody of "From the start" by Laufey—a song that is the ultimate friends to lovers song for all delusional daydreams.

Leaning back in your chair, you glanced out at the city lights reflecting against the glass. Somewhere, maybe Cherry was listening, hesitating over a letter they weren’t sure they’d ever send. Or maybe, just maybe, they had already begun writing.

After an hour of song requests, confessions, and quiet laughter shared through the airwaves, the LIVE sign dims. You take off your headphones, stretching your neck as the studio falls into silence. Another night, another show wrapped up.

Gathering your notes, you stack them neatly before grabbing your now-lukewarm latte from the desk. The faint chatter of coworkers drifts through the halls—other RJs wrapping up, producers discussing schedules.

"Great show tonight, ___," someone calls out in passing.

"Thanks! See you tomorrow!" you reply with a small smile, pulling on your coat.

Near the exit, your producer glances up. "Don’t forget—tomorrow’s segment is longer for the Valentine’s special. Get some rest!"

"Got it. Night, everyone!"

Pushing open the station doors, you step into the cool night air. The city hums in the distance, but here, it’s quiet—still. You take a slow sip of your latte, savoring the warmth against the crisp breeze.

And then, just a few steps away, you see him.

Leaning against his car, hands tucked into his coat pockets, Seungcheol watches you. The street lamp casts a soft glow over him, catching the faint curve of his lips.

You stop in front of Seungcheol, raising an eyebrow. "What are you doing here?"

He tilts his head, acting like it’s the most casual thing in the world. "I was just passing through."

You narrow your eyes. "Passing through? Your workplace is nowhere near here."

"Okay, fine," he chuckles, pushing himself off the car. "I thought I’d pick you up. It’s been a while since we had dinner together."

"Ah, I see. You missed me." You smirk, taking another sip of your latte.

"Don’t flatter yourself, " he scoffs, but the amusement in his eyes gives him away.

You let out a laugh, shaking your head before walking around the car. "Alright, alright. Let’s go before you start crying about how I never have time for you."

He pulls open the passenger door for you with a teasing bow. "Your chariot awaits, my lady."

Rolling your eyes at his theatrics, you slip inside, and he shuts the door before making his way to the driver’s seat.

As he starts the engine, Seungcheol glances at you. "Nice show today."

You blink. "Oh? What’s up, Choiseung? You’re complimenting me?" You raise an eyebrow, grinning.

He scoffs, shaking his head. "Forget it. Should’ve just let you believe no one listens to your rambling at night."

"Too late. I’m taking this to heart forever," you joke, leaning back in your seat.

A few minutes into the drive, Seungcheol reaches into his coat pocket and hands you a neatly folded envelope.

"Here."

You glance at it, then at him. "What’s this?"

"Just open it."

Curious, you unfold the letter inside. His familiar handwriting stretches across the page, carefully written, filled with warmth. It’s a simple note—thanking you for being in his life, for always listening, for just being you.

Your heart softens as you read.

"Ohh, Cheol... this is so sweet. Thank you so much, friend." You smile, touched by the gesture.

The moment the word leaves your lips, he freezes—just for a second.

Then, with a short nod, he looks away, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter.

"Yeah… friend." His voice is light, but something about it feels off.

You don’t notice. Or maybe, you just don’t understand.

"Hm? Did you say something?"

"Nothing," he clears his throat, turning into a street. "We should hurry before the restaurant gets packed."

You let it go, tucking the letter safely into your bag as the city lights blur past.

Dinner is simple—warm bowls of stew and easy conversation. You catch up on each other’s lives, laugh over childhood memories, and argue over who should pay the bill (which Seungcheol wins, as always). It’s comfortable, familiar—just like it’s always been.

But every now and then, Seungcheol watches you with something unreadable in his gaze. Something just beneath the surface.

Later, he pulls up in front of your place.

"Thanks for dinner, Choiseung." You grin, unbuckling your seatbelt.

"Yeah, yeah. You can pay next time."

"I’ll believe that when it happens." You laugh, stepping out of the car. "Goodnight!"

He waits until you disappear inside, only driving off once your lights flicker on.

And then he waits.

Seated in his car, he watches as your silhouette moves around the room. It’s only when your lights finally turn off that he exhales, rubbing the back of his neck before driving away into the quiet night.

The next day passes in a blur of work, coffee, and the usual routine. You go through meetings, reply to emails, and try not to fall asleep at your desk. It’s just another regular day—until night falls, and you’re back in the studio, headphones on, mic live, slipping into the comfort of your show.

"And that was 'Moonlight' to set the mood for tonight," you say, adjusting the volume on the console. "Now, let’s see what’s on your mind, listeners. Late-night confessions, random thoughts, love letters—I'm here for it all."

A familiar name pops up in the chat, and you smile.

"Ah, a message from ‘Cherry’ again," you muse, skimming through it.

"So, Cherry says: ‘I wrote them my feelings, but I feel like they didn't get the hint. Any advice?’”

You lean back, thoughtful.

"Confessions are tricky, aren’t they? But if words feel too heavy, why not try something else?"

You pause, then smile.

"Here’s an idea—make a playlist. Fill it with songs that subtly express your feelings, and share it with them. You can name it something meaningful, like ‘For You’ or ‘Songs That Remind Me of You.’ Maybe they’ll get the hint, maybe they won’t, but either way… music has a way of saying what we can’t."

A soft melody plays as you set up the next song, your voice lowering.

"Speaking of confessions… Cherry, this one’s for you."

___

After the show, you gather your things, stretching as the familiar hum of the studio fades into the quiet of the night. Stepping outside, the cool air brushes against your skin—and there he is, leaning against his car, arms crossed, waiting.

"You again?" You arch a brow, teasing.

Seungcheol smirks. "What can I say? Madam needs her personal chauffeur." He pushes off the car, opening the door for you with a playful grin.

You scoff, rolling your eyes as you slide in. "More like my chauffeur needs his daily dose of validation."

He chuckles, shutting the door before rounding the car. "Can you blame me? Gotta make sure my most important passenger gets home safe."

You shake your head, biting back a smile as he starts the engine. The familiar warmth of routine settles between you, comfortable and unspoken.

As you drive, soft music fills the space—a melody unfamiliar yet strangely intimate. You pause, listening. It’s not his usual sound. Gone are the heavy beats and sharp rhythms he prefers. Instead, the speakers hum with gentle tunes, lyrics drenched in longing.

You glance at him, amusement flickering in your gaze. "Since when did your taste in music change this much?"

His fingers flex over the steering wheel, eyes fixed on the road. "Dunno. Just felt like switching things up."

You hum along absentmindedly, letting the melody wrap around you, comforting in ways you don’t fully understand.

Seungcheol exhales quietly, gripping the wheel a little tighter, sneaking a glance your way. Because this playlist isn’t just a mix of songs—it’s a confession. One he can only hope you’ll hear.

As Seungcheol pulls up in front of your place, he shifts the car into park but doesn’t make a move to unlock the doors just yet. Instead, he drums his fingers against the steering wheel, stealing a glance your way.

"__, since tomorrow’s the weekend... you wanna hang out?" His voice is casual, but there’s something just a little hesitant in the way he says it.

You turn to him, brows raised. "Sure. Where?"

Seungcheol clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck as he looks away. "Nothing much… just the amusement park. Maybe a café after, y’know."

You blink before breaking into a small smile. "Huh, it’s been a while since we’ve gone there."

He nods, still avoiding your eyes. "Yeah. Thought it might be fun."

You tilt your head, watching him for a second before nudging his arm. "Well, if you’re paying, I’m definitely in."

He scoffs, rolling his eyes but grinning nonetheless. "Yeah, yeah. Just don’t go overboard with the snacks."

You laugh, reaching for the door handle. "No promises. See you tomorrow, Choiseung."

As you step out, he waits, watching until your lights flicker on inside. Only then does he drive off, the soft hum of the playlist still playing in the background.

The next day, the weekend air carries a hint of excitement as you step outside, spotting Seungcheol waiting by his car. Dressed casually in a hoodie and jeans, he looks effortlessly relaxed—except for the way he keeps checking his phone, as if trying to act nonchalant.

"Wow, you’re actually on time today," you tease, walking up to him.

He scoffs, sliding his phone into his pocket. "Please, I was born punctual."

You snort. "Sure, if 'punctual' means making me wait at least ten minutes every time."

Seungcheol rolls his eyes but opens the car door for you anyway, his usual playful smirk tugging at his lips. "Just get in, before I make you walk to the amusement park."

You laugh, sliding in as he rounds the car. Soon, you're both on the road, the soft hum of music playing in the background.

"So, what’s the plan, tour guide?" you ask, glancing at him.

He shrugs, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. "Nothing fancy. Just rides, food, and you trying not to chicken out on the roller coasters."

You gasp dramatically. "Excuse you, I do not chicken out—"

"You literally backed out last time," he deadpans, making you groan in protest.

The banter continues, filling the car with laughter as the amusement park comes into view, the vibrant lights and distant screams of thrill-seekers setting the perfect scene for the day ahead.

As Seungcheol parks the car, you glance at the towering rides ahead, the excited chatter of parkgoers filling the air.

"Alright, where to first?" he asks, stretching as he steps out of the car.

You scan the park, lips pursed in thought before pointing towards the roller coasters with a challenging grin. "Since you’re so confident, let’s start with that."

His eyes widen for a split second before he huffs. "I wasn’t the one who backed out last time, remember?"

You laugh, linking your arm with his and pulling him along. "Exactly. Time to redeem myself."

The line moves faster than expected, and soon, you're seated, the bar locking in place. You grip the handles tightly, sneaking a glance at Seungcheol. He looks relaxed, but the way he exhales deeply before the ride starts doesn’t go unnoticed.

The moment the coaster shoots forward, your screams mix with laughter, adrenaline rushing through your veins as you grip the bar for dear life. When it finally slows, you glance at Seungcheol, only to see him looking at you instead of the ride’s descent.

"What?" you ask, breathless.

He shakes his head, a small, fond smile on his lips. "Nothing. Just glad you didn’t chicken out this time."

You roll your eyes, nudging him playfully as you both step off the ride, your legs slightly wobbly from the rush.

The day continues with more rides, playful bets on who can win the most arcade games (he cheats, you swear), and an unnecessary but hilarious attempt at a claw machine.

"Face it, I'm just naturally gifted," he boasts, tossing you a small stuffed bear.

"Naturally full of it, maybe," you grumble, but take the bear anyway, hugging it to your chest.

Finally, as the night settles, you both find yourselves on the Ferris wheel, the gentle hum of the ride filling the comfortable silence. The city sprawls below, glowing under the streetlights, and in the distance, fireworks begin to bloom in the sky.

"Didn’t think today would be this fun," you admit, leaning back against the seat, the cool glass behind you a contrast to the warmth in your chest.

Seungcheol glances at you, something unreadable in his expression. He exhales softly, his fingers tapping against his knee.

"Yeah... I, uh—" He hesitates, licking his lips, his voice quieter now. "There's actually something I—"

But before he can finish, a particularly loud firework crackles in the sky, painting the cabin in flickering colors. You turn quickly, eyes lighting up as you take in the view.

"Oh, look at that one! It’s so pretty" you say, completely missing the way Seungcheol sighs, his half-spoken words swallowed by the moment.

He leans back, running a hand through his hair, a wry smile tugging at his lips.

"Yeah," he murmurs, gaze lingering on you instead of the fireworks. "It is pretty."

Eventually, you both find yourselves at a cozy café just outside the park, the scent of coffee and pastries filling the air.

After placing your order, Seungcheol suddenly pushes back his chair. “Be right back,” he says, flashing a quick smile before heading toward the counter.

You don’t think much of it, scrolling through your phone until the waiter returns with your drinks. As they set your cup down, you notice the delicate heart design floating atop the foam.

You tilt your head, stirring it slightly with your spoon. “Oh? Is this some kind of Valentine’s special?” you ask, amused. “Did you get one too?”

Seungcheol, who’s just returned to his seat, glances at his own plain coffee and shrugs. “Yeah… no.”

You raise a brow. “Huh. Guess they just like me more.”

He chuckles, taking a sip of his drink, but you don’t notice the way he hides his small, satisfied smile. Because the truth is, he had asked for that heart—just for you.

The next evening, the soft glow of the studio lights casts a warm hue as you settle into your seat, adjusting your headphones. Outside, the city hums with life, but a sudden downpour has turned the streets into shimmering reflections of neon signs.

"Looks like we’re in for an unexpected downpour tonight," you say, adjusting your headphones with a small chuckle. "So if you're heading home, grab an umbrella—or better yet, find someone who’ll share theirs with you—if not, maybe this is your chance for a classic movie moment. You know, the whole ‘one umbrella, two people’ thing."

With a quick tap, you queue up a slow, dreamy melody.

"Wherever you are tonight—rushing through the rain or just watching it fall—I hope this keeps you warm. Stay safe out there." As the song plays, you sit back, stretching your arms with a sigh.

As the show wraps up, you take off your headphones, letting out a small sigh as the last song fades into silence. The studio, once filled with the hum of voices and music, now feels still. Gathering your things, you push open the door, stepping into the quiet hallway.

Outside, the rain still falls in soft sheets, blurring the glow of streetlights. You pause near the entrance, rummaging through your bag. No umbrella. Right. You meant to bring one this morning, but in the rush, it completely slipped your mind.

You pause at the entrance, contemplating making a run for it, when a familiar voice calls out.

"Figured you’d forget yours."

You blink as Seungcheol steps forward, holding out an umbrella, his usual smirk in place. His hair is slightly damp, his coat dusted with droplets, like he had hurried here without much thought.

A small flutter, barely noticeable, stirs in your chest. You shake it off with a teasing smile. "What, no chauffeur duty today?"

He chuckles, tucking a hand into his pocket. "Uhh, not tonight. I have to stay late for that project."

You tilt your head, a little surprised. "So you came all the way here just to give me this?" You motion toward the umbrella in your hand.

"Yeah," he says simply, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Before you can say anything else, his phone buzzes. He glances at the screen, sighs, then looks back at you. "I gotta go. Text me when you get home, okay?"

You nod, watching as he jogs toward his car, the red taillights fading into the rain.

For a moment, you just stand there, gripping the umbrella a little tighter. You don’t know why, but the weight of it in your hands feels different.

Then, shaking off the thought, you open it and step into the rain, heading home.

As morning arrives, the first thing that comes to mind is Seungcheol. You blink at your phone, thumb hovering over his contact.

Texting him isn’t anything new—you’ve done it countless times before. But for some reason, tonight, it feels… different. Maybe it’s your coworker’s words still echoing in your head, or maybe it’s the way he’s been occupying your thoughts more than usual.

Before you can overthink it, you start typing.

You: Did you get home okay?

A second passes. Then another. You bite your lip, debating whether to add something else.

You: And did you even sleep well? Don’t tell me you stayed up all night working.

You press send before hesitation can creep in. Almost instantly, the dots appear.

Seungcheol: Wow, checking up on me? I must be special.

You roll your eyes, already imagining the smug grin on his face.

You: Forget I asked.

Seungcheol: Wait, wait— I did sleep. Kinda. Had a long day, but I’m home now.

You: Good. Don’t overwork yourself.

Your fingers hover over the screen for a beat before you add one last message.

This time, he takes a little longer to respond.

Seungcheol: You too.

You lock your phone, exhaling softly as you sink into your pillow.

Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe you’re just overthinking. But the warmth unfurling in your chest suggests otherwise.

At work, the usual hum of chatter fills the office. You’re halfway through your emails when a coworker slides into the seat beside you, a teasing grin already in place.

"I saw you yesterday," they start, leaning in slightly. "With a guy. Was he your boyfriend?"

Your fingers freeze over the keyboard.

"What? No!" The denial is immediate, instinctive. Too quick. You clear your throat, forcing a casual shrug. "Just a friend."

Your coworker chuckles, clearly amused. "Mmm, sure. You should’ve seen your face just now."

You scoff, shaking your head. "Oh, please. It’s not like that."

They raise an eyebrow, smirking as they lean against your desk. "Right. Just a friend, huh?"

You roll your eyes, waving them off, but as they walk away, their words linger.

Just a friend.

You’ve said it a hundred times before. So why does it feel different now?

The soft glow of the studio lights wraps around you like a familiar embrace as you settle in for another night on air. The playlist hums in the background, filling the quiet spaces between your thoughts as you scroll through messages from listeners.

One catches your eye.

“I think I’ve fallen for my best friend. It wasn’t sudden—more like a slow, creeping realization. One day, I caught myself smiling at my phone just because they texted me. I don’t know if they feel the same, and I’m scared to lose what we have. What do I do?"

You hesitate for a moment, the words settling heavier than they should. There’s a flicker of something familiar in them, something that makes you sit up a little straighter.

You take a breath and lean toward the mic. “That’s… complicated,” you begin, your voice even, steady. “Falling for a best friend is tricky. It sneaks up on you when you least expect it. One day, they’re just… them. The same person they’ve always been. And then suddenly, everything feels different.”

Your breath catches slightly. A part of you wants to laugh at the timing, but instead, you clear your throat and lean into the mic.

You exhale softly, fingers absentmindedly tracing the edge of your notes. "I think the scariest part isn’t even confessing—it’s the thought of what happens after. What if they don’t feel the same? What if things change? But… at the same time, isn’t it worth knowing? Isn’t it better than wondering ‘what if’ forever?"

The words come naturally, maybe a little too naturally, and you catch yourself mid-sentence, blinking at the realization. Your fingers tighten slightly around the papers in front of you.

You shake it off with a light laugh. "Anyway, I’m not a love expert. But if you’re listening… maybe ask yourself this—would you rather take the risk or live with the regret?"

As the segment transitions, you queue up the next song, the soft melody of Can't Help Falling in Love by Kina Grannis filling the airwaves. A bittersweet smile tugs at your lips as you lean back in your chair, staring at the ceiling.

The idea of a team dinner had been floating around the office for weeks, but it wasn’t until today that your producer finally put his foot down.

“We’re going,” he declared, arms crossed as he leaned against your desk. “No more excuses, no more ‘let’s do it next week.’ Tonight, we eat.”

Your coworker snickered, spinning lazily in their chair. “You just don’t want to go home and cook.”

“Exactly,” he admitted shamelessly. “Besides, it’s been a while since we all hung out outside of work. You in?”

You hesitated for a beat, glancing at your screen before sighing. It wasn’t like you had anything better to do. “Yeah, I’m in.”

And that was that. A few hours later, you found yourself walking toward the restaurant with the rest of your team, the air buzzing with conversation. Your producer was still arguing about food, insisting that this place was “decent at best” while another team member defended it with an almost personal level of passion.

You laughed at their banter, falling into step behind them—until something made you slow down.

A familiar figure stood just outside the restaurant, hands tucked into his coat pockets. Even before he turned, you knew who it was.

Seungcheol.

Your brows lifted slightly in amusement. “Are you a stalker?” you teased as you approached. “You’re literally everywhere I go.”

He turned toward you, chuckling under his breath. “No, I’m here with someone. My cli—”

“Shall we go?”

The voice belonged to a woman who stepped up beside him, her posture poised, her tone polite. She looked… elegant. The kind of effortless elegance that didn’t even need to try.

Your gaze flickered between them, something unreadable tightening in your chest before you smoothed your expression. “Who…”

The woman met your eyes and smiled. “Oh, I’m Lee Hana. I’m working with Seungcheol on a project.”

You nodded, lips curving into something light, something easy, even as something else tugged inside you. “Right. Nice to meet you.”

Seungcheol’s gaze lingered on you for a second longer than it should. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh,” you blinked, shifting slightly. “Our team is having dinner.” You motioned toward the restaurant behind you. “You know, bonding and all that.”

He nodded, but before he could say anything else, Hana touched his arm lightly. “Shall we?”

There was a pause—brief, barely there—before he cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah.” Then he glanced at you again. “Bye, then. Have fun.”

And then he was gone, walking away with her at his side.

You watched them leave, something unspoken pressing against your ribs. It’s not jealousy, you told yourself. Not really. But the feeling stayed anyway.

A voice broke through your thoughts. “Oh, isn’t he the umbrella guy?”

You turned to see your coworker standing beside you, glancing after Seungcheol with mild curiosity before their gaze shifted back to you. “Did he come here with a woman?”

You said nothing, but that seemed to be enough of an answer.

They hummed knowingly. “You really must be just friends.” And with that, they walked inside.

You stayed there a second longer, staring at the spot where Seungcheol had just been, before shaking yourself out of it and following them in.

The night air is crisp as you walk back home, the sounds of the city buzzing softly in the background. Your team dinner had ended a while ago, but instead of feeling full and satisfied, there’s a strange heaviness in your chest—a weight you don’t quite understand.

As you turn the corner to your apartment complex, you slow down, your steps faltering.

There, leaning against his car with his arms crossed, is Seungcheol.

Your brows knit together. “What are you doing here?”

At your voice, he straightens, slipping his hands into his pockets. “You didn’t look well back at the restaurant,” he says, his tone light but laced with something else—concern, maybe. “So, I thought I’d check on you.”

You blink at him. “You drove all the way here for that?”

He shrugs. “It’s not far.”

Liar. His office is nowhere near your place.

There’s a brief pause. The usual banter is on the tip of your tongue, but for some reason, the words don’t come out as easily tonight. Maybe it’s because he actually showed up. Maybe it’s because you don’t know what to do with the way your heart stutters at the sight of him standing there, waiting for you.

You shift your weight. “Do you… want to come in for coffee?”

At that, he chuckles, shaking his head. “Coffee? At this time?” He tilts his head at you, amused. “You must really hate me if you don’t want me to sleep tonight.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “Then I’ll give you plain water. Just come in.”

His lips twitch into a smirk before he pushes himself off the car. “If you insist.”

And just like that, he follows you inside.

The door clicks shut behind you as you step inside, flipping on the lights. The familiar warmth of your home settles around you, but with Seungcheol standing in your living room, it suddenly feels… different.

“You can sit,” you say, gesturing vaguely to the couch as you move toward the kitchen.

He hums in response, wandering over but not immediately sitting down. Instead, he looks around, eyes flickering to the small details of your space—the stack of books on the coffee table, the blanket draped lazily over the couch, the half-full cup on the counter from this morning.

“By the way,” you start, keeping your voice casual as you pour warm milk, “who was that woman earlier?”

Seungcheol hums in acknowledgment, but when he answers, it’s after a slight pause. “Just a client. I’m handling a project for her company.”

“Ah.” You nod, stirring the coffee a little too forcefully. “Looked like you guys were close.”

He lets out a small laugh. “Are you interrogating me right now?”

You scoff, bringing the mugs over to the table and handing him one. “No. Just making conversation.”

You drop onto the couch beside him, curling your legs under you. He’s been here so many times before, and yet tonight, the usual comfort feels a little different—like you’re hyper-aware of the way he leans back, his long legs stretched out in front of him, the way he watches you over the rim of his mug.

“You seemed off earlier,” he says after a beat. “Something wrong?”

“No,” you lie, but even you don’t sound convinced.

Seungcheol doesn’t press, just tilts his head slightly, studying you like he’s figuring out a puzzle. “If you say so.”

After a while, he stretches, glancing at the time. “I should go.”

You nod, following him to the door. He lingers for a second, hands shoved in his pockets.

“Text me when you wake up, yeah?”

You frown. “Why?”

He shrugs. “Just ‘cause.”

You roll your eyes, but something about the way he’s looking at you makes your chest tighten. “Fine.”

He smirks. “Good.”

And then, with a small wave, he’s gone.

You stand there for a second, staring at the closed door, fingers curling tightly around your cup.

The theater is dim, the soft glow from the screen casting flickering lights across Seungcheol’s face. The film has barely begun, but the hum of quiet conversations and the rustling of popcorn bags fill the space around you.

You’re not sure who suggested this movie. Maybe he did. Maybe you did. Maybe it was just one of those things—where he casually texted, "Movie?" and you didn’t even think before replying, "Sure."

The movie plays, but your focus wavers. You’re aware of him. Of the way his shoulder is just barely brushing yours. The way his fingers drum lazily against his knee. The way he shifts slightly every now and then, getting comfortable.

And then, his hand moves to the popcorn bag between you.

Your fingers accidentally graze his. Just for a second.

You don’t think much of it—until it happens again.

The second time, neither of you pull away immediately. It’s not intentional, not deliberate. Just… a pause. A moment that lingers for a beat too long before he finally retracts his hand.

Your pulse stutters, but you keep your expression neutral.

A few more scenes pass. You’re getting lost in the film when suddenly—

A jump scare.

It’s sudden enough that your breath catches, and before you can stop yourself, your hand darts out, grasping the closest thing—his arm.

Seungcheol doesn’t move. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t say a word. Just glances down at your fingers curled around his sleeve.

You realize what you’ve done a second too late. Heat creeps up your neck as you start to pull away.

But then—

His arm shifts just slightly, just enough that your hand slides from his sleeve to his wrist, fingertips brushing against his skin.

You don’t move. Neither does he.

The moment stretches, unspoken, unacknowledged. Not quite intentional. But not exactly not intentional, either.

And suddenly, the movie is the least interesting thing in the room.

The movie ends, and the crowd slowly shuffles toward the exits. You stretch your arms as you step out of the dimly lit theater, the cool night air greeting you.

"That wasn’t as scary as I thought," you say, glancing at Seungcheol.

He scoffs, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Sure. That explains why you nearly ripped my sleeve off."

You roll your eyes, nudging him lightly with your elbow. "That was one time."

He smirks. "Uh-huh. And what about the other time? And the time after that?"

You narrow your eyes at him, but there’s no real bite behind it. He’s enjoying this way too much.

"Okay, whatever. Where are we eating?" You change the subject swiftly, and Seungcheol hums, pretending to think.

"Ramen?" he suggests.

Your stomach growls at the mention of food, and you nod. "Sounds good."

It’s a short walk to the small ramen shop tucked away on a quieter street. The place is cozy, warm, and familiar—one of those late-night spots you’ve both ended up in more times than you can count. The moment you step inside, the comforting aroma of broth and spices fills the air.

Seungcheol orders for both of you, as he always does, rattling off your usual without even asking. The cashier doesn’t even blink, already used to it by now.

You shake your head with a small smile. "One day, I’m going to switch things up just to mess with you."

He leans against the counter, grinning. "No, you won’t."

He’s right, and you hate that he knows it.

The two of you settle into a booth, the conversation flowing easily between bites of food. Seungcheol steals a piece of your fish cake without asking. You retaliate by swiping a sip of his drink. It's effortless, familiar.

By the time you step back outside, the streets are quieter. The late hour drapes the city in a peaceful hush, the occasional headlights casting long shadows on the pavement.

Neither of you say much as you walk, but it isn’t an awkward silence. Just the kind that lingers when words aren’t needed.

At some point, Seungcheol slows his pace, falling into step beside you instead of slightly ahead.

The street lights flicker above, the air crisp but not too cold. You rub your hands together out of habit.

A beat passes before Seungcheol exhales through his nose and, without a word, reaches out.

His hand brushes yours, just barely.

You think it might be an accident until he does it again.

This time, he doesn’t move away.

And neither do you.

The apartment is quiet when you step inside, the familiar space wrapping around you like a well-worn blanket. You toe off your shoes, set your bag down, and exhale, as if the night still clings to your skin. The soft hum of the refrigerator is the only sound filling the air, but your mind is anything but quiet.

You wander into the kitchen on autopilot, reaching for a glass, but your fingers hesitate over the cabinet handle. The thought slips in, uninvited.

What if he already knows?

The question lingers, settling into the corners of your mind like an echo. You shake your head as if that alone could shove it away, but it doesn’t work.

Maybe it’s the way he laughed tonight—soft, genuine, like the sound itself belonged to you. Or the way he leaned in closer, just enough that his warmth almost touched you. Maybe it’s nothing at all, just the way he exists around you—familiar, steady, yet suddenly… different.

You close your eyes for a moment, trying to chase the feeling away, but it’s stubborn. Because now that you’ve noticed it, you can’t unsee it. Every teasing remark, every lingering glance, every small, meaningless moment—it’s all been leading to this.

And the worst part?

You don’t even know when it started.

You sink onto the couch, pressing the cool glass against your palm, grounding yourself. You try to convince yourself it’s nothing. You’ve always been close. He’s always been there.

But tonight, when his hand brushed yours and he didn’t pull away… when he said goodnight like he meant something else…

Your heart had stuttered.

You bite your lip, staring at the ceiling, willing your heartbeat to settle.

...What if he already knows?

The studio is quiet except for the soft hum of the equipment. The city lights flicker through the window, casting faint shadows against the booth. You scroll through the messages, eyes landing on a familiar name.

Cherry.

“I tried everything you said—gave them a letter, took them out, spent so much time together. And honestly? I swear they like me too. But… nothing. What do I do?"

You let out a breath, tapping your fingers lightly against the desk.

"Okay, first of all—don’t give up. I know it’s frustrating when someone doesn’t read between the lines, but sometimes, people need things to be said plainly. No metaphors, no subtlety. Just… real words."

You lean back slightly, eyes flickering toward the dim window of the booth, where the city blurs in the distance.

"Because here’s the thing—what if they do feel the same way? What if they’re just as scared as you are? Wouldn’t you rather know than spend your days wondering?"

The words come easily, almost too easily, and for a split second, you wonder if you’re really just talking to Cherry anymore.

You exhale and push forward.

"So here’s my advice, Cherry. Tell them. No hints, no half-confessions. Just look them in the eyes and say, ‘I like you.’ And if they don’t feel the same? At least you’ll know. At least you won’t have to live with ‘what if.’"

Your hand hovers over the controls for a moment longer than necessary before finally pressing the next song cue.

The melody flows through the studio, soft and steady. And yet, your heart is thudding slightly faster than it should.

The night air is cool against your skin as you step out of the building, the faint hum of the city filling the quiet. Work is done for the day, your coworkers already heading their separate ways after a few lingering goodbyes.

You stretch your arms slightly, exhaling as you adjust the strap of your bag—only to freeze mid-motion.

He’s there.

Standing just outside the entrance, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket—except for one, which lingers behind his back, hiding something.

Your heart stirs, something instinctive. “Seungcheol?”

His lips twitch in a small, almost nervous smile. “Hey.”

“You’re waiting for me?” You shift your bag on your shoulder, stepping toward him.

“Yeah.” A soft exhale. “I had to.”

You tilt your head slightly. “Why?”

Seungcheol hesitates, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Then, with a slow exhale, he pulls his hand from behind his back—revealing a bouquet of flowers, delicate and vibrant under the streetlights.

Your breath catches.

Your fingers brush against his as you take it, the warmth of his skin seeping into yours.

“Seungcheol…” Your voice is softer now, unsure. The gesture feels too deliberate, too thoughtful. It makes your heart ache in a way you don’t fully understand.

He watches you for a second before exhaling, running a hand through his hair. “I should’ve said this sooner. A long time ago, actually.” His voice drops slightly. “I think—no, I know—I’ve liked you for a while now.”

Your breath catches.

He holds it out to you, a faint chuckle escaping his lips. “I know it’s kind of cheesy, but... I saw this and thought of you.”

Your fingers brush against his as you take it, the warmth of his skin seeping into yours.

“Seungcheol…” Your voice is softer now, unsure. The gesture feels too deliberate, too thoughtful. It makes your heart ache in a way you don’t fully understand.

The world feels like it slows down.

His eyes flicker with something—uncertainty, vulnerability, an honesty so raw it makes your chest tighten.

“I tried not to,” he continues, voice steadier now. “I thought maybe it would pass, that maybe we were just friends and I was misreading things. But then you started showing up in my thoughts at the most random times. I’d hear a song and think of you. I’d pass a café and wonder if you’d like their coffee. And no matter how much I tried to ignore it… it was always you.”

Your fingers tighten around the flower.

“So I’m done pretending.” His voice is quiet but firm. “I like you. I’ve liked you for a long time.”

You swallow, fingers tightening around the flower as your heart stumbles over itself. The weight of his words settles over you—not heavy, not suffocating, but something warm, something undeniable.

For a long moment, you don’t speak. You don’t know if you can.

Seungcheol watches you carefully, his usual confidence laced with something softer, something uncertain. You can tell he’s waiting, bracing himself for whatever comes next.

So you inhale slowly, steadying yourself.

“You—” Your voice falters slightly before you clear your throat. “You’ve liked me for a long time?”

He nods, lips curving into a self-deprecating smile. “Yeah.” A beat. “I thought you knew.”

Your breath catches.

Did you?

You think back—to the lingering glances, the easy laughter, the way he’s always been there, steady and constant. The way he looks at you when he thinks you don’t notice. The way your heart has been shifting, your feelings unraveling into something you weren’t ready to name.

“I…” You pause, lips parting, your heart beating so fast it’s dizzying. And then you laugh, a little breathless, shaking your head. “God, I feel so stupid.”

Seungcheol blinks, caught off guard. “Huh?”

You meet his eyes, and this time, there’s no doubt, no hesitation.

“I like you too, you idiot.”

For a second, everything is still.

Then Seungcheol lets out a sharp breath—a laugh, almost disbelieving—and suddenly, that teasing smile you know so well is back, but there’s something else in his expression now. Something real. Something unshakable.

“Yeah?” His voice is quieter, laced with something warm.

You nod, lips pressing together. “Yeah.”

And then, he pulls you in—his hand resting at the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair.

His lips press against yours, gentle at first, then firmer, like he’s been holding this in for too long. His other hand stays over yours, the bouquet still between you, petals brushing against your skin.

The city buzzes in the background, but all you can hear is the quiet rush of your own heartbeat. And in that moment, with his warmth, his touch, his everything—

It just feels right.

You pull away just enough to look at him, breathless, your forehead still resting against his. His hands remain on your waist, warm and grounding, as if neither of you wants to let go just yet.

And honestly? You don’t think you ever want to.

A soft laugh escapes you, light and airy. “You know… a listener of mine also loves their best friend,” you murmur, tilting your head slightly. “They tried everything—subtle hints, letters, taking them out—but their best friend was too dense to get it.”

Seungcheol chuckles, his thumb brushing over your wrist. “Sounds familiar.”

“Right?” You sigh dramatically. “So, I told them to just confess. No hints, no half-confessions, just… real words.”

He hums, nodding thoughtfully. “Good advice.”

“Yeah,” you grin, looking up at him. “I wonder how it went for them.”

Seungcheol pauses for a second, then leans in just a little, his voice playful yet quiet. “I’d say pretty well.”

You blink. “Huh?”

His lips quirk up, and suddenly, the way he’s looking at you feels a little too knowing.

And then, before you can process it, he says it—just two words, but they hit you like a ton of bricks.

“I know.”

You stare. “What?”

He grins, tapping a finger against your forehead lightly. “Your listener. Cherry.”

Your brows furrow. The pieces are there, but your brain refuses to connect them. “What about them?”

He hesitates, as if savoring the moment, before finally confessing, “It’s me.”

Silence.

You tilt your head, processing his words. “...You’re Cherry?”

Seungcheol nods, clearly holding back a laugh at your expression.

For a second, you just stand there, staring at him.

Then, with a dramatic gasp, you lightly smack him with the bouquet in your hands.

“Ow—hey!” He feigns pain, stumbling back slightly, but the wide grin on his face betrays him.

“You idiot!” You hit him again, though there’s no real force behind it. “You made me give love advice for your own confession?”

He catches your wrist, still laughing. “Hey, it worked, didn’t it?”

You narrow your eyes at him, but before you can retaliate, he tugs you forward, pulling you into another hug.

This time, it feels different.

Familiar, warm, but with something new. Something neither of you have to question anymore.

You sigh against his shoulder, shaking your head. “I can’t believe you.”

He grins. “Believe it, Baby.”

1K notes · View notes

heeluvv · 2 months ago

Text

AFTER CONCERT.ᐟ

pairing ᝰ.ᐟ idol! ot7 x 8th member! reader

warnings ᝰ.ᐟ unprotected sex, cum eating, oral (m), fingering, overstimulation, etc. (wc 6.149k)

natty’s notes ᝰ.ᐟ mdni, hate comments will be deleted.

the performance had ended, the energy still crackling in the air, the echoes of screams and cheers fading into the background as the adrenaline slowly settled. yet, even as the minutes passed, as the crew bustled around in the post-show rush, you couldn’t ignore the lingering tension—the heat that simmered beneath the surface, unspoken but felt.

it wasn’t just in the way their bodies glistened with sweat, the aftereffects of giving themselves entirely to the stage. it was in the way their eyes would flicker toward you, those lingering, burning stares that they thought went unnoticed. but you noticed.

the way their gazes would darken, pupils blown wide with something hungry, something dangerous. the way their lips would part ever so slightly, damp from where they had been running their tongues over them between songs. how their fingers, still tingling with the energy of the performance, would graze against you—innocent at first glance, but the weight of their touch lingered, intentional, teasing.

to anyone else, it could have been dismissed—just fleeting glances, nothing more than a momentary connection with the crowd, the remnants of an electric performance still buzzing through them.

but you knew better.

you knew them too well.

you saw the way their eyes stayed on you longer than necessary, the way their lips would press together before being caught between their teeth, suppressing something they weren’t willing to say out loud.

and even without words, you understood it.

the stage was their release, but you were their aftermath.

you step into the room with the rest of them, the adrenaline from the performance still thrumming beneath your skin, a lingering hum that refuses to settle. your fingers work to remove your mic, the others doing the same, yet something feels different.

their eyes never leave you.

it’s subtle—calculated even—but you feel it, the weight of their stares pressing into you from every angle. the air in the room is thick, charged with something unspoken, something that has your breath hitching even as you try to appear unaffected.

it’s no secret that you’ve all grown accustomed to being in the same space, sharing moments like this after every show, coming down from the high of performing together. so when sunghoon is the first to strip off his shirt, it’s not shocking—not really.

but fuck, the sight of him still knocks the breath from your lungs.

his body is glistening, sweat trailing down the defined ridges of his abs, catching under the dim lighting of the dressing room. his chest rises and falls with every breath, the residual heat from the stage still evident in the way his muscles flex, his mouth parting in short, heavy huffs. there’s something so effortless about it, about the way he runs a hand through his damp hair, the way his gaze flickers toward you for the briefest moment, unreadable—dangerous.

riki, on the other hand, settles himself on the couch in the far corner of the room, stretching out with an air of ease, but his eyes tell a different story. they’re locked on you, watching, waiting, as if he’s amused by the slow, aching tension filling the space.

you busy yourself at the vanity, reaching for a makeup wipe, pretending to be unfazed as you slowly drag it across your skin. each swipe is deliberate, stalling—buying time.

but it does little to distract from the way the atmosphere has shifted, the way the silence crackles with something more, something heavier.

and the longer it stretches, the harder it is to ignore.

jungwon moves behind you with an ease that feels both familiar and calculated, his hands sliding over your shoulders before pressing down gently, kneading into the tension coiled beneath your skin. the warmth of his palms seeps into you, his touch slow, methodical, as if he knows exactly how to unravel the stiffness lingering in your muscles.

“it was fun today, no?” his voice is casual, almost too casual, but there’s something in the way he says it—something in the way his fingers linger a second too long against your skin, in the way his eyes stay fixed on yours through the mirror.

you swallow, nodding absentmindedly, though you’re hyperaware of the way the others shift around the room.

jay leans back against the arm of the couch, arms crossed, his gaze flickering between you and jungwon, but it’s sunoo who answers first.

“yeah… i liked it.”

his voice is lower than usual, a deep timbre that sends a shiver down your spine. it’s subtle, but it’s felt—the weight of his words sinking deep into the already thick atmosphere, pressing down on you like an invisible force.

your thighs squeeze together instinctively, the movement small, barely noticeable, but the way jay’s eyes darken at the sight tells you otherwise.

and then, heeseung speaks.

“you looked good, baby…”

the nickname rolls off his tongue effortlessly, as if it’s second nature, as if it doesn’t send a jolt of electricity through you every time you hear it. they’re all used to it by now—the way they call you baby, the way it slips into conversation so easily, so fluidly. but it always does something to you. always leaves your breath hitching ever so slightly, your fingers tightening around the makeup wipe in your hand as warmth spreads through your chest, through your core.

jungwon notices, his smirk barely concealed as his thumbs press a little deeper into your shoulders, his touch no longer just soothing, but something more.

you try to keep your composure, try to steady your breath, but the way their eyes are on you—the way the energy in the room has shifted from post-show exhaustion to something heavier, something charged—makes it impossible to ignore the way your thighs press together, just a little tighter.

jake moves toward the door with quiet purpose, the soft click of the lock falling into place echoing through the dimly lit room. he leans against it casually, arms crossed over his chest, but there’s something knowing in his gaze, something dark and unreadable that makes your stomach tighten.

“so pretty…” he murmurs, almost to himself, but you hear it—feel it—in the way his voice drops just slightly, in the way his eyes rake over your figure as he pushes off the door and strides toward you.

he comes to a stop beside you, towering over where you sit at the vanity, his presence heavy, his warmth radiating off him as his fingers move to the hem of his shirt. with an easy tug, he lifts it over his head, discarding the fabric without a second thought, leaving his toned torso bare to your widening gaze.

you huff softly, forcing yourself to ignore the way your pulse picks up, the way heat crawls up your spine. “i look like this every other day, guys…” you reply, trying to sound unaffected, your voice steady even as you shift in your seat.

but when you turn in the chair to fully face them, your resolve wavers.

your gaze trails over their bodies, drinking in the sight in front of you—some of them already shirtless, skin still glistening from the remnants of sweat, muscles flexing with each slow movement. others are in the process of ridding themselves of the last barriers of clothing, leaving nothing to the imagination.

jay catches the way your eyes flicker downward, the way your lips part slightly, how your fingers subtly grip onto the vanity as if to steady yourself. he leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees, a slow smirk creeping onto his face.

“like what you see, baby?” his voice is smooth, teasing, but there’s an underlying challenge in his tone, a flicker of amusement as he watches you, completely aware of how easily you’re slipping into the tension surrounding you.

your thighs press together instinctively, the movement small, barely noticeable—but they notice.

riki lets out a quiet chuckle from his place on the couch, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “aw, so cute…” he teases, voice laced with amusement, his grin widening when you try—and fail—to fight back your reaction.

your breath hitches as you feel jungwon’s hands tighten ever so slightly on your shoulders, his fingers pressing down into your skin, a silent reminder of how completely surrounded you are—how trapped you are.

and judging by the looks on their faces, they wouldn’t have it any other way.

“you guys are taking so fucking long with this…” sunghoon mutters, his voice edged with impatience, thick with something darker. his footsteps are slow, purposeful, the anticipation hanging heavy in the air as he makes his way toward you.

before you can react, his hands are on you, large and warm as they cup your bare face, tilting your chin up to meet his gaze. his eyes are dark, hooded with hunger, and just as quickly as he reached you, his lips crash down on yours, devouring you in a way that leaves no room for hesitation.

he kisses you deeply, as if he’s been starving for the taste of you, as if every second wasted was unbearable. his tongue slips past your parted lips, claiming you in a slow, intoxicating rhythm that leaves you breathless.

meanwhile, jake’s hands are already working their way downward, sliding under the hem of your shirt, fingertips grazing along the heat of your skin before slipping under your bra. his touch is teasing, deliberate, his fingers seeking out your nipple before giving it a sharp, experimental pinch.

a soft gasp slips past your lips, swallowed instantly by sunghoon’s greedy mouth, and the reaction only spurs them on.

jungwon leans in from behind, his breath warm against your skin as his lips press soft kisses along the side of your neck, a contrast to the rough hands exploring your body. his kisses start gentle, slow and teasing, but it isn’t long before his tongue flicks out, his teeth grazing over your pulse point, making you shudder.

the others remain on the couch, watching, waiting, their gazes heavy on you as the ones surrounding you continue their attacks, hands and mouths working in tandem to rid you of every last piece of clothing.

fabric is peeled away, fingers ghosting over newly exposed skin, your body being unwrapped layer by layer, every inch of you becoming theirs to claim.

sunghoon pulls away from your lips only to seize your wrist, his grip firm yet guiding as he leads you toward the others. jake and jungwon are already seated, their bodies relaxed, but their eyes burn with anticipation, watching intently as sunghoon maneuvers you closer. the air is thick, heavy with something dangerous, something intoxicating, and the weight of their gazes alone has heat coiling low in your stomach.

positioning himself behind you, sunghoon’s hands move with slow, deliberate intent, his palms sliding over the curves of your body before settling on your breasts. his fingers knead into the soft flesh, his thumbs brushing over your hardened nipples, sending small jolts of pleasure coursing through your veins. but he doesn’t stop there—his hands continue their descent, trailing lower, his touch possessive as his fingers dip between your legs.

his lips brush against the shell of your ear, his voice low, commanding, laced with amusement as he murmurs, "spread your legs, baby. let them see how i’ll have you ruined from just my fingers."

the sheer filth of his words alone is enough to make you tremble, your breath hitching as you obediently part your thighs, your fingers tightening around his arms for support. the cool air against your exposed skin only amplifies your vulnerability, and you feel their eyes on you—watching, waiting, hungry.

lounging lazily against the couch, the others remain seated, but there’s nothing casual about their state. their bodies are tense, their chests rising and falling steadily, their dicks standing hard and proud, straining against the constraints of their boxers or resting bare against their stomachs. the view before them is too much—you, open and exposed, sunghoon’s hands already working to ruin you.

his fingers move deftly, flicking over your clit with practiced ease, the sharp sensation sending a full-body shudder through you. a soft gasp leaves your lips, involuntary, breathy, making the smirk on sunghoon’s face deepen.

“fuck, baby,” he groans, feeling the wetness pooling between your thighs as his fingers trail down your slick folds, spreading the mess you’ve already made. his cock twitches against your lower back, the simple feel of you enough to drive him insane.

without warning, he presses two fingers against your entrance, teasing, testing, before pushing in just enough to make you squirm.

“so fucking wet already…” he grunts, his eyes flickering up to the others, his smirk widening. “guess she likes putting on a show.”

he sets a torturously slow pace, his fingers slipping in and out of you with an agonizing precision, every movement deliberate, teasing. your walls flutter around the intrusion, gripping him greedily despite the languid rhythm, and sunghoon notices—of course he notices.

his lips graze the side of your neck, his warm breath sending shivers down your spine as he presses his fingers deeper, curling them just right, just enough to have your back arching against him.

"already so tight… and i haven’t even done shit," he chuckles, his tone thick with amusement, but there’s a flicker of something darker laced within it—something hungry.

a soft, shaky gasp falls from your lips, your eyes flickering to the others, heat spreading through your body at the sight before you.

jake and sunoo sit sprawled out in front of you, their hands palming over the hard bulges straining against their boxers, their eyes trained on you like a feast laid out before them. the slow, lazy way they touch themselves, the low grunts escaping from their throats, makes your thighs instinctively try to squeeze together—only to be stopped by sunghoon’s firm grip keeping them spread apart.

your pussy clenches involuntarily, a whimper slipping out before you can stop it.

sunghoon notices.

he feels the way your walls tighten around his fingers, the way your body reacts to the sight of the others getting off to you.

“she loves that shit, guys…” his voice drops lower, his smirk evident in his tone. “keep doing it.”

his words send a ripple of confirmation through the room, and within seconds, the others take the command without hesitation.

jake groans softly as his hand wrapping around the thick length, stroking himself slowly. sunoo follows, his grip tight around himself as his chest rises and falls, his lip caught between his teeth, his eyes never leaving you.

the air feels thicker, heavier, the tension unbearable as every pair of eyes in the room devours you, watches the way sunghoon plays with you, makes you drip around his fingers.

"such a fucking slut for us, huh?" jay’s voice cuts through the room, deep and taunting, his hand lazily stroking himself at the same pace as the others. "love seeing us jerk off, don’t you?"

your breath stutters, your skin burning at his words, at the raw filth of the situation unraveling around you.

sunghoon hums, pleased, his fingers picking up speed, thrusting into you with more purpose, his pace shifting from slow and teasing to steady and precise.

"sunghoon…" you whine, the sound coming out desperate, breathless, your fingers digging into his forearms as your body trembles against him.

but sunghoon only grins, his lips brushing against your ear as he coos, "be patient, baby… we’re just getting started."

“go faster, sunghoon,” heeseung orders, his voice low, almost strained, his eyes locked onto the sight of sunghoon’s fingers plunging in and out of you, slick with your arousal.

sunghoon obeys without hesitation, his fingers picking up speed, disappearing into you only to reappear glistening before thrusting back inside with an obscene wet sound. the sudden increase in pace sends a sharp wave of pleasure rolling through your body, a choked whine tumbling past your lips as your thighs tremble from the overwhelming sensation.

as if on cue, the others match the rhythm sunghoon sets, their hands moving faster over their lengths, the room filling with the soft, breathy moans and hushed groans of pleasure.

"so pretty, b-baby…" jungwon murmurs, his voice breathless, shaky, his brows furrowed in pure pleasure as his thumb rubs over his slit, spreading the slick precum that dribbles down his length. every flick of his touch makes his chest rise and fall unevenly, soft, broken whimpers escaping him, his lips parted in silent desperation.

the sight alone is too much. your walls clamp down around sunghoon’s fingers, your body reacting instinctively to the overwhelming heat pressing in from all sides.

a low, satisfied grunt vibrates from sunghoon’s chest at the feeling of you tightening around him, his lips curving into a smirk as he leans in closer. his breath is hot against your ear, his voice dripping with something dark, something possessive.

"fuck, baby… can't wait to feel this pussy wrapped around my cock."

his tongue darts out, wet and warm, dragging along the shell of your ear before he lightly sucks on the sensitive skin just below it.

"gonna have you begging for us to stop…"

the promise sends a violent shudder down your spine, your hands gripping onto his arms as your body tenses, the pleasure climbing too fast, too high, and you know—you know—there’s no coming back from this.

you can’t control it anymore—the soft, broken whines spilling from your lips, the way your body trembles in sunghoon’s hold, the way your chest rises and falls in ragged breaths. every word he whispers into your ear sends another shudder through you, another rush of heat pooling between your thighs, another sharp pulse of pleasure making you clench down around his fingers.

but it isn’t just him that has you falling apart—it’s them.

your heavy-lidded gaze flickers toward the others, your eyes skimming over their flushed faces, their lips parted as soft groans and hushed grunts escape them. but then—your attention is drawn elsewhere.

sunoo.

he’s losing himself.

his head is tilted back against the couch, his chest heaving, his whiny, breathless moans filling the room louder than anyone else’s. his thighs tremble, his hand working his length at a pace faster than the rest, his fingers tightening around himself as his slick precum coats every movement. his desperation is palpable, written in every expression, every quiver in his voice, every sharp gasp as his hips stutter up into his own grip.

and fuck, it ruins you.

your legs twitch, your breathing faltering as your body reacts to the sight of him—so utterly wrecked, so close to the edge, completely lost in the pleasure he’s chasing.

as if he feels you staring, his head slowly tips back up, his hooded, glazed-over eyes locking onto yours, his lips parted as another whimper escapes.

his dick twitches in his hand, his rhythm faltering, his jaw clenching as he tries—tries so fucking hard—to hold himself back.

but the way you look at him—so wrecked, so needy, so completely lost in it—only pushes him further.

“o-oh s-shit—!” sunoo moans, voice breaking as his body trembles, his dick twitching violently in his grip. his breath catches, his chest rising and falling in sharp, erratic movements as his orgasm crashes over him.

thick ropes of cum spill from his slit, coating his hand completely, dripping down his fingers in a sticky, messy display. his thighs shake uncontrollably, muscles tensing and relaxing in waves as he rides out his high, his head tilting back once more, lips parted in a silent moan, his entire body wrecked with pleasure.

the sight alone destroys you.

a sharp, shaky gasp tears from your throat, your eyes widening as your own pleasure surges to an unbearable peak. a loud, whimpering moan escapes your lips, high-pitched, breathless, your legs trembling as your walls clamp down hard around sunghoon’s fingers.

he notices immediately.

his smirk deepens, his pace picking up as he slams his fingers into you harder, curling them just right, just enough to send another pulse of white-hot pleasure shooting through your core.

“fuck—gonna cum just from watching sunoo, baby?” he taunts, voice low, teasing, but laced with something darker, something dangerous.

your breath stutters, your nails digging into his arms as he leans in, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear.

“right after i’m done with you,” he murmurs, his fingers still fucking into you relentlessly, his tone sending another shiver down your spine, “i wanna see how well you take him in your mouth, hm?”

his teeth graze your earlobe, his voice thick with amusement, with command.

“he deserves it, doesn’t he?”

the words alone push you over the edge.

your entire body shudders, your vision going hazy as the pleasure bursts through you, overwhelming and all-consuming.

a sharp, broken moan rips from your lips, your back arching as your orgasm crashes into you, your walls tightening around sunghoon’s fingers, your slick gushing down onto his hand.

"ahh—sunghoon!"

your legs tremble violently, your head tipping back onto his shoulder, your body completely falling apart in his arms. but sunghoon?

he just grins, watching you crumble, knowing they're only just getting started.

watching the way sunghoon’s fingers are completely drenched, glistening with your release as your body trembles from the aftershocks, is what finally pushes the rest of them over the edge.

one by one, deep, ragged grunts and breathless moans fill the room, their bodies tensing, their hands working themselves through the final strokes as their cocks twitch violently. thick ropes of cum spill over their fingers, coating their skin, dripping down their lengths in a mess of heat and pleasure. their chests rise and fall in heavy, uneven breaths, their gazes still locked onto you, watching the way you shake in sunghoon’s lap, completely wrecked.

but you don’t stop.

once you finally manage to collect yourself, you shift forward, crawling toward riki, your movements slow, deliberate. his legs are spread lazily, his head tilted back slightly as he tries to recover from the intensity of his orgasm. but the moment you settle between his thighs, his heavy-lidded gaze flickers down to you, breath hitching as he watches your fingers swipe across his thigh, gathering up the warm, sticky mess he left behind.

your tongue darts out, licking your fingers clean, your lips wrapping around them as you moan softly, savoring the taste. riki watches you, completely entranced, his chest still rising and falling rapidly from how hard he just came.

his body shudders when you finally wrap your fingers around his length, feeling how sensitive he still is, your other hand reaching out to jay, who sits right next to him. both of them twitch at your touch, their overstimulated cocks throbbing in your grasp as you start to stroke them, setting a steady, teasing pace.

jay’s lips part in a sharp exhale, his head falling back slightly as his hips jerk up into your hand, already desperate for more friction.

riki, on the other hand, is more impatient.

"baby, put it in your mouth already, fuck..." his voice is strained, breathless, thick with need. his fingers thread into your hair, his grip just firm enough to make your core throb, his hips shifting beneath you as he chases the heat of your mouth.

but before you can react, before you can take either of them in, you feel it—someone pressing up behind you, their body heat melting against your back, their presence undeniable.

a quiet, breathy whimper escapes from them, the softest sound, barely above a whisper, but you know exactly who it is.

sunoo.

his cock drags along your soaked folds, teasing, testing, his whine growing needier at the feeling of how wet you still are for them.

his lips brush against the back of your shoulder, his voice a hushed plea, dripping with desperation as he rocks his hips forward, barely pressing into you.

"come on, baby… take them in that pretty mouth while i fuck you so good..."

sunoo pushes himself in with one slow, deep thrust, a loud, breathy whine escaping his lips as your walls clamp down around him. his cock stretches you so good, so full, the thickness of him pressing against every nerve, making you cry out in a sharp, gasping moan.

"uh—sunoo, fuck…!" the words barely leave your lips before your body reacts instinctively, the overwhelming pleasure making you tighten your grip around both riki and jay.

their reactions are immediate.

riki groans, his hips bucking slightly at the feeling of your fingers squeezing around him, his patience wearing dangerously thin. his grip tightens in your hair, firm but not painful, his fingers threading through the strands as he tugs your head down toward his aching cock.

"open up, baby." his voice is low, demanding, thick with frustration and need.

you obey without thinking, your lips parting to take him in, the weight of him heavy against your tongue as your mouth stretches around his length. the moment you wrap your lips around him, riki moans, deep and breathless, his hips jerking up almost immediately, forcing you to take him deeper.

"fuck—might even just fuck your mouth…" he murmurs, his voice breaking slightly as he thrusts up into you, the heat of your tongue sending jolts of pleasure straight through him.

meanwhile, jay is already teetering on the edge, his cock twitching in your grip from the overstimulation, every touch sending him spiraling. your thumb swipes over his sensitive tip, smearing the precum that beads there, and a shudder wracks through his body.

"fuck, yes—just like that, baby…" jay moans, his chest rising and falling heavily as his hands wrap around yours, guiding you to stroke him just the way he needs. his hips move in tandem with your hand, sharp jerks upward as his head tilts back, mouth parted in silent pleasure.

behind you, sunoo’s grip on your waist tightens, his fingers digging into your flesh as his pace shifts—slow, teasing thrusts replaced by something desperate, unrelenting. his hips snap against yours, fucking into you fast, each deep stroke sending a sharp, blissful jolt straight to your core.

your tits bounce aggressively from the force of his thrusts, the movement catching the attention of the others, who have been watching—waiting—stroking themselves as they take in the filthy scene before them.

jake, heeseung, jungwon, and sunghoon move in closer, their cocks heavy in their hands, precum already dripping down their lengths. jake is the closest, his breath ragged, his rhythm fast, his grip tight around himself as he watches the way sunoo pounds into you, the way your lips are wrapped so perfectly around riki.

"fuck, baby…" jake groans, his voice thick, nearly breathless.

he’s close—they all are.

and with the way sunoo is fucking you, the way riki is fucking your mouth, and the way your hand is working over jay, it’s only a matter of time before they completely fall apart for you.

jungwon is the first to break.

his breath stutters, sharp and uneven, his body tensing as his release bursts out in thick, hot spurts, painting your lips and tongue with his cum. his head falls back, a choked moan slipping past his swollen lips as his body shakes, overstimulated and utterly wrecked. his fingers tighten in your hair, his hips jerking slightly as he rides out the waves of pleasure, his cum dripping down your chin, warm and sticky.

the taste of him floods your mouth, mixing with the heat already burning inside you, and you let out a deep, muffled moan around riki’s cock. the vibrations send a sharp jolt of pleasure up his spine, his thighs twitching as his fingers spasm against your scalp.

"oh fuck—" riki groans, his voice breaking, breathless and desperate.

his hips jerk up into your mouth, chasing the high that’s been building inside him, his pace turning erratic, almost frantic. every sharp thrust makes your throat tighten around him, makes his breath hitch higher, makes the tension coil impossibly tight in his core.

"i’m gonna cum—"

his words are almost slurred, lost in the haze of pleasure, and just as your pussy clenches hard around sunoo’s cock, the sensation is too much—for both of them.

sunoo loses it, his entire body trembling behind you as high-pitched, broken moans spill from his lips, sounding more like helpless sobs than anything else.

"oh shit, shit, shit—!"

his grip on your waist turns bruising, his fingers pressing deep into your skin as his thrusts turn messy, desperate, his cock twitching wildly inside you. the overwhelming tightness, the warmth of you squeezing around him, sends him crashing over the edge with a strangled cry.

at the same moment, riki's hips snap up one last time, his grip on your hair tightening, holding you in place as he spills deep into your mouth. thick ropes of cum flood your throat, hot and heavy, the salty taste coating your tongue as his thighs tremble beneath you.

sunoo moans loudly, burying himself deep as he fills you completely, his cum spilling into you in pulsing waves, the heat of it pooling inside, dripping down your thighs with every weak thrust he forces in after.

riki’s breath comes out in sharp, shallow pants, his chest rising and falling rapidly as his body slumps back against the couch, fingers still tangled in your hair as he watches you swallow every drop of him.

sunoo collapses against your back, forehead pressed against your shoulder, soft whimpers still slipping from his lips as his cock twitches inside your still-clenching walls, milking him for everything he has.

once you finally pull away from riki, a soft, breathless whimper escapes your lips, your throat already sore from the way he used your mouth. you tilt your head back slightly, swallowing down every drop of his release, savoring the way it coats your tongue before your attention flickers to jay.

his expression is utterly wrecked, his eyes dark and desperate as his fingers tangle in your hair, guiding you toward him with a low, strained groan. without hesitation, you part your lips, wrapping them around his aching cock, the warmth of your mouth making his entire body shudder as he lets out a sharp, "fuck—yes, baby, just like that."

his hips jerk forward instinctively, fucking into your mouth at a quick, desperate pace, the wet heat of your tongue dragging along his length pushing him dangerously close. your hands grip onto his thighs for support, feeling the way they tense beneath your touch, his body unraveling under you.

"hmph—s-shit, oh my god…" his voice breaks into a breathy moan as his pace stutters, his cock twitching between your lips before he bursts, spilling hot and thick straight down your throat.

jay’s head tilts back, his chest heaving as he groans through the aftershocks, his fingers tugging your hair just slightly before he finally releases you, watching with hooded eyes as you swallow his cum without hesitation.

but before you can fully process anything, you feel yourself being pushed forward, sunoo’s warmth disappearing from behind you as heeseung takes his place. his presence is overwhelming, demanding, his hands already exploring your body with purpose.

his fingers dip between your legs without warning, collecting the mess sunoo left inside you, scooping up the warm, sticky cum only to push it back in, watching the way it slides from your entrance and drips down toward your clit.

"gonna have you filled up to the fucking brim, baby…"

his voice is thick, dripping with something dark, something dangerous, and that’s the only warning you get before heeseung slams into you in one deep, brutal thrust.

your breath leaves you in a sharp, choked gasp, your body already too wrecked to react properly, every muscle trembling as you try to ground yourself. but before you can even adjust, before you can fully feel the way he stretches you open, there’s movement in front of you.

the others shift, their bodies repositioning, and as your vision clears, you find yourself once again face to face with more of them—three this time.

sunghoon, jungwon, and jake.

jake and sunghoon flank your sides while jungwon sits directly in the middle, all three of them watching you with dark, expectant eyes, their cocks heavy, glistening, waiting.

and they don’t need to tell you what to do.

as if instinctively, their hands find your hair, guiding your head downward, parting your lips with ease as they take turns fucking into your mouth.

your eyes flutter shut, the overwhelming sensation sending another pulse of pleasure straight to your core. the feeling of heeseung slamming into you from behind while the three in front of you use your mouth sends your mind spiraling, every part of your body consumed by them, by this.

"so fucking perfect for me, oh my god…" sunghoon moans, his voice thick with satisfaction as he watches the way your lips wrap around him so perfectly.

his cock nudges against the back of your throat, making you gag around him, the sensation only fueling him on, his hips snapping forward with more force, more desperation.

"you were fucking made for this, baby."

sunghoon doesn’t last much longer, his breath turning ragged, his grip on your head tightening as his thrusts grow erratic. his cock twitches violently, every muscle in his body going taut as his release bursts forward, hot and thick, spilling into your mouth. his head tilts back, a deep, guttural groan leaving his lips as the last spurts of his orgasm paint your tongue.

you try to swallow, try to keep up, but some of it escapes, trailing down your chin in slow, sticky rivulets.

before you can fully recover, before you can even take a proper breath, jungwon’s fingers are threading through your hair, gripping tight as he pulls you onto him, guiding you down until your lips stretch wide around him.

"fuck—take it, baby," he growls, his voice thick, filled with something dark.

your nose presses flush against his abdomen, his cock buried deep in your throat as he groans, his body tensing beneath your touch. you feel the way his hips jerk forward ever so slightly, the way his cock pulses hard, and then—he cums.

thick, hot ropes of it shoot straight down your throat, mixing with sunghoon’s, the sheer amount of it making your eyes squeeze shut as you struggle to take it all. you swallow as best as you can, throat tightening around him, but it’s too much—your body betrays you, choking slightly as you try to breathe through the overwhelming sensation.

"fuck, baby—shit…" jungwon grunts, his head tilting down to watch the way your eyes water, the way your throat works around him.

the sight pushes them further.

his grip tightens, forcing your head up, making you choke, your body convulsing slightly as you gasp for air, spit and cum dripping from your lips in messy, glistening strings.

but your breathy, broken whimpers are drowned out by another sharp, desperate moan—jake.

he barely manages to get out a warning before his hips jerk forward, his cock twitching violently as he spills onto your already-wrecked face, hot, sticky ropes of cum painting your cheeks, your lips, dripping down onto your collarbone.

*"fucking—shit!" jake groans, his voice wrecked, his hands tightening into fists as his body shudders from the force of his release.

your chest heaves, your fingers gripping desperately onto sunghoon and jungwon’s thighs as the mess coats your skin, your body trembling under their hands.

"ugh—s’much…" you whimper, voice barely above a breath, overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of everything—by the way your body is covered, by the way the heat of it clings to your skin.

but heeseung doesn’t slow.

his thrusts are still deep, still relentless, his fingers digging into your hips as he uses you with no restraint. your walls flutter, clenching down hard around him, every sharp movement making you gasp, making your moans break between desperate, choked sobs of pleasure.

heeseung groans, his breath hot against your skin as his pace stutters—and then, all at once, he snaps, burying himself deep as his body convulses behind you.

his release pours into you, filling you completely, spilling out in thick dribbles as his hips twitch through the aftershocks.

your vision blurs, your mind going blank as your own orgasm crashes over you, your body shaking, trembling as wave after wave of blinding pleasure consumes you.

the only sounds that fill the room are heavy, ragged breaths, the thick, lingering scent of sex hanging in the air like a fog.

your body slumps forward, completely spent, the warmth of their bodies surrounding you, trapping you in the aftermath of everything that just happened.

and even through the haze, through the exhaustion threatening to pull you under, you know—they’re not done with you yet.

natty’s notes ᝰ.ᐟ had so many request for enha x reader/ 8th member reader, so i hope you all enjoyed it !!

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noirscript · 19 days ago

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curtain call

Pairing: Yandere!Actor x Reader Description: The television flickers with Caelum Ashford's triumph, but even in his absence, his shadow looms, a dangerous obsession seared into your every breath. Warning/s: YANDERE | IMPLIED NONCON | possessive behavior | obsessive behavior | emotional manipulation | power dynamics | psychological abuse | implied violence | toxic relationship Note/s: Apologies for not posting yesterday. Anyway, here's something for today. Might post something later or I might work on Callixto's story the rest of the day, Oh, also, Dark Roast is currently on sale for those of you interested. We're also about to hit 900 followers. Yay! Anyway, let me know what you think about this one!

Masterlist | Dark Roast 50% OFF | Commission | Tip Jar

The television glows like a portal in the otherwise shadow-soaked room. The air is still, heavy with the scent of rosewood and Caelum—his cologne clings to your skin like fingerprints, still damp with sweat, bruised in all the places he left his mark. Your robe slips over your shoulder with each shallow breath, but you’re too sore to adjust it. The ache in your body is a ghost of how he claimed you before leaving, whispering that you belonged to no one but him.

The TV is the only light in the room. He left it on intentionally.

“Even when I’m not here, you’ll watch me. You’ll remember who you belong to.”

His voice is still in your ear, etched into your spine.

The crowd on the screen roars, dressed in designer gowns and thousand-watt smiles. Glitter rains from the ceiling of the grand theater. The host opens the envelope with ceremonial flourish.

“And the award for Best Actor in a Drama Series goes to… Caelum Ashford!”

You flinch.

Applause. Standing Ovation. Camera Flashes.

You grip the arm of the velvet couch tighter, the pressure grounding you. You’d known he’d win. Of course he would. The world is in love with him. They believe his portrayal of Lord Severus—the dangerously obsessive noble who would kill, steal, burn the kingdom down just to keep his wife—was the role of a lifetime.

But you know the truth.

He wasn’t acting.

The screen cuts to him rising from his seat. Hair immaculately styled. Sharp black suit hugging his tall frame. He walks with that haunting grace only Caelum possesses—like he owns the air around him. When he smiles, women in the audience swoon. Men clap harder. Critics nod, impressed.

But you—you freeze.

Because you know that smile is the same one, he gave you last night, when he held your wrists down against silk sheets and murmured, “Even if the world saw you naked in my bed, they wouldn’t know you like I do. Not like this.”

He takes the mic at the podium. Lifts the trophy. Looks straight into the camera.

“Thank you,” Caelum begins, voice velvet-smooth. “Portraying Lord Severus was… easy. Too easy, some might say.”

The crowd chuckles, charmed.

“When love consumes you… when it becomes your religion, your obsession, your purpose—it doesn’t feel like acting.”

A pause. Just long enough for you to notice the shift in his expression.

“You live it.”

There it is. That subtle smirk. One only you recognize. A private performance.

“I dedicate this award…” he continues, his voice softening. “…to the one who anchors me. My muse. My wife in heart, if not in law.”

Your stomach twists.

Your name is never spoken. It never is. Not even your shadow is allowed to touch the world outside these walls. But the message is for you. Always for you.

The camera zooms out. Applause. Cheers. Ovation.

And then—

Chime.

You go still.

It’s not a knock. Not a doorbell. It’s the discreet code-triggered chime that signals the villa gate has opened. A sound only those who live in this exclusive riverside estate would ever hear.

You scramble to your feet, heart hammering. You’re trembling before you even make it halfway across the room. The ache in your legs pulse like a warning. Your body knows before your mind accepts it—

He’s home.

Keys.

Click.

The door swings open.

Caelum Ashford steps into the villa, the golden trophy gleaming in one hand, a bottle of expensive wine in the other. His jacket drapes over his arm, hair tousled just slightly from the breeze outside. But his eyes—his eyes are on you the moment he crosses the threshold.

Predatory. Possessive. Burning with hunger.

“You watched, didn’t you?” His voice is low, silk around a blade.

He sets the bottle down, places the award beside the others on the black marble shelf. Unhurried. Precise. He undoes the top two buttons of his shirt, sleeves already rolled up.

He doesn’t wait for your answer.

“Don’t make me ask twice, sweetheart.” His smile is all teeth now. “Did you see what the world gave me tonight?”

You nod.

“Good,” he whispers, stepping closer, his voice darkening. “Because now it’s your turn to give me what I really want.”

TBC.

Taglist: @hopingtoclearmedschool @violetvase @zanzie @neuvilletteswife4ever @yamekocatt @fandangoballs @mel-vaz @vind1cta @greatwitchsongsinger

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unsuperingyournatural · 1 month ago

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chemistry

Pedro Pascal x Actress!Reader

The lights are warm. The cameras are rolling. And Pedro’s already throwing you under the bus.

“That was one time,” you say, half-laughing, half-mortified, as he grins at you from his chair. “My nails were wet.”

Pedro shrugs, shameless. “She ate an entire bowl of popcorn with chopsticks. And not even the long kind—the tiny ones from the sushi place.”

“I was being resourceful,” you shoot back, then lean toward the interviewer with mock seriousness. “This is what I’ve had to deal with for six months.”

Pedro leans toward his mic. “And I’ve loved every minute of it.”

You glance at him. He’s smiling so wide his eyes have nearly disappeared into those crinkles you’ve definitely stared at for too long on set. Your stomach flips, but you pretend it’s from the coffee.

The interviewer laughs. “I can already tell this is going to be fun. First question—how was it working together?”

Pedro wastes no time. “Terrible. She snores.”

Your mouth drops open. “I do not!”

“Okay, maybe not snoring, exactly,” he admits. “But you do this little sigh when you fall asleep during car rides.”

You blink. “You’ve watched me sleep?”

He gives you a look that’s far too confident for this early in the interview. “Of course.”

There’s a pause. The interviewer chuckles nervously, but you and Pedro are still staring at each other like you’re the only two people in the room.

It’s been like this since the table read—this strange gravitational pull, this banter that feels too natural. You’d both shown up in the same denim jacket, carrying the same iced coffee, and with—of all things—the same ridiculous cracked phone case with a tiny cartoon frog. He’d smiled when he saw yours. You’d cursed the universe and smiled right back.

“Okay,” the interviewer says, flipping to a new card, “lightning round. Say your answers at the same time. Ready?”

You nod, turning slightly toward Pedro. He does the same. The air shifts just a little, the way it always does when he’s close.

“Favorite comfort food?”

“Mac and cheese,” you both say.

You whip your head toward him. “No way.”

“Hot sauce on top,” he adds casually.

“Okay, that’s creepy.” You squint at him. “Do you have cameras in my apartment?”

“I don’t need cameras,” he says, lips twitching. “I just know you.”

Your pulse jumps at the way he says it—too smooth, too knowing, too much.

The next question comes fast. “Celebrity crush growing up?”

“Gillian Anderson,” Pedro says.

“David Duchovny,” you answer at the exact same time.

There’s a beat. Then you both burst out laughing.

“Are you guys serious?” the interviewer asks, eyes wide.

You laugh so hard you have to lean forward, your shoulder bumping into Pedro’s. He doesn’t move away.

“We’re just the same person in alternate timelines,” you say.

“I’ve been saying that,” Pedro agrees. “If you were a man, I’d probably have a confusing crush on you.”

You give him a sly look. “You already have a confusing crush on me.”

His smirk is slower this time, and when his eyes find yours, they don’t waver. “It’s not that confusing.”

Your breath catches, just a little. You wonder if the cameras picked that up.

“Okay, okay,” the interviewer says, waving a hand. “Before you two combust—what’s next for you?”

You shrug. “Hopefully another project together.”

“Or a cooking show,” Pedro adds. “Mac & Cheese with Hot Sauce: The Series.”

“Streaming nowhere,” you deadpan. “Because we forget to press record.”

“But the vibes?” he says, nudging your foot with his under the chairs.

“Impeccable,” you say, matching his smile.

There’s a pause after that. Not awkward—just full. Charged. You glance over at him, and he’s already looking at you, eyes soft, mouth curved in that lazy smile that always gets you into trouble.

You lower your voice, just enough so the mic doesn’t pick it up.

“Still think it’s not a crush?”

Pedro leans in, close enough that you can smell coffee and something warm and familiar on his skin.

“I said it wasn’t confusing,” he murmurs.

Your heart does something stupid. You smile—maybe a little too wide—and turn back to the interviewer before you get carried away.

You tell yourself it’s just chemistry.

You tell yourself it’s just banter.

But the way he’s still watching you?

You’re starting to think it might be something else entirely.

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #female descriptors used #female reader

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starsinthesky5 · 1 month ago

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diamond in my eye || joe burrow x reader

description: everybody’s watching her, but she’s only looking at him. in which our lovebirds attend a lakers game in the offseason, and our songbird is asked to sing the national anthem

a/n: blurb as requested! inspired by that adorable photo of him video the mopsters from last week. oh my baby boy...never change

series: you are in love

word count: 2.2k

taglist: (ask to be added): @joeyfranchise @joeyburrrow @joeyb1989 @softburrow @yelenasbraid @burrowbarbie @lovelyburrow @starkeyswomen @grittysbiggestfan @lilfreakjez @fourburrow @definitelynotdomanique

warnings: language, suggestive references

───────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆───────

the energy in the arena was electric, a current of excitement buzzed through the crowd as they waited for the game to begin. cameras flashed with no end in sight, the jumbotron cycled through shots of celebrities in the crowd, and the unmistakable bass of the stadium speakers hummed through the floor. and funny enough, they were playing out of the woods.

one of her songs.

and joe couldn’t help but hide that cheeky grin of his. knowing that they were playing something of hers, something she worked so hard on, made him the proudest man in that sold-out arena. it wasn’t uncommon for her music to be played like this, but every time he heard it—whether it was in the gym, the grocery store, the radio, here—he was acting like it was the first time. like she was some hidden underground artist getting a shot at the big stage, even though she literally had an autographed basketball in one of the display cases in one of the luxury suites from when she sold out this very arena for her previous tour.

this time, the lovebirds found themselves in LA for a casual off-season getaway, a much-needed breath of fresh air. they had grown restless, tired of staring at the same walls, the same stretches of greenery surrounding their home. the usual drive to columbus had lost its charm, the same college-town nights out feeling repetitive, the same five hiking trails too familiar, the go-to spots for food and drinks no longer holding the same excitement. LA was something new, something different—a change of scenery that felt like a reset, and they were soaking up every second of it together.

they hadn’t had many trips to the city of angels together, so this felt exciting and fresh. something about being here, under the glow of the skyline, the sound of the city wrapping around them, made it feel like a getaway in the truest sense. away from routine, away from the cold, away from the stuffy ohio air. just them, indulging in late brunches, strolling through melrose, sneaking kisses between shopping bags, and slipping into the rhythm of the city as if it was second nature.

joe was beyond excited for the lakers game they were attending tonight—not just because he got to watch one of his favorite sports outside of football, but because he got to do it with his girl by his side. this was the perfect kind of night for him—courtside seats, a cold drink in hand, and her tucked into his side, looking as effortlessly stunning as ever.

a pink alo hat sat low on his head, an attempt at keeping things low-key, paired with a casual hoodie that did its best to help him blend in. but there was no hiding when you were joe burrow. the cameras always found him, flashing his face across the jumbotron, earning a wave of cheers from the crowd. so naturally, he gave a tight-lipped smile and a small wave before turning his attention back to her.

because tonight isn’t about him.

it’s about her.

his songbird, his love, his extremely talented girlfriend, standing center court, mic in hand, poised to sing the national anthem in front of thousands.

he’s seen her perform a hundred times before—just the two of them, in the quiet intimacy of their world. late at night in bed, humming softly against his skin. in the studio, lost in the music, unaware of anything but the melody. in the car, singing along without a care, her voice effortlessly weaving through every note. and when she’s on stage in front of thousands, it’s like she was born for it. she thrives under the limelight, feeding off the electric energy of the crowd screaming her name, basking in the glow of the stage lights like they were made just for her.

but tonight? tonight was different.

she wasn’t in a sold-out arena or stadium with thousands of her fans singing her lyrics back to her. this was a new kind of pressure, a different kind of crowd, and he saw it in the way she rolled her shoulders back, in the way she took a controlled breath before the first note.

and then, she sings.

her voice soars through the arena, effortless and pure, wrapping around each note with the kind of grace that makes time slow down. the crowd becomes silent, entranced by the angelic sound of her voice. phones rise to capture the moment. even the players on the court stand taller, hands over their hearts, their expressions softened by her beauty.

everybody’s watching her.

but she’s only looking at him.

joe feels it the second her eyes find his. a tether, invisible but unbreakable, pulling her back to him even when she’s standing under the pressure of thousands of eyes. he’s never been jealous of her success—he’s in awe of it. but in this moment, with her singing like this, looking at him like this, he feels like the luckiest man in the world.

from his seat, phone out, a huge smile on his face, he records every second, wanting to bottle this moment up forever. she’s breathtaking—like a living, breathing greek goddess, bathed in the golden glow of the arena lights, standing tall in all her glory. he feels it deep in his chest, the way his heart swells with pride until it almost aches. he always knew she was special. but seeing her like this, watching her do what she was born to do? it’s overwhelming in the best way. moments like these were why she did it, why she continued to do it no matter what happened.

it almost makes her laugh, the way he’s watching her like a lovestruck fool, but she bites it back, keeping her composure. still, the sparkle in her eyes gives her away. joe catches it, sees the way her lips twitch like she’s fighting a grin, and he knows.

he looks so damn cute, and she’s never loved him more.

by the time she reaches the final note, the crowd erupts, a thunderous cheer rolling through the arena. she smiles, that radiant, heart-stopping smile, as she dips into a quick curtsy before stepping off the court.

joe’s already waiting for her by their courtside seats, standing before she even reaches him. the second she’s close enough, he’s pulling her in, pressing a kiss to her temple, murmuring, “damn, baby. made me wanna stand up and pledge my heart to you instead,”.

she laughs, shaking her head. “shut up, burrow,” and then presses a kiss to his lips, contradicting her playful annoyance. “did you really record the whole thing?” she asked, peeking at his phone.

“obviously. gotta keep it forever. might even make it my ringtone,”.

she rolled her eyes while laughing, but the warmth in her chest grew with each look at him. “they shoulda played ‘god bless america’ right after, ‘cause god definitely blessed me,” he winked, his eyes trailing over her gorgeous figure. how the jean’s she wore highlighted her perfect ass, how his inital was resting right above her cleveage which was on display because of the lacy corset top she had on. how she was practically glowing in front of him. a true living, breathing, angel right here in the city of angels. and he had the pleasure of going home with her.

could it get any better than this for him? probably not. and he was 100% aware of it.

she groans, but he sees the way she bites back a smile. she nudges his side, slipping into her seat beside him. “you’re ridiculous,”.

“and you,” he says, voice softer now, his hand settling on her thigh as the game gets underway, “are everything,”.

as the game started, they fully leaned into the date night experience. she’s curled up into his side, legs tucked up slightly, one of his arms draped over her shoulders. joe murmurs commentary in her ear, explaining plays and breaking down strategies because he played basketball in high school, even though she already knows most of it. it’s just an excuse to keep talking to her, to keep her tucked in close. they even shared a big tray of nachos, his hand occasionally bringing one to her lips without thinking. she got her revenge by stealing a sip of his soda, the straw lingering between her lips as she gave him a cheeky grin.

“that was my last sip,” he pouted.

“should’ve thought about that before dating a thief,” she grinned.

“mm. you’re lucky you’re cute. the only thing you stole was my heart,” he sighed, leaning close to kiss her cheek while he stole the last bite of the nachos from her.

she had never felt this at ease in a situation like this, and it was all because of joe. stepping back into the public eye after nearly a year away was daunting—there were still moments where the noise felt too loud, where the attention felt suffocating rather than welcoming. but with him, it was different. he made sure she never had to carry the weight of it alone.

he was her anchor, the steady presence beside her, always reminding her—silently, effortlessly—that she was safe. that he was here. and if, for even a second, she felt uneasy, he’d move mountains to fix it. he was the man who’d walk through fire to get to her, who’d shield her from every prying eye if he could. hell, he’d steal someone’s car and get them out of there if she so much as looked at him with a flicker of discomfort.

she wasn’t just easing back into all of this—she was finding her way back with him by her side. and with joe, she knew she’d be just fine.

and the way this night—although tainted by the flashiness of it all—felt like a normal, casual basketball date with her boyfriend?

that made her heart skip a beat. she yearned for this. for casual love. the kind of love she saw in the movies...on the big screens.

and finally. finally it was hers.

as the game went on, they exchanged soft smiles and quiet comments—her making fun of a particularly bad free throw, him pretending to be offended when she called one of the players hot.

but only to make joe feel a teeny bit jealous…because well. it was hot and she needed him to be a little…riled up for later.

then, during the break, the jumbotron continued panning over to celebrities in the audience, and eventually, it landed on them. “oh, great,” she muttered as the camera zoomed in, their faces suddenly lighting up the massive screen overhead.

the crowd cheers as the camera zoomed in on the way she’s nestled into him, his arm wrapped securely around her, fingers tracing absentminded circles on her arm. she glances up at him, and he dips his head, murmuring, “think they’re jealous?”.

“of us?” she teases, then looks around at all the fans in the crowd around her, watching as they held their phones up and screamed her and joe’s names. “definitely,”.

his smile widened, dimples peeking out, and he pressed a slow, heated kiss to her jaw, lingering just enough to make the crowd go even wilder. but then he leaned back, eyes flicking toward the court, smirking like he hadn’t just set the internet on fire with that risque moment. “back to the game, sweetheart.”

she rolled her eyes, knowing full well he was enjoying every second of this.

as the game continues, he steals glances at her between plays, admiring how effortlessly she fits into his world, and how much she’s become the center of it. she’s the diamond in his eye, the brightest thing in the room, and it has nothing to do with the cameras or the lights.

she’s just her—his girl, his heart, his forever.

a little later, there was another break, another jumbotron moment.

this time, the camera lingered a little longer on them, the bright screen making their faces impossible to miss. the crowd roared, the cheers turning into chants, urging something more. joe chuckled, shaking his head before tilting her chin up with two fingers, eyes dark with something deeper than amusement. “guess we gotta give ‘em what they want, huh?” his voice was raspy, teasing, just for her.

before she could respond, he leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to her lips, his hand splayed warm against her thigh. she sighed into it, fingers instinctively curling into the fabric of his sleeve, and for a second, the rest of the world faded away.

the stadium, however, erupted. cheers, whistles, and laughter filled the space around them, but all she could hear was the rush of her own heartbeat. when she finally pulled back, her cheeks were warm, and she shook her head at him, lips still tingling from his touch.

“you’re such a show-off,” she murmured, trying for annoyance, but the way her voice came out soft and breathless? she wasn’t fooling anyone.

joe grinned, the crinkles around his eyes deep, tapping his fingers against her thigh with a cocky ease. “nah, baby. just showing ‘em what winning really looks like,”.

because in a sea of thousands, in a stadium full of eyes, she was the only one that mattered.

the diamond in his eye.

#joe burrow #joe burrow blurb #joe burrow x reader #joe burrow fic #joe burrow bengals #yail asks #yail #joey burrow #joey b #nfl football #nfl fan fic #joe burrow fluff #joe burrow fanfic #joe burrow fan fic #joe burrow imagine #joe burrow x you

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jaylalolz · 7 months ago

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ROCKSTAR!nicholas x FAN!reader 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

SUMMARY, in the crowd, Nicholas spots a girl and can’t take his mind off of her. he invites her to the back when the show is over.

A/N, thank you all for the support, angels!! have fun reading🪽

WARNINGS, smuttyyyy

The lights were dimmed just enough to cast a seductive haze over the room, while the pulsing energy of the crowd throbbed in sync with the music. Nicholas stood at the center of the stage, his guitar slung low across his body, microphone in hand, as he belted out the final verse of the song. The sweat on his brow shimmered under the spotlights, his voice raw and electric, sending waves through the tightly packed audience.

But despite the roaring energy of the crowd, Nicholas's focus had narrowed down to one girl standing near the front, her wide eyes fixed on him. From the moment he'd stepped on stage, he’d noticed her—a striking beauty, lost in the music, swaying with the rhythm like she belonged in the heat of the moment. Their eyes met, and Nicholas couldn’t look away. He liked the way she held his gaze, unblinking, as if she were daring him to come closer.

Throughout the set, he made a point to lock eyes with her, teasing her with subtle winks as he growled the lyrics into the mic. Each time, he saw her blush slightly, a coy smile tugging at her lips as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. He could feel the magnetic pull between them, a silent promise written in the glances they exchanged. Nicholas had felt the rush of a live show a thousand times before, but tonight, the game was different. The girl had him hooked.

As the song reached its climax, Nicholas stepped back from the mic, his chest heaving, the applause deafening. With a sly grin, he grabbed a cigarette from his pocket, slid it between his lips, and flicked the lighter open. The flame danced for a moment before igniting the end of the cigarette. He took a long, slow drag, exhaling the smoke in a way that seemed designed to draw her attention even more. His eyes never left hers.

Bending forward, he hopped down from the stage in one smooth motion, the cigarette dangling from his fingers. The crowd parted slightly, curious but not interfering, as Nicholas made his way toward her, his presence commanding the room. When he reached the girl, he leaned in close, his breath warm against her ear, the scent of smoke and sweat swirling around them.

"Meet me in the back when the show’s over," he whispered, his voice low and rough, sending shivers down her spine.

He pressed the cigarette into her mouth, his fingers brushing against lips for a brief second. she then blows the smoke into his face. She could feel the heat radiating off him, her heart skipping a beat as his lips barely grazed the shell of her ear. Before she could react, he pulled away, winking at her once more with that signature smirk, before turning back toward the stage, leaving her standing there breathless, cigarette in hand, her pulse racing as she watched him walk away.

The rest of the set felt like a blur, but every time she looked up, there he was—his eyes finding her again, that same dangerous gleam in his gaze. The music hit harder, the lights flashed brighter, but the only thing she could focus on was the promise of what was waiting for her once the show was over.

Nicholas knew she’d come. He could see it in the way she held onto the cigarette like it was something sacred, her cheeks flushed, her breath uneven. The game had been set, and the night was only just beginning.

────୨ৎ────

rusning the door open, she stepped into the dimly lit hallway. The noise from the stage area grew fainter as she walked deeper into the back, the scent of sweat, smoke, and something intoxicating filling the narrow space. A few crew members passed by, giving her quick glances but saying nothing. It felt like time had slowed, the air thick with tension.

Then she saw him.

Nicholas stood leaning casually against the wall, his leather jacket hanging off his shoulders, one boot propped against the brick, a cigarette once again dangling between his lips. He looked up as soon as she appeared, a slow, knowing smile spreading across his face. He looked exactly like he had on stage-dangerous, confident, and every bit the rockstar.

"You came," he said, his voice low and gravelly as he pushed off the wall and moved toward her.

Her breath caught in her throat as he approached, his eyes locked on hers like she was the only thing in the room.

When he stopped in front of her, he plucked the cigarette from her fingers, taking a slow drag before flicking it to the side. The heat from his body was close now, intoxicating, and she felt her pulse quicken as he reached up to brush a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

"You kept it," he murmured, his voice dripping with satisfaction as he tilted his head, his lips just inches from hers.

"Good girl."

She swallowed hard, her heart hammering against her ribcage as his fingers grazed the side of her face, sending waves of warmth through her skin. The dim lighting made his features even sharper, his eyes dark with something that made her knees feel weak. She could hardly breathe.

Without another word, Nicholas leaned in, his lips brushing against her ear in a whisper. "I've been thinking about you all night."

Her body reacted before her mind could catch up. The thrill of his closeness, the heat of his breath against her skin-it was too much. She turned her head slightly, her lips just barely grazing his, and that was all the invitation he needed.

In an instant, he closed the space between them, his mouth crashing against hers in a kiss that was hungry, reckless, and full of everything they hadn't said. His hands gripped her waist, pulling her flush against him as he deepened the kiss, his body pressing hers back against the cool wall. The contrast of the hard brick and his warm, demanding touch sent her head spinning.

The kiss was wild, unrestrained.

When they finally broke apart, both breathless, Nicholas's lips curled into that signature smirk of his. He ran a thumb along her swollen bottom lip, his voice low and dangerous as he spoke.

"Let's see if you can keep up."

In a dimly lit room, she found herself on top of him in a couch.

Nicholas wasn't holding back, and neither was she. His tongue traced the seam of her lips, and when she opened her mouth for him, the taste of smoke and desire mingled, setting her senses on fire. His hands roamed her body, exploring her curves with a confidence that sent shivers down her spine.

They both pant for dear life as he unzips his pants. “Tell me you want this” he says.

“I want it”

He bunches up her clothes with one hand and grips his dick with the other. He places his tip against her, keeping his gaze fixed on the touch. Feeling him drive into her was a moment of joy, she holds the side of his neck and lowers herself slowly. She sinks as far as she can, her lungs whimpering; he clenches his teeth and takes both her hips with brutality. She throws her head back as his tongue grazes her throat and her hips begin a steady, grinding bounce. They both groan quietly. She desperately rocks her body and grabs the back of his head.

"Fuck…just like that." His hands gripping her ass and supporting her as she rocks, he pants into her jaw. Breathing near his ear, he roughly tugged at the hair at the back of her head. Ecstatic nerves tingle through her body.

With a weak jaw, she pulls away from his side and stares down at him. He grips her face to keep her staring down at him. His gaze lingers on her features, noting her growing vulnerability.

A arrogant grin slides down his mouth. "You should see how pretty you are right now..." He kisses on her cheekbones while exhaling deeply. "Desperately riding me in slutty dress,"

Her hands move down his chest, causing his gaze to flicker before focusing on his pronounced abs. He scowls, gritting his teeth, and tosses his head back in a grunt. She tightened her hold on his sides and gazed down at his well sculpted body. His appearance is surreal.

they groan and pant at one another. Despite the hurry of it all, their bodies function flawlessly together in the middle of this chaos. "Fuck, Nicholas I'm going to," she says as she grinds her hips once more and grabs his bare side and back of his neck. "Yeah?" Breathing out, he looks up at her and asks, "You're gonna cum this quick?"

As her orgasm consumes her, she almost lets out a pleasurable shout. She violently rocks her hips, feeling the thick build suffocate her until she lets out a harsh breath. She breaks eye contact and gets up from his lap, flipping her panties back and settling into the chair across from him. Refitting his boxers, he slides his hips up to button his formal pants and tucks his shirt back in.

“Here is my number, sweetheart. Call me anytime”

#nicholas chavez smut #nicholas chavez #nicholas alexander chavez #smut

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sweetcherriexs · 3 months ago

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oh yeah?; b.e.

smut...

the backstage area was dimly lit, the faint hum of the staff’s chatter muffled by the ones backstage with you. billie stood just out of view, her silhouette illuminated by the faint glow of the lights. she wore a tight black skirt that hugged her curves and knee-high black socks with a pair of pretty shoes that gleamed under the lights. every movement seemed deliberate, every step a performance in itself. She adjusted her mic, her fingers brushing against her lips as she whispered something to herself, her confidence radiating even in the shadows.

you leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching her with a growing heat pooling low in your stomach. your eyes were tracing the curve of her hips, the way her skirt clung to her like a second skin. but tonight, there was something more. something electric in the air, a tension that made your breath catch in your throat. sure, you've been dating a while, and it has been amazing, but... this feeling was different. hot, and red, and it felt like you'd bleed from the inside out if you didn't get your hands on her soon.

the final notes of her last song rang out, and billie turned, her smirk catching the light as she walked backstage, her shoes clicking against the floor. she spotted you immediately, her eyes narrowing slightly, that same smirk tugging at her lips. she knows, you realized. she knows exactly what she’s doing.

“Hey, pretty girl” she said, her voice low, but carrying that teasing edge you’d come to know so well. “enjoy the show?”

you swallowed hard, your tongue suddenly heavy in your mouth. “you were incredible,” you managed, your voice barely above a whisper.

billie stepped closer, her body mere inches from yours. she tilted her head, her hair falling over one shoulder as she regarded you with that same predatory gaze. “mmm, i know. thanks, baby.” she grinned, an almost innocent act as she tilted her head.

your heart raced, your hands twitching at your sides. you wanted to touch her, to feel her skin against yours, but you knew better than to make the first move. not with billie. she was always in control, always dictating the pace.

“please,” you breathed, your voice trembling. your heart beat faster as you looked into her blue eyes, so seductive and full of lust that it made your knees wobble “can we go to the dressing room?”

billie licked her lips, sucking her teeth as she clasped her hands together behind her back. "oh, why should we?" she asked, a coy tone to her voice as she looked you up and down. "got something on your mind, my love?"

you gulped, the saliva hot and heavy as it trickled down your throat and the water in the pit of your stomach grew. "you-... you could say" you nodded, licking your dry lips.

billie hummed, looking behind her as the crew packed up and her brother conversed with their drummer. everyone so unsuspecting.

billie’s smirk widened, and she nodded, turning on her heel and leading the way without another word. you followed, your eyes fixed on the sway of her hips, the way these socks hugged her calves, the way she carried herself with an effortless confidence that made your knees weak.

the dressing room was small but private, the door clicking shut behind you. billie turned to face you, her arms crossed as she leaned back against the vanity. “okay, baby. tell me”

you stepped closer, your hands trembling as you reached for her. “I- i... i want you” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “It-.. I want to touch you–... please, bils, I-...I can’t take it anymore.”

billie’s eyes darkened, her smirk softening into something more genuine, more predatory. “Oh, yeah?” she purred, stelling closer to you and grabbing your hips. “and what do you plan to do about it?”

your own hands moved to her waist, your fingers itching to feel her skin. “let me,” you begged, your voice thick with desire. “let me touch you.”

billie tilted her head, considering your request for a moment before nodding. “go ahead,” she said, her voice low and sultry. “but we're on limited time here, pretty. for once in your life, dont take your time.”

her words didn't phase you, only thing that reach your ears was the "go ahead" and you were doing so in a second. your fingers fumbled with the zipper of her skirt, your heart pounding as you pulled it down and let it fall to the floor. beneath, she wore nothing but a pair of lace panties, and your breath hitched at the sight. so perfect, you thought, your hands trembling as they moved to her hips.

but before you could do anything more, billie’s hands were on your shoulders, pushing you back. you stumbled, your legs hitting the edge of the couch, and you fell back onto the cushions. billie straddled your thigh, her shoes still on, her weight pressing down in a way that made your breath catch.

“you really thought you were in control, huh?” she teased, her voice dripping with amusement. “pretty girl. you should know by now—I’m always in charge.”

your hands gripped the couch cushions as she started to move, her hips grinding against your thigh with a slow, deliberate rhythm. her shoes dug into the couch, the leather squeaking softly as she rode you, her eyes locked on yours with an intensity that made your stomach flip.

“you like this, don’t you?” she purred, her voice low and teasing. “watching me take what I want from you. watching me come undone.” She chuckled lowly, leaning down to press her lips to your neck, breathing heavily as she made her way up to your ear, sucking on the skin below.

you nodded, your breath coming in short, shallow gasps. “yes,” you managed, your voice trembling. “God, yes.”

billie stopped, pulling back as she quickly got rid of her panties. the sight of her glistening pussy made your own throb with need, hips almost bucking at the sight as you fumbled with your pants, pushing them down before she straddled your thigh once more, one hand on your throat, making your breath catch again.

"be a good girl, hm? just stay like this for now" she purred, hips moving in mild motions as small gasps left her lips. her clit rubbed deliciously against the skin of your thigh and it made her mind reel with pleasure. "maybe... you'll get a reward and I'll fuck your pretty little pussy when we get home" she panted out, her tattooed hand squeezing your throat, making your own eyes roll back.

billie’s movements grew more frantic, her hips rolling against yours with a desperate urgency. her breath hitched, her fingers digging into your skin as she rode you, her eyes fluttering shut as pleasure overtook her.

“that’s it,” she murmured, her voice thick with desire. “just let me take it. let me have it.” her breathing grew urgent and you knew she was so so close, chanting your name under her breath as her other hand gripped your side, lips coming down to crash against yours. her hips glided against your thigh, painting the flesh with her arousal and the feeling alone almost made you cum on the spot. you own breathing was uneven, eyes opening when she pulled back and threw her head back in complete bliss, whimpers leaving her lips.

she came with a soft cry, her body shuddering as she collapsed against you, her breath hot against your neck. you held her, your hands trembling as they moved to her back, your own desire burning white-hot beneath the surface.

but before you could catch your breath, she was moving again, her hips grinding against your thigh with a renewed intensity. “again,” she demanded, her voice sharp and commanding. “make me come again.” her words sent a shiver down your spine and you breathed out shakily, resisting the urge to clench your thighs together. to finally get some friction.

you nodded, your hands moving to her hips as you guided her movements, your own desire building with every roll of her hips. her breath hitched, her body trembling as she rode you, her eyes locked on yours with an intensity that made your stomach flip. her hand left your throat, two of her fingers prodding against your lips and invading your mouth, pushing down your throat as your eyes locked with hers, hands still guiding her hips as they shuddered and her body shook with desire. "good girl, such a good girl for me, baby" she moaned out, watching as tears filled your eyes. "fuck fuck, yes. make me come again, princess. shit-" she gasped out, squeezing her eyes shut, mouth hanging open. in the simple span of a second she was coming again, crying out as she rode out her high and pulled her fingers out of your mouth. her hips stilled and she caught her breath while you looked up at her with round eyes.

"you did so good" she panted and kissed the corner of your lips. "don't worry, your reward is coming soon..." she mumbled and pulled back with a smile "as well as you" she smirked and your cheeks flushed at her words.

to be continued...? if you guys want

#ദ്ദി(ᵔᗜᵔ)#billie eilish #billie eilish x reader #billie eilish x y/n #billie eilish x you #billie eilish fanfiction #billie eilish x #billie eilish fandom #billie eilish smut #billie eilish fanfic #billie ellish lyrics #billie eilish imagine #billie eilish x female reader #reqs open

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beloveds-embrace · 11 days ago

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Would you be willing to write Tf141 with a POC Jazz Singer? They find a bar and as they settle in their drinks, the sweet sound of a southern accent fills their ears like siren song. It’s as if the world has faded aside from her. The siren like eyes, full lips, and the voice of an angel. To them, it’s as if she’s pumped the life and joy back into their lungs. But when she actually talks to them, she’s actually got the personality of a skittish kitten. She’s easily nervous and gets embarrassed easy, a far cry from the confidence she shows on her stage.

Thank you @miss-vanta-likes-to-write for helping me with this <33

The place is dim, the kind of bar that looks unassuming from the outside but unfolds like a secret the moment you step inside. Wood-paneled walls soak up the golden glow from antique lamps, and cigarette smoke dances lazy swirls in the air. You know this place. It’s old, but it breathes- alive with ghosts of stories whispered into tumblers and between the notes of the house piano. You’d been singing here for nearly a year now, tucked into the city’s quieter corners where the world still made space for jazz and soul.

Tonight, like always, you glide onto the stage with a practiced calm, heels clicking softly against the hardwood floor, the microphone standing like an old friend in the middle of it all. Your curls are pinned back just enough to show off the gold earrings brushing your skin. Your skin catches the spotlight- a warm, rich brown that glows under the low lighting, deep and radiant, the shimmery oil you use glittering like constellations and stars under the light. You’ve got on your favorite silk slip dress, the one that shimmers bronze like your grandma’s sweet tea in the sun, hugging curves you used to shy away from but now wear like armor. Your lips are painted a deep wine red, and your nails- long, almond-shaped- are the same color. It’s your ritual. Your way of saying I’m here. I’m proud. Watch me shine.

A hush falls over the place as the lights dim around the room and center on you. And with the first hum of your voice, that hush turns almost reverent, a church for those who worship singing angels.

The music takes you.

Every note, every slow, honeyed syllable- sweet drawls and soft vowels dripping like molasses, blues stitched into every lyric. You don’t just sing. You spill. You pour your heart into that mic with the kind of soulful ache that makes even the most jaded patron set down their drink to listen, and every regular knows better than to interrupt your performance. Your voice slips into the room like smoke- low, velvety, dipped in honey and gospel. It carries that Southern cadence, a melody shaped by summers in Georgia, Sunday mornings in church choirs, and humming with your aunties. You aren’t just singing. You’re testifying. And when you close your eyes, the room disappears. It’s just you and the melody- until they walk in.

The bar quiets. You’ve seen it happen a hundred times, but it still gives you that little thrill- that hush, that moment when people stop mid-sip and realize something real is happening. The world slows down to listen. And that’s when you see them.

A group slips into the back booth like they own the place without meaning to. There’s a weight to them- a presence. Shoulders broad, posture alert, eyes that don’t miss a damn thing. Soldiers, you can tell. You’ve got cousins like that- men and women who smile with their mouths but carry ghosts behind their eyes.

You chance a glance between verses.

One of them- tall, masked, all sharp shadows and piercing eyes- tilts his head as he listens. Another, shorter yet stocky with a mischievous grin a mohawk that reminds you of roosters and coyotes, leans over to say something, clearly impressed. One is more relaxed, beautiful beyond words, throws his arm over the back of the booth and lets your voice wash over him like a balm. And the last watches you with a quiet reverence that makes your breath catch.

It is their first time here, and yet they subconsciously know not to whisper more than necessary while you sing. They just listen- like the world’s gone silent except for you.

Your fingers tighten slightly around the mic. You’re used to attention; you've earned it. But there’s something about the way they look at you- like you’re more than just a song. Like you’re a miracle- and that does something sweetly unfamiliar in your chest. You finish your set and offer a soft “thank y��all” that rolls gently off your tongue. The applause is warm, respectful, but your eyes flick once more to the group in the back. Still watching.

Heart thudding, you slip off stage, nerves replacing the calm that had carried you through the music. It’s always like this. Up there, you’re a storm in silk. But offstage? Offstage you’re still that shy little Southern girl who used to sing into hairbrushes in her mama’s living room and hide when guests clapped too hard.

You drift toward the bar to collect your drink and try to ground yourself, hands still trembling slightly. You don’t even realize how close they are until a voice says: "That voice of yers? You just poured heaven straight into my chest, darlin'."

The scottish accent curls around your ears, playful and disarming, and catching you off guard for a few seconds. You nearly spill your drink.

“Oh! Um… thank you.” You blink up at him, suddenly hyper-aware of the whole team nearby. “I, uh- thanks. I’m… not used to compliments.” Despite how many you often get, the feeling of shyness never truly washes away.

He grins wider. “You’re not used tae compliments?” he echoes with mock offense. “Then this place must be full of fools, aye?”

You try to laugh but it comes out awkward, soft. “People usually talk to the voice. Not the… um. Not the girl behind it. I- I don't always know what to say when folks talk to me like that."

“You don’t gotta say a thing, sweetheart,” comes another voice- this one smoother, a british accent. The pretty one with the cap smiles kindly at you. “You said it all up there.”

You duck your head, cheeks burning. “Y’all are real sweet. I just… ain't great with people. Off-stage, I mean.”

While the masked guy remains silent, the one with the beard- another Brit- chuckles, his voice warm like the whsikey he is nursing. “Sit with us a while. If you’d like.”

Your heart damn near skips.

You hesitate, biting your bottom lip, fingers twisting around the edge of your glass. “I… might be a little awkward,” you admit with a sheepish look, voice feather-light. “I’m kinda like a cat in a room full of rocking chairs.”

the Scot hums. “We like cats. Don’t we, Ghost?”

The masked man- Ghost, definitely not an eerie name- shrugs and speaks at last. “So long as they sing like that.”

They laugh softly, and it’s warm. Not mocking and not amused at your expense. It’s the kind of laugh that lets you breathe a little easier.

You slip into the booth, and they make room like they’d been saving a spot just for you.

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classypauli · 6 months ago

Text

𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑴𝑶𝑹𝑬 𝒀𝑶𝑼 𝑯𝑨𝑻𝑬 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑴𝑶𝑹𝑬 𝒀𝑶𝑼 𝑳𝑶𝑽𝑬

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4

MASTERLIST

tara carpenter x fem!reader

summary: Tara thought out of all people she hates you the most, until she met her… and why the fuck does she follow every where you go?!

tags: enemies to lovers, flirting, drunk at party, y/n is an idiot, new girl, tara is jealous

word count: 2.2k

Late again but enjoy! Sorry for mistakes i´ll correct them later.

„Help me!“ you yelled into your mic as you gripped the console tightly.

„What? I can´t even see you!“

„You idiot I´m on the fucking ground right behind you!“

That was the routine for these past days, you and Ethan were playing, and something some of your or his friends joined to play with you. You were sure you lost a lot of nerves but it was also something you couldn´t say no to.

„Oh sorry!“ you heard Ethan as you watched as his character turned around and crunching beside you to pick you up. Not even a second after you saw another player appear right behind him.

„Ethan!“

„What?“

„Turn around! Right behind you!“

„What?“

Just then the player started to shoot him from behind making him yell and run away from you leaving you right where you were. You tried to crawl as fast as you could behind something to cover you but it was for no use. Then you saw Ethan´s character fall on the ground in the same position as you were now making the enemy kill you both. You slammed your hand on the table almost breaking it.

„You idiot! Why did you leave me there? I was almost up!“

„He was shooting me from behind! What was I supposed to do?!“

„Argh! We lost our streak because of you!“

„Me?! You were the one that was on the ground! I was trying to help!“

It was like this almost every game. Just the both of you screaming at each other throwing the blame on one another. But at the end of the day, you say happy goodbye like nothing happened. The loud banging on the wall from the other side was like a message for you to stop and go to sleep.

You were sitting in the back of the class with sweaty palms and your knees up and down. The heart inside your chest kept racing and you were sure your beat rate was at its maximum.

„Could you stop already? You are making this much worse than it is!“ Tara hissed at you from beside you with clenched teeth. You were so nervous. It was the day of your presentation when everyone from the class went in front of the board and presented their topic.

You always hated this kind of stuff and you aren´t ashamed of telling the truth. You may seem confident or nonchalant most of the time but this was something that was hard to change.

„Sorry.“ You whispered as you put your hand on your knee to stop the bouncing. Tara´s eyes softened a little as she looked at your side profile. You were trying too hard to stay calm using every technique that came to your mind like deep breathing or trying to remember something funny or the fact that this was something everyone was going through and you are not alone.

Not long after you got it done and positive to say your professor was also happy about your work giving you marks belonging to the work done.

„I´m so glad we´ve after it.“ Chad breathed out air from his lungs. You were sitting in a cafeteria with your friends.

„Exactly! I was so nervous about it and that´s not even in my element!“ Mindy said as she picked up the croissant from her plate to her mouth.

„I´m sure you weren´t nervous as Y/N.“ Tara said with a smirk on her lips. You turned your face to her being a little offended by her words.

„I was not that nervous!“ you yelled at her as if you were trying to convince them. Or maybe yourself.

„You were like I thought you would pee yourself in any second.“ She added turning away from you to eat her food. You stomped on her foot hard making her yell in pain.

„Y/N!“ Mindy scolded you.

„You fucker!“ the young Carpenter turned to you with a mad expression ready to kill you. Oh, how much that calmed you down. You smiled at her which quickly fell into a pain expression as she kicked you right below your knee with all her strength.

You crunched into the table laying your forehead on it in pain. „You little rat I hate you so fucking much.“ You whispered with your eyes almost closed and your knees in both of your hands.

Just when you wanted to say something more you heard someone saying your name. With a confused expression, you turned to the side seeing the girl from the shop.

She was walking with a group of friends which kept walking as she stopped to talk to you.

„Hey, how are you?“ she asked with a gentle voice looking into your eyes. Not long after you met at the shop you got the message that someone wanted to follow you on your Instagram. You didn´t want to know how she found you, not like it was important either. You just didn´t expect that.

„Oh hi.“ You looked up at her from your spot. You could tell your friend were looking at the both of you with different expressions on their faces. Everyone was surprised at the interaction, only Ethan looked like he wasn´t. „I´m good, how are you?“

Chad cracked a little biting his lower lip at you. You´ve never talked to them with that sweet voice you were using now.

„I´m great! Sorry I didn´t wanna bother you I just wanted to say hi.“ She quickly explained herself feeling guilty for ruining the fun you had with your friends.

„Oh no, don´t worry, really. It´s all right.“ You smiled at her noticing that her friends stopped a couple of feet away from you looking at her with smiles and giggles. „Your friends are waiting for you. Not like I want you to go away! No! I mean you can stay as long as you want you know-“

She giggled at you as you were trying to explain yourself. „It´s fine Y/N like I said, I just wanted to stop by. I hope you have a good day.“ She then turned around and speed-walked to her friends.

Your eyes were still on her looking at her fading body into distance. Just then you were cut by a loud laughing. You rolled your eyes knowing exactly who it was.

Almost all of your friends were holding their stomachs from the laugh. Chad pressed his hands together and brought them up into his chest looking up in a dreamy way. „Oh, you can stay as long as you want! Please don´t go away!“ he said in a high high-pitched voice trying to make fun of you.

Your jaw tensed at him as you were growing more angry with each second. „I don´t sound like that!“

„But you did!“ they laughed. „I´ve never heard that voice Y/N oh my you must like this girl!“

The vein on your forehead started to form as you stared at your friends in anger. „I don't like her!“

Ethan was quietly sitting beside you looking at you. „I like her for you.“ He said softly. That made everyone silent looking at him.

„And since when do you know her?“ Mindy asked him.

„Oh I and Y/N already talked about her, right buddy?“ he said not meaning to be a tease. Chad only laughed harder making you even more mad. Ethan quickly looked at him and at you again. „Sorry Y/N! I didn´t want to make you mad.“

„It´s fine Ethan.“

„Oh but I´m a little offended how come Ethan knows already about her but we do not?“

You just breathed out and shook your head at them not having any more energy. You just picked up your food slowly taking a bite.

Tara was quiet like she was trying to process what just happened. What the fuck did that girl see in you? It was more than obvious that she liked you or at least that she was interested. You were annoying and stupid, you were always playing games and never studying. Why would she even stumble across you?

She looked at your calm expression and at the little red on your cheeks. That only made her more angry.

It was Friday and you were currently at someone´s birthday party. You got yourself a little more drunk than usual but that doesn´t mean you don´t know where the drinking barrier is. You danced and drank and laughed you were happy enjoying yourself with your friends.

You and Chad were competing who would drink more shots which was stopped by Mindy. You danced with Ethan who was a lot more loose than he normally is. You knew tomorrow you would probably hate yourself and Chad too but that was the problem of future Y/N.

You went into the kitchen trying to find something more to drink. Luckily for you, no one was in there at that time. You were opening cabinet after cabinet when you came by some luxurious-looking alcohol and champagne.

You wanted to grab one which was hidden behind only for you to stumble yourself from the chair making you fall on the ground.

There was a loud sound of the glass breaking and your body falling onto the ground. „Ouch.“ you let out softly.

„What the hell are you doing?“ Tara ran to your drunk ass laying on the ground trying to get up.

„Uhm I fell.“

„I can see you imbecile I asked what the fuck were you doing? Come on get up.“ She tried to get you up by your hands but saw that you were cut on your right arm. You were bleeding and you didn´t even notice that. Just when you saw Tara´s face you saw in what state was your arm.

„Oh my God Y/N! You´ve got glass in your hand I can see that!“

„Oh yeah? I can feel that!“

It was a pretty deep cut but nothing serious. Tara quickly ran to the sink and grabbed some tissues with scissors and alcohol.

„What the hell are you doing?“ you were crawling away from her fearing what that girl had in mind.

„I wanna help you stop running away!“ she was trying to get to you. Tara grabbed you by your good arm. „Stop moving you idiot!“

„I don´t wanna die!“ you cried as you were moving around like some insect. If someone walked into the room and saw the scene they would probably think that she is trying to kill you.

„Stop yelling!“ she put the bottle of alcohol beside you after getting it on the tissue softly cleaning your wound. You hissed at the feeling but didn´t move. Tara was taking the glass away crunching on the floor beside you.

She looked up at your face only for her to see that you were now drinking the alcohol she bought to clean your wound.

„Y/N! What the fuck!“ Tara yelled grabbing the bottle and pulling it away from your mouth. „Are you out of your fucking mind?“

You giggled gently at her drunk. She was looking at you as if you were serious. She couldn´t help but crack a little at your behavior. You were an idiot.

After your giggles, you were just quietly sitting there looking at the girl in front of you.

„Your right dimple is deeper than the left one.“

Tara´s breathing stopped for a moment. Suddenly her vision was worse and her heart fell into her stomach.

„What did you say?“ she asked gently with her soft big eyes looking at yours.

„Everytime you smile your right dimple is more visible.“

Tara´s eyes widen at your words looking down at you. She didn´t know how much time had passed since you were sitting there but to young Carpenter, it was like a second. A second before someone stepped into the kitchen breaking off the tension that was created in the room.

„Oh my God Y/N! What happened?“

It was the girl again. She ran in your direction trying to find out what happened. Tara´s nerves were on top all of a sudden.

„I´m fine don´t worry.“ You somehow said with your eyes barely open. You slowly stood up with her help making her hold tight onto your arm.

„I´m taking you to mine you can´t go home all by yourself like this!“

Tara looked at the girl with a sparky smile. „Don´t worry about that Y/N and I live beside each other I’ll take care of that.“

The girl looked at Tara and her face dropped. It was clear that she wasn´t a fan of her but that didn´t matter to her.

„Okay, I see.“ She looked up at you talking your cheeks in her hands making you look at her. „Take care, I´ll text you tomorrow.“ She then got on her tippy toes and kissed your cheek. Tara´s hands formed into fists and her jaw tensed. After that, she walked away leaving you both alone, not before looking at both of you one last time. Tara brushed the skin on your face right where that girl kissed you and took your hand into her and started to walk away from the party.

Yeah, like hell she will text you.

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house-of-angst · 1 year ago

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Y'all mind if I talk about Present Mic's quirk for a second? Great.

So, my partner and I have been having Erasermic brainrot lately, and while we were binging content with them, I became interested in Hizashi's voice quirk. I began searching stuff about how sound/volume works, and linking it to his canon stuff.

I'll just say, the info I found makes him a pretty scary guy. It's a shame he's so underused in both canon and fanon.

Frequency

First of all, I want to talk about something everyone knows about him: his quirk is potent enough to shatter glass. Now, when it comes to decibels, it's always important to consider the time and distance a certain note is held for, since these can impact the "hit" a certain sound wave can have when influenced by effects such as the air or vibrations.

(Please keep this in mind for the reminder of this post)

When it comes to glass, however, it breaks almost instantly under the pressure of his voice. Our most constant example of this is the man's poor lenses, but there is a scene I'd like to talk about the most, it being he one where he completely shatters Shigaraki's tank.

One might argue that the glass was already weakened from Mirko's kicks, but that's honestly part of something that makes this so impressive to me; Mirko's legs are strong enough to straight-up rip a high-end Nomu's head clean off, yet this tank was tough enough to withstand two attacks from her - including her ultimate move - before starting to leak; and the fact she was heavily injured doesn't fly here, as we very clearly could see she wasn't holding back one bit.

Now, let's get technical.

According to Google, a normal tone of voice would be around 50 decibels, while the required to shatter glass would be a minimum of 105. For comparison, that's roughly the same volume as a jackhammer. Now, you might be thinking, "Oh, that's not so bad! Some singers can do that!" and you'd be right, but there's also some other things to consider. Allow me to explain.

Some singers can reach a pitch that can make glass vibrate enough for it to break, but I've personally only heard of this happening if the person has their mouth close to a smaller, empty cup, and even then the volume would be distributed around. Hizashi, on the other hand, was standing several feet away from this reinforced tank and was able to shatter it immediately, using the directional speaker around his neck to aim the volume. This would naturally require for him to hit even higher decibels, specially when you take into consideration that one's frequency must match the glass' for it to vibrate, which drastically increases when it's dampened. (Read next topic for more info on this)

And then there's his glasses which, like I've stated before, are the most common thing he breaks with his voice. Obviously, this is not directed and it's not a total shatter, but there is something to be observed; say, did you know the necessary volume for lenses to crack, when not being directly aimed at, would be that of a nearby shot from a highcaliber gun? That's roughly 140-170 decibels.

Harm factor

Boy, oh boy! I'm betting most of you were looking for this part when you clicked the read more, right? Look no further, I've got you covered, you just better remember what I mentioned before about distance and duration.

Hizashi's parents were unfortunate enough to have a mutant child that was born with his quirk already active, and I'm willing to bet a newborn doesn't have the slightest bit of control over a power as destructive as a sonic-powered voice, which immediately resulted in everyone in the room bleeding from the ears.

Sound-related ear bleeding is most commonly associated with a ruptured eardrum, which can happen at around 150 decibels and is about the same as a jet engine taking off. While a baby most likely unleashed his maximum voice power on the first breath, I believe something like that would, thankfully, only develop fully after puberty, just like with non-powered people like us, since his quirk is a drastic intensification of a common function and not a new ability altogether.

With that being said... The Finals Exam.

In this, Hizashi was standing very far and, even with the directional speakers, there were many obstacles in the way that kept him from landing direct soundwaves on the students. Regardless, Jirou's ears bled in less than 30 minutes being exposed to this.

This could have happened due to the fact that she has a hearing quirk, which would make hers much more sensitive, but let's study this, shall we? We don't have the exacts of what happened there, but the students are visibly uncomfortable upon the first soundwave, which would suggest it was at about 120 decibels upon impact (with 85 already being enough to cause damage to your ears) and being emitted even higher by him, considering distance muffles volume. Still, I think all that would be nothing compared to the scream he let out after those bugs started crawling on him, with how unfiltered that was.

With Jirou, it comes to no surprise this volume at this distance and time almost rendered her deaf, and realistically would take several months of healing time. How much do you want to bet Hizashi got a solid scolding from Shouta? I mean, it was supposed to be a challenge, but homeboy came this close to breaking her quirk.

Another thing I want to point out is that his voice is powerful enough to actually fucking launch people, and this only happens due to an event called acoustic trauma, basically meaning Hizashi can surpass supersonic levels. Although, it's important to note that this effect is caused mostly due to pressure and not so much as sound, so while it's not freakishly loud (about the same as thunder), it can still cause hearing and psychological damage.

! WARNING !

The following part contains graphic mentions of injury, and death. Do not proceed if these are sensitive topics for you.

Now, we look at the disturbing side of Hizashi's quirk. Buckle in, because it's a wild ride.

Remember what I commented earlier, about him having to hit even higher frequencies to be able to shatter Shigaraki's tank? First of all, as the doctor was sent flying, this qualifies as supersonic, but that's not all. To shatter such a protected tank, with liquid inside increasing the density, he'd have to hit over 200 decibels; which is considered extremely dangerous and most definitely fatal, as the threshold of pain is of 115-140 - this can cause damage such as crushed ear bones, ruptured lungs, or embolism. For comparison, this would come close to standing right next to a Saturn V Moon Rocket during launch, and is no longer considered a "sound" due to the vacuum.

With that being said, the man came very close to dying by Hizashi's hands (voice?) twice. Not only was he so close during the lens incident, literally being inches away from his face and in risk of getting his eardrums ruptured already, but if Mic had decided to raise his voice even more during his rage, it'd be possible for the frequency to make the doctor's inner organs malfunction, or straight-up burst from the pressure.

But that's not the worst part.

After establishing that the lethal amount of over 200 decibels would be necessary to shatter the tank given the circumstances, if he exceeded 240 and the doctor happened to be in the way of this, it would be enough to cause his head to explode upon impact. That old man better be grateful that he was standing a feet few away, and that the supersonic blast blew him away a bit more, or it'd be an immediate game over.

With all this being said, how devastating would it be for this guy to scream his rage out?

(Please keep in mind that many of the extreme cases in this are actually impossible to happen in a real-life scenario and are purely speculation!)

#erasermic #(mentioned)#bnha #mha #boku no hero academia #my hero academia #present mic #yamada hizashi #rambles

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starbandit · 1 year ago

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Mr. Rockstar (J.J.K)

Preview: Your black sequined set hugged your body perfectly from what he could see, your appearance alone made his mouth water. If anyone was coming home with him, it would be you.

contains - rockstar!Jungkook, chubby reader, riding, oral (f!receiving), unprotected sex, nipple play, mentions of alcohol, non established relationship MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

word count - 2.5k/ unedited

These shows usually went the same way, a dimly lit club with stuffy air and screaming girls. Jungkook loved the attention, what twenty something year old boy wouldn’t? They would always fawn over the dark sleeve of tattoos that lined his arm while he stood at the bar after his set, boys and girls alike.

The lights beat down on Jungkook, the sweat dripping down his face as he sang into the mic. He couldn’t wait to get off stage, get a drink at the bar, and get back to the hotel. Maybe he would get lucky and take someone home, but based on how his night was already, he had his doubts.

That was, until a black sparkle caught his eye. A smirk painted his face as his eyes traced over the person dancing in the front row. Your black sequined set hugged your body perfectly from what he could see, your appearance alone made his mouth water. If anyone was coming home with him, it would be you.

Once his set ended, he stripped in the changing room, opting for a shirt that wasn’t drenched in his own sweat. He freshened up before leaving, going back out on the club floor to search for you. He spotted you at the bar, giggling with a friend with a drink in your hand.

He stepped to an open spot next to you, flagging down the bartender with a kind smile. Your head turned to look at him and Jungkook could swear you took his breath away.

“Could I buy you a drink?” He leaned down to ask in your ear. His breath tickled the sensitive skin, a shiver running down your spine.

“Hm, usually I’ll play hard to get, but you’re cute, and I want another drink,” You giggled, placing your hand on his chest. “I’ll let you buy me a drink.”

Jungkook smirked at you, watching as you told the bartender what you wanted, followed by him sliding his card into his hand. He turned back to you, admiring the outfit you had picked for the night. The way your arms fell at your sides, the soft skin slightly red from the rough plastic. He wanted to admire the outfit in better lighting, to watch how your curves moved as you slid off your pants, the supple skin that was gently hanging over the top of your pants being freed, the way your breasts would fall as you took off your top.

He was snapped out of his thoughts as you giggled, moving slightly closer to him in the growing crowd. “So, Mr. Rockstar, did you buy me this drink out of the kindness in your heart or were you hoping for something more?” You spoke over the loud music that the DJ had started playing

“To be honest, I was hoping to get you out of that outfit tonight. As amazing as it is, I’d much rather see what you look like without it.” He chuckled and took a sip of his drink.

You smiled up at him. “I might have to take you up on that offer, how about we dance a bit and then you can take me home?” You set your, now finished, drink down on the bar before grabbing Jungkook's hand to pull him to the dance floor.

The two of you danced for a bit, which had turned into mostly sloppy grinding. The sloppy grinding turned into a hot kiss, and Jungkook had to hold himself back from taking you right there on the dance floor.

“Let’s take this somewhere else,” He suggested, pulling you out of the dance floor and towards the double doors next to the stage. He smiled at security and pulled you through, to a much quieter area.

Your tipsy giggles filled the space as Jungkook pulled you towards the back, collecting his personal belongings and texting his manager. As much as he wanted to fuck you backstage, the amount of cameras and people made him slightly anxious.

He led you to a big van with blacked out windows. The driver continued to stare forward as the two of you stumbled in, taking a seat on the long bench in the back.

“Hm… I know you’re hot but are you sure this isn’t a kidnapping?” You let out a nervous giggle as Jungkook brushed your hair out of the way to suck a mark on your neck. The cold metal of his lip ring against your skin made you jump slightly. Your worries flew out of the window as he gently bit down on the skin and immediately soothed the area with a soft lick. The whimper that was torn from your throat was almost embarrassing. Almost.

It didn’t take long to arrive at the hotel, a quick drive full of hot touches and messy giggling. Jungkook tugged you to his room, barely even looking as he scanned the keycard and pushed into the room. He grunted as he pulled away, flopping to sit on the edge of the plush bed in the center of the room. He spread his legs, the tight fabric of his jeans outlining the definition in his thighs and the bulge growing in his pants. You watched as the muscles in his arms rippled as he leaned back to rest on his hands.

“Let me see the outfit,” He bit his lip, the piercing sat in his lip getting caught between his teeth. “Give me a twirl, baby girl.”

You blushed, giving Jungkook a slow turn. His eyes scanned you, how the black fabric sat over your rolls, how the fabric sat tight against your skin. He eyed the stretch marks on the backs of your arms, wondering just where else you had them. Surely they lined your thighs and ass, maybe you even had some on your stomach. His mouth was watering at the thought, he couldn’t wait to feel them under his fingers, under his lips.

“God,” He groaned, his hand moving to rub at his cock through his jeans. “I love it, but I wanna rip it off you.”

You smiled at him, moving closer to straddle him. You moved his hand before sitting down, placing it on your ass as you took a seat. He got the message, gripping and rolling your hips forward as soon as you got settled. You ducked your head down, placing soft kisses to the skin of his neck. Soft whines flew from his throat, egging you on.

You sighed against his throat as his hands unclasped the tight, corset-like material of your top. The material was starting to irritate your skin, leaving lines and slightly red areas where it was the tightest. Jungkook ran his fingers over the sensitive skin, gently teasing the area. He sat back, eyes lowering to admire your body.

He let out a groan as his hands reached up, gently squeezing your breasts. His thumbs flicked over your nipples, causing your eyes to roll back for a second. He dipped down, taking one of the hardened buds into his mouth. He looked up at you, eyes hooded and pupils blown, while he gently played with your other boob. You whimpered and let your hands fall to his hair, brushing the long locks out of his eyes before gripping the strands at the crown of his head.

His eyes fluttered closed as he let out a small hum, pulling away with a little pop to pay attention to your other breast. You gripped the locks harder, pulling him away when he began to rut up against you. His mouth fell open in a whimper and he bit his lip as you smirked at him.

“Getting a little desperate, are we?” You teased lightly, wiggling a little on his lap.

“Baby, I am going to fucking ruin you.” He growled. Your heart began to race as he wrapped his arms around you and flipped you onto your back, now hovering over you. “Not so tough now, are you?”

You hummed lightly and nodded. “I’ll let you do whatever you want to me, Mr. Rockstar.” You smirked up at him, letting out a little moan as you dragged your hands over the curves of your body.

His hands moved down to your pants in record time, unbuttoning the material and pulling them down, exposing the soft flesh. Jungkook could feel himself growing impossibly harder, soaking a wet spot on the front of his underwear, at the sight. Your supple thighs, the gentle pudge of your belly, god he was weak.

He dipped down, lips making contact with your stomach, kissing down, down, down. His tongue peeked out and gave teasing licks over the stretch marks on your tummy, humming as he pushed your thighs apart. Jungkook could feel his mouth watering as he stared at your skimpy underwear, the fabric soaked.

“Well, these aren’t doing you any good, now are they?” He hooked a finger under the thin fabric and snapped the waist band. “Why don’t I get rid of them for you?”

You gasped as he completely tore the fabric off your body and threw it, giving you no time to react before he dipped down and began feverishly licking at your pussy. A broken moan left your lips and you dug your hands into his hair. The heat of his tongue was just right, hitting every spot perfectly.

You glanced down, catching a glimpse of his eyes. He was staring up at you, eyes dark and glossy. He moaned against you, digging his face deeper into you. His hands gripped your hips, fingertips digging into the skin. You whimpered as you pulled his hair and dropped your head into the pillows. Sin, he was pure sin.

Jungkook continued to eat you out, tongue working absolute miracles on your clit. He was alternating between flicking the sensitive bud and sucking, bringing you close to the edge before switching, leaving just enough time in between to leave you wobbling a few steps back from orgasm. Two tattooed fingers made their way to your entrance, sinking in and immediately finding the spot that makes your vision go black.

His tongue and fingers moved in time together, creating a beautiful symphony of wet sounds and moans. Your orgasm was quickly reapproaching, a fire was lit in your belly and there was no stopping it.

“O-oh fuck- fuck,” You whimpered as your thighs began to shake, hand tightening in Jungkooks locks. You pulled him impossibly closer, thighs squeezing around his head as your orgasm took over. The warmth spread down to your toes, and through your body as you rode it out on his tongue and fingers, hips twitching in search of friction.

Jungkook removed his fingers and quickly placed them in his mouth, cleaning any remaining traces of you from them, before ditching his pants. You watched in awe as his cock bounced, tip glistening with precum and ruby red. He wrapped his hand around it, head falling back to expose his perfect neck as he gave himself a few tugs.

As soon as he crawled back onto the bed, you wasted no time in jumping on top of him. You needed him. You let out a loud groan in unison as you sunk down on him. His cock sat so perfectly inside of you, so warm and hitting every spot perfectly.

You gave him no time to adjust, instead rocking your hips back and forth in a steady motion. Your hands found their way to his chest, fingers gripping the soft material of his t-shirt as you bounced on him. Whimpers sounded around the room, and you weren’t sure if they were from you or Jungkook.

“Take it off,” You pulled at his shirt. “Please, get it off.” You balled the fabric up and began trying to tug it over his head. Jungkook assisted you, working feverishly to get the shirt off. Once the fabric was finally ditched, you couldn't help but admire the man beneath you.

Colorful tattoos decorated his skin, leading to a broad and muscular chest, down to a set of chiseled abs. You groaned and leaned back slightly, gripping Jungkook's thighs as you rocked your hips faster, milking more noises from him. The muscles contracted under your fingers as he rocked up to meet your movements.

Jungkook's hands trailed all over your body, touching and squeezing every inch of exposed skin that he could get his hands on. “I’m fucking obsessed with you.” He grunted out, fingers finding purchase on your hips, gripping the flesh.

You whined in response, your rhythm beginning to slow as you grew tired. Your fingers found their way to his nipples, gently rolling the buds between your fingers. You couldn’t help but smirk at the shiver that snuck its way through his entire body as you played with the sensitive buds.

“Come here,” Jungkook wrapped his arms around you and pulled you into his chest. You collapsed forward and caught him in a sloppy kiss. You gasped as he adjusted, placing his feet flat on the bed and began bucking his hips up into you at a fast pace. His hips made contact with your ass with every thrust, a loud smacking noise echoing throughout the room.

You moaned into his mouth with every movement, your tongues sloppily meeting in the middle and caressing each other in the most sinful way. You sucked his bottom lip into your mouth, giving a slight nibble as you pulled away to catch your breath.

You were getting close again, the fire was burning low in your belly and beginning to spread down to your hips. Jungkooks pace was speeding up and getting sloppy, leading you to believe he was in the same boat.

“Gonna, ah fuck-” He groaned. “Gonna fuckin’ fill you up so good.” He dug his nails into your back and wrapped his lips around your collarbone. He sucked a dark purple mark into the skin, giving it a quick bite before pulling off. His hips bucked into you at the perfect angle, stroking your walls just right.

“Fuck, I’m close.” You whimpered, your hands gripping around to find something, anything, to hold on to. You tightened around Jungkook, your ears ringing and vision going black as you released.

A moan ripped through Jungkook as he pressed up one final time, painting your walls with thick, hot, ropes. He gently pushed through both of your releases, hugging your body tight as you both took deep breaths and tried to come down. A thick coat of sweat covered both of you.

You sat back up, his now softening cock still nestled deep in you, and ran a hand through your hair. You glance back down at Jungkook, who is resting beautifully against the plush hotel pillows. His cheeks are flushed, lips pink and swollen, and his eyes are closed. You allow yourself to bask in the moment, silence covering the hotel room.

Jungkook breaks the silence first. “So, after our shower, you wanna grab some dinner?” He cracked an eye open to peak up at you. “My treat.”

“Okay, Mr. Rockstar.” You giggled. “I’ll meet you in there,”

Jungkook watched as you stood up and sauntered off towards the bathroom, hips swaying as you walked. He bit his lip as he watched, and couldn’t seem to get up fast enough when you turned around and beckoned him over.

#jungkook fanfic #jungkook one shot #jungkook smut #jeon jungkook smut #jeon jungkook x reader #jungkook x reader #bts x reader #bts smut #bts fanfic #bts one shot #jungkook scenario #jungkook imagine #my writing #text #this has also been sitting in my drafts for months #literally started this last year

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heesmiles · 9 days ago

Text

SEA FOAM N.RK

೨౿ ⠀ ׅ ⠀ ̇ 21k ⸝⸝ . ‌ ׅ ⸺ word count.

pairings ✧⠀ ͚֯ ni-ki ៹ fem ! reader ᧁ ; angst ˒ summer romance ˒ slice of life

warnings ◞ ⠀ ⭑⠀ ⠀ׂ angst summer romance ni-ki works at a record shop on the pier very insta lovey death

in which ࿐ With the smell of salt and seafoam in the air, you fell in love. In a quiet town, on a quiet hill, in a quiet home. The hum of the ac whirling and the feel of sand on your toes. Sea shells piled high on your front porch and a tan so golden you could thank the sun personally as it was clear the two of you were friends, and a boy, tall and lanky. Quiet but so very expressive shows up and ruins it all. Leaving the smell of the sea now bitter.

★ ! rain's mic is on ⋆ ͘ . god I live for heartbreaking summer romances like these. Also, I have little to no knowledge about record stores and records in general all of my research came from unverified google searches so beware I could be way off. Sorry if the ending is a little rushed. i kinda rushed this, so if there is any inconsistencies im sorry.

You’re sweating by the time you carry the third box up the porch steps, palms stinging from cardboard edges and sea salt already clinging to your skin like memory. The wind smells like brine and old wood, like stories left too long in the sun. Your mother follows behind you, arms full, her voice soft with nostalgia. "She kept the porch the same," she murmurs, half to herself. "Even the wind chime."

You glance at it — a tangle of glass and driftwood — clinking above the door like it’s welcoming you in, or warning you away. Inside, the air is still. A little musty, but not unpleasant. You set the box down with a thud that echoes too loudly, like you’ve intruded. Like the house wasn’t ready for your arrival. “Is there any way I can come back early?” you ask, wiping your hands on your jeans. “Like after a month, maybe?”

Your mother shakes her head, not unkindly. “Three months, sweetheart. That’s what we agreed. She’s your only grandmother. And she asked for you.” You nod, even if you don’t understand it — not fully. You never really knew her. She sent birthday cards with spidery handwriting and once mailed you a book about sea glass. But she was always a whisper at the edge of your life, a stranger with your mother’s eyes. “I just don’t want to waste the whole summer,” you mutter, mostly to yourself.

Your mother smiles as she opens a window, letting in the sound of gulls and the slow hush of the tide. “You won’t. I loved growing up here. The sea — it was like a second home to me. I think, by the end of the summer, you’ll feel the same.” You don’t believe her. But you say, “Okay,” anyway. You don’t unpack all at once. There’s something about the act that feels too final, like admitting you’re really here, like committing to the idea that this house, this salt-worn cradle of creaks and shadows, is yours for the summer. So you leave the boxes half-full, your clothes draped across the bed like discarded thoughts, and drift from room to room instead, letting the space introduce itself to you in its own time.

The house is old, but it breathes. You can feel it in the floorboards that groan under your steps, in the walls that carry echoes of laughter long since dissolved into dust. There are photographs faded to sepia on the mantel — a young woman in a sundress you’re told is your grandmother, all wind-blown hair and wild grin, holding a fishing pole like a sword. The sea is behind her, always behind her. Like a shadow or a promise. By the time twilight folds itself into the corners of the sky, your mother and grandmother are in the kitchen, their voices mingling with the clatter of cutlery and the hiss of something frying in butter. The scent of garlic and lemon curls through the hallway like a beckoning hand, but you slip out the back door before it can catch you.

The backyard is a suggestion more than a space — a sloping strip of grass that quickly gives way to sand, and then to sea. The beach begins where the porch ends, and the ocean feels like it’s breathing just for you. You kick off your shoes at the edge of the deck and step onto the sand, warm and soft, like the sigh of something ancient and half-awake. It sinks between your toes, gentle and slow, like the earth is welcoming you home in a language older than speech. The wind tousles your hair with fingers made of sky, and you close your eyes, tipping your face toward the horizon.

The sea is a mouth and a heartbeat, a secret keeper, a lullaby that never ends. It smells of rusted anchors and forgotten summers, of salt and sun and something that thrums just beneath the surface — longing, maybe. Or memory. You walk until the water reaches you, first your ankles, then your calves, cool and certain. It doesn’t ask questions. It just is.

And you love it. You love the way it touches you without needing anything back. The way it roars and hushes, unbothered and infinite. The sea doesn’t care that you’re uncertain, or that this house still feels like a stranger. It accepts you the way the sky accepts stars — without hesitation. For a moment, you let yourself imagine staying like this forever — suspended between sand and surf, the wind combing secrets into your hair. You could vanish here, you think. And maybe the world wouldn’t notice. Or maybe it would, but forgive you.

You're halfway to becoming driftwood when you hear your mother calling your name, her voice soft and sharp, carried just so by the wind. You turn back, slow and reluctant, the sea tugging at your ankles like it doesn’t want to let you go. “Coming,” you call, though your voice is quieter than hers, and maybe the sea swallows it whole. You walk back barefoot, your footprints already fading behind you, as though you were never there. And above you, the stars begin to wake — blinking one by one like they, too, have only just arrived.

Dinner is eaten at a round table that creaks with age, its surface scratched and soft in places, as if it had been loved too hard by too many hands. The plates are mismatched, chipped at the edges like sea glass — not perfect, but shaped by time into something beautiful. Your mother and grandmother speak in the gentle rhythm of people who once knew each other well but have learned to be careful. Their conversation drifts like gulls on the wind — light, circling, sometimes dipping low into silence, sometimes carried away in bursts of laughter that feel too sudden, like they’re chasing something before it disappears.

They talk about the town the way old sailors talk about the sea — with reverence and a touch of sorrow. Your mother leans back in her chair, her eyes half-lidded as she watches the twilight press against the window like a sleeping cat. “So much has changed,” she murmurs. “That café near the church is gone. The one with the lemon scones.”

“Oh, that place turned into a surfboard rental years ago,” your grandmother says with a snort. “Lemon scones don’t do well in salt air. Surfboards, though? Those float.” They both laugh, and the sound is warm, like the golden spill of lamplight across the old wood floor. You stay quiet for the most part, listening. Watching. You’ve always been better at observing than participating, like a lighthouse — present but distant, lit from within but only ever shining outward.

Your mother’s smile fades a little as she looks around the kitchen, her eyes lingering on the floral wallpaper peeling at the corners, the weathered cabinets, the window above the sink that frames the sea like a painting left unfinished. “I love your father,” she says softly, “and I love the city. But sometimes… I miss this. The quiet. The way the air smells like rain and salt. Seoul is so loud, so fast. It never lets you breathe.” Your grandmother reaches over, lays a hand over hers. “The sea’s always been patient. That’s why some people come back to it.”

They both look at you then, like maybe you’re a compass needle trying to decide where to point. “There’s a pier,” your grandmother says, her voice gentler now, lined with a kind of hope that makes your chest tighten. “A lovely one. It’s changed, too, of course, but it still smells like sugar cones and fish and the ocean. You might like it. You should walk it sometime.”

“I want to find a summer job,” you say, surprising even yourself with how quickly the words spill out. “Something small. I don’t want to just sit around.”

Your grandmother’s mouth draws into a line, her fingers twitching slightly where they rest against the table. “You don’t need to do that. This is your summer. You’re here to rest. To be with me.”

“I know,” you say, gently. “But I want to. I need something to do. Something that’s mine.” There’s a pause, like the house itself is holding its breath. Then she nods, reluctantly, the corners of her eyes softening. “Well, then,” she says, “the pier’s the perfect place to look. If you’re determined.” And you are. After dinner, with your hair still scented faintly of lemon and smoke, you slip out into the violet hush of Anchor–Crest’s evening. The town is quieter now, blanketed in the kind of calm that only truly settles over places close to the sea — as if the tide takes the noise with it each time it pulls away from shore.

The streets are mostly empty, save for the flicker of moths dancing beneath the halo of streetlamps and the occasional rustle of a breeze slipping through half-cracked shutters. The buildings huddle close together like old friends, their wood-paneled sides faded from years of sun and salt, their neon signs dimmed or gone entirely dark. It’s closer to nine than eight, and the town seems to be tucking itself into bed. But the pier is still awake. It stretches out before you like a song just beginning — long and wide, its planks worn smooth by thousands of footsteps, millions of stories. The air here is different, charged somehow, like anything could happen if you just walked far enough into the dark. The sea murmurs beneath you, a low and constant lullaby, and above you the stars have gathered like curious onlookers, blinking down as if to say go on.

You walk slowly, your fingers brushing the splintered railings, your breath syncing with the gentle slap of waves against the pylons below. Shops line the pier like shells scattered by a thoughtful tide — a taffy place with its windows shuttered tight, a bait shop closed early with a sign that reads Gone Fishin’, Try Tomorrow, a crêpe cart tucked beneath a striped awning that still smells faintly of sugar and butter. Then, you see it. Tucked between a surfboard rental place and a store that sells miniature ships in bottles — a record shop. Small, crooked, and slightly slouched, as if it’s been trying to lean into the wind for years and just gave up. Its windows are cloudy with age, soft amber light bleeding through like a secret it’s trying to keep to itself. There are faded posters in the glass — album covers yellowed by the sun, a handwritten list of band names in glitter gel pen, curling at the edges.

And there, taped just below the handle of the door, a sign: Help Wanted. Inquire Within.

You pause, heartbeat quickening a little in that strange, familiar way it does when the universe seems to wink at you. The kind of feeling you get when you find a four-leaf clover or hear your favorite song at the exact moment you need it most. You reach for the door. It creaks when you push it open, the bell above it giving a tired little jingle, like it’s been doing this so long it can’t quite muster the enthusiasm. Inside, the air is warm and smells like dust and vinyl, the nostalgic musk of sound long stored and waiting to be played again. Rows of records line the narrow aisles like soldiers at ease — some alphabetized, some utterly chaotic. The door gives a soft jingle as it swings shut behind you, muffling the sea’s lullaby. Inside, the air is thick with time — the kind of air that hums with memory, like it’s holding its breath between songs.

The lighting is soft, golden, as if someone filtered the world through a sepia photograph. Lamps with beaded shades stand in the corners like forgotten sentinels, casting halos across cracked linoleum and rows of leaning shelves. Dust floats lazily in the beams, turning the shop into a snow globe left in a summer window. You move slowly, reverently — a traveler stepping into an ancient temple. The records stretch before you in endless alphabetized aisles, their glossy sleeves worn and faded, spines like whispered names waiting to be called. Your fingers trace them lightly, one by one, a silent prayer to the gods of sound. Bowie. Simone. The Beatles. Unknown names scribbled in Sharpie over plastic sleeves.

You’re halfway down an aisle when your hand settles on a Nirvana album — In Utero, the cover a strange ballet of beauty and grotesque, angel wings and anatomy. You pause, studying the art, the ache in its palette. “You like Nirvana?” a voice says, cracking the quiet like a dropped needle on a fresh vinyl. You jump slightly, turning toward the sound. He’s leaning against the end of the aisle, half-shadowed in lamplight. Tall. Lanky in the way that suggests his limbs have only just recently agreed to coexist. His hoodie hangs off him like it’s still deciding if it belongs. His hair is messy, wind-tossed even indoors, and his eyes — sharp, dark, and somehow curious all at once — flicker from your face to the record and back again.

You blink. “Yeah. Who doesn’t?”

He shrugs, shuffling a step closer. “Some people pretend to. For the aesthetic.”

You raise an eyebrow, smirking. “Do I look like I’m pretending?” He smiles — a crooked, lopsided thing that seems surprised to be on his own face. “No. You look like someone who knows the difference between ‘Heart-Shaped Box’ and ‘All Apologies.’”

You laugh, and something in the air shifts — a soft vibration, like the low hum before a favorite song begins. He walks toward you, slipping his hands into the front pocket of his hoodie. “I’m Ni-ki,” he says.You offer your name in return, and the way he repeats it under his breath — testing the syllables like a lyric — makes your cheeks warm in a way the ocean wind never could.

He leans against the shelf beside you, scanning the rows. “So what brings you into this little vinyl graveyard?” You glance at the Help Wanted sign in the window, still fluttering like a hopeful flag. “Looking for a summer job. Figured this place might be a good start.”

He perks up, amused. “Really? You think you’re record store material?”

You cross your arms. “Depends. Is there a test?”

He grins. “There might be.”

And then he does quiz you — half-serious, half-mocking, fully intrigued. He asks which Beatles album came before Sgt. Pepper’s, who originally released Rumours, what the difference is between a 45 and an LP. You answer most of them with more confidence than you expected, and when you get one wrong, he pretends to gasp like you've committed treason, but you can see the approval tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“You know your stuff,” he says finally, tapping a record spine. “Or you fake it really well.”

“Thanks,” you say dryly. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me today.”

He laughs, then bites his lip like he’s deciding something. “Alright. You’re in.”

Your brows lift. “That’s it? I’m hired?”

“I’m in charge right now,” he says, mock-grandly. “My cousin owns the place, but he’s in love or backpacking or both. Anyway, I basically run things. And you passed the vibe check.” You can’t help the way your smile slips out. “When do I start?”

“Saturday morning,” he replies. “Sharp. Don’t be late — unless you bring donuts. Then I might forgive you.” You nod, backing toward the door. “Duly noted.” He follows you a few steps, leaning against the frame as you open the door, the chime above it ringing again like applause.

“Oh,” he adds as you step out into the salty hush of the pier. “And bring that Nirvana energy with you. The real kind.”

You shoot him a grin over your shoulder. “Only if you promise not to quiz me again.”

“No promises,” he calls after you.

The door closes behind you with a soft click, the light inside fading to amber through the glass. And as you walk back down the pier, the sea now a hush in your ears and your heart thudding to a rhythm you don’t quite recognize, you realize the summer has cracked open — just a little. And something new has started to bloom inside the quiet.

Saturday, you’re up bright and early to get to the record store. You show up ten minutes early, clutching a canvas tote and the kind of nervous energy that hums just beneath your skin like a skipped heartbeat. You spent too long deciding what to wear — torn between comfort and the elusive cool that Ni-ki seems to wear like a second skin. You settle on a shirt that feels like you, jeans that have survived too many summers, and a necklace your mother gave you when you were thirteen, the one that always brings you a bit of luck.

The record shop is already breathing by the time you arrive, its door slightly ajar, the bell above it giving a lazy chime as you slip inside. Morning light streams through the warped glass like golden syrup, catching on the dust motes that float in slow pirouettes through the air. The place smells like warm vinyl and old wood, a hint of incense lingering somewhere in the corners. Ni-ki is behind the counter, hunched over like a gargoyle with a mission, eating cereal out of a chipped coffee mug that reads World’s Okayest Employee. The sight of you standing there, ten minutes early and bright-eyed, seems to catch him off guard.

“You actually came,” he says, cereal spoon paused mid-air. “You sound shocked,” you reply, stepping further in. “I did say I’d show up.”

“Yeah, but people say all kinds of things at the end of the world,” he mutters dramatically, then grins. “Welcome to paradise.” The shop is a beautiful kind of chaos. Handwritten signs dangle from twine above each section: Garage Rock (Actual Garage Sound), Sad Bangers, Albums That Changed My Life But Maybe Not Yours. A crooked shelf labeled Jazz? leans against a wall like it’s had one too many drinks. There’s a cat curled up on a stack of Tame Impala reissues — soot-grey, one ear notched, its eyes opening slowly like it’s seen centuries and remains unimpressed.

“Does the cat live here?” you ask.

“No idea,” Ni-ki replies, peering over the counter. “He came with the store. Or maybe he’s a ghost. Either way, he answers to ‘Captain.’ Or doesn’t.” Your first task? Alphabetizing the used vinyl bin — which, as it turns out, is less bin and more bottomless abyss. A tangled jungle of warped records, bootleg mixtapes, and deeply cursed homemade covers — one of which features a Sharpie drawing of two clowns kissing beneath a blood moon. Someone has scribbled THIS IS THE WORST SONG EVER across a CD sleeve, then stuffed it back in like a warning.

Ni-ki watches you with vague amusement as you crouch beside the bin, sleeves rolled up like you’re preparing for surgery. “Welcome to the hellscape,” he says, sipping his cereal.

“Any actual system here?” you ask. He shrugs, pointing lazily. “That pile’s classics. That one’s vibes. And that one’s cursed. Do not listen to anything from the cursed pile unless you want your day to feel like a mid-2000s Tumblr breakup.” You sort, sift, dig. You laugh out loud more than once. Ni-ki drifts around the store like a song in human form, starting tasks and abandoning them halfway through — stacking CD cases only to knock them over, setting a record on the player and forgetting about it until it spins endlessly on static. He trips over a crate of cassette tapes and says, without missing a beat, “That was intentional. I’m stress-testing the floor.”

You learn more by watching him than from anything he says. He knows where everything is — not by order, but by instinct. He talks to the records like they’re old friends, mutters to himself about which artists have Mercury in retrograde energy, and once, mid-sentence, gasps and runs to swap out a display because “no offense to the Beach Boys, but this is not their season.” At some point, a customer comes in and asks for something obscure — a Japanese city pop album from 1982. Ni-ki lights up like a struck match. You watch him slip into a rhythm, voice smooth and animated, leading the man to a dusty crate near the back, pulling out exactly what he needs. You catch yourself smiling.

By the end of the day, the cursed pile has doubled in size, Captain has chosen your lap for a fifteen-minute nap, and you feel pleasantly exhausted — not the kind that drags you down, but the kind that fills your limbs like warmth after a swim. As you wipe your hands on your jeans and start to gather your things, Ni-ki reaches behind the counter and pulls out a record, slipping it into a sleeve that crackles like old paper. “Your initiation gift,” he says, sliding it toward you.

You take it gently, examining the cover — it’s scratched, its corners soft with age, the title half-faded. “This is… unplayable,” you say, half-laughing.

“It’s magic,” he insists, eyes gleaming. “Look at it too long and you’ll cry. Or get a vision. Or find a penny from your childhood. Who knows.” You clutch it to your chest as you leave, the shop’s bell ringing soft behind you, the sky outside slowly beginning to melt into gold. You walk home with salt on your skin and the feeling that something precious has been tucked into your day — a moment, a memory, a record full of invisible music. You don’t know what the song is yet. But you’ll be back to hear it.

The sun has softened by the time you reach the house, folding itself gently behind the horizon like it’s tucking in for the night. The wind is quieter now, brushing against your skin with the hush of an old lullaby. And as you climb the porch steps, your eyes catch something you hadn’t noticed before. The garden.

It sprawls across the front lawn like a living tapestry, riotous and delicate all at once — blooms of every shape and hue swaying together in a secret kind of harmony. It’s not a neat garden, not the kind trimmed to suburban symmetry or captured in glossy magazines. No, this garden is wild and purposeful, like it was planted by someone who speaks in symbols and lets the earth answer back. Ivy curls along the baseboards, and golden marigolds lean into the late light, their petals catching like embers. Lavender grows in thick bundles by the porch steps, and tucked just behind them, you spot foxglove and forget-me-nots and clusters of pink cosmos nodding like old souls. You pause, drawn to it — the hush, the poetry of it. Something in the arrangement feels like a letter, like a coded message meant only for someone who knows how to read the heart.

Inside, the house is warm with the soft clatter of dishes and the gentle hum of a radio tuned low to a station that plays old love songs. The scent of dinner winds through the hallway — lemon and rosemary, something simmering slow on the stove. You wash your hands and sit at the table where your grandmother is already waiting, her silhouette lit by the glow of the kitchen window, her hair gathered loosely at the nape like a whisper of the girl she once was. She smiles at you — that quiet, knowing kind of smile that only grandmothers have, like she can already read your thoughts before they form.

“So,” she says, placing a bowl of soup in front of you, “how was your first day at the record shop?” You tell her everything — the chaos, the charm, the cursed pile, the cat who may or may not be a spirit. You mention Ni-ki, his mismatched energy and cereal breakfasts, the way he spoke to the records like they were old flames. Her eyes twinkle at the name. “Ah,” she says softly, “Nishimura Riki. I know his parents. Nice people. Quiet. His father used to play cello in the church ensemble. Barely spoke more than two words but when he played, you’d think the cello had a soul of its own.”

You nod slowly. “Makes sense,” you say. “Ni-ki’s got that… same kind of quiet. Like he’s speaking through other things.”

She stirs her tea, thoughtful. “Some people carry their stories in their eyes. Others in music. Or gardens.” Your gaze drifts to the window, where the garden sways in the moonlight like a secret still being whispered.

“Speaking of,” you say, “I noticed the flowers. They’re beautiful. Are they just… for show?” She chuckles — a soft, melodic sound that feels like the memory of spring. “Oh, child. Every flower means something. I never plant anything without a reason.” You tilt your head, curious.

She points to the lavender first. “Peace. I plant it near the door to welcome calm.”

Then to the marigolds. “Grief. For the people I’ve lost. But also resilience — they bloom through everything.” The cosmos, pink and wide-eyed in the dark. “Balance. For the days when I forget how to find my center.” You sit quietly, drinking in her words like they’re poetry spoken between bites.

“And the foxglove?” you ask, your voice low. She pauses, then smiles softly. “Insincerity, mostly. But also creativity. It’s tricky. Like people. Like life.” You imagine her kneeling in the soil, planting grief and peace and creativity like offerings to the universe, letting the earth hold what her heart couldn’t say aloud. The conversation fades into silence, but it’s a golden kind — the kind that wraps around the kitchen like a shawl. After dinner, she kisses your forehead and tells you to sleep well, and you climb the stairs with your head still full of flowers and Ni-ki’s strange magic and the scratch of the record you now keep on your nightstand like a charm.

That night, you lie in bed with the window cracked open, the salt breeze curling in like a dream. You think of the meanings woven into every bloom outside your window, a whole language spelled out in petals and stems. You wonder what kind of flower you are — what root is taking hold in you this summer, and what will bloom when you’re not looking. You fall asleep to the sound of the sea whispering just beyond the porch. And in your dream, the garden is singing.

You wake to the soft hush of the sea breathing against the shore, a rhythm as steady as a lullaby half-remembered. The sky outside your window is the color of sleep still fading — a pale wash of lavender and rose, with streaks of gold beginning to stretch like limbs in the waking light. You dress slowly, quietly, the house still holding onto its dreams. When you step outside, the garden greets you like an old friend who’s been waiting. Dew clings to the petals like whispered secrets, and the air smells green and alive — a mixture of earth and salt and something faintly sweet, like memory distilled into fragrance. Your grandmother is already there, kneeling in the soil with a wide-brimmed straw hat shading her face and gloves dusted with the morning’s work. She doesn’t look up at first, too caught in the careful tending of roots and stems, but she knows you’re there.

“Early riser,” she murmurs, brushing her hands on her apron. “Just like your grandfather used to be.” You sit on the porch steps, letting the sun pour over your skin like warm tea. She settles back onto her heels, her gaze soft as the morning. “He used to get up before the gulls started crying,” she says. “Said the world belonged to those who saw it first.” A small laugh slips from her lips. “He was full of sayings like that. Half of them are nonsense, but he made them sound like scripture.”

She points to a patch of white daisies climbing along the fence. “We met right here, on this beach. I was just a girl then. My mother brought me for a summer away from the city. I thought I’d be bored out of my mind.” Her eyes glitter with the recollection, like tidepools catching sun. “Then I met a boy who loved the sea so much he could name all the tides and knew when the wind would turn. He taught me to listen to the waves like they were speaking.” You glance toward the ocean. It's still murmuring to itself, the tide curling in and out like the hem of a dress being tried on again and again.

“I fell in love with him and the sea all at once,” she says. “And I never left. My mother was furious at first — she thought I’d thrown my life away for a boy and a beach. But I found something here that felt like mine. Something quiet. Something deep-rooted.” She brushes her hand over a bloom of violets.

“My mother liked flowers. She used to say they were stories you planted in the ground. That if you paid attention, the garden would always tell you how someone was feeling. I didn’t believe her until I found myself planting daisies after he passed. Daisies mean loyalty. And innocence.” She pauses. “Hope, too.” You watch her in the golden haze of morning, hands moving over soil like she’s sewing love into the earth itself.

She turns to you then, her eyes as bright as the morning sea. “Maybe you’ll pick it up, too,” she says. “The garden. The sea. Whatever calls to you.” You don’t say anything, but you think maybe something already has. You lose track of time there, listening to her stories, letting the warmth of the sun and her voice wrap around you like a well-worn quilt. The sea hums in the distance, and the flowers seem to lean in closer, like they’re listening too.

It isn’t until the light shifts just so and the air sharpens with mid-morning urgency that you remember the time. “I have to go,” you say, standing abruptly. “The shop…” She waves you off with a knowing smile. “Go on, then. Don’t keep the records waiting.” You dash inside, grabbing your bag, brushing dirt off your knees, heart still full of wildflowers and tide-songs. As you head toward town, the scent of the garden clings to you — lavender and daisies and something unnamed. You don’t look back, but you feel it — the house behind you, the garden blooming like a spell, your grandmother already humming to her flowers. The world feels quieter and bigger all at once. And your day is just beginning.

The record shop is quiet when you arrive, half-asleep like the town itself, sunlight pooling through the front windows in slow-moving gold. Ni-ki’s already there, lounging behind the counter with a half-eaten peach in one hand and a book in the other, looking like he’s been plucked from another era, half-boy, half-daydream.

But by afternoon, the sky begins to darken — not gradually, not politely, but all at once, like someone pulled a great gray sheet over the sun. You look up from the bin you’ve been organizing (“vibes, not in a cursed way,” as per Ni-ki’s instructions), and the world outside the window has turned the color of bruised plums. Thunder rumbles low in the distance — not yet angry, just clearing its throat. “You hear that?” Ni-ki says, peeking out from the back room with a pretzel stick hanging from his mouth. “Storm’s coming.”

You nod, and moments later, the storm arrives like it’s been waiting just beyond the town’s edge, eager to stretch its legs. Rain crashes down in sheets, the kind of summer downpour that feels almost theatrical in its urgency. The windows fog over instantly, blurred with condensation and streaked with silver lines. The roof trembles under the weight of water, the gutter outside singing in rivulets and overflows. “Well,” Ni-ki says, stepping around a tower of cassette tapes and kicking off his shoes, “looks like we’re stuck.”

He moves toward the record player in the corner like it’s a ritual, flipping through sleeves until he finds one — a faded, fraying LP with no label. He places the needle down with the kind of reverence usually reserved for prayers. The first notes float out, low and longing — jazz, smooth and syrupy, the kind that spills like honey and hangs in the air long after it’s gone. A saxophone sighs like a tired poet. The bass hums like a heartbeat underwater.

You find yourselves lying on the floor soon after — not on purpose, not in a storybook way, but like you both quietly understood that the storm had pressed pause on the world, and this was the only way to breathe through it. The floor is cool against your back. The ceiling fan spins in lazy circles above you, casting shadows that dance like ghosts across the walls. Ni-ki talks, voice soft and winding, half-ramble, half-reverie. He tells you about his favorite album like it’s someone he used to love. The way the harmonies feel like home. The way the final track always makes him cry, though he never admits it out loud. He speaks in metaphors — calling guitars “bones with breath,” and lyrics “little spells disguised as mistakes.”

You close your eyes, letting his voice wrap around you like the jazz, like the rain — steady, soft, unknowable. Thunder rolls again, not far now, and you imagine the shop floating at sea, untethered and drifting, safe in its island of sound. He says something then — something about how storms always made him feel like the world was wiping itself clean — and you smile, not because of what he said, but how he said it. Like he wasn’t afraid to say things that sounded a little foolish. Like he trusted the moment to hold him. Time slows. The ceiling fan turns.

You don’t remember falling asleep, but somewhere between the thunder and the saxophone and the soft cadence of Ni-ki’s voice, you slip under like a pebble sinking into a tidepool. Not deeply. Not forever. Just enough. the rain has quieted, reduced to a hush against the windows. The storm has passed, or is passing, and the light outside is strange and soft — that post-rain glow that makes the world feel new. Ni-ki is still lying beside you, arms folded beneath his head, eyes on the ceiling like he’s watching stars no one else can see.

“Hey,” he says, voice barely more than a whisper.

“Hey,” you reply, voice still tangled in sleep.

Neither of you moves to get up. The world can wait.

You wake to the scent of petrichor and the sighing hush of a town still half-asleep. The world feels washed clean — the sky a milky blue canvas with clouds like lace unraveling at the edges, and the air still heavy with the ghost of last night’s storm. For a moment, you don’t remember where you are — only that there is warmth beside you, and a jazz record still spinning in its final loop, the needle clicking gently like a heartbeat that doesn’t want to stop. You blink yourself into focus and turn.

Ni-ki is asleep next to you, curled slightly, one arm flung over his eyes like he’s trying to hold onto whatever dream he drifted into. His hoodie has slipped off one shoulder, and his hair’s a little mussed — the kind of morning mess that makes him look younger, more boy than mystery. There’s a dried smudge of ink on his knuckle. His mouth is slightly parted. You think, absurdly, that he looks like someone drawn in charcoal — smudged at the edges, all softness and sketch lines. The ceiling fan hums its sleepy circles above you. Outside, the gutters still drip, and the occasional car rolls past with a wet hiss against the street. The record player finally falls silent. Even the shop seems to exhale — every shelf and bin and poster a little quieter than usual, as if the music and storm had exhausted them, too.

Ni-ki stirs, stretches like a cat, and opens one eye. “You drool in your sleep,” he says, voice thick with morning.

You blink. “I do not.” He grins — not teasing, not cruel, just lazy and amused. “Maybe it was me,” he admits. “I’m a very mysterious sleeper.” There’s a pause — not uncomfortable, just suspended — and for a moment, neither of you moves. The storm feels like it happened in another lifetime. You’re just two kids on a shop floor, heads full of music and dreams too soft to speak aloud.

Eventually, Ni-ki props himself up on one elbow and squints out the window. “Looks like we’re not opening today,” he says. “Storm knocked out half the power lines on Main.” You sit up slowly, rubbing the back of your neck. “So… rain day?”

“Rain day,” he confirms. “Wanna bail?” You nod. The agreement is unspoken and immediate. No need to tidy up, no need to explain. The day has already been claimed by the aftermath — by the soft quiet that follows when nature has had its say. You both gather your things in the kind of silence that only exists between people who’ve shared a strange closeness — not lovers, not strangers, but something fragile and in-between. Ni-ki hands you your jacket without meeting your eyes. You murmur thanks. He nods.

Outside, the pavement glistens like wet stone under a watercolor sky. The air is rich with sea-salt and wet leaves. A few gulls wheel overhead, their cries sharp and laughing. Anchor–Crest is slower today, subdued, as if the town itself is still wringing the water from its bones. You and Ni-ki walk together for a while before parting ways — no destination in mind, just a mutual understanding that the day is meant for wandering, for letting the storm’s echo fade on its own time.

“See you tomorrow?” he asks, voice light. “Yeah,” you say, the word carried on a breeze that smells like roses and rust and rain. You don’t look back as you walk away. But you feel him behind you — not watching, just existing in your orbit — a constant, quiet presence like the sea against the shore. And somewhere inside you, something soft begins to grow.

By the time you reach your grandmother’s house, the sky has cleared into a gentle hush of gold and gray — the kind of color that only exists after a storm, as if the world has exhaled and is now resting. The air smells like old earth and wild rosemary, sea-laced and clean. Your shoes squish faintly as you step up the wooden path, the garden glistening on either side — every flower bowing under the weight of raindrops like dancers catching their breath after the final chord.

You expect damage. Branches. Broken things. But the house stands untouched, like it had been wrapped in some invisible spell while the storm passed overhead. The wind chime still sways lazily by the porch. The hydrangeas have leaned, not fallen. The paint is damp but not peeling, and the seashells your grandmother keeps lined along the windowsill shine like tiny moons.

When you open the door, you barely have time to step inside before your grandmother is there, arms around you in an embrace that catches you completely off guard. She's smaller than you remember — smaller than she seemed yesterday — and warmer, too, like a quilt pulled fresh from the sun. Her voice is thick with relief, caught somewhere between a scolding and a prayer.

“Where were you?” she breathes, her words muffled against your shoulder. “I was so worried—when the storm came I thought—” You freeze, then soften, arms coming up slowly to return the hug. You hadn’t been held like this in a long time — not since before time started moving faster than you could follow. Her embrace smells like lavender and the sea, like bread in the oven and old books, like home you didn’t know you were missing.

“I stayed at the shop,” you murmur. “I didn’t want to walk back in the rain.” She pulls back and cups your face in her hands, brushing your damp hair behind your ear with a tenderness that makes your throat ache. “Well,” she says, smiling now, though her eyes are still wet. “I’m just glad you’re alright. Come, I’ve made food. Something warm.”

The house smells like rosemary and lemon, like sautéed garlic and something bubbling slow on the stove. The table is already set with mismatched plates and two flickering candles in jam jars. You sit across from her, still carrying the scent of rain, and she pours you a cup of tea that tastes like honey and memory. Over your meal the conversation meanders, quiet and soft, like a river turning through an old valley.

You tell her about the record shop, about the way it holds sunlight and shadows and cats that may or may not be real. You tell her about Ni-ki — carefully, without meaning to smile as much as you do. You mention the jazz, the ceiling fan, the storm, the way he talks about albums like they’re alive. You skip over the part where you fell asleep beside him, but you think she hears it anyway, between the words. She listens with a faraway look, like she’s watching a memory unfold behind your eyes.Then you glance toward the window, where the garden hums in the damp light, petals dripping like soft tears, stems bowed and reverent. It’s beautiful. It makes life seem beautiful.

She watches you, like she knows what you’re thinking. She frowns, but her eyes are bright. “They help me remember who I am. Who I’ve been. Who I’ve loved. I suppose now they’re yours, too.” And later, when the candles have melted low and the tea has gone cold, you lie in bed with the window cracked open, letting in the scent of salt and blossoms. You listen to the garden breathe. You think of Ni-ki’s voice layered over saxophones, and of your grandmother’s hands in the soil. You think of flowers that mean love, and others that mean goodbye. You fall asleep with petals blooming behind your eyes.

The morning unfolds like a page turned gently — soft light spilling through gauzy curtains, the scent of something sweet wafting from the kitchen. You’re still rubbing the sleep from your eyes when the doorbell chimes, a sound like the beginning of something. Your grandmother beats you to the door, humming as she goes, the hem of her housecoat trailing behind her like a comet’s tail. You follow a step behind, only half-awake, expecting mail or a neighbor or perhaps a wayward gull in need of rescue.

Instead, it’s Ni-ki.

He stands awkwardly on the porch, hands jammed into the pockets of his hoodie, hair tousled like the storm reached down and ruffled it personally. There’s a flash of surprise in his eyes when he sees your grandmother — like he didn’t expect anyone to answer, let alone the guardian of the flower kingdom herself. “Morning,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “I—uh, just wanted to check in. After the storm and all. Make sure everything was okay.”

Your grandmother arches one perfectly skeptical brow, but her lips tug upward in a knowing smirk. “Well, aren’t you sweet,” she says, and then, without turning, she calls over her shoulder, “Your boyfriend’s here!” You nearly choke on air. “He’s not—! Grandma!”

She only hums, stepping aside to let him in, her smugness trailing behind her like perfume. You shoot Ni-ki a mortified look, but he’s grinning, trying not to laugh as he toes off his shoes. “She does this to everyone,” you mutter. Before you can launch into a full defense, your grandmother reappears with a handwritten list clutched in her hand, like a scroll of ancient quests. She presses it into your palm with a look of deliberate innocence.

“I was just about to send you out,” she says. “We’re out of a few things. Only you’ll do.” You scan the list. It reads more like a riddle than a grocery run: a very particular brand of marmalade (with orange peel but not too much), a sea-salt soap from a shop that doesn’t advertise, and a jar of rosehip jam sold only at a café that might not even be open today.

“You’re joking,” you say.

She shrugs, entirely unrepentant. “Consider it a scavenger hunt.” Ni-ki leans over your shoulder to read the list and whistles low. “Either she’s sending you on a magical errand,” he says, “or she really wants that soap.”

“She’s definitely plotting something,” you reply, but there’s a thread of affection wound through your voice like ribbon. “I’ll come with,” he offers, casual and offhand, but you can see the hope stitched behind it like gold thread in a patchwork quilt.

You pretend to consider. “Only if you’re okay with bickering over jam.”

He grins. “Wouldn’t dream of anything else.”

The walk into town becomes a meandering pilgrimage. The streets of Anchor–Crest are still drying from the storm, puddles shining like forgotten silver, shopfronts flinging open their shutters as if shaking off a long sleep.

You and Ni-ki wander from store to store like characters in an old fable — a place with handmade soaps tucked behind bookshelves, another where the marmalade comes wrapped in wax paper and twine. He insists on sniffing every candle in one shop, rating them dramatically: “Smells like a haunted bakery.” , “Smells like regret and pine.”, “Smells like my childhood dog, but in a good way.” You roll your eyes, but your laughter dances between you like light on water.

At a tiny grocer tucked behind the old post office, you find the jam — rosehip, exactly as described, its label handwritten and slightly smudged. You hold it up like a trophy and Ni-ki bows low, one hand over his heart. “To the jam champion,” he declares.

Victory tastes like strawberry ice cream, which you split outside the town pharmacy, passing the single cup between you while the sun warms your backs. You bicker over who gets the last bite until he smears a little on your nose, and you swat at him, both of you laughing like you’ve known each other since you were children. A breeze flutters by, salt-touched and warm. Around you, the town hums its soft lullaby of waves and wind chimes and distant conversation. For a moment, you let yourself imagine this is what everyday could be — errands with no urgency, ice cream before noon, a boy who talks in metaphors and knows how to make you smile even when you don’t mean to.

You look over at Ni-ki. He’s looking at you. You don’t say anything. You don’t have to. The wind rustles the list in your pocket like a secret.

Over the next week The rhythm of the shop begins to seep into your bones. It’s a strange music, this little record store by the sea — part jazz, part chaos, part quiet moments that unfurl like ribbon when no one’s looking. You start to learn its tempo: the sigh of the door when it swings open with the afternoon breeze, the soft clack of records as you flip through them, the low hum of the ancient fridge in the back that Ni-ki insists is haunted by the ghost of bad taste in music.

Your fingers begin to recognize labels by touch alone. Your hands memorize the layout of the bins before your eyes do. You know which shelf leans ever so slightly to the left and which stack of cassettes will fall like dominoes if you so much as breathe wrong near it. You learn the faces, too the steady parade of locals who become less like customers and more like recurring characters in the play you're now part of. There’s Orchestra Boy, a wiry teen with oversized headphones perpetually slung around his neck, who only ever buys movie scores and always pays in coins. Ni-ki swears the kid once tried to pay in seashells, but you suspect he’s embellishing.

Then there’s Captain Cash, the silver-haired gentleman who comes in three times a week to flirt, quite unabashedly, with the register. “Lookin’ handsome today,” he’ll say, running a finger along the counter like he’s tracing the jawline of a lover. “Treat me right and maybe I’ll buy a little something sweet.” He never buys anything, and yet you’ve started setting aside a Sinatra album for him anyway. And of course—Mac Witch. The woman who always arrives just after three, with a sunhat too large for her head and a gaze that could unravel your secrets like yarn. She leans on the counter and asks, “Fleetwood Mac?” like it’s a password, or a spell. You’ve taken to answering her with “always,” which seems to satisfy her every time.

Ni-ki gives them all names like he’s collecting stories, and in a way, he is. He scrawls little notes about them on sticky pads that cling to the back of the register. “Orchestra Boy cried once to The Social Network soundtrack. Don’t ask.” “Captain Cash winked today. Bold.” “Mac Witch might actually be a witch. Hexed the jazz section, I swear.” At first, you roll your eyes at him, but then you find yourself playing along, adding your own observations, your own musings. The shop becomes your shared language, your growing constellation of inside jokes and secret categories.

One sticky note simply reads: “You laughed when I tripped. Rude.”

Another: “You looked pretty alphabetizing the punk section.” You pretend not to notice those. Sometimes you two dance when no one's around — slow, ridiculous spins to old soul songs playing scratchy on the turntable. Sometimes you argue over what counts as a summer album. Sometimes you sit behind the counter doing nothing at all, your arms brushing accidentally-on-purpose, your knees touching beneath the stool like a whisper neither of you is brave enough to say aloud. And still, nothing is spoken. The possibility hangs between you like a question left on pause. A held breath.

One afternoon, with the sunlight slanting golden through the dusty windows and the warmth pressing against your back like a comforting palm, you’re manning the counter while Ni-ki attempts to wrestle a shelf into standing upright. It’s a losing battle. You watch him anyway. The shop is quiet, the air thick with the scent of old vinyl and vanilla, someone must’ve spilled incense in the back again. You’ve just rung up a man with three copies of the same ABBA album (you don’t ask questions anymore) when a woman steps up next, placing a worn Cat Stevens record on the counter.

She looks at you, then glances toward Ni-ki, currently muttering expletives at a stack of ska CDs that just collapsed in protest, and back to you again. “He yours?” she asks, her voice low and curious, the way someone asks about a puppy or a garden they’ve seen from afar.

You blink. “Who?” She raises a single brow, like you’re being deliberately dense.

You laugh, a little too quickly. “Oh—no. We’re just…” You trail off, unsure how to finish that sentence. Just coworkers? Just friends? Just two people orbiting the same chaotic star, waiting for gravity to decide? She nods slowly, unconvinced. “Mm,” she says, like she’s seen enough young love bloom and wilt to recognize the exact shape of denial.

You hand her the record and she leaves with a knowing smile. Ni-ki wanders over a few minutes later, hair rumpled, hands smudged with dust. “What’d I miss?”

You shrug. “Just another wise woman trying to ruin my carefully curated narrative of denial.” He chuckles, nudging your shoulder. “Story of your life.”

“Yeah,” you say, and try not to let your heart show its teeth.

That evening, when the shop has emptied and the sky turns the color of spilled ink, Ni-ki pulls out a dusty record from beneath the counter.

“Want to hear something weird?” he asks.

“Always.”

He places the vinyl on the player and the room fills with music, something soft and wordless, a melody that sounds like rain falling on piano keys, like memories you can’t quite place. You lean against the counter, eyes closed, the moment swelling around you like a wave, threatening to pull you under. When you open your eyes, he’s already watching you. Neither of you speak. The music speaks enough. And still, you don’t answer the question that floats quietly between you. Not yet.

Yours and Ni-ki’s relationship was growing, evolving. But it was not the only sprouting relationship in your life. You and your grandmother spoke all night, getting to know more and more about each other everyday. Some nights even when Ni-ki joins, itt becomes a ritual. One you’d cherish forever. It begins slowly like tidewater creeping in unnoticed. Your grandmother, once more quiet than not, begins to speak in stories. Not just the kinds you expect from the elderly weather-worn anecdotes about bus fares and distant cousins but tales that drift between the ordinary and the eerie, between the seen and the half-remembered. They come at night, usually after dinner, when the cicadas outside are humming lullabies through the window screens and the kitchen smells faintly of sea salt and jasmine tea. Sometimes Ni-ki is there too, legs folded on the floor like he’s twelve again, a bowl of popcorn resting between you both as if it were a sacred offering.

“There’s a ship,” she tells you one night, her voice as thin as moonlight. “They say it sails only in fog, sails without a crew. No name on the hull, no light in the mast. It passes by when the air turns cold in summer and the gulls go quiet. Just slips through the gray like a knife through silk.” You glance at Ni-ki, who’s already listening, eyebrows tilted like a question he’ll never ask aloud. He always listens to her like this, like he’s afraid of missing something essential, something not quite real but true all the same. Your grandmother sips from her chipped porcelain mug and continues, “I saw it once. I was sixteen. It was early morning, and I was up on the cliffs behind the lighthouse. There was fog so thick you could cut it with a spoon. And then there came no sound, no wake in the water. Just drifting by, like it had nowhere to be, like it had all the time in the world.”

You ask her what it looked like. She just smiles, wistful, eyes reflecting something that lives outside time. “Like memory. Something that shouldn’t still be floating but is.”

Another night, when the air hangs heavy with humidity and the storm scent of far-off lightning, she tells you about a boy. She picks at the lint from her cardigan, not quite looking at either of you. “He played guitar with the kind of hands that could undo a girl’s whole world. Sang like he didn’t need to be heard — just wanted the notes to know he loved them.”

“Did he live here?” you ask, and her smile flattens, becoming something smaller and sadder.

“For a time. He worked odd jobs. Lived in a shack not far from the dunes. I’d meet him by the pier every Tuesday, like it was church. Barefoot, always. Said shoes made him feel too far from the earth. Played for anyone who’d listen. Or no one at all.”

“What happened to him?” Ni-ki asks softly, and you’re glad he did, because you didn’t want to. She looks at you both for a long moment, like she's trying to decide if you're old enough to know. “He left. He was always meant to leave. He told me once that some people are born to drift, and trying to anchor them only sinks them faster.” She pauses, glancing out the window, as though expecting to see him, even now, barefoot and grinning, guitar case in hand.

Then she adds, almost to herself, “There’s always someone you leave, but never really forget.” The words settle in the room like dust. You feel their weight, their truth. You look at Ni-ki then, only for a second, and he doesn’t look away.

She tells you other stories too, over the next few days. Not always so sad. One is about a storm that knocked a whale into the harbor. Another about a fisherman who swore he caught a mermaid and married her ; until she vanished, leaving only a salt-stained dress behind. Some stories make you laugh. Some stories make Ni-ki quietly raise his eyebrows, like he's filing them away in the same place he keeps the shop’s strange regulars.

But there are nights where her stories trail off halfway through. Where she pauses too long, searching for a word, or a name, or the shape of something just beyond the edge of recall. You notice it first in the way she forgets her mug of tea on the stove until it whistles itself hoarse. Then in the way she repeats questions she’s already asked, softly, apologetically. “Did you see the gulls this morning?” she asks you twice in the same hour, smiling like it’s the first time. You don’t think much of it at first. Maybe she’s just tired. The days have been long and warm. The sea hums constantly outside, and the scent of her garden thickens the air like perfume. You don’t want to believe anything’s wrong. Not yet.

But that night, as you’re brushing your teeth, you hear her in the hallway, talking to someone who isn’t there. Her voice is gentle, like she’s telling a bedtime story to a child that no longer exists. You tell yourself it’s just a dream. Just the house settling. Just the ghosts she’s been holding in her throat too long finally slipping free. You fall asleep that night thinking about the boy with bare feet, and the ship with no name. About the way her stories settle inside you like salt in the lungs, painful and necessary.

Ni-ki texts you at midnight.

Him: she okay?

You stare at the message a long time before answering.

You: I don’t know. I hope so. She’s kind of magic.

He responds

Him: like you.

You don’t answer. But you press the phone to your chest and fall asleep smiling, anyway.

The idea is his, but it lives in you instantly. You're lounging behind the shop one lazy Tuesday, the kind where time melts like ice cream on pavement and the air feels like it's been steeped in heat and honeysuckle. Ni-ki says it so offhandedly you almost miss it, something about buying cameras, cheap ones, the kind your parents used to use before the world went digital and the future started spinning faster than memory could keep up.

“Let’s fill them,” he says, biting into a peach so ripe it drips down his wrist, “with things that matter.” You squint at him from behind your sunglasses, sprawled across the concrete like a sun-drowsed cat. “Like what?”

He shrugs, juice glinting on his skin like liquid gold. “I dunno. Whatever feels real. Important. Even if it’s dumb.”

That’s how it starts; two disposable cameras, bought from the dusty corner of the Anchor–Crest pharmacy, the kind that come in plastic and promise only twenty-four chances to catch lightning in a bottle. The kind with no preview, no delete button. Just the click and whirl of commitment. A trust fall into the moment. You begin carrying yours like a talisman, tucked into your bag or looped around your wrist with a shoelace. Every click feels like whispering a secret to the future.

The first shot you take is of the sky is the exact shade of blue you’ve only ever seen in dreams, streaked with clouds that look like ships sailing somewhere unseen. The second is of your grandmother’s hands as she weeds her garden, knotted with time, gentle as tide foam. The third is Ni-ki laughing, blurry and beautiful, caught mid-bite into a slice of watermelon that stains his lips pink like some kind of love song.

He captures you, too, more often than you expect. You don’t always notice until after the shutter flinches. Once, he snaps you with your head tilted back on the pier, arms flung open to the wind like you’re trying to hug the sky. Another time, he catches you inside the shop, framed by the window, haloed in sunlight and dust. You’re mid-laugh, holding a cracked Bowie record like it’s the crown jewels.

He doesn’t say it, but you can feel it in the way his gaze lingers like the warm aftertaste of a secret shared: You are becoming one of his “things that matter.” You walk more. Talk more. Drift like jellyfish from one end of town to the other, floating through pockets of joy and shade. The shop becomes a home, the town a kind of soft-spoken symphony, all stitched together by his presence, awkward, poetic, a little off-beat like the B-side of a favorite song.

He starts telling you things he hasn’t told anyone, like how he used to think time was something you could hold in your hands. Like a record. Like something you could flip to the good part again. He talks about wanting to leave Anchor–Crest once, but never quite finding the edge of the map. “I think I’m scared I’ll dissolve out there,” he says one night, lying on the roof of the shop with your legs barely brushing. “Like maybe I only exist here. Where I know the sound the sea makes when it’s trying to say something.”

You want to tell him you understand. That you’ve felt more like yourself here than in any apartment or campus or hallway lined with lockers. That you’re starting to feel like your heart might be made of salt and driftwood and polaroid colors. That you’re falling for him in a way that’s quiet and steady and terrifying; like waves lapping at the same rock for years until finally, it gives in. But you don’t.

Instead, you nudge your shoulder against his and say, “That’s dramatic, Nishimura.” He laughs and turns his face to yours. “You like it.” You do.

You fill the cameras slowly, deliberately, like savoring the last bites of a favorite meal. A shot of Ni-ki balancing on a railing, arms out like a scarecrow trying to take flight. One of your sandals abandoned in the sand. A crumpled napkin with a doodle he drew of you, big sunglasses, messy hair, heart for a smile. You find joy in the mundane, beauty in the unposed. You take one of his fingers grazing a record sleeve like it’s an artifact. One of his shadow dancing against the wall of the shop as the sun sets low.

At the end of the week, your camera is full. Your heart, too, in ways you haven’t yet begun to name. When he hands you his roll, it’s tied with a ribbon the color of rust and dusk. His fingers linger too long against yours when he passes it over. “In case you forget,” he says, and doesn’t explain further. You don’t ask him to.

Because you’re starting to feel the shape of the truth forming inside you like a storm on the horizon. The way you catch yourself watching his mouth when he talks, or memorizing the lines of his hands without meaning to. The way your pulse has started to keep time with his laugh.

You’re falling in love with him.

And suddenly, terrifyingly; it’s hitting you that summer doesn’t last forever. That there are only so many mornings left. That the sea will keep breathing after you go, but it won’t sound the same. That you might have to leave this boy with the sunbeam smile and storm-colored eyes, and everything you’ve become in this town that knows your name like a song. But for now, for this fragile moment pinned between now and next you tuck the roll into your drawer like it’s made of glass and carry the ache like a melody only you can hear.

The next day your grandma wakes you up bright and early, It begins with your grandmother standing on the porch, squinting out into the distance as if searching for something in the middle distance, an answer in the horizon’s quiet language. She’s dressed in her usual soft, sea-worn layers, apron dusted with flour from breakfast, her hand resting thoughtfully on the banister. When she turns to you, her eyes have the mischief of someone younger than her bones would suggest. “This porch is peeling like a sunburn,” she says. “We should do something about that.”

You don’t argue. Instead, you nod, and later that afternoon, Ni-ki appears like the tide, carrying a can of pale blue paint and an old brush that looks like it’s lived through more lives than either of you. You both kick off your sandals and join your grandmother on the porch, sun curling over your shoulders like a cat. The air smells of lemon and seaweed and something else, something sweet and nostalgic, like the ghosts of summers past settling into the woodgrain. You begin with intention. Ni-ki dips his brush carefully, dabbing the edge of the banister like it’s a sleeping creature he doesn’t want to wake. You crouch near the step, tongue between your teeth in concentration. But intention doesn't last long. Within minutes, the air is full of laughter and the sound of dripping paint, the brush strokes getting sloppier, more playful. Ni-ki flicks a stripe of blue across your forearm. You retaliate with a swipe across his cheek. He gasps like it’s a mortal wound and collapses dramatically onto the porch, hand over his heart.

Your grandmother watches from her rocking chair, a lemonade in one hand and a knowing smile curling at the corners of her mouth. She says nothing, just hums something old and lilting under her breath, a lullaby she might’ve sung to your mother once, when the world was quieter and time didn’t feel like it was running out. By the time the sun starts to dip into the ocean’s mouth, the porch is streaked with uneven patches of blue, like clouds smeared across a shy sky. Your arms are speckled with paint, your hair carries streaks of war, and Ni-ki’s shirt looks like it’s been through a Monet thunderstorm.

It’s then, with hands sticky and hearts swollen with too much something, that Ni-ki kneels by the bottom step and, with his smallest brush, draws a crooked heart. It’s lopsided and imperfect, like something sketched half-seriously in the corner of a math notebook, but he leans back and nods at it with grave satisfaction. “Bad luck to paint over that,” he says, voice soft but certain. His eyes flick to yours, unreadable and vast.

You laugh, but the sound feels like it’s been dipped in gold. “Says who?”

“Me,” he replies. “Just made it up. Feels true, though.”

Your grandmother pretends not to notice. She doesn’t say a word as you and Ni-ki rinse off in the garden hose like children, shrieking at the cold, chasing each other in wet circles until the sun disappears completely and the sky is scattered with stars like freckles on the night’s skin. But the next morning, when you come outside with a slice of toast and a glass of orange juice, you see it. Next to Ni-ki’s crooked heart, drawn in delicate chalk lines, is a tiny sea star. Its limbs are uneven, barely more than a gesture, but it glows faintly in the early light. A secret signature. A blessing. You smile. You don’t need to ask who did it.

The porch creaks under your feet as you sit down on the steps, brush resting in your lap. The paint tin is still open, catching the light like a puddle of sky. You feel something tug inside you, gentle, aching. Like the knowledge that things are beautiful precisely because they don’t last forever. You trace your thumb over the heart and the sea star, and for a second, you imagine the three of you years from now, weathered, changed, scattered perhaps, but still tied to this porch, this summer, this stretch of sky and sea. For now, it is enough.

Over the weeks it was pattern, work at the shop, come home and tend to the garden or listen to Grandma’s stories. Most insistences Ni-ki was there, soaking in the anonymity your grandmother gave. Truly a puzzle that wasn’t solvable.

The town was buzzing long before the first firework ever met the sky. Anchor–Crest didn’t often burst at the seams like this, but on the night of the festival, it became something radiant, lantern-lit and humming, awash in sea breeze and the scent of something frying in paper boats. Children ran with sparklers like they were holding lightning in their fists. Couples drifted toward the beach, hand-in-hand, their laughter caught in the hush between waves. Music poured from open windows and front porches. And over it all, the ocean whispered, steady and soft, a heartbeat beneath the noise. You didn’t go to the beach.

Instead, you and Ni-ki found yourselves behind the record shop, where the alley opened just enough to see the sky stretch wide over the water. You sat on old milk crates, your legs brushing now and then as you passed a bottle of cherry soda back and forth, its fizz long gone but its sweetness lingering. The two of you were tucked away from the crowds, like a secret folded into the night. You felt the air change just before the first firework bloomed.

It was a silence made of anticipation, as though the stars themselves were holding their breath. Then—pop—a streak of red, unraveling like a ribbon across the sky. It hung there, suspended for a moment before shattering into glitter, reflected in the shimmer of Ni-ki’s eyes when he turned to look at it. Another followed. Then another. Soon the sky was aflame, colors peeling across it like brushstrokes on canvas, every burst a soft gasp in the lungs of the world.

You leaned back on your palms and tilted your head skyward, watching the night perform. Beside you, Ni-ki didn’t move much. His shoulder brushed yours, barely there, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he let it linger, like a question he was afraid to ask but didn’t want to take back. The moment was quiet in the way only certain moments can be, when the world is too loud and yet somehow, you still find the stillness in each other.

Then he said it, almost too softly for the fireworks to permit. “I was going to say something cool. Or poetic. But I can’t think when you’re this close.” You turned to him, heart clenching in the most inexplicable, irreparable way. You smiled, gentle and sure, like you’d been waiting for that very sentence, for that very kind of honesty. “You don’t have to say anything,” you said.

And so, he didn’t. He kissed you. It was brief at first, unsure like a skipped heartbeat, like the inhale before a song begins. A feather of contact, like he was asking permission with the press of his lips. But when you leaned in, answered without hesitation, something in him steadied. His hand came up, cupping your jaw, thumb brushing along your cheekbone with the reverence of someone dusting off a cherished record. You tasted cherry soda and the memory of something sweeter. He tasted like courage and salt, like midnight and red confetti skies.

Around you, the fireworks kept bursting shapes and sparks and flowers of light unfurling one after another but none of them quite compared to what bloomed between you. The real fire was here. Flickering low and soft in your chest, stoked by the touch of his hand and the warmth of his breath. A match struck in the ribcage. A slow ignition of something you hadn’t dared to name.

When you pulled away, neither of you said anything for a long moment. You sat there, eyes still closed, foreheads just brushing, breathing in tandem while the sky kept celebrating. The fireworks painted your skin in glimmers of gold and green and a little bit of silver and Ni-ki looked at you like you were something miraculous. Not loud. Not grand. Just… true. You opened your eyes, and there he was. Awkward, unsure, a little breathless but so wholly there. And in his gaze, you saw everything he hadn’t said: the nights spent listening to records he’d never play for anyone else, the softness hidden behind the sarcasm, the way he was learning slowly, beautifully to let you see him.

You were falling. Not suddenly, but steadily. Like a tide, like a drift. Not in a crash, but a surrender. You leaned your head on his shoulder, and the two of you watched the rest of the sky unfold color after color, heartbeat after heartbeat, until the final spark faded and left the stars to take back the night. Ni-ki’s hand found yours, fingers tangled like the spines of books too well-read to close properly.

In the distance, the crowd cheered. The festival would go on for hours. But here, behind the record store, time had folded in on itself. The world felt small and infinite all at once. Just two souls, on crates, under the sky. Half-drunk on cherry soda. And the kind of love that sneaks up on you, soft, bright, and blazing.

Later, when you’re home you decide to go through the house, looking through the many many things your grandmother hoarded. The sea is restless today, wind tugging at the edges of the house like a child asking to play, and inside, sunlight drips through the curtains in puddles. You’re leafing through the drawer of a weathered side table in the living room, looking for a pencil or maybe nothing in particular. That’s when you find it.

A photograph.

Curled at the edges, dust like a fine lace veiling the surface, the picture feels delicate in your hands as if it’s aged not just in years, but in sorrow. Your fingers brush it clean, and there she is. A girl, maybe ten, barefoot on the pier. Her dress is stitched with sunlight, her hair caught mid-tangle in the wind, and her smile — oh, her smile — is the kind that only belongs to someone who hasn’t yet known heartbreak. She looks like she’s in love with the very idea of the world. Or maybe with the boy just outside the frame. You sit there, staring, struck still.

Because it’s the same pier you’ve grown to haunt. The same wooden slats that sing under your feet when you walk them. The same stretch of ocean behind her, endless and waiting. Somehow, the years haven’t changed it. And now the photo feels like a message across time, a memory passed down not through stories but through image — a mirror between past and present. Your grandmother walks in then, quiet as always, with a book cradled to her chest and her slippers whispering against the tile. You hold up the photo like you’ve discovered a treasure, your voice soft when you ask, “Who took this?”

She pauses. And something flickers in her eyes not surprise, exactly, but the soft ache of recollection. She sets the book down and joins you on the couch, folding her legs beneath her like a girl again. Her gaze drifts to the photo, and for a long moment, she just looks. As if she’s remembering not just the day, but the warmth of it. The scent of salt and sand. The sound of his voice.

“Someone I never got to say goodbye to,” she finally says, and her voice carries the weight of unfinished poems and open-ended summers. You don’t ask more. You could. You could ask who he was, what he meant, why she never said goodbye. But there’s something sacred in the way she speaks, something fragile and private, like sea glass smoothed by decades. She’s not telling you the whole story, not in words. But she is telling you something. A secret in a bottle, set adrift with hope that one day, someone would find it.

You look at her then not just the woman who grows flowers with meaning and paints porches barefoot, but the girl she once was. The one in the photo. And you realize she’s been weaving the past into your present like a thread of golden embroidery, soft, invisible, binding. She’s letting you know what she never said aloud: that love is worth it, even if it ends. That memory is a kind of farewell, even when you can’t speak one. That sometimes, the only way to hold on is to pass the story forward.

Later that night, after she’s gone to bed, you slip the photograph into your notebook. You don’t say anything. You don’t need to. The picture folds neatly between pages of inked thoughts and half-written poems, a ghost pressed in like a petal. It stays there, a keepsake. A key. A quiet inheritance of things too full of feeling for words.

And though you don’t say it aloud, you understand. She’s trying to tell you something. Not with warnings. Not with regrets. But with a look, a story, a smile captured in sun and salt and paper. She’s trying to teach you how to love without fear. And how to let go without losing everything.

She’s trying to tell you: This is how memory blooms. Even when the heart breaks. Even when the goodbye never comes.

The next day, you find yourself barefoot in the garden again, the soil warm beneath your feet like it remembers every step your grandmother has ever taken. The morning has broken gently, pale and lilac-toned, and there’s a softness to everything as though the sky itself is holding its breath, not wanting to disturb the quiet magic blooming among the flowers.

Your grandmother is already out there, humming something tuneless but tender, her hands buried wrist-deep in the earth. She’s planting white things today. Moonflowers with their secrets folded tight until the dusk opens them. Angel’s trumpets, hanging like delicate bells, both beautiful and a little dangerous like memories you’re not sure you’re ready to touch. “These,” she says, gesturing to the blossoms with a small, reverent nod, “are for remembering.”

You kneel beside her, the scent of earth and petals curling into the air around you like incense. She doesn’t explain more, and you don’t press her. You just reach for the trowel, dirt crusting under your fingernails as you help her dig small homes for each stem, like you’re planting stories instead of flowers. You understand, in that wordless way you’ve come to know her, that this garden isn’t just for beauty. It’s a language. A diary written in blooms. A secret kept in root and stem and scent. And now it’s your secret too.

In the evenings, when the sky spills into shades of orange and violet, you water the garden together. She teaches you which ones need talking to and which need silence. You learn to cradle the delicate necks of lilies, to hum to the hydrangeas when they look lonely. You learn that gardens, like people, sometimes need more light than you think, and sometimes just need someone to be near. Then one night, Ni-ki comes by.

He arrives with that usual shuffle of his feet and a flashlight clutched like a relic. Your grandmother raises a curious brow, and he lifts the light under his chin, casting shadows across his face like a cartoon ghost. “Beware,” he intones in a voice two octaves deeper than usual. “The garden spirits are awake.”

Your grandmother laughs at a real one, the kind that feels round and full and rare, like a pearl hidden in a shell. The moonflowers have just begun to open behind her, slow and secretive, their petals unfurling like parchment. The air smells faintly of something magical and damp night-blooming jasmine and freshly turned soil and the hush of waves beyond the dune.

You and Ni-ki settle on the grass as your grandmother tends to her flowers, your legs brushing his occasionally, not quite on purpose. The flashlight sits between you now, casting soft golden light on your hands, on the moon-silvered dirt, on the flowers who listen more than they speak. You watch her from the corner of your eye as she moves among the plants, small, sure, slow. Her silhouette sways in and out of the night like a prayer being whispered. And every now and then, she glances back at you and Ni-ki. Not intruding. Just watching. Like she’s seeing something she’s waited her whole life to witness.

Like maybe, she planted this moment years ago, and now, it’s blooming. Later, after she’s gone inside, Ni-ki helps you gather the watering cans, careful not to spill the leftover drops. You notice the way he looks at the flowers now not just as decorations or background, but as something alive and essential, something holy.

“She’s cool,” he murmurs. “Your grandma.”

“She is,” you say. And it feels bigger than the words.

You sit for a while longer under the stars, your knees pressed close, the garden humming with the soft sounds of crickets and the ocean’s far-off lullaby. You don’t talk much, and you don’t need to. Because something is growing not just among the petals and the leaves, but inside you. Something that roots deeper every time he shows up, every time your grandmother smiles like that, every time the wind carries her laughter like a spell. This garden, this boy, this summer, it’s all becoming a chapter you never planned to write. But you’re writing it anyway, petal by petal. And deep down, you think you’ll remember it forever.

In due time, you notice even stranger things about your grandma. Things that were more concerning then they were interesting. You start to notice the pauses. They bloom in your grandmother’s sentences like bruises on fruit, small at first, but impossible to ignore once you’ve seen them. She’ll be telling you about the best way to root foxglove or the old wives’ tale about planting basil by moonlight, and then she’ll stop. Blink like she’s trying to remember what story she meant to tell. Her hands, once so deft in the garden, tremble slightly when she pours tea. The flowers bloom just as wildly as before, but now it’s as if they’re doing it in defiance of something sprouting brighter, more desperate, as though they’re trying to shout down time itself.

One afternoon, you catch her sitting on the porch steps, her shoulders slumped like the weight of summer has finally caught up to her. You sit beside her quietly, the wood warm beneath you, the sea humming its endless hymn just beyond the dunes. A breeze stirs the hem of her dress, and you notice how pale she’s become, how the blue of her veins shines like rivers beneath paper-thin skin. “Are you feeling okay?” you ask gently, voice barely louder than the waves.

She smiles without looking at you. “I’m just tired, sweetheart. Don’t worry about me.” But worry curls its fingers around your ribs and holds tight. You want to believe her. You want to pretend that it’s just age, just the heat, just too many mornings spent stooped over flowerbeds. But something inside you whispers otherwise, a deeper truth that smells like wilted petals and sea fog. So you nod, because she wants you to, but your heart folds the moment away like a letter you’re too afraid to read.

That night, Ni-ki stays over again. The two of you sit in your room, a record spinning low in the background, something melancholy and soft, a saxophone tracing circles in the air. He’s lying on your floor with his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling like it might crack open and reveal something celestial. You’re perched by the window, looking out at the garden cloaked in moonlight, the white flowers glowing like ghosts. “She’s not okay,” you say suddenly, the words thick in your throat. “My grandma.”

Ni-ki doesn’t move, but he listens. He always does. He’s good at letting silence have a seat at the table. “She forgets things. She’s been… slower. And I think—I think she’s hiding something from me.”

You turn to look at him. He’s propped up on one elbow now, eyes softer than you’ve ever seen them, the kind of soft that only comes out at night, like owls or lullabies. “She told me not to worry,” you add, voice brittle, “but that just makes me worry more.”

Ni-ki sits up slowly, crossing his legs and resting his elbows on his knees. “Sometimes people say ‘don’t worry’ because they don’t want to say goodbye yet,” he says quietly. “Or maybe because they know you’ll remember even if they don’t say the words.” You look down, heart aching in that dull, thunder-before-rain kind of way. “I just don’t want this to end. Any of it.” Outside, the garden breathes in the dark, each bloom a small lantern, each leaf a soft, whispered prayer.

Ni-ki reaches out, brushing his pinky against yours where your hands rest between you. It’s not a kiss, not a grand gesture, but it holds more than either of you can say aloud. “Then we remember it,” he says. “We keep it. All of it.”

You lean your head on his shoulder, and together you sit there in the hush of midnight, the record’s final notes fading like fireflies. The air is heavy with jasmine and something unsayable. You don’t know what’s coming. But you know this moment, and that it matters. Outside the window, the moonflowers nod, as if they agree.

For your next shift Ni-ki gives you the ever so daunting task of organizing the backroom of the shop. The sun is high when you find the box. Dust-streaked and nearly caving in at the corners, it sits crooked on a shelf in the cluttered back room of the record shop, wedged between forgotten promotional posters and a lopsided stack of cassette tapes. You tug it free, sending a small snowstorm of dust into the air, and crouch beside it, brushing your fingers across the lid like it’s some long-lost treasure chest.

Inside, the box breathes with memories. Scraps of receipt paper scrawled with titles, our first dance, the song that made him cry, she kissed me right after this. There are folded letters, never mailed, the edges soft with time. A napkin with lyrics on it, smudged by what looks like coffee and tears. A ticket stub taped to a candy wrapper. Even the heartbreaks have a scent, like old perfume or the last note of a piano song, lingering, trembling, unfinished. You call Ni-ki in, your voice an echo beneath the fluorescent hum. He crouches beside you, brows lifting in surprise as he sifts through the box.

“I didn’t even know this was here,” he says, holding up a note that simply reads: Tell her I waited.

You don’t speak for a while. You just sit there in the quiet cathedral of forgotten feelings, both of you wrapped in the ghosts of other people’s love songs. Then, without really deciding to, you both begin writing. You find a postcard from the shop’s drawer, one with a faded illustration of Anchor–Crest’s pier and on the back, you begin your letter. You don’t write dear Ni-ki, and you don’t sign your name. But the words feel like rain loosening roots. You write about the feeling of walking barefoot on warm wood, about the first time you saw him framed by vinyl sleeves and sunlight, about how love can sneak up on you like low tide, gentle, inevitable, and full of pull. He writes too, tongue poking out in concentration, his pen scratching like a record needle over the silence. He won’t let you peek, just tucks the folded paper into an envelope and seals it with a thumbprint like wax.

“These are for someday,” he says. “Not now.” You both dig a small hole beneath the porch behind the record shop, where the wood creaks like it’s keeping secrets. You bury the letters there, beneath a flat stone. No ceremony. No promises. Just a glance between you, wide-eyed and quiet, as if you’ve both whispered a spell. “Let’s come back in five years,” he says.

And there’s a softness to his voice, but not the kind that swears forever. It’s a softness that knows the ocean, knows how it takes and gives in equal measure. He doesn’t say if you’ll come back together. He doesn’t have to. The ache is in the silence. Later, walking home beneath a sky full of melting light, you think of Seoul.

Of its towering buildings, its bus-strewn chaos, its neon buzz. You think of your apartment window that doesn’t open all the way, of the way people brush past you on sidewalks like wind. Anchor–Crest is not forever. It was never meant to be. It is a pocket of sunlight in a drawer of rainy days. And your time here ticks forward now, louder than it did before.

You try not to count the weeks left. You try not to picture packing up your life into boxes again. But the truth sits in your stomach like an untied ribbon. You are leaving. Eventually. The shop, the porch, the chalk sea star. Your grandmother. Him.

And there are still so many letters unwritten. Still so many songs that haven’t reached their final chorus. But for now, you let yourself linger in the feeling. The one where you’re young and held by a town that feels stitched together by sea-salt and happenstance. The one where you bury love in the dirt and believe, even for a second, that five years is a promise time might actually keep.

The week spills forward like syrup, slow, golden, clinging to every breath of summer left. You spend most days with Ni-ki, moving in and out of the record shop like it’s a second skin. He’s still a little awkward, all long limbs and mumbled thoughts, but he’s grown into the spaces between your silences. You know the way he hums when he's sorting jazz records, the way he taps his fingers against the counter when he's thinking, the way he always buys two sodas but only ever drinks one.

Ni-ki makes playlists like other people make to-do lists — tiny, specific, chaotic. For mornings with rain and toast. For when the light hits the counter just right. For crying, but romantically. You love them all. They’re tucked into his computer like little offerings, each with a title that reads like a whisper only the sea would understand. One afternoon, the shop is quiet, no customers, just the sleepy spin of the ceiling fan and the sun dusting across the floor like spilled milk. Ni-ki runs out to grab something from the corner store, and you’re left alone with the soft glow of his world.

You wander to the computer, looking for a playlist to fill the silence. You’re not snooping, not really just following the trail of titles like breadcrumbs through a strange, beautiful forest. That’s when you see it. A folder named with your name. Just your name. Nothing else. The breath catches in your chest like it hit a tripwire. You click it before you can talk yourself out of it. Just one playlist inside. No title. No description. You press play.

The first song is soft, barely there, like something found floating in a bottle at sea. It’s not loud or dramatic, not the kind of love song that begs or screams. It’s the kind that waits. That watches. That understands. It sounds like dusk and waiting hands and things unsaid. You sink into the chair, the quiet pressing in around you, every note curling like fingers around your ribs. And then another. And another. A piano tune that reminds you of your grandmother’s humming. A song with lyrics about leaving but hoping to be remembered. One with no lyrics at all, just violins trembling like heartbeats under glass.

By the time Ni-ki walks back into the room, you don’t even notice. Not until he’s standing behind you, quiet as the space between chords, does he see what’s on the screen. See you. Doesn’t move to shut it down. “I didn’t mean for you to find it yet,” he says, his voice low, barely brushing the air. You turn to him, startled, a little breathless.

“But I guess I wanted you to, eventually.” He looks down, like he’s embarrassed by the rawness of it. But there’s something steady in him too like he’s decided not to hide anymore. His hand twitches at his side, unsure. You want to reach for it. You want to press your forehead to his and say nothing and everything at once. Instead, you just smile, the corners of your lips catching like the edge of a secret.

“Thank you,” you say. Simple. True. Ni-ki shrugs, but you catch the soft pink creeping into his ears. “It’s... just stuff that made me think of you. Or reminded me of the way you look at things.” You don’t ask what that means, exactly. You don’t need to. The music still plays in the background, gentle as sea glass against the tide. You stand there together, not speaking. Just listening. Like the songs are doing the talking for you. Like they’re tracing outlines around what neither of you knows quite how to say.

You’re falling in love. That much is clear now. But it’s not the kind of falling that feels like tumbling, it's slower, softer. Like leaning. Like growing. Like sunlight creeping up a garden wall. And somehow, it feels safer to fall into his songs first, where feelings can bloom behind lyrics and hide inside metaphors. Where everything you can’t say yet lives in the space between verses.

That night when you’re home You’re curled on the sun-bleached window seat in your bedroom, the hush of late night wrapping around you like a linen blanket. The light is syrupy, slanting in through gauzy curtains, and the room smells faintly of ocean salt and garden soil. Outside, the sea is quiet for once, a sheet of silver velvet instead of its usual restless thrashing. You’re scrolling through your phone, fingertips slow as though afraid of disturbing the images.

There’s Ni-ki asleep in the breakroom, mouth slightly open, limbs askew like a collapsed scarecrow. There’s a blurry picture of the cat from the shop curled up beside a stack of jazz records, a paw draped over Miles Davis like it’s protecting something sacred. You and Ni-ki, holding up vinyl covers in front of your faces, Fleetwood Mac for you, The Cure for him posing like ghosts inside old album dreams. There’s the pier, all orange burn and watercolor clouds, and the beach the morning after the storm when everything looked dipped in silver. There’s a picture of your hand and his, side by side, resting on a crate of soul records. Not touching, not quite. But close enough.

You don’t even feel it at first, the tears slipping loose. Just a tightness in your throat, a soft pressure behind your eyes like the weather's changing. And then it spills. Quietly. No gasping sobs. Just a silent, steady leak of feeling, like your chest couldn’t hold the tide anymore. You try to wipe at your cheeks with the sleeve of your shirt, but your vision stays blurry, your breath uneven. You don’t hear your grandmother until she’s already there, a shadow in the doorway, framed by soft light. She says nothing for a moment, only steps into the room and sits beside you on the window seat, her knees creaking like the old wooden floorboards.

She hands you a tissue from her pocket, always prepared, like grandmothers are, and waits. You’re still crying when you turn to her, voice watery and unsure, but honest. “I think I’m falling in love with him,” you say. It’s the first time you’ve said it out loud. The words feel too big for your mouth, too raw, like they might catch on your teeth.

She doesn’t react with surprise. Just watches the sea through the window like it might offer an answer. “And you’re not staying,” she says, more a statement than a question. You nod, your voice barely a whisper. “I wasn’t supposed to stay. It was never supposed to be like this.”

She hums a soft sound, part sigh, part knowing. Like she’s heard this story before in the rustle of waves and the creak of porch swings. “I loved a boy here once,” she says, her voice light and low. “Before your grandfather, He Played guitar barefoot on the pier. Gave me a daisy every Sunday after church even though I stopped going.” You blink at her, surprised.

“I never got to say goodbye to him,” she continues, Like she said before. her gaze far off now. “But I remember the way he laughed. The way he carved our initials into a driftwood post that probably doesn’t even exist anymore.” She looks at you then, her eyes a little tired, but warm like candlelight. “Love doesn’t always come when it’s convenient,” she says. “But it comes all the same. And when it does, you let it in. Even if you know it’s not staying. Even if it hurts.”

You let out a soft breath, leaning your head on her shoulder, feeling the steady rhythm of her presence. Outside, the wind picks up again, and the sea seems to lean in, listening. “You’re young,” she murmurs. “And you’ll leave. Maybe you’ll come back. Maybe you won’t. But what you feel now? That’s yours. No one gets to take it away from you.” You sit there together, letting her words settle like dust in the golden light.

Later, she gives you a cup of tea and tells you which flowers in the garden mean “hope” and which ones mean “goodbye.” And when you finally go to bed, the sky is stained with stars, and your phone rests heavy on the nightstand filled with memories you’re not ready to let go of, not yet. You fall asleep wondering what Ni-ki’s doing, if he’s listening to music, if he’s thinking of you. You are in love. And the tide is coming in.

The record skips. It’s one of those old pressings Ni-ki found buried behind the counter, the cover sun-faded and warped with time. You teased him when he put it on, called it prehistoric, called it haunted. He clutched his chest dramatically and staggered back like you’d struck a mortal blow. Now the needle stutters again and again in the same three seconds of melody, a loop of velvet sound unraveling in the half-light of the shop. You laugh, throwing your head back as the music hiccups between notes, and Ni-ki watches you like he’s trying to memorize the way your joy looks. You tease him again about the dinosaurs dancing to this record in their day and he rolls his eyes and grabs your hand, pulling you into the open space between jazz and rock.

“C’mon,” he says. “Show some respect to the classics.”

So you dance. Not gracefully — god, not even close. You’re both barefoot, sock-footed, floor-sliding disasters. But your laughter rises like smoke in the golden dust of the room, and the shop feels like a dream someone once had about what love should feel like. The string lights hum above you. The air smells like warm wood and vinyl and strawberry gum. Your heartbeat is a tambourine, loud and messy, and the world shrinks down to the space between your palms.

Ni-ki spins you — badly, crookedly — and you trip into his chest, laughing into the fabric of his shirt. You can feel his breath against your temple, uneven. And then he stops. Not in a grand, dramatic way. Just… stops. Like someone hit pause. The room keeps breathing around you light flickering, music skipping, the cat knocking something over in the back but he’s still, and when you look up, his face is unreadable.

“What?” you ask, quiet, breath still catching in your throat. His eyes flicker over your face, soft and sure and full of something heavy. Something that feels like oceans, like root systems, like the sound of a song you haven’t heard in years but still somehow remember.

“I love you,” he says. Just like that. No crescendo, no string section, no poetic build. Just the words, like they’ve been waiting for this exact crack in the melody to tumble out of him. The record keeps skipping. Your heart doesn’t. You freeze halfway through a breath, halfway through a life you weren’t expecting to build here in this sleepy town with its sand-dollar skies and salt-tongued wind. You blink. Your throat feels like it’s full of sun. You’re not sure when the laughter left, when it turned into something else, quieter, heavier, sweeter.

“I—” you start, then stop. Because there’s no poetry that can carry it, no metaphor wide enough to hold what you feel for him. So you do the only thing that makes sense in that moment: you say it back. “I love you.” Simple. Soft. Like the tide rolling in. Like garden roots twining under earth. Like the first light of morning spilling over the horizon, sure as anything.

His mouth curls into that shy smile, the one that only ever shows up when he’s caught off guard, when he’s trying not to look too proud. And he leans his forehead against yours, just breathing, the record still spinning in its loop beside you. You close your eyes. Outside, Anchor–Crest glows in the last stretch of summer. The sea is humming something low and endless. The sky is cracked open with stars you’ll never name, and your heart is a constellation, rearranged. Here, in the hum of old vinyl and new love, you both stand still in time. A little broken, a little breathless. But whole, in a way neither of you expected. Love didn’t knock on the door this time. It slipped in through the cracks. And now, it lives here too.

That night, the air was velvet with warmth, stitched through with the quiet hum of late summer. Even the stars felt closer, like they'd leaned in to listen to your joy. You walked home with your heart wrapped in golden thread, still light from the weight of Ni-ki’s words the way he’d said them so plainly, so gently, like he was handing you a seashell and not the whole universe. "I love you." You said it back, like a vow. Like a secret you’d been waiting to remember. The night had a heartbeat to it, rhythmic and slow, like the tide curling back from the shore. You felt it in your veins, that gentle ebb of something new beginning. Your feet barely touched the ground, soles kissed by memory and moonlight, the scent of salt lingering on your skin like a promise.

You pushed open the door to the beach house still glowing from the inside out, a smile soft and blooming on your face and then everything broke.

She was on the floor.

Your grandmother.

Crumbled like a fallen flower, like someone had picked her soul and forgotten to press it in the pages of time. You didn't scream. Not at first. It was as if the world went silent, sound sucked into some black hole just behind your ears. The air turned cold. You dropped your keys. They made a sound like thunder, and suddenly, your lungs remembered how to panic. You ran to her — fell to her — and called her name over and over like it was a spell that could undo the unraveling. She didn’t answer.

The ambulance came with sirens that howled like the sea in winter. Your hands were sticky with worry, your voice cracking like broken records as you tried to explain what had happened, except you didn’t know. You didn’t know how long she had been there. You didn’t know if she was in pain. You didn’t know why the world could be so full of love and grief in the same breath. The hospital smelled like disinfectant and lost hope. The walls were too white, too still, like they were waiting to echo something terrible. Nurses moved like shadows, soft-footed and swift, and no one looked you in the eye. You sat in a plastic chair that didn’t know you, gripping your phone like a life raft. You didn’t call Ni-ki. You couldn’t. The words were too big to say out loud.

A doctor with kind eyes came to you. You already knew. His mouth was still moving, but the ocean inside you had risen too high. All you heard was water. All you saw was the garden — the moonflowers blooming like ghosts, the crooked heart near the step, the sea star drawn in chalk. She was gone.

No fanfare. No lightning strike. Just… gone. The same woman who told stories with her hands and grew meaning from soil. The woman who painted porches and loved thunderstorms and believed in the language of flowers. The woman who once ran barefoot across this very shore, laughing into the wind, now just a stillness you couldn’t reach.

Your mother arrives at the hospital in a swirl of too-late urgency, her coat hanging off one shoulder, her eyes rimmed with the kind of red that only grief or airports can give. The moment she sees you curled in a waiting room chair like a child who outgrew their lullabies something shifts in her. She doesn’t ask questions, just sits beside you in that sterile, humming quiet, and takes your hand like she’s trying to rewind time. You don’t look at her right away. You’re staring at a wall of brochures for grief counseling and end-of-life care, sterile pamphlets with soft blue skies and paper-thin smiles. None of them know your grandmother. None of them say what to do with the ache that’s bloomed inside your chest like a bruise that remembers.

“I haven’t told Ni-ki,” you whisper, your voice a wisp of breath lost in the fluorescent hum. “I couldn’t. I—I didn’t want it to be real yet.” Your mother nods, quiet. She waits. She’s learned by now that the heavy things come out not in sobs, but in slow-dripping truths, like honey off the edge of a spoon.

You swallow hard. “This summer... it was supposed to be temporary. Just a stopover. A break. But it turned into everything.” You pause, the words catching on the swell in your throat. “I fell in love. And not just with him.” Your mother turns her head to look at you, her expression gentle, waiting.

“I got to know her,” you say. “Like... really know her. Not just the letters she sent on my birthdays or the way she smelled faintly like mint tea when we hugged. I mean the heart of her. The garden of her. I watched her coax meaning out of moonflowers and paint stories into the wood of the porch. She told me about her first love and ghost ships and the wind and what it meant to stay. And I saw her — really saw her — as the most magnificent woman I’ve ever known.” Your voice falters, not from lack of feeling, but from too much of it. Like your chest isn’t wide enough to hold the hurricane inside.

“I wish I’d known her my whole life. I wish I hadn’t waited until now.” You wipe at your face with the sleeve of your sweater, a small, shaking gesture. “And now that I do know her... now that I love her like this... she’s gone. And I’ll never get those years back. I’ll never get to give them to her.” Your mother pulls your hand into her lap, and for a long while neither of you speaks. The silence is softer now, a blanket instead of a wall. She doesn't offer empty comforts. Doesn't say "she's still with us" or "everything happens for a reason." Maybe she knows those are just sugar on a wound.

Instead, she says, quietly, “Your grandmother always said you reminded her of the sea. Not because you were wild, but because you were full of mystery. She said you’d come to her when you were ready.” You close your eyes. You can almost hear your grandmother’s laugh again, warm and round like a bell swaying in the breeze. You remember her eyes, how they crinkled when she smiled, how they softened when she looked at you in the garden, in the porch light, in the little moments that had begun to feel like home.

“She was waiting for me,” you murmur.

“She was,” your mother agrees.

You lean your head against the window, watching the first light of morning break across the sky. Pale and slow and inevitable. And with it comes the ache, deep and hollow, like the hush after fireworks, like the space between the waves. You know the grief won’t go away. Not really. It’ll settle into the folds of your life, soft and sharp, tender and terrible. But so will the love. So will the memory of her hands in the soil, her voice weaving stories into dusk, the crooked heart and the sea star and every single moonflower. You close your eyes and see her not as she was in that sterile hospital room, but barefoot on the pier, smiling like she was in love. And you carry her with you. Just like she knew you would.

The next day rises slow and reluctant, as if the sky itself mourns with you, its color the pale gray of unsent letters and unopened boxes. The air hangs heavy with quiet, the kind of hush that settles over houses in mourning, where even the walls seem to breathe softer, out of respect for the memories folded into their corners. You and your mother work in near silence, the occasional scrape of a drawer or the rustle of paper the only sounds that dare break the stillness.

You're in your grandmother’s room — no, her sanctuary. Every object a relic, every fabric still scented faintly of lavender and time. Her closet creaks open like it’s exhaling a lifetime. You fold each sweater like it’s sacred. Your mother dusts the porcelain figurines on the windowsill with a reverence that almost breaks you. There's an old music box that still plays a broken lullaby, and you let it play anyway, let it warble its way into the silence, because somehow it feels right.

Then there’s a knock. Soft, like he already knows not to come in loud. Ni-ki stands on the porch with his hands tucked in his jacket pockets, hair tousled, eyes tentative. There’s something about him in this moment that makes your throat tighten — a boy made of quiet compass points, showing up not with answers, but simply to stand at the edge of your ache. He doesn’t ask for permission to care. He just does. “Hey,” he says gently, eyes flicking from you to the open boxes stacked beside the door.

“Hey,” you reply, voice a thin ribbon barely tied.

“I… wasn’t sure if I should come,” he admits, his words trailing like seafoam at your feet. “But I figured maybe you’d need help. Or company. Or neither. I didn’t want to assume.” You shake your head. “We’ve got it. Thank you, though.”

He nods, not offended, just accepting. He glances over your shoulder, where your mother moves about like a woman deep inside her own memories. Then his eyes land back on yours, soft and unreadable. “I’m here,” he says simply. “Just so you know. For whatever you need. Whenever you want.”

And even though you won’t ask him to stay, even though your hands are already full of the past, you lean in. You kiss him. Just a brush at first like your lips are remembering how—but then firmer, more certain. He still tastes like strawberry soda and the sound of old records. His hand finds yours like it always does, like it never left.

You pull back before the kiss turns into something bigger than either of you are ready for. “Thank you,” you whisper. And it means more than gratitude. It means I see you. It means I don’t know how to hold all this grief, but I know you’ll hold me if I ask. It means stay, even if I’ve asked you not to.

He nods again, slower this time, but his eyes linger. He senses it, how you're a little farther away than before, how there’s something behind your eyes that you haven’t named yet. Not quite a wall, but a curtain half-drawn. You can see it in the way his mouth opens like he wants to ask, then shuts again, letting the quiet settle. He doesn’t press. He just squeezes your hand one last time, then turns and leaves with a slow, uncertain step, like he’s afraid to break the air around him.

The door clicks softly behind him. You’re alone again, except for the smell of old cedar and rosewater and the echo of everything she ever said to you in the garden. And still, you pack. You hold a scarf up to your face and breathe her in, as if doing so will keep her a little longer. And you begin to realize that grief is just love stretched too far to touch. But still reaching. Always, always reaching.

Two weeks pass like fog rolling in over the tide, slow, thick, and strangely silent. Anchor–Crest has grown quieter without her in it. The house feels emptier, not just in the way that missing a voice makes a space feel larger, but in the way that time itself seems to avoid the rooms she once warmed. You move through the days like someone walking underwater, each step slow, each breath thick with what’s left unsaid.

Your phone buzzes here and there, little flickers of Ni-ki checking in. A “how are you?” on a Tuesday morning. A blurry photo of a cat wearing sunglasses taped to the shop register. A song link sent with no caption. You respond, always, but only just enough. A thumbs-up. A heart. A two-word answer when three would’ve meant more. You miss him. But grief is a strange ghost it doesn’t like company, and it doesn’t like to be shared. You keep it close, like a stone in your pocket. Heavy. Private.

You haven’t gone back to the shop. You told him you needed time, and he didn’t ask how much. That’s the thing about Ni-ki, he gives you space, even when it probably hurts him to.

Most days you sit in the garden, tending the white flowers she planted with her hands and her stories. Moonflowers, angel’s trumpet, pale blooms that catch the dusk and make the lawn look like it's glowing from within. You water them carefully, whispering things into the soil as though she might still be listening. You catch yourself talking to her aloud sometimes. "I don't know what I'm doing," you tell the wind, and it rustles the petals in reply. "I don’t know how to say goodbye to all of this."

Sometimes your mom joins you. Sometimes she doesn’t. The suitcases are back in your room now, open-mouthed and waiting. You’ve started folding clothes into them but keep pulling them back out again, as if something in you refuses to be packed away yet.

You think of Ni-ki all the time. Not in loud, desperate ways. But in small ones. The way your hand itches to text him when you hear a weird song on the radio. The way you half-turn expecting to see him when you pass the record shop. The way you walk past the porch and feel the tug of those letters buried in the dirt. You haven’t dug them up. Not yet.

One evening, just before the sun falls behind the hills, you sit alone on the porch with a cup of tea gone cold. The air smells like salt and something softer—like honeysuckle and memory. You open your phone, scroll through photos. There he is. Asleep in the break room, hair all over the place. Holding up a record like it’s a mask. Laughing, mid-sentence, eyes crinkled like a boy who’s never known heartbreak.

And suddenly you’re crying again.

Because you love him. Because you don’t know what to do with that. Because you want to stay, and you can’t. Because you stayed too long in the garden and now you don’t know how to walk away from anything.

The grief doesn’t come in waves anymore—it’s more like weather. Always there. Sometimes soft, sometimes storming. But always, always in the air. And love, somehow, is tangled up in it. In her. In him. In this whole town that you only just started to know. You press your forehead to your knees and breathe. Then, through your tears, you whisper into the dusk like you’re writing it in the stars:

“I don’t want to leave.” But you will. You know you will. And when you do, you’ll leave pieces of yourself here like breadcrumbs. Ni-ki. The porch. The ghost of her laugh in the kitchen. The sea, always just outside the door. And the flowers. The flowers that still bloom, even when no one is watching.

The day of the funeral arrives wrapped in an overcast sky, the kind that presses low over your shoulders and makes everything feel heavier, even your bones. People come and go like shadows, brushing your hand, murmuring soft things that dissolve before they ever reach your ears. You smile politely. You nod. But you’re not really there. You’re somewhere deep inside yourself, tucked into a memory of her humming in the garden, of her hands brushing soil, of the scent of jasmine and salt water.

You wear the dress she bought you last spring the one she said made you look like a poem. You can’t remember the last time you ate. Or slept. You stand at the front of the small chapel, and your mother speaks with a voice made of tissue paper and strength. You try to speak too. But when you look out into the sea of solemn faces, your throat closes. You only manage her name. Just her name. And somehow, that’s everything.

Ni-ki is there, just as he promised, in the second row. Black shirt, solemn eyes, hair curled slightly at the ends from the humidity. He doesn’t take his eyes off you. Not once. He doesn’t say much — not yet — but he stays near, orbiting quietly like a moon. Afterward, when the service fades into hushed conversations and half-finished casseroles in aluminum trays, you and Ni-ki slip away. The backyard feels like a different world. The tide is low, the wind soft, the horizon painted in pale grays and creams. You sit on the old blanket she always kept on the porch swing, now dusted with sand. He sits beside you. For a long time, neither of you speaks.

The silence stretches out like a bridge between you. And then, gently, like someone testing the strength of old wood, Ni-ki says, “What happens now?” You don’t answer at first. You just watch the water folding over itself in lazy spirals. Then you whisper, “I’m leaving in three days.” He flinches — not visibly, not really — but you feel it. Like a thread pulled too tight.

He nods. “Right. Of course.”

“I don’t want to,” you add. But it comes out too soft, too late. He looks down at his hands, now buried in the sand. “Then don’t.” You turn to him, your voice frayed at the edges. “It’s not that simple.”

“Why not?” His tone isn’t angry, not exactly. But it’s desperate. There’s something wild and wounded behind his eyes, like he’s already bracing for the loss. “You said you loved me.”

“I do.”

“Then stay.”

The wind picks up. A gull cries overhead, cutting across the moment like a jagged line of chalk.

“I can’t,” you whisper. “I have a life in Seoul. School. My mom. I can’t just throw that away.”

“And this?” He gestures toward you, toward the blanket, the sand, the sea. “What is this?”

You feel your voice crack, a fault line splitting down the center of your chest. “This is love. But is love enough, Ni-ki?” He stares at you like you’ve struck him. “It should be.”

You bite your lip, trying to swallow the rising tide inside you. “Love isn’t a place. It’s not a house you can live in forever. Sometimes it’s just a moment… a season… a song. And then it ends.” He stands. Not abruptly, not angrily. But with the aching finality of someone walking out of a dream. “So that’s it?”

“I don’t want it to be.”

“But it is.”

You nod.

And that’s when he says the words that split the night in two: “Then I guess goodbye is all we have left.”

He turns and walks away, his footprints pressed into the wet sand like an unfinished story. You don’t stop him. You can’t. Your legs won’t move, and your heart — oh, your heart —i s a cathedral crumbling brick by brick. You sit there for a long time, long after the light fades from the sky and the stars blink open above you. You cry, quietly at first, and then louder. You cry like you’re emptying the ocean. You cry until the sand beneath you is wet and cold and the blanket smells like sea and grief and everything you’ve lost in one summer. You loved him. And it wasn’t enough. And maybe, just maybe, that will always be the hardest truth to carry.

The day you leave Anchor–Crest, the morning air smells like salt and rain-soaked earth, and the sea is still singing its slow, eternal lullaby to the shore. The house is quieter than it’s ever been too quiet, like it’s holding its breath. Your mother is already packing the last suitcase into the car, her movements careful, subdued. You wander the garden one last time, barefoot in dew-damp grass, letting your fingertips graze petals like they’re goodbyes written in bloom.

That’s when you notice the stone small, flat, painted a pale lavender and nestled beside the angel’s trumpets. It looks like it doesn’t belong. But then again, so many of the most important things in your life didn’t, not at first. You kneel, brush away the soil, and find a bundle beneath it. Letters. Six of them. Folded carefully, tied with a ribbon that smells faintly of rose and time.

They are from her. Your grandmother. Your heart stutters. The first begins simply: "If you're reading this, it means I’ve already gone."You sit cross-legged in the grass as the sky begins to clear. Sunlight slants through the clouds like it’s searching for you. You open the letters one by one. She wrote about the day you were born how your mother called in the middle of the night, crying and breathless and in love. She wrote about the day you first stepped into Anchor–Crest with your guarded eyes and city-stitched edges, how she’d known, even then, that you needed a summer to soften. She wrote about your laugh how it sounded like hers used to. She wrote about Ni-ki, though never by name. “That boy who looks at you like he’s already writing a song about you,” she said. And she wrote about the garden. How every flower held a secret, and every secret led back to someone she’d loved.

The last letter is the smallest. Just one line, barely inked. "If you come back in the spring, I’ll still be here—in every bloom." You press the letters to your chest and close your eyes, letting the ache spread slow and sweet, like honey melting in tea. Her love, once distant and mysterious, now roots deep inside you an anchor you never expected to carry. It grows alongside the grief, and somehow, makes space for it.

Ni-ki doesn’t come by to say goodbye. You didn’t expect him to. Some stories don’t end with grand gestures or kisses at the train station. Some endings are quieter — softer — like the hush after a song fades out, leaving only the echo behind. As you get in the car, the wind lifts through the trees and sets the garden to whispering. The angel’s trumpets nod, the moonflowers still curled in their slumber. You turn in your seat and look back at the porch — the crooked heart painted near the step, the tiny sea star still drawn beside it in fading chalk. The sun rises higher, and for a moment, the whole town seems caught in amber. Like it’s waiting.

You think about the letter you buried with Ni-ki beneath the record shop porch. You think about the roll of undeveloped film tied with ribbon, still tucked in your bag. You think about what it means to leave, and what it means to come back. About how sometimes, they’re the same thing. Your mother starts the car. Gravel shifts beneath the tires. You look out the window, past the houses and salt-washed signs, past the place where the sea meets sky and dares you to choose.

Maybe you’ll come back in the spring. Maybe you won’t. The story doesn’t say. And that, somehow, makes it feel more like life.The garden keeps growing. The sea keeps singing. And the ending stays open, just like your heart.

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