#mom said here this will help with anxiety

[bigmpregnm]

Wrestling the Changes - Part 3

[Story Collection] | [Part 2] [●] [Part 4🔴]

Hayden couldn’t keep his hands off his abdomen on the way to his hometown. The scene in the doctor’s office repeated in his head as he tried to process what was happening to him. His secret encounter with Marcus was also on repeat in his head. Hayden and James weren’t exclusive, but they were having kids together, changing some things. His pregnancy had so many negative implications that he didn’t know where to start.

He was young, only starting college, and his parents still paid all his expenses. He couldn’t afford to raise one baby, so having six was crazy. He was on the wrestling team, a contact sport that would be risky in his condition, and the team’s captain was the father of the babies. And the most shocking part: he was a man. He shouldn’t be able to get pregnant, but here he was, thinking about how to tell his parents, James, the coach, and the team that he was pregnant.

Hayden wore a loose-fitting t-shirt and a thick jacket to hide the slight curve of his growing abdomen, with oversized pants to hide his thickening ass and thighs. He wanted to keep his pregnancy a secret from his parents and brother at all costs, at least until he found out how to tell them that his career as a wrestler was over.

Hayden’s parents picked him up at the bus terminal, happy to have him back for the winter break. They asked many questions about wrestling, and even though his mind was full of many thoughts, Hayden responded to make them feel proud. Their living room was full of Hayden’s trophies, medals, certificates, and photos of his wrestling career in his high school years, so it was an important topic for them.

As they arrived home, Hayden’s 12-year-old brother, Noah, ran to hug him tight, excitedly greeting him. Noah had just entered his school’s wrestling team, and it seemed like he was as good as Hayden. Noah admired Hayden and was determined to follow in his brother’s steps.

“Hey, big bro,” Noah exclaimed, throwing himself into Hayden’s arms. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too, little man,” Hayden replied, lifting Noah in a hug and pushing his belly against the boy’s body. “How is wrestling going?”

“Great! I’ve won all the matches since I started. The coach says I’m as good or even better than you were at my age,” Noah responded, proud to be compared with Hayden.

“That sounds great, but... you have a long way to go before you catch up with me,” Hayden said, putting Noah down as they entered the house.

Over the next few days, Hayden enjoyed the home-cooked meals, the warm hugs from his family, and the festive spirit of the holidays, but he couldn’t help but feel anxious about his secret. He often moved his hand to his abdomen in a protective manner, trying to hide his belly and checking if everything felt okay. It was still hard to believe that he had six lives inside him, so he had to touch his belly to remind himself that it was all true.

His morning sickness persisted, but it was more manageable, making way for an excessive hunger that frequently attacked him. He often woke up in the middle of the night to have a snack, even though he had devoured large portions of his mom’s meals. Remembering that he had to tell James about the pregnancy in a few days only increased his anxiety, leaving him starving.

Hayden couldn’t stop touching his belly, marveling at how firm it was and wondering how big he would get. Part of him thought he could hide his pregnancy until the end of the season in March, but he knew it was unlikely. He thought about his options, not knowing what to do but aware that he needed to tell James first.

On December 30th, Hayden and his family went to the championship. He was nervous because he had to wear his singlet, which hugged his body like a second skin, showing off the curve of his abdomen. Also, Hayden was hesitant about wrestling because it could hurt the babies, but couldn’t come up with an excuse to avoid it. And finally, he was nervous about facing James and telling him the truth.

Hayden put on his red wrestling singlet, which felt tighter than ever. The stretchy fabric hugged his abdomen, accentuating the curve where his chiseled abs used to be. The singlet strained around his massive ass, emphasizing the size of his bulge at the front. Hayden’s 220-pound body turned heads on his team, the opponents, and the audience, making him feel even more nervous.

Fans cheered, and competitiveness filled the gym. Hayden took a deep breath and faced the matches, focusing on making his parents, Noah, the coach, and James proud of him. The day was long, and Hayden was exhausted by the end of it, but his team performed exceptionally well, winning all their matches. They couldn’t stop smiling when the announcer declared the team the champions.

They went out to celebrate and have pizza together. Hayden acted like nothing was happening but couldn’t stop looking at James. The big man looked so happy and confident that Hayden was nervous about the possible reaction. Then, he looked at Marcus and remembered how much he had enjoyed having sex with the tall man, but he thought things wouldn’t work with him now that he was pregnant.

As James excused himself to go to the bathroom, Hayden also excused himself and followed the captain. Hayden hesitated to enter the bathroom for a few seconds, not knowing how to tell James the truth. Then, James opened the door and found Hayden caressing his abdomen.

“Oh, hey. You didn’t have to wait outside; there are several stalls in there, and... it’s not like you haven’t seen it all already anyway,” James said, winking and smiling at Hayden. His cocky attitude had only increased with their victory.

“No, I only wanted to talk. I have something important to tell you,” Hayden said, pushing James back into the bathroom and closing the door behind him. “I don’t know where to start.”

“I’ll start then. Man, you looked hot with the singlet. That ass of yours, fuck! Better than the day we met,” James said, approaching Hayden and reaching for his huge ass.

“Yeah, about that day. I... hmm... what we did in the locker room,” Hayden said as James massaged his ass, making him moan. “James, stop it for a second, hmm, please.”

“What we did in the locker room was great, and I think we both deserve Part 2 after today’s events,” James said, leaning in to kiss Hayden’s neck.

“James, listen… I…” Hayden tried to talk as he lost himself in James’ touch. “James, I’m pregnant. You got me pregnant that day after practice,” Hayden said as James stopped what he was doing.

“What? Is this some foreplay? Because I’m totally in,” James said, grinning and pressing his body tighter against Hayden’s again. “We hardly know each other, but I would have some babies with you,” James playfully said, thinking it was a joke.

“No, it’s true. I went to see a doctor a few days ago, and I found out I have a womb, and... you put six babies in me that day. I’m 12 weeks pregnant with sextuplets, and they’re yours,” Hayden said between moans, snapping James out of his trance.

The captain froze for a few seconds, expressing his conflicted emotions and asking many questions about the pregnancy. He looked nervous and scared. Hayden was terrified that James would run away, leaving him alone with the babies, but after some thoughtful moments, James smiled and hugged Hayden.

“This is the craziest shit ever, but if you say we’re having six babies together, then I’ll be the best dad ever,” James said, kneeling before Hayden to lift the hem of his t-shirt. James revealed Hayden’s slightly round abdomen, where his babies were growing. “So, hey there, little ones. I’m your dad. Your daddy just told me about you, and you should know that I’ll be by your daddy’s side all along. He’s stubborn; he wrestled all day even though he knew you were inside him,” James said to Hayden’s abdomen, kissing it to emphasize his promise.

“I’m surprised you didn’t freak out. I was nervous. Nobody knows about this. I don’t know what to do,” Hayden said, worried but enjoying James’ touch.

“We’ll find a way to tell them, but not yet. Let’s wait a few days. Let’s hope you don’t get too big to hide this. I think I overdid it that day. Six babies is a lot, but what can I say? I’m a stud,” James said, proud of knocking Hayden up with sextuplets.

****

When Hayden returned to school, his life became a delicate balancing act of keeping his pregnancy a secret, attending classes, and maintaining his commitment to the wrestling team. The Conference and National Dual Meets were approaching, adding pressure to Hayden’s complicated situation. His belly grew rounder with each passing day, making it more difficult to hide it.

Even though Hayden was anxious about the whole thing, he felt nice whenever James approached to touch his belly when the team was distracted. James would pull Hayden aside to rub his belly or talk to their babies. Their status hadn’t changed: they weren’t boyfriends, but James was excited about becoming a dad, and Hayden loved the attention.

Hayden’s belly was evident by mid-January. The round shape on his abdomen was still visible when he wore loose clothes, and the snug material left nothing to the imagination when he wore his singlet. His entire frame looked thicker, his belly was rounding out, and his ass had grown even thicker, just like his legs and arms.

The team traveled to various locations to compete against teams from across the region, making Hayden feel permanently exhausted due to his pregnancy symptoms and the many activities they had to attend. The matches were grueling, pushing him to his limits, but he managed to win them all. Everything was becoming challenging as his belly grew, but everything felt better because James stayed close, making sure Hayden felt alright.

“What if we wait until the end of the month to tell everyone? They’ve noticed your belly, but maybe they won’t get too suspicious,” James said in the captain’s small room in the lockers after practice in mid-January, with Hayden in his arms, cuddling while caressing his belly.

“You must be kidding. I’ll be as big as a house by the end of the month. My singlet can barely hold on around my abdomen, my ass, and my balls. Everything is getting so tight, and... my nipples are so sensitive,” Hayden said, prompting James to move his hands to the younger man’s pink nipples.

“So, sensitive? Why didn’t you mention that before?” James playfully said, rubbing around Hayden’s nipples and making him moan and gasp. “And even if everybody notices you’re getting thicker, as long as you keep winning all the matches against other teams, you’ll be fine. And you’ve been performing exceptionally well. You did great yesterday.”

“Hmm… But it’s getting harder. I’m 14 weeks pregnant with six babies. Six! I get tired so fast, and I feel so heavy. Also, I don’t know if I’ll be able to survive another match without my singlet bursting due to my own growing body,” Hayden said between moans while James continued playing with his nipples.

“Well, if that ever happens, I bet our team will get even more fans, which is good. Everybody will know you’re carrying our future champs,” James said, moving his hands to Hayden’s belly and then to his ass. “And we all would get a great show with this massive butt on full display.” James firmly squeezed Hayden’s ass, making the pregnant guy chuckle as he realized that James was hooked on his body even though they weren’t in a relationship.

****

Hayden’s weight continued to increase as January progressed. His symptoms persisted, but he dealt with them, and by the end of the month, he weighed 238 pounds and had to get a bigger singlet to accommodate his growing body. Most of the weight was centered in his belly, now a noticeable and firm swell straining against his clothing. His ass and thighs had also grown thicker, adding to the challenge of concealing his condition.

He managed to survive all the matches during January, but Hayden knew he was running out of time. The coach repeatedly pointed at his weight gain, even though Hayden won all his matches. They were all worried, but James insisted they had to wait a little longer to avoid the coach expelling Hayden from the team.

However, as great as Hayden performed on the mat, the coach ordered him to do additional workouts with Tyler to maintain adequate conditioning. Tyler had a sturdy build, which made him look strong and thick. Hayden had always admired the junior’s physique, marveling at his broad pecs and strong core.

“You’re running late, buddy,” Tyler said as Hayden entered the gym one night at the end of January. His natural confidence made Hayden smile. “But don’t worry, I won’t tell the coach that you’re getting slower.”

“Yeah. I’m sorry. I got caught up with stuff,” Hayden said, moving his hand to his 16-week pregnant abdomen like he was trying to protect it from Tyler’s judgment. “Give me a second to change into my singlet.”

“No, we won’t be doing any wrestling tonight; shirtless and shorts will do fine,” Tyler said, approaching Hayden with a cocky grin. “You’ve been looking thicker. I’m not sure if you’re trying to bulk up, but I think you’re not doing it correctly,” Tyler added as he stood before Hayden. Tyler was 2 inches taller and got so close that Hayden felt his fresh mint breathing against his face.

“Eh, no, I’m not bulking. I’m just struggling with stuff. Class, the team, and... you know how this is,” Hayden said, feeling Tyler’s abs rub against his belly. “But I would appreciate it if you helped me keep up with my workouts. I can’t deny I’ve been gaining some weight.”

“Hmm… sure. Some weight,” Tyler grinned, patting Hayden’s belly as he moved away. “Let’s start with some jogging to warm up. Take the T-shirt off. I want to see those muscles in action.”

Hayden sighed and, unable to escape, removed his t-shirt and revealed the full extent of his “weight gain” on his upper body. Tyler’s eyes widened when he saw Hayden’s belly, ignoring it as best he could. Tyler started jogging, asking Hayden to follow him, randomly changing his speed to get the blood flowing. It was a simple warming-up exercise, but Hayden struggled to keep up. The added weight and the discomfort in his abdomen made each movement feel heavier, leaving him breathless only a few minutes later.

“You okay, man? You won’t tell me a big man like you already got tired,” Tyler said, his tone friendly but sarcastic.

“I’m fine. I need a minute to catch my breath,” Hayden replied, absentmindedly rubbing his belly and moving his other hand to the small of his back, leaving Tyler confused.

“Man, you need to tell me what’s going on. What’s up with the gut and all the rubbing?” Tyler asked, approaching Hayden to get his hands on his belly.

“It’s nothing. I had too many snacks, I guess. I’m fine,” Hayden said, moving his hand off his belly but keeping the other one on his back.

Tyler got behind Hayden and started massaging his shoulders, making Hayden gasp and softly moan. “You seem to be under a lot of stress; let me help you with that,” Tyler said, massaging Hayden’s back. “I think you need a good massage, but you should give your back a break first. Let’s get you on your back on a bench to release some of the pressure.”

Hayden couldn’t help but groan in relief at Tyler’s massage, so he followed the taller man and did what he was told. Hayden lay on his back on a bench, the position only accentuating the curve of his belly. Tyler sat beside Hayden’s head and firmly massaged his pecs as more moans escaped the pregnant guy’s lips due to his sensitive nipples.

Tyler’s massage continued over Hayden’s firm abdomen, making him gasp. He was worried Tyler would notice his belly was too firm to be fat, but another concern rose as his dick got hard in his shorts. His big dick strained the material, making Tyler chuckle as he moved his hands to Hayden’s lower abdomen, down to the base of his dick.

“This feels so good,” Hayden mumbled as Tyler stood up and focused the massage on Hayden’s lower body.

“I know. I can tell you’re enjoying this,” Tyler said as he massaged Hayden’s powerful thighs and hips. “Your dick won’t let you hide it.” Tyler moved his hands to Hayden’s crotch and rubbed his big bulge through the fabric.

“Could you take my shorts off?” Hayden said, moaning and groaning while Tyler continued playing with his dick. “Please.”

Tyler grinned and quickly removed Hayden’s shorts and jockstrap, immediately doing the same to be naked like his teammate. Hayden moaned more when Tyler’s hands came into direct contact with his dick and bull balls. Tyler moved his hands lower between Hayden’s thighs, trying to reach his ass to tease him. Hayden willingly spread his legs to give Tyler as much access as possible to his ass.

“Is this some kind of invitation?” Tyler asked, getting between Hayden’s legs.

“It is. You’re making me feel so good,” Hayden asked, lifting his legs to emphasize the invitation. “Do whatever you want.”

Tyler didn’t hesitate to take Hayden’s legs over his shoulder while getting on top of him. He rubbed his dick against Hayden’s ass, sending shivers down his spine. His dick wasn’t as long as Hayden’s, but it was outstandingly thick. When Tyler pushed his hips forward to fit his dick into Hayden’s ass, he found little resistance, and his dick slid in quickly, even though it was a tight fit. Hayden moaned out loudly, making Tyler grin.

“Fuck. This ass feels better than I’ve been imagining since the day we met,” Tyler whispered into Hayden’s ears, who gasped uncontrollably.

“Have you been imagining how it would feel?” Hayden asked between moans.

“Yeah. And it’s a lot better than I expected,” Tyler replied, bucking his hips to fuck Hayden. “I’m sure you’ll love this, but if you want me to stop, just tell me.”

Hayden responded with moans as Tyler’s hips sped up. The bench creaked under their weight and the force of Tyler’s thrusts. Hayden was high on pleasure, but while Tyler pounded hard, he moved his hands to his abdomen, thinking about his pregnancy. He was pregnant with James’ kids and had fucked Marcus in that same gym eight weeks ago, but Tyler was making him feel so good that he only wanted more.

“Harder, please. You’re so thick,” Hayden mumbled, igniting Tyler’s overconfident ego.

“Remember, you begged for it,” Tyler said, leaning forward to kiss Hayden’s cheeks as his hips bucked harder and faster, making Hayden moan even louder.

Hayden was so lost in pleasure that he didn’t even notice his dick was leaking buckets of pre-cum over his own abdomen while Tyler’s dick leaked like an open faucet inside him. Hayden felt his abdomen getting slightly more bloated, but he didn’t want Tyler to stop; he loved how the thick dick felt deep inside his guts. The fucking continued for what felt like an eternity, and Hayden’s mind was blank; he couldn’t get enough of Tyler’s dick.

“I hope you don’t mind me finishing inside you,” Tyler asked as he felt his balls ready to explode. “You already look bloated anyway.”

“Do it. Cum inside me,” Hayden managed to say, and immediately felt a wave of warm cum coating his guts and filling him up to the brim.

Hayden groaned in pleasure, and his dick started shooting massive globs of cum over his abdomen as his belly tightened and inched outward between his and Tyler’s bodies. Hayden placed his hands on his belly, and he felt it expand in all directions beneath his palms. He didn’t know if it was Tyler’s cum filling him up so much, but the sensation was so overwhelming that Hayden almost passed out from pleasure.

By the time both guys stopped cumming, Hayden’s belly was at least an inch and a half thicker than before the fucking. Tyler kept his dick inside for a while, their sweaty bodies glistening under the gym’s lights as they caught their breaths.

“I think this was a great workout,” Tyler said, finally pulling his dick out.

“It was, and I wouldn’t mind getting fatter if that meant we’d be doing this more often,” Hayden replied, aware that he was only getting thicker over the next few months. Tyler only laughed and leaned forward to kiss Hayden’s belly, which looked tighter and rounder than a few minutes ago.

...

[h0ney-bee]

":D

[californiaquail]

well boss said reese has no indication of any uti or crystals only a tiny amount of red blood cells which can be caused by the manual expression. coworker insisted there was no point in taking rads to see if he's blocked from the string so going to try some laxaire and hope 😬🤞🏻also then my boss gave me a ride to the bus stop so i didn't have to carry the huge crate which was uncharacteristically nice of him 🤨

[milo-is-rambling]

Someone tell me how to make me not hate myself and make my family not think I’m a bitch and make me want to see my family or drive back down the coast or stay in strange places or do anything other than kill myself I mean whaaatttt haha what a weird thing to say *stares directly into the camera knowingly*

[starryetoile]

went from crying at the idea of my girlfriend being high around me to having her bring me gummies in a flavor i like

[reiderwriter]

Isn't She Pretty, Daddy?

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Teacher f!Reader

Summary: You're a little bit worried about one of your brightest students recently, so you call her Dad to come in for a meeting. Her absolutely adorable - and single - Dad.

Warnings: the birds and the bees as explained by a kindergardener. Some angst about being a single parent.

A/N: Here's another entry for @imagining-in-the-margins Kid Fic Challenge! Dad Spencer has my heart, and I've been in a really fluff forward mood this weekend, evidently! I think I have one more Kid Fic left to go before the end of the challenge, but we'll see what the will of the fanfiction gods is...

Masterlist

If you were to be asked what the hardest part of being a teacher was, you would, without question or even a second to think, have an answer. Parents. The worst part of teaching is talking to parents. 

Little kids were easy to talk to. They asked questions if they didn't understand things clearly, and they didn't typically say things they didn't mean. Adults were the opposite, and it just so happened that all of your kids' parents were adults. 

Including your most recent problem  child. 

You were used to the kids in your class having some behavior issues - for one, they were kids, it was to be expected that their little bodies couldn't quite handle all of the emotions they were feeling at once. But you were doubly struck by your school area being close to Quantico, meaning half the kids in your care had families with law enforcement backgrounds. 

Absent parents plus growing bodies plus normal kid stress equalled attachment issues, and your problem child Harper Reid was one of your more worrying cases. 

You really hoped everything was okay in the Reid household, so you'd called the little girls parents. She was lovely - honest to god - one of the sweetest little kids you'd ever met. 

Every day she came to school with some older kids and their mom, carpooling on the way in, so you had yet to meet her parents, but you thought that anyone who could produce something that sweet and cute and brilliant couldn't possibly be a bad person. 

You didn't know what to expect, so when her little pigtails peaked around the corner and she came running in, you were momentarily filled with anxiety. 

“MOMMY!” The little girl yelled, launching herself into your arms as soon as she spotted you behind your desk. 

“Hi, Harper! Hi, you must be, Mr. Reid-”

“Doctor, actually, um, but that doesn't really matter. I'm so sorry about this, Harper doesn't usually tackle people.” 

The 3ft tall ball of energy had managed to crawl into your lap and wrap her arms around your neck, so you had to pick her up when you stood to greet her dad. 

“Will your wife be joining us for the meeting today?” You asked, already used to Harper's hugs and general closeness. 

“Oh, no. No, she's not coming. She, uh, doesn't exist. Single father.” 

“Oh my god, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to assume, it's just not on my files-” 

“It's okay, it's a …bit complicated.” 

You took your seat at the desk and gestured to the man to do the same. Finally, looking at him for the first time now that some of your anxiety had died down, you couldn't help but think that Doctor Reid was incredibly attractive. It wasn't one part of his face that stuck out to you as being particularly pretty, just the entire ensemble of it together that took your breath away. Either that of Harper was gripping you so tight she was restricting your ability to breathe, and considering a five year old is not a boa constrictor, this was all dad's fault. 

“So, you said on the phone Harper's been having some problems at school?” 

You snapped your attention back to the issue at hand, searching for the relevant files and pictures you wanted to show the man. Harper turned herself around in your lap and looped her arms around your arm, pulling it in close to use as a pillow. 

“Isn't Miss Y/N so pretty, Daddy?” You froze and flushed in an instant, suddenly so aware of the man's eyes on you. You weren't sure if you were thankful or even more embarrassed that Harper's dad seemed to be even more flushed than you. 

“Daddy? Isn't she pretty?” Harper insisted, and you realized that you both weren't going to get out of this without him answering. 

“Yes, angel. Miss Y/N is very pretty.” The little girl smiled in triumph and nuzzled into your arm even more, happily curled up into your lap like a cat. 

“Hey, Harper. We got a new puzzle delivered yesterday. It's got My Melody and Cinnamaroll on it. They're your favorites, right?” 

The little girl nodded in glee, eyes shining as she hung on your every word. 

“How about you go over to the play area and get it started, and then me and your daddy will come over and help you finish it?” 

In a flash, she'd hopped up out of your lap and wriggled away, shouting a quick “You promised, right?” behind her as she went. 

“I'm so sorry about that, I don't know what's gotten into her, she's usually very shy and-”

“Doctor Reid, it's fine. That's just why I called you in today. Teachers and parents are a team, right, we work together to make sure the kids grow up well, you don't need to apologize to me for that.” 

The man seemed to take a deep breath and nod, to regain his wits about him for a second. 

“Is she… this attached in her regular classes?” 

“Well honestly, she was a bit like that at the beginning of the semester, but she grew out of it after a while. In the last week or so, she fell back into it, and now she's calling me ‘Mommy,’ too. I was wondering if anything happened recently at home that could've led her in this direction, or…”

The man looked a little bashful, but there was a twinge of sadness in his expression that you recognised all too well. 

“Harper, uh, doesn't have a Mom. I adopted her, and it's a long story, but... She's been asking me to get her one recently, because she doesn't really understand all that well? I'm sorry, I didn't know she'd do something like this. I should've done a better job at home-” 

“Doctor Reid, raising a child is hard. It's so hard that humans usually do it in communities, or at least in couples. You're doing it alone, and Harper is already one of the smartest and most empathetic little girls I know. You're doing your job as Dad just fine.” 

The man smiled at you and looked down, quickly wiping away a tear as you gave him a moment of privacy. 

“So. If nothing at home set Harper off, we should probably go and ask her why she's calling me mommy, right?” 

You stood, and he stood with you, leaving his satchel next to his chair and unbuttoning his jacket. 

“Great. Sure, let's go see.”

Walking to the back of the room, you both smiled quietly, looking at the small girl. The 100 piece puzzle you'd guided her to was neatly arranged on the desk, pieces split into edges and centre pieces as she slowly looked at each one with a quietly focused face. Each time she found the piece she was looking for, her smile was bright as she connected it to the small part she was working on. 

“Mommy! Daddy! I can't find the melody's face, can you help me?” 

“Sure, Harper, we'll help you.” You moved to sit beside her at the tiny desks, giggling when the older Reid on Harper's other side struggled to fit himself in the toddler sized chairs. 

Harper assigned you roles, and you all started quietly doing your jobs, waiting for Harper to focus again so you could ask her questions without agitating her. 

“Harper, can you tell your Daddy why you call me Mommy?” 

“Sure! You're Mommy because I want you to marry with Daddy.” 

If you weren't already still flushed from her earlier comments, you certainly were lightheaded with embarrassment now. 

“Harper, that's not how it works-” 

“Yes, it is, Daddy! Henry said so. He said his mommy and daddy were sad one day, but then they were together again and they had a big party called a wedding and now they're happy, and that's why we have Michael.” You didn't quite follow from all the names and the story events, but it was evident that Reid did, so you waited quietly for his explanation. 

“My friend. Her son was at her wedding a few years back. They have another son who is a couple years older than Harper, they come to school together?” 

Your mouth made a small ‘o’ as you slowly filled in the blanks. 

“Harper, you want daddy to have a wedding so he isn't sad anymore?” 

The little girl gave a big nod and a smile, like she was so happy that she was finally being understood. 

“Miss Y/N should marry daddy because he thinks she's pretty. Henry said that was important for a wedding, your mommy has to look beautiful.” You made eye contact with Doctor Reid awkwardly as she spoke, both of you looking away for fear of seeing the embarrassment on each others faces. 

“And Miss Y/N wants a baby. So I will be Miss Y/N's baby, so everyone can be happy!” Harper's kid logic was a little hard to find fault with, but you still had to push back a little. 

“Harper, why do you think I want a baby?” 

“Angie asked you, and you said," the girl pouted, almost frustrated woth habing to answer all these silly questions.

"She asked you why you don't have a baby, and you said that you can only have a baby if you're married and that you wanted to have a baby when you were married. So marry my dad, and I'll be your baby!” 

Harper's smile was so happy and content that you really didn't want to spoil her dream just yet. You continued putting the puzzle together for a few minutes in silence, the full picture nearly being complete now. Harper seemed to fidget a little in her seat next to you, pushing closer and closer to you before tugging on your sleeve. 

You leaned down and she whispered in your ear - though you didn't doubt that her dad heard every word. 

“If you really want, I'm sure we can get another baby like Henry got Michael. I'll ask my dad, but I think it's allowed.” 

The poor man on the other side of the desk had to cover his face with his hands to stop the blush from showing, devolving to just straight up resting his head on the desk when his daughter kept going. 

“A boy is okay, but my dad doesn't really know about boy stuff. Uncle Derek says that my daddy is just a pretty boy with a book brain. We should get another girl, so daddy can be not worry.” 

The more you listened to Harper's adorable family plan, the more you just wanted to squeeze her tight and say yes and give her everything she wanted. 

“Miss Y/N, once again, I'm so sorry for everything, I'll talk with Harper at home about this.” 

“It's okay, I actually find it all very sweet,” you laughed a little and smiled back at him. 

“No, I'm sure your boyfriend would be so uncomfortable if he knew that she was trying to marry you off-” 

“Doctor Reid, are you trying to ask me if I'm single?” 

The small grin that quirked his lips up was nothing if not unfair. He really was a very pretty boy. 

“It was that obvious?” 

“Yep.” You made sure the ‘p’ popped a lot as you both shared a small laugh. Harper looked up between you and smiled, too. 

“So, can you get married now? Henry said you can do it really quickly, like in Grandpa Rossi's garden, and then you can go and do the secret part at home while Auntie Penny looks after me.” 

“Secret part?” 

“To make the other baby, silly!” 

[night-raven-tattler]

The pains of being human

Summary: You're dealing with period related misfortunes, and you feel vulnerable... mostly because you reached a point where you had to share your predicament with someone you trusted (?).

Characters: Deuce, Floyd, Lilia and GN!Reader (separate, vague)

Warnings: mentions of menstrual products, food, medicine; discussions of periods and related symptoms (such as: bleeding, cramps, nausea, mood swings.)

By opening the document, you agree to Mx Tattly's terms of source confidentiality.

-ˋˏ’✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

You were in your dorm room, stuck in a real predicament: not stocking up on your menstrual products, and leaving the room to buy yourself some seemed too risky, fearing you might get a stain and embarass yourself in front of the whole school

It wasn't a very likely situation, but the anxiety was not worth it, so you relied the first person you were close enough with to help you out: Deuce

You shot him a simple text

"i am on my period, can you buy me some products? i'll pay you back when you get here"

and expected an awkward but supportive reply, since teenage boys and periods can be like oil and water sometimes or demons and cruxes...

But the text you received in return was... mildly surprising.

"yeah sure. pads? tampons?"

"what size do you need?"

"anything else you need? painkillers? something sweet?"

You even double checked the number to make sure you didn't text anyone else

He even knew about sizes! And he thought about painkillers! You were more and more touched with each message coming through

And, with the proper instructions, Deuce was on his way to Sam's

He was not embarassed for even a second: he was there on a mission, and he accomplished it successfully without any missteps

...Well, except of his little delay, caused by a pair of nosy boys, who received their proper threats from Deuce for interrupting his mission with their toxic masculinity

He knocked at your door, and for a second he was expecting his mother to open the door; after all, she was the only one he has ever bought these things for before you

You gratefully welcomed him in, waddling your way back to your bed as you inspected the bag he brought you

"Thank you, Deuce. You're a livesaver... How much did everything cost you?"

Deuce saw the tired look on your face, the heavy lids that indicated a lack of proper sleep, and he shook his head

"It's on me this time."

You scoffed, knowing Deuce was also on a budget; as much of a sweetheart and an honors student he was, Deuce deserved to be rewarded

"...I wanna think of a compromise, but my brain is too tired right now."

You groaned, closing your eyes as you rested them for a few seconds

Deuce shook his head at you again and clicked his tongue in fond exasperation

He wanted to be nice and offer you an out, but you were dead set on being nice to him...

"...A latte."

You opened your eyes, looking at Deuce in confusion

"I'm sorry?"

"I want a latte. One of those fancy ones from that café in town. When you're done with the, uh... bear week."

A small snort escaped you as you gave Deuce an amused look

"Bear week? Not shark week?"

Deuce's eyes widened slightly, and he looked away as his cheeks grew warmer

"...Mom never called it that. She always said that fighting a bear is more likely to happen than fighting a shark... and that it sounds cooler."

You nodded, feeling very inclined to agree with his mom, and decided to steal that phrase

You were very relieved to have someone as reliable as Deuce near you, and despite the fact that Deuce wasn't the most diligent person, he always made sure to carry one of your preffered products with him at all times

No matter what kind of teases he received from anyone for it, he knew he was showing a level of care not many would

And while helping you... he was helping himself

He was still dealing with the guilt of being so embarassed when his own mom sent him to buy pads; he couldn't help his mom with such a simple thing even after everything she's done

But he can be more careful this time... more appreciative

『••✎••』

The moment Floyd spotted you in the hallways was when things went downhill: Floyd didn't really bring sunshine and rainbows around with himself

By that point you were used to his shenanigans, but you still gave some interesting reactions

A gasp, a swat to his hand... but never tears

He wouldn't have yelled in your ear if he knew you'd burst into tears: he wasn't in the mood to deal with the aftermath

But he quickly put two and two together, seeing the way you were frozen on the spot, almost trying to pick between scolding him and saying something else

Unbeknownst to Floyd, you were simply trying to get back to your dorm after noticing a pretty sizeable stain on your pants from your period

And the anxiety from trying to go unnoticed put you on edge, making your reaction to Floyd so much worse

"...Please just get me out of here."

Your small plea came after a tense silence, in which Floyd was reading your expression with an almost uninterested look

But he still hoisted you over his shoulder without any hesitation, much to your embarassment

"Floyd...! Not like this, put me down!"

"Eh~? You're so hard to please, little discus!"

Floyd did not put you down, of course

It was causing a bit of a scene, so you decided that, in the end, you'll take whatever got you to your dorm room the fastest

"Alright, fine...! Just get me to my dorm then!"

"Boooring! Why can't we go somewhere more fun?"

Floyd complained while going in the direction of your dorm

"Because I'm not in the mood for fun, Floyd! I..."

Your cheeks turned red, realising you almost revealed something too personal

To your surprise, Floyd didn't point it out; he just pouted as he walked towards your dorm

You reached your dorm room soon thanks to Floyd's long legs, and you were able to change into fresh clothes, easing your anxiety and making you feel like crying from relief

Until you realised Floyd was still in your room, even after you told him you'd be having no fun together today

He looked you up and down, his face betraying his confusion

"Now can you tell me why you were smelling like blood? Did anyone do something? Do I get to deliver a revenge plan and squeeze some aquarium fish?"

Floyd's almost sadistic delivery did not phase you at all, and all you were thinking was that of course Floyd noticed

You had no other option but to explain

"I just... got a blood stain from my, uh... my period..."

Silence.

"...What do classes have to do with that?"

Your eyes widened as you came to a horrifying conclusion: Floyd couldn't know what period were, because he was a merman

You saw your short life flash before your eyes in horror at the prospect of having to explain periods to a teenager... when Floyd just burst into laughter

"Oh, you actually believe that! You are so funny!"

Much to your relief, Floyd's confusion was just a prank; he figured you had your period before you even said anything

He revealed that he took classes about humans, their customs and anatomy when he first decided to come on land

And he also dodged the pillows you threw at him with practiced ease

It was the last time you even talked about it: neither of you brough it up again, and you didn't know how to feel about it

On one hand, you were relieved, but on the other hand, you expected Floyd of all people to ask questions and be all annoying about it

But Floyd didn't really care about things like that

In fact, he found your periods hilarious: your mood swins in particular were funny, and he almost enjoyed making things that you could digest

And he would never admit it, but he felt proud when you seemed to feel a bit better after he helped you during your period

『••✎••』

Every once in a while, you found yourself being enveloped in a hug from behind from the old bat

He would either hand you a piece of homemade chocolate by him or some cute trinket he thought sould cheer you up

Lilia was a very cute individual, and he was surprisingly affectionate for someone who was definitely a teenager and not a retired war veteran attending highschool, so you never questioned it

...until you found Lilia wrapping his jacket around your torso gingerly from behind

"...There we go. Not too tight?"

His cute, softer voice vibrated through your back as he still was glued to you

"It's... not, but why did you..."

"Oh, haven't you heard? Jackets wrapped around waists are the latest fad! It's cool and chic!"

You didn't argue with him on it, especially after you tried to untie the jacket from your waist and were blocked by Lilia, who was still holding you from behind

The proximity was getting to you, and you felt your cheeks flushing, your knees growing a bit weak, your stomach doing flips-

Wait, no. That wasn't butterflies in your stomach, that was a sharp pain from... lower

As you put two and two together, Lilia started walking you down the hallway into a secluded classroom, his hand around your waist and making you two look as casual and unassuming as always

The moment Lilia closed the door of the abandoned classroom, you his your face in your hands from embarassment

"Oh, my god... This can't be happening to me..."

The tone in your voice betrayed how mortified you felt, but was glad that you had this realisation away from prying eyes

You didn't even realise the leak, since you were already using products, and it already felt like you leaked blood all the time...

Lilia only chucked at your realisation

"Khee hee... Someone was a bit caught off guard today, huh?"

Your pathetic whimper was the only answer Lilia received, and his eyes sparkled with mirth

He still brought out his magical pen and waved it gently in the air, muttering something under his breath

"Take that jacket off and turn around for me?"

You did as he instructed, but only because you felt more... dry, all of a sudden

Lilia hummed in delight as he saw the spot being gone, his spell working

"Good. No more damning evidence... Now all you gotta do is go on your merry way."

You sighed in relief and slipped onto an empty chair, letting the small rollercoaster of emotions settle down within you

Lilia was nothing short of a lifesaver, and he handled the situation with so much grace that it left you speechless

When you asked about it, he just laughed

"I'm no stranger to blood."

That was all he said... Not ominous at all /s

Still, you were very grateful at the way Lilia handled everything

Since then, he started being even more doting on you whenever you were in your period

He was almost... motherly in a way

And for some reason, the idea of Lilia as a parental figure didn't seem too far fetched...

He always was on the lookout for any other accidents and even tried talking you into trying the reusable alternatives for your products

What surprised no one was when he became even more eager to supplement you with nutritional food whenever you were low on energy

And so much more disappointed when your nausea made his food somehow even worse to be around

『••✎••』

[pathologicalreid]

what to expect | s.r.

in which you find yourself frustrated at the end of your pregnancy, and spencer talks you off a ledge

margotober

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: fluff (hurt/comfort) content warnings: pregnancy, lamaze classes, self-consciousness, boy dad spencer, spencer is perfect, birth talks, breastmilk mentioned, crying word count: 1.68k a/n: i'm writing all of these a/n's at the same time and i'm running out of interesting things to say to you. this was a request! i hope you enjoy!

“Now,” the instructor continued her presentation, “Our recommendation is the five-five-five rule.” The yardstick that she was using to emphasize the slides smacked against the projector screen, “That’s five days in bed, five days on the bed, and five days near the bed.”

Leaning back, you rested your back on Spencer’s chest and whispered, “If you try to keep me in bed for five days, we’ll have to start marriage counseling.”

Your husband hummed in response, “Why don’t we just see how you’re feeling after he’s here?”

Holding back a groan at his diplomatic answer, you turned your head back to the screen, anxiety already at an all-time high after watching video footage of a live birth. At a friend’s recommendation, you had signed yourself and Spencer up for Lamaze lessons, but you hadn’t anticipated how in-depth they would go.

It didn’t help that Spencer had been on a case when you were supposed to start, pushing back your start time. Now you were finishing your last lesson on the same day your OB had given you the ‘any day now’ speech. “Are you alright?” Spencer asked, noticing the way you didn’t respond to his suggestion.

Your head bobbed in confirmation, “Yeah, just tired.” The lights were dimmed in the classroom, between that and the warmth of Spencer behind you, you were ready to fall asleep.

Your sweet husband was beginning to toe the line of being overbearing, “Do you want me to take the rest of the day off?”

“No,” you answered. He had taken an extended lunch to be able to go to this lesson with you, there was only a week until his paternity leave officially started, and it wasn’t necessary for him to stay with you for the rest of the day.

Besides, having him around all day was only going to make your prenatal anxiety worse.

He was already the perfect father, his eidetic memory contributing to all of the facts that he listed about newborns and birth. He knew more about the changes happening to your body, and the worst part was that everyone knew it.

Cringing as the lights went up, you leaned back on your hands as Spencer stood up, packing up your bag before crouching down to help you up. Looking around the room, you watched all of the other couples in your class smiling and laughing with each other, the moms moving around the room with an ease that you no longer possessed.

You took a deep breath, placing one hand on your side in an attempt to brace yourself, “Are you sure you’re feeling okay?” Spencer asked again, watching you zone out in the middle of the Lamaze studio.

“Mhmm,” you reassured him, “Braxton Hicks,” you added, trying to wave off some of his concern.

Nodding in understanding, Spencer gently placed a hand on the small of your back before the two of you started to make your way out of the room, stopping to grab the gift bag your instructor had put together for you. His hand dropped to hold yours before walking down the steps, leaving the two of you at the entrance to the parking garage, “Hey,” he nudged, trying to lift your spirits, “No more classes.”

Admittedly, the Lamaze lessons weren’t your favorite couple activity, and Spencer knew that the only reason you kept going was that they were non-refundable. “Right,” you agreed, knowing that now you’d have to face the next hurdle—actually giving birth.

“Okay,” Spencer said, gently herding you over to a park bench. He set the bags down on the seat before you sat down, leaving him squatting in front of you. “What’s wrong, honey? I know something’s wrong,” he insisted, knowing you well enough to be able to tell when you were burying your feelings.

You leaned back onto the bench, “I’m pregnant,” you shrugged as if that was answer enough.

Spencer frowned up at you, “Yes, this much I am aware of,” he confirmed, eyes flickering down to your bump before going back to your face.

“I just…” you struggled to find the right words, “I’m pregnant, and you’re doing all of this research into pregnancy and labor and birth, and I’ve done none of it. None of the research or the work and I’m— I feel useless!”

His expression softened at the sight of tears welling in your eyes, “You’re not useless. You’re so far from useless that it’s not even on the list of adjectives I would consider while describing you.” He rested his hands on you, one on top of your knee to maintain his balance and another on the side of the bump, skimming his thumb over the cotton of your t-shirt. “You’ve been growing our baby, and he’s beautiful and healthy and he’s going to love you regardless of how much research you’ve done about him.”

Huffing, you wipe at your teary eyes, “It’s so embarrassing though! Going to the BAU today and hearing everyone talk about how prepared you are, the stacks of books on your desk and on your nightstand and on the coffee table.” You paused to take a deep breath, “In those stupid classes where you knew so many of the answers that the instructor stopped calling on you to give everyone else a chance.”

“Sweetheart,” Spencer murmured, “I like being prepared. Especially for big changes like this.”

You nodded, resting your hand on top of his, “And I love that about you, but I have never felt so unprepared for anything in my life,” you confessed, struggling to catch your breath.

It wasn’t like Spencer didn’t understand your frustrations, he just wished you had voiced some of these concerns sooner, “You don’t need to prepare like I do, though. Your maternal instinct? It’s inherent. It’ll immutably move you to sense and take care of the baby, okay? With dads it’s different. I don’t have any sort of physical connection with him like you do, I won’t develop a similar instinct until I actually spend time with him. So, technically, you’re ahead of me,” he explained, using all of his research to soothe you out of your panic.

“I just want him to love me as I love him,” you pouted, looking down at the bump, “but I ache all over, Spence. My boobs hurt. They’re not even tender anymore, they just hurt,” you complained.

Spencer chuckled lightly at your breast comment, “He will love you as you love him; I guarantee it. Your boobs hurt because they’re producing colostrum, and we can call your doctor later to see if it’s alright to pump. That’ll help relieve the pressure.”

Some of the tension in your body released, and you sniffled timidly, “I think those classes are designed to freak people out of ever having another baby. Oh my god,” your eyes go wide as you recall the live birth video, “You can’t watch.”

“Watch what, honey?” Spencer asked.

You looked at him with abject horror in your eyes, “The baby. You can’t watch me give birth. Is that why the dads always used to wait in another room? Should I be having you wait in another room while I’m in labor?”

He shook his head, “I’d like to be in the room with you, but if you’d be more comfortable having me somewhere else, then we can figure that out. However, we just went through twelve hours of birthing classes together, so if you’d rather I just refrain from actually watching you push the baby out, then I will promise to abide by your rules.”

Horror stories that you had heard from other moms about how their husbands wouldn’t touch them after birth filled your mind, and that type of rejection horrified you. With wide eyes, you looked at your husband and whispered, “I can’t do this.”

Spencer watched helplessly as tears filled your eyes once again, “Can’t do what?”

“Have a baby,” you answered, your voice tight with emotion, “What was I thinking? I never should’ve done this, oh no.” You continued muttering to yourself, sending your head into a tailspin as Spencer desperately tried to get you to come back down to earth.

“Hey,” Spencer crooned, “Y/N, hey,” he tried to get you to snap out of it. “Hey, we made this decision together, remember? Why didn’t you tell me you hated being pregnant?”

Your eyes snapped to his, “I don’t hate being pregnant. I’m just over it!”

Pushing your bags off to the side, Spencer sat down next to you on the bench, “You want him here, huh?”

Nodding melodramatically, you cover your eyes with your hands, “I just wish he could be in my arms instead of in my belly, and now that I’ve been told he could come any day it’s so much worse.”

“Thirty-seven weeks is any day now territory,” Spencer acknowledged, “but not today, I’m afraid.”

Dragging your hands down your face as you met his eyes, knowing that today was, in fact, not the day. “I miss hugs,” you told him mournfully, wiping at the fresh tears in your eyes.

Spencer casually put his arm around your shoulders, leaning over to press a soft kiss to your temple, “I hug you all the time,” he reminded you.

“It’s not the same with the bump,” you admitted, there was always an awkward lean involved, and you could never get close enough to him.

He raised his eyebrows at you curiously, “So, if I promise to give you a hug after the baby’s born, will you stop crying?”

Leaning your head back and using his arm as a headrest, your head bobbed slightly, “Yeah, I think that could fix me.”

“Honey,” he started, “I promise to give you the coziest, most rejuvenating hug of your entire life after the baby comes. I will hug you like you’ve never been hugged before.”

Turning to face him, a timid smile grew on your face, “Well, now you’re kind of laying it on thick, don’t you think?”

He sighed desperately, “I just really want you to stop crying.”

[sushiyuzu]

belly bliss

warning: wholesome fluff — you're pregnant and soft!sylus helps to lift up your heavy belly <3

zayne version

the sun filtered softly through the curtains, casting a warm glow over the cozy room. the air was filled with the comforting scent of fresh coffee, mingling with the faint aroma of pancakes cooking in the kitchen. you shuffled slowly, feeling the familiar weight of your eight-month pregnant belly pulling at your back, causing a dull ache to settle in your lower spine.

“hey, love,” sylus called out from the kitchen, his voice warm and inviting. you could hear the clatter of pans as he flipped the pancakes, a sound that always made you smile. “you coming to eat?”

“i’ll be there in a minute,” you replied, taking a moment to stretch your back and shift your weight from one foot to the other. the discomfort had become a constant companion, and today felt particularly heavy. you took a deep breath and decided to take your time.

as you finally made your way into the kitchen, sylus turned to greet you, his face lighting up with that endearing smile that always melted your heart. he was wearing an apron, and the sight of him in it made you chuckle.

“you look adorable,” you said, your voice teasing but full of love.

“just trying to impress my beautiful wife,” he replied, winking as he plated the fluffy pancakes. “i figured you’d need some extra energy today.”

you stepped closer, resting a hand on the counter for support. “you know me too well,” you admitted, a hint of gratitude in your tone. “my back is killing me today.”

sylus’s expression shifted to one of concern. “here, let me help.” he stepped around the kitchen island, moving closer to you. before you could protest, he wrapped his arms around you from behind, his hands gently cradling your belly.

the warmth of his body against your back was comforting, and you sighed in relief as he lifted your heavy belly slightly, easing the pressure on your spine. “how does that feel?” he asked, his breath warm against your ear.

“so much better,” you murmured, leaning back into him. you could feel the tension in your body begin to melt away as he supported you, his touch gentle and loving. “thank you.”

“always,” he replied softly, his voice laced with affection. “you’re carrying our little one; it’s the least i can do.”

as he held you, you felt a sense of peace wash over you. the world outside faded away, and it was just the two of you in this moment. you could hear the soft sound of your baby’s heartbeat, a reminder of the life you were nurturing together. the warmth radiating from sylus made you feel safe and cherished.

“i can’t believe we’re going to be parents soon,” you said, your voice tinged with a mix of excitement and anxiety. “it’s so surreal.”

“i know,” sylus replied, his tone thoughtful. “but we’re in this together. you’re going to be an amazing mom, and i’ll be right there with you.”

you turned your head slightly to look at him, your heart swelling with emotion. “i’m so grateful for you, sylus. i don’t know how i would manage all of this without you.”

he kissed the top of your head gently, his grip around you tightening as he whispered, “you’re stronger than you know. and together, we’ll figure everything out.”

after a moment, he slowly released his hold, helping you stand upright again. you turned to face him fully, appreciating the way his eyes sparkled with love and admiration. “now, let’s eat before it gets cold,” he said, motioning toward the table. “you need your strength.”

you both sat down together, and he served you a generous portion of pancakes, pouring syrup with exaggerated flair as you laughed. as you ate, you could feel the love in the air, a warmth that wrapped around you like a soft blanket. it was moments like these that made you realize how lucky you were to have sylus by your side, sharing every step of this journey together.

after breakfast, sylus helped you clean up, his hands brushing against yours as you worked side by side. every touch, every shared glance, filled you with warmth. he made the mundane feel special, turning ordinary moments into cherished memories.

“i love you,” you said suddenly, feeling the urge to express your gratitude once more.

“i love you more than words can say,” he replied, his voice steady and sincere. “and i can’t wait to meet our little one.”

you shared a smile, knowing that no matter how challenging the days ahead might be, you would face them together—hand in hand, heart to heart.

[pastryfication]

hiii! i love your writing please could you do Oscar x reader where reader goes to his home race and sits in the paddock and meets oscars parents and sisters for the first time, reader is super nervous at first but you all get on super well and there all really nice

his mom calls me love

pairing: oscar piastri x female!reader note: i combined the request with this since they were almost the exact same!! i love the piastri family they all seem so genuine so this was fun to write <33 hope you enjoy

you’re nervous, more nervous than you’ve ever been.

the paddock is bustling, the air thick with excitement and the faint smell of burnt rubber, but all you can focus on are your buzzing nerves. just yesterday, you touched ground in melbourne for oscar’s home race, and today, you’re not just meeting his family—you’re meeting them all at once, and without oscar by your side.

he has told you a thousand times that you’ve got nothing to worry about, that his family will love you, but it’s hard to silence the wild butterflies in your stomach when they’re trying their hardest to make you sick.

you spot nicole first. she’s standing with oscar’s sisters by the hospitality area, and as soon as she spots you, she waves you over with a bright smile.

you’re instantly struck by how warm she seems, like a ray of sunshine on an overcast day. she pulls you into a hug the moment you’re close enough, and it’s so genuine, so full of kindness, that a little bit of your anxiety starts to melt away.

“we’re so happy you’re here,” she says, her voice joyful and comforting. “oscar’s told us all about you.”

the sisters gather around, each of them with the same easygoing charm as their mom. hattie, the oldest, gives you a knowing look, as if she’s seen oscar’s nerves about today and knows exactly what this means to him. edie is chatty, asking you questions about the race, about how you met oscar, her enthusiasm infectious. mae, the youngest, is a little held back at first but quickly warms up, giggling at every funny story you tell about oscar and smiling brightly when you compliment her outfit.

you feel the tension in your shoulders ease as you talk to them. nicole makes sure you’re comfortable, offering snacks and making gentle conversation that doesn’t feel forced or awkward. it’s like sitting with old friends, and you can see where oscar gets his sweetness from. the girls are delightful, and before you know it, you’re laughing at something hattie said, feeling lighter than you have all day.

time passes quickly in their company. you’re so engrossed in a conversation with mae, who’s telling you about her latest school project with joyful enthusiasm, that you don’t even notice when oscar finishes his post-qualifying duties and walks over to join you all. he pauses a few feet away, a soft smile spreading across his face as he takes in the scene: his family and his girlfriend—all of the most important women in his life—all together and getting along so effortlessly.

he doesn’t say anything right away, content to just watch. there’s a warmth in his chest as he sees you laughing with hattie, reaching over to fix a stray hair on edie’s head, and listening intently as mae chatters on about something you clearly don’t entirely understand but are genuinely interested in. he loves how naturally you fit in, like you’ve always been a part of this group.

nicole catches oscar’s eye first and gives him a small nod, a silent acknowledgment of how well this is going. it’s everything he hoped for, and he can’t help but feel grateful. he’s never seen you this comfortable around people you’ve just met, and it makes his heart swell with pride and affection.

finally, hattie nudges you gently and nods toward oscar, breaking you out of your conversation. you turn, surprised to see him standing there, looking at you with that soft, adoring smile you love so much.

“hey,” he says, sliding into the circle and wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt.”

you smile up at him, feeling his presence ground you even further. “you weren’t interrupting,” you say, leaning into his side. “we were just talking.”

he squeezes your shoulder and looks around at his family, grateful to see how quickly you’ve been embraced. nicole gives him a wink, and the sisters beam at you both, already teasing oscar about how he’s been replaced by you—and mae doesn’t hesitate to mention that you’re way out of his league and he better not screw anything up, making the entire group burst with laughter.

and for a moment, standing there in the middle of it all, surrounded by warmth and laughter, you realize you’re not nervous anymore. you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

[seasprincess]

nerd!rafe x popular!reader

mdni

warnings: smut-handjob, pathetic sub!rafe, this is not cannon Rafe AT ALL

Rafe Cameron is a quiet nerdy boy with about no friends. Where as you, you’re loud and popular, friends with everyone.

Ever since you had joined the school Rafe’s eyes have been on you. Watching you laugh and smile with the people that flocked to you like moths to a flame.

He couldn’t help admire you in a way. But mainly he was admiring your beauty.

He has never spoken to you of course. God no he wouldn’t dream of it. Well that’s not entirely true.

He’s dreamt of it, thought of it, imagined it while his hand was around his length. But not in a perv way of course. No no. Not in the way the other boys do it. In a sweet way. Right?

But no, he couldn’t talk to you. In the world of high school. Rafe isn’t allowed to talk to you. He’s too ‘low’ for you. Which he thinks is stupid but he can’t rewrite the social laws of the school.

So he’ll just sit in class staring at you instead of doing his work. Not like he needs to do more work in class. He’s smart enough to pass a test with just a glance. So here he’ll sit waiting for his chance to talk to you properly. Instead of that couple times you were sweet to him, sticking up for him and that one time he said thank you for you holding open the door. And god did that thought make his heart beat.

But soon enough, here’s his lucky day.

“Rafe, you’ll be working with y/n.” The teachers words ring in his head as his eyes are pulled up from the desk. He turns to face you and sees that you’re looking at him. And he c-wait-you’re looking at him.

He does a double take before seeing you wave at him. A small gesture that means so much to him you don’t even know. So he does a wave back. But he’s shy and awkward so now he’s stressing that he looked weird and seeing your friends giggling and whispering doesn’t help the feeling he’s embarrassed himself.

So quickly he turns away, back to the page on his desk. Drawing random lines on it to make it appear he’s doing something. Doing anything other than looking at you and gawking.

Why does he have to be so shy and embarrassing? Why can’t he be like the popular people like Bryce and Zach? They can just talk to everyone and just be confident all the time. He hates himself for his anxiety that is in the bottom of his stomach everytime anyone even breathes to close to him. He hates it so much th-

“Hey partner.” Rafe’s brought out of his spiral of thoughts when you speak to him. He’s frozen looking up at you, is this real? Or is he dreaming?

“H-hey.” He says, pushing up his glasses on his face as he adjust in his chair.

“So when we doing this project?”

“Anytime. Anytime that’s good for you, I’m free. Like all the time. I’m not doing…anything.” Rafe decides to stop himself from babbling and making himself look like a complete and utter loser.

But all you’re doing is smiling at him. Not pulling the disgusted face he’s use to.

“Tomorrow night? My place?”

“Yeah sure.”

“Cool, do you have snap so I can send you the info?” You say as you pull out your phone. Waiting for him to respond to you.

Rafe rubs the back of his neck as he thinks how to reply to this. He couldn’t say that his mom doesn’t allow him to have social media and even if he was to have it he wouldn’t have enough friends anyway.

“No. I don’t use snap anymore.” He lies.

“Oh right okay. Insta? Tiktok?”

Rafe just shakes his head.

“I can give you my number?”

“Yeah sure okay.”

Rafe gets out his phone, a tiny phone that was probably made eight years ago that his mom told him was ‘cool and trendy’. She’s so wrong it almost hurts.

Rafe had been waiting and waiting for this day. Yes the plans were arranged yesterday but he’s just so excited it’s almost sad really.

But after making his way to your house and you giving him a tour of the mansion you live in. You’re now both sat on your bed.

He’s in your room.

On your bed.

“No you’ll have to tutor me.” You say as you smile before looking back at the work that’s in front of you. You’re laying on the bed as Rafe is sat stiff.

“Tutor you?” Rafe asks, adjusting his glasses again for the second time this minute.

“Well we’re doing this project and I don’t get what it’s about so you’ll have to help me.”

Earlier when Rafe started talking about the project he had presumed that he’d been doing it all himself like he’d usually do with other people. But you insisted you’d actually help. Even if you have been distracted a couple times.

“Yeah sure.” Rafe replies as he smiles, looking down at you. He’s rather close to you it’s making his heart beat so fast. If it beats any faster it’ll pop out his chest like in those cartoons. His eyes might also pop out his head too. We’re just waiting for that.

God he’s so close to you he can smell that perfume you wear every day to school. It hasn’t changed since the first time he met you.

He’s just watching you lay on your stomach on the bed, writing down some things. He just can’t seem to pull his eyes away from you. You just look so beautiful and calm. Of course he has to go and ruin it.

He’s just staring, and before he thinks he leans in and kisses you. His soft lips pressing against yours until he realises what’s happened and pulls back.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He says as he starts panicking. Of course he’s ruining things like he always does. He may be smart when it comes to academics but he’s so stupid when it comes to social situations.

But all you do is smile. Just smile at him before pushing up and climbing onto his lap.

“Oh, oh. Okay…” He says as he holds his breath and looks anywhere but you. His hands don’t touch you. Just in the air, frozen in place by this very unexpected action from you.

So you place his hands on yours hips looking at him before your hands are placed on his cheeks. Gently rubbing them as you look down at him.

“You have a crush on me Rafe?”

Rafe nods as he stares into your eyes. He’s too shy to say anything, and also incredibly aroused by having you here. On his lap. His hand sneaks as he brings it close to his face to adjust his glasses. He look looks up at you like a puppy.

He’s so cute and shy it makes him all the more attractive to you. Some people think he’s all these things but unknown to him you’ve always had some feelings for him. Even if you did try and stop them.

Your hand travels downs Rafe’s body until it reaches his zipper. His dick twitching in his pants as he lets out a low whine. He’s so pathetic it’s so hot to you.

“You want me to touch you Rafe?”

This has escalated very quickly, and as scary it is to Rafe. It’s very exciting for Rafe too. He’s never even held hands with a girl. Or spoken to one for longer than thirty minutes. Twenty minutes. Ten minutes at best.

“Yes please.” He whines out as he wriggles lightly underneath you, he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He has thought about thus situation before but this is not how he was expecting at all.

You smile as you start to kiss him, lips pressing softly against Rafe’s. His lips are soft, different to what you’ve kissed before. Your tongue slips into his mouth which is met by more whines from the boy underneath you.

Your hand slips into Rafe’s pants and before he can say a word you start to stroke him. His dick hard and leaking with precum. He feels slightly embarrassed but that’s quickly stopped as you begin to go faster. And all he can think about is how good it feels and how much better it is than his own hand.

The moans and whimper from this man is heavenly. Making those panties you chose to wear just for him wet.

“Please, please can I cum?” Rafe is begging for this. Begging for this release from you. His whole body is practically shaking. He knows he’s acting needy and pathetic. But he can’t help it. He’s practically brainwashed by you.

He’s a man who could genuinely have any job he’s ever wanted but here he is whining for you. Whinging and moaning and begging. A possible future president is begging to cum.

“Yeah baby. Cum for me.”

You will definitely be doing this again.

a/n: don’t know how to feel about this one and i am still upset over bae’s eyebrows.

[pucksandpower]

Paddock Princess

Formula 1 (literally half the grid) x Vettel!Reader

Summary: when the drivers find out that you’re planning to have a baby all by yourself, they offer to help out by playing sperm roulette … the results are surprisingly wholesome

The buzz of excitement fills the air as the paddock comes to life on a sunny morning. Drivers, team personnel, and media representatives mill about, but there’s a palpable sense of anticipation among a particular group of racers gathered near the Ferrari motorhome.

Max leans against the sleek red structure, his eyes darting around nervously. “Has anyone seen her yet?” He asks, his voice tinged with a mix of excitement and anxiety.

Charles shakes his head, running a hand through his tousled hair. “Not yet. But she should be here soon, right?”

“I still can’t believe we’re doing this,” Lando chimes in, bouncing on his toes. “It’s like something out of a movie.”

Carlos nods in agreement, a grin spreading across his face. “A very strange movie, but I’m here for it.”

George glances at his watch, his brow furrowed. “She’s usually here by now. You don’t think she’s having second thoughts, do you?”

“No way,” Oscar says confidently. “You know her. Once she sets her mind to something, that’s it.”

Lewis, standing slightly apart from the younger drivers, offers a reassuring smile. “Oscar’s right. She’s one of the most determined people I know. If this is what she wants, she’ll see it through.”

Logan, the newest addition to the group, shifts nervously. “I still can’t believe you guys talked me into this. My mom would freak if she knew.”

Alex pats him on the shoulder. “Relax, mate. It’s all anonymous, remember? Besides, think of how happy she’ll be.”

Fernando, leaning against a nearby barrier, nods sagely. “Exactly. We’re doing this for her, because she deserves it.”

Lance, who’s been quiet until now, suddenly straightens up. “Heads up, guys. I think I see her coming.”

The group falls silent as you approach, your press pass swinging from your neck and a warm smile on your face. “Morning, boys,” you greet them cheerfully. “Why do you all look like you’re up to something?”

Max clears his throat, trying to sound casual. “Us? Never. Just, uh, enjoying the nice weather.”

You raise an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. “Uh-huh. And I suppose you’re all gathered here by pure coincidence?”

Charles steps forward, his charm on full display. “Can’t we just be happy to see our favorite reporter?”

You laugh, the sound lightening the mood. “Alright, alright. I’ll play along. But seriously, what’s going on? You’re all acting weird.”

The drivers exchange glances, silently debating who should speak first. Finally, Lewis takes the lead.

“We heard about your decision,” he says gently. “About wanting to have a baby.”

Your eyes widen in surprise. “Oh. I didn’t realize ... I mean, I only told a couple of people.”

Lando grins sheepishly. “Word travels fast in the paddock. Especially when it’s about you.”

You look around at the group, a mix of emotions playing across your face. “Okay, so you know. But that doesn’t explain why you’re all acting like you’re planning a heist.”

Carlos steps forward, his expression earnest. “We want to help.”

You blink, confusion evident in your eyes. “Help? How?”

George takes a deep breath before plunging in. “We’ve all agreed to donate sperm. To give you options, you know?”

Your jaw drops, and for a moment, you’re speechless. “You ... what?”

Oscar jumps in, his words tumbling out in a rush. “We know you said you were thinking about using a sperm bank, but we thought, well, why not use someone you actually know?”

“And trust,” Alex adds quickly.

You look around at the group, your expression a mix of shock, confusion, and something that might be amusement. “Let me get this straight. All of you,” you gesture at the assembled drivers, “want to donate sperm so I can have a baby?”

They nod in unison, and you can’t help but laugh. “This is ... I don’t even know what to say. It’s incredibly sweet, but also completely insane.”

Fernando steps forward, his expression serious. “We know it’s unconventional. But you’re important to all of us. We want to support you in any way we can.”

You shake your head, still trying to process the situation. “I appreciate that, truly. But guys, this is a huge decision. It’s not just about me having a baby. One of you would be a father.”

Max nods, his face set in determination. “We’ve thought about that. A lot, actually.”

“And we’re okay with it,” Lando adds. “Whatever level of involvement you want, we’ll respect that.”

You look at them, your eyes narrowing slightly. “Wait a minute. How exactly would this work? I can’t exactly pick one of you. That would be ...”

“Awkward,” Lance finishes for you. “We know. That’s why we came up with a plan.”

Logan, who’s been quiet until now, speaks up. “We’d all donate, and then the clinic would mix the samples together.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “So it would be like ... artificial insemination roulette?”

Carlos grins. “Exactly! That way, no one knows who the father is. It could be any of us.”

You shake your head, a disbelieving laugh escaping you. “This is absolutely crazy. You know that, right?”

Lewis steps closer, his expression gentle. “Maybe. But we all care about you. We want you to be happy, and we know how much you want this.”

You look around at the group, taking in their earnest expressions. “I don’t know what to say. This is ... a lot to process.”

George nods understandingly. “Of course it is. We don’t expect you to decide right now. Just ... think about it, okay?”

You nod slowly, still looking a bit dazed. “Okay. I’ll think about it. But guys, this is a huge thing you’re offering. Are you sure you’ve really thought it through?”

Alex speaks up, his voice calm and reassuring. “We have. We’ve talked about it a lot, actually. We know it’s not a decision to make lightly.”

“But we’re all in agreement,” Oscar adds. “If this is what you want, we want to help make it happen.”

You take a deep breath, looking around at the group. “I need some time to think about this. It’s ... a lot to take in.”

Max nods, reaching out to squeeze your shoulder gently. “Take all the time you need. We’re not going anywhere.”

As you turn to walk away, still looking a bit shell-shocked, the drivers watch you go with a mix of hope and anxiety.

“Do you think she’ll go for it?” Lando asks, nervously fidgeting with his sleeve.

Charles shrugs, his eyes still following your retreating figure. “I don’t know. It’s a big decision.”

“We’ve done our part,” Fernando says sagely. “Now it’s up to her.”

The group falls into a contemplative silence, each lost in their own thoughts about the potential consequences of their offer.

Several days pass, and the paddock is abuzz with speculation. The drivers have managed to keep their offer under wraps, but your contemplative mood hasn’t gone unnoticed.

You find yourself cornered by the group once again, this time in a quiet corner of the paddock after qualifying.

“So,” Max says, trying to sound casual and failing miserably. “Have you, uh, given any thought to our offer?”

You look around at the expectant faces surrounding you and take a deep breath. “I have, actually. I’ve thought about little else, to be honest.”

The tension in the air is palpable as they wait for your decision.

“I’m still not sure this is the right thing to do,” you begin, and you can see their faces fall. “But ... I can’t deny that the idea has a certain appeal.”

Hope blossoms in their expressions, and you can’t help but smile at their eagerness.

“Before I say yes,” you continue, holding up a hand to stave off their excitement, “I need to know that you’ve all really thought this through. This isn’t just about me having a baby. One of you will be a father, even if we don’t know which one.”

Lewis nods solemnly. “We understand. We’ve talked about it a lot, believe me.”

“And you’re all okay with the possibility of having a child out there that you might never know is yours?” You press.

They exchange glances before nodding in unison.

“We know it’s not a conventional situation,” Charles says. “But we’re all willing to accept whatever comes of this.”

You look at each of them in turn, searching their faces for any sign of doubt. Finding none, you take a deep breath.

“Okay,” you say finally. “If you’re all sure about this ... then yes. I’d be honored to accept your offer.”

The reaction is immediate and overwhelming. Cheers erupt from the group, and before you know it, you’re engulfed in a group hug.

“This is going to be amazing,” Lando exclaims, his face lit up with excitement.

“You’re going to be an incredible mother,” Alex adds, his smile warm and sincere.

As the excitement dies down, practical considerations start to surface.

“So, how do we do this?” Oscar asks. “Do we all just show up at the clinic or ...”

You can’t help but laugh at the mental image. “I think it might be best if we handle this discreetly. I’ll talk to the clinic and set everything up. They can give you instructions on how to make your ... contributions.”

George nods, looking relieved. “That sounds like a good plan. We don’t want this getting out to the media.”

“Agreed,” you say firmly. “This stays between us. No one else needs to know the details.”

The group nods in agreement, and you feel a wave of affection for these men who are willing to go to such lengths for you.

“I can’t believe this is really happening,” you say, shaking your head in wonder.

Fernando smiles, his eyes twinkling. “Believe it. In a few months, you could be on your way to motherhood.”

The reality of the situation starts to sink in, and you feel a mix of excitement and nerves. “This is going to change everything, isn’t it?”

“Change can be good,” Carlos says, giving you a reassuring smile. “And you won’t be alone. We’ll all be here to support you.”

You look around at the group, feeling overwhelmed by their support and affection. “Thank you. All of you. I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you for this.”

Max grins, lightening the mood. “Well, naming the kid after me would be a good start.”

The group erupts in laughter, and you roll your eyes good-naturedly. “Nice try, Verstappen. But I think we’ll be steering clear of any names that might give away paternity.”

As the laughter dies down, a comfortable silence falls over the group. The magnitude of what you’ve all agreed to hangs in the air, but it’s accompanied by a sense of excitement and possibility.

“So,” Lance says, breaking the silence. “I guess the next step is to set up appointments at the clinic?”

You nod, feeling a flutter of nervous excitement in your stomach. “Yeah, I’ll get that sorted out and let you all know the details.”

“And then ...” Logan trails off, looking a bit overwhelmed.

“And then we wait,” Lewis finishes for him. “And hope for the best.”

You look around at the group of men surrounding you, each one ready to potentially become a father for your sake. It’s an unconventional situation, to say the least, but as you take in their supportive smiles and excited eyes, you can’t help but feel that you’re embarking on something truly special.

“Well, boys,” you say, a smile spreading across your face. “I guess we’re really doing this. Let Operation Make A Baby commence.”

***

The hospital waiting room crackles with nervous energy as eleven Formula 1 drivers pace, fidget, and attempt to distract themselves. The air is thick with anticipation, and every time the door opens, heads snap up in unison, hoping for news.

Max runs a hand through his hair for the hundredth time. “How long has it been now?” He asks, his voice tight with tension.

George checks his watch. “About six hours since we got here. But labor can take a while, especially for first-time mothers.”

“I still can’t believe this is really happening,” Lando says, his leg bouncing incessantly. “One of us is about to become a father.”

Charles nods, his eyes fixed on the door. “It’s surreal. I keep thinking I’m going to wake up and find out this was all a dream.”

“Not a dream, mate,” Alex says, patting Charles on the shoulder. “Very much real.”

The door swings open, and a nurse steps out. The drivers collectively hold their breath, but she merely smiles apologetically and heads down the hallway.

Carlos groans. “This waiting is killing me. How are we supposed to just sit here?”

“We could place bets on who the father is,” Logan suggests with a nervous laugh.

Lewis shakes his head, a small smile on his face. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. We agreed we wouldn’t try to figure it out, remember?”

“Lewis is right,” Fernando says sagely. “What matters is that the baby and the mother are healthy.”

Oscar nods in agreement. “Exactly. We’re all in this together, regardless of biology.”

Lance, who’s been quietly observing until now, speaks up. “Do you think she’s scared? I mean, we’re all nervous wrecks out here, and we’re not the ones giving birth.”

The group falls silent, contemplating Lance’s words. It’s a sobering thought, reminding them of the magnitude of what’s happening just beyond those doors.

“She’s strong,” Max says finally, his voice filled with admiration. “Stronger than all of us put together. She’ll be fine.”

As if on cue, the door swings open again, and this time, a doctor steps out. The drivers scramble to their feet, forming a semicircle around her.

“Gentlemen,” the doctor says, a smile playing at her lips. “I’m happy to inform you that both mother and baby are doing well. It’s a healthy baby girl.”

A collective cheer erupts from the group, followed by a flurry of hugs and backslaps. The tension that’s been building for hours finally breaks, replaced by jubilant relief.

“When can we see them?” Charles asks eagerly.

The doctor holds up a hand. “The mother is resting now, but she’s asked to see you all in about an hour. She wants you to meet the baby together.”

As the doctor leaves, the drivers look at each other, a mix of excitement and nerves on their faces.

“A girl,” Lando says, a goofy grin spreading across his face. “We have a daughter.”

“She has a daughter,” Lewis gently corrects. “We’re ... well, I’m not sure what we are exactly.”

“We’re family,” Fernando says firmly. “All of us and the little one.”

The next hour passes in a blur of excited chatter and speculation. Finally, a nurse appears to escort them to the private room where you and the baby are waiting.

As they file into the room, the sight that greets them renders them momentarily speechless. You’re propped up in the bed, looking tired but radiant, cradling a tiny bundle wrapped in a soft pink blanket.

You look up as they enter, a soft smile on your face. “Hey, guys. Come meet your daughter.”

The drivers approach cautiously, as if afraid they might break the spell. You adjust the blanket, revealing a tiny face with rosebud lips and a button nose.

“She’s beautiful,” Max breathes, his eyes wide with wonder.

“She’s perfect,” Charles adds, his voice choked with emotion.

You beam at them, your eyes shining. “Want to hold her?”

After a moment of hesitation, Lewis steps forward. With practiced ease, he gently takes the baby from you, cradling her carefully in his arms.

“Hello, little one,” he coos softly. “Welcome to the world.”

The other drivers crowd around, each wanting a closer look. As Lewis passes the baby to Carlos, the scrutiny intensifies.

“Is it just me, or does she have Max’s nose?” Lando asks, peering closely at the tiny face.

Max leans in, his brow furrowed. “I don’t see it. But those ears ... they look like yours, Lando.”

You can’t help but laugh. “Boys, she’s about one hour old. I think it’s a bit early to be playing guess the father, don’t you?”

The drivers have the grace to look sheepish, but their curiosity is far from satisfied.

As the baby is passed from driver to driver, the observations continue.

“She has a strong grip,” Alex notes as tiny fingers wrap around his thumb. “Definitely going to be a racer.”

“Look at those long eyelashes,” Oscar marvels. “Those have to be from Charles.”

Charles preens a bit at this, while the others roll their eyes good-naturedly.

When it’s Fernando’s turn to hold the baby, he studies her with a thoughtful expression. “You know,” he says slowly, “I think she has your smile.”

You raise an eyebrow. “She hasn’t even smiled yet.”

He shakes his head, a mysterious smile on his face. “Trust me. I can tell.”

As the baby makes her way back to you, the drivers settle into chairs around the room, their eyes never leaving the tiny bundle.

“So,” George says, breaking the comfortable silence. “Have you thought about names?”

You nod, looking down at your daughter. “I have, actually. I was thinking ... Nessa. It means miracle. I thought it was fitting, given how she came into our lives.”

“Nessa,” Logan repeats, testing the name. “I like it. It’s beautiful.”

The others murmur their agreement, and you feel a wave of relief. Naming a baby is hard enough without having to consider the opinions of eleven potential fathers.

“Nessa it is, then,” you say, smiling down at the sleeping infant.

Lance, who’s been quiet until now, speaks up. “Can I ask ... how are you feeling? About all of this, I mean.”

You take a moment to consider the question. “Honestly? I’m overwhelmed. Excited, terrified, grateful ... all at once. But mostly, I’m just in awe. Of her, of this whole situation, of all of you.”

The drivers exchange glances, a mix of emotions playing across their faces.

“We’re the ones who should be in awe of you,” Carlos says softly. “You’ve given us an incredible gift.”

“He’s right,” Max adds. “No matter which one of us is her biological father, we’re all going to love her. And you.”

You feel tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. “Thank you. All of you. I couldn’t have done this without you.”

As if sensing the emotional moment, Nessa chooses that moment to wake up, her tiny face scrunching up as she lets out a wail.

“Oh boy,” Lando says, his eyes wide. “That’s quite a set of lungs she’s got there.”

You laugh, adjusting Nessa in your arms. “Well, she is a paddock baby. Got to make herself heard over those engines somehow.”

As you soothe the baby, the drivers watch in fascination. It’s clear that despite their earlier bravado, the reality of a newborn is a bit daunting.

“So, uh, what happens now?” Oscar asks, voicing the question on everyone’s mind.

You look up from Nessa, who’s settled back into sleep. “Well, we’ll be here for a couple more days. After that ... I guess we figure it out as we go along.”

Lewis nods thoughtfully. “We’ll need to work out a schedule. Make sure you have support, especially during race weekends.”

“And we’ll need to baby-proof our garages,” Alex adds. “Can’t have her crawling into a stack of tires.”

The conversation turns to practical matters — childcare arrangements, safety considerations, and how to balance their racing careers with their new roles as ... well, whatever they are to Nessa.

As they talk, you can’t help but marvel at the scene. Eleven of the world’s most elite drivers, discussing diaper brands and the merits of various baby carriers with the same intensity they usually reserve for tire strategies and aerodynamics.

“You know,” you say, interrupting a heated debate about the best brand of baby formula, “I think Nessa might be the luckiest baby in the world.”

The drivers pause, looking at you quizzically.

You smile, looking around at each of them. “She’s got eleven of the most dedicated, passionate, and competitive men in the world looking out for her. Plus, she’s guaranteed to have the coolest bring your parent to school day ever.”

The room erupts in laughter, the tension of the day finally breaking.

“Just wait until she’s old enough to drive,” Max says with a grin. “We’ll have her in a kart before she can walk.”

“Oh no,” you groan, though you’re smiling. “I’ve created a monster, haven’t I?”

“Eleven monsters,” Charles corrects with a wink. “Don’t forget, we’re all in this together.”

As the laughter dies down, a comfortable silence falls over the room. Nessa sleeps peacefully in your arms, blissfully unaware of the extraordinary circumstances of her birth and the unique family she’s been born into.

Fernando breaks the silence. “You know,” he says thoughtfully, “in many ways, this little one embodies the spirit of Formula 1.”

The others look at him curiously, waiting for him to elaborate.

“Think about it,” he continues. “She’s the product of competition, of pushing boundaries, of taking risks. But she’s also about teamwork, about coming together for a common goal. Just like us on the track.”

The drivers nod, considering Fernando’s words.

“Plus,” Logan adds with a grin, “she’s already got a better sleep schedule than most of us during a race weekend.”

Another round of laughter fills the room, and you feel a surge of affection for these men who have become so much more than colleagues or even friends.

As visiting hours come to an end and the nurses start to shoo the drivers out, there’s a reluctance to leave. Each of them takes a moment to say goodbye to Nessa, promising to return soon.

Before they go, Lewis gathers everyone into a tight circle around your bed.

“I think we need to make a pact,” he says solemnly. “No matter what happens, no matter how our careers go or how life changes, we stick together for Nessa. She’s part of all of us now.”

The drivers nod in agreement, their faces serious.

“For Nessa,” Max says, placing his hand in the center of the circle.

One by one, the others follow suit, until all eleven hands are stacked together.

“For Nessa,” they chorus, and in that moment, you know that whatever challenges lie ahead, you and your daughter will never face them alone.

As the drivers file out, casting longing glances back at the sleeping baby, you settle back against your pillows, exhausted but content.

Looking down at Nessa’s peaceful face, you whisper, “Welcome to the world, little one. You’ve got quite the adventure ahead of you.”

And as you drift off to sleep, you can’t help but smile at the thought of the unconventional but loving family waiting just outside those hospital doors, ready to take on the world for the tiny girl in your arms.

***

The paddock rushes with activity as teams prepare for the upcoming race weekend. But between the usual hustle and bustle, an unusual sight catches everyone’s attention: you, pushing a stroller with a now six-month-old Nessa, surrounded by a protective circle of drivers.

Max hovers close, his eyes darting around warily. “Are you sure this was a good idea? Bringing her to the track?”

You laugh, adjusting Nessa’s sun hat. “Max, she’s been coming to races since she was born. This is nothing new.”

“Yeah, but now she’s old enough to attract attention,” Charles points out, cooing at Nessa as she gurgles happily.

Lando nods in agreement. “People are starting to ask questions. Did you see that article in Autosport last week?”

You sigh, remembering the speculative piece about Nessa’s parentage. “I saw it. But we knew this day would come eventually.”

As the group makes their way through the paddock, heads turn and whispers follow. The sight of eleven of the world’s top drivers fawning over one baby is certainly not an everyday occurrence.

Carlos leans in, speaking softly. “Maybe we should have come up with a cover story. You know, pick one of us to pretend to be the father.”

George shakes his head. “No, we agreed from the start — no lies. We’re all in this together, remember?”

“Easier said than done,” Logan mutters, noticing a group of journalists eyeing them curiously.

As they approach the Mercedes garage, Lewis spots a familiar face and freezes. “Uh, guys? We might have a problem.”

The others follow his gaze to see your older brother, striding purposefully towards the group. His expression is a mix of confusion and growing anger.

“Seb!” You exclaim, trying to sound casual. “What are you doing here? I thought you were in Switzerland.”

Sebastian ignores your greeting, his eyes narrowing as he takes in the scene before him. “What’s going on here?” He demands, his gaze sweeping over the assembled drivers.

The group exchanges nervous glances, each silently hoping someone else will take the lead.

Finally, Fernando steps forward, ever the diplomat. “Sebastian, my friend. It’s good to see you. Perhaps we could discuss this somewhere more private?”

But Sebastian is having none of it. His eyes lock onto Lewis, who instinctively takes a step back. “Lewis?” He says, his voice dangerously quiet. “Care to explain why you and half the grid are hovering around my sister and a baby?”

Lewis swallows hard, looking to the others for support. Finding none, he takes a deep breath. “Seb, it’s not what you think. Well, it is, but also it isn’t. You see-”

“Lewis?” Sebastian explodes, his face reddening. “I thought better of you!”

The outburst draws even more attention, and you can see team personnel and journalists alike straining to hear what’s happening.

Lewis, caught off guard by Sebastian’s reaction, blurts out, “In my defense, I thought I would get to fuck her!”

A collective gasp goes up from the group, and you bury your face in your hands, mortified.

Sebastian’s eyes widen in shock and fury. “Tha- what? How would that make it better?”

Realizing his mistake, Lewis backpedals frantically. “No, no, that came out wrong! I didn’t mean-”

But Sebastian is beyond listening. He lunges forward, only to be held back by Alex and Oscar.

“Let me go!” Sebastian growls, struggling against their grip. “I’m going to kill him!”

Nessa, startled by the commotion, begins to cry. The sound seems to snap everyone back to reality.

“Enough!” You shout, your voice cutting through the chaos. “All of you, into the motorhome. Now!”

Chastened, the drivers file into the nearby Red Bull motorhome, with Alex and Oscar still keeping a firm grip on Sebastian. You follow, pushing Nessa’s stroller and trying to soothe her.

Once inside, with the door firmly closed against prying eyes and ears, you turn to face the group. Sebastian stands at one end, still glaring daggers at Lewis, who’s wisely put Max and Charles between them.

“Alright,” you say, your voice tight with frustration. “I guess it’s time we explained everything.”

Over the next hour, you and the drivers take turns recounting the story — from your decision to have a baby, to their unconventional offer, to Nessa’s birth and the months since. Sebastian listens in stunned silence, his expression cycling through disbelief, confusion, and finally, grudging understanding.

When the tale is finished, Sebastian slumps into a chair, running a hand over his face. “So let me get this straight,” he says slowly. “You,” he points at you, “decided to have a baby on your own. And you lot,” he gestures at the drivers, “thought the best solution was to play some kind of ... paternity lottery?”

Lance nods hesitantly. “When you put it like that, it does sound a bit mad.”

“A bit?” Sebastian laughs incredulously. “It’s completely insane!”

“But it worked,” Carlos points out, gently rocking Nessa, who has calmed down and is now contentedly chewing on his finger. “Look at her, Seb. She’s perfect.”

Sebastian’s expression softens as he looks at his niece. “She is beautiful,” he admits. Then, turning back to the group, he adds sternly, “But that doesn’t excuse the fact that you all took advantage of my sister!”

“They didn’t take advantage of me,” you interject firmly. “This was my choice. They were just ... supporting me.”

“By offering to impregnate you?” Sebastian retorts, his protective big brother instincts in full force.

George steps forward, his expression earnest. “Sebastian, I know how this looks. But we care about your sister. All of us. We just wanted to help make her dream come true.”

“And create the world’s most confusing family tree in the process,” Logan mutters, earning a sharp elbow from Lando.

Sebastian sighs, looking around at the assembled drivers. “I still can’t believe you all agreed to this. Do you have any idea what you’re getting into? The media frenzy when this gets out?”

Fernando shrugs philosophically. “Life is full of challenges. This is just another one.”

“Easy for you to say,” Max grumbles. “You’re basically past retirement age. Some of us still have our whole careers ahead of us.”

The room falls silent as the reality of their situation sinks in. The secret they’ve managed to keep for over a year is on the verge of exploding into the public eye.

“So what do we do now?” Oscar asks, voicing the question on everyone’s mind.

You look down at Nessa, who’s drifted off to sleep in Carlos’ arms, blissfully unaware of the storm brewing around her. “We tell the truth,” you say firmly. “Or at least, as much of it as we’re comfortable sharing.”

Sebastian raises an eyebrow. “And what exactly does that mean?”

Lewis, who’s been uncharacteristically quiet since his earlier outburst, speaks up. “We could say that we all agreed to help you have a child, but keep the details private. No need to mention the ... um, method.”

“You mean the part where you thought you would get to fuck her?” Sebastian growls, causing Lewis to wince.

“I really am sorry about that,” Lewis says sheepishly. “It came out all wrong.”

You shake your head, exasperated. “Focus, boys. We need a plan.”

Over the next hour, the group hashes out a strategy. They decide to release a joint statement explaining that you had chosen to become a single mother, and that the drivers, as your close friends, had offered their support. The exact nature of that support would remain private.

As they finalize the details, Sebastian watches the interactions with growing amazement. The way the drivers instinctively work together, finishing each other’s sentences and anticipating potential issues, speaks to a bond that goes beyond mere friendship or even shared paternity.

“You know,” he says finally, interrupting a debate about whether to use the phrase ‘unconventional family’ in their statement, “I think I owe you all an apology.”

The room falls silent, all eyes turning to Sebastian.

He continues, his voice softer now. “I reacted badly earlier. But seeing you all now, how you’ve come together for my sister and for Nessa ... it’s actually kind of beautiful.”

You feel tears pricking at your eyes as you move to hug your brother. “Thank you, Seb. That means a lot.”

As you pull away, Sebastian turns to address the group. “But let me make one thing clear,” he says, his tone becoming stern once more. “If any of you ever hurt my sister or my niece, you’ll have me to answer to. Understood?”

The drivers nod solemnly, a mixture of respect and residual fear in their eyes.

“Good,” Sebastian says, a small smile finally breaking through. “Now, who’s going to let me hold my niece?”

As Carlos carefully transfers the sleeping Nessa to Sebastian’s arms, the tension in the room finally dissipates. Watching your brother coo over your daughter, surrounded by the unconventional family you’ve built, you feel a sense of peace wash over you.

“Well,” Lando says, breaking the moment, “I guess the hardest part’s over. Now we just have to explain this to the rest of the world.”

Alex laughs, shaking his head. “Mate, I think that might actually be the easy part. It’s raising her that’s going to be the real challenge.”

As the group dissolves into laughter, discussing potential future scenarios (“Who’s going to teach her to drive?” “All of us, obviously!” “God help us all.”), you can’t help but marvel at the strange and wonderful turn your life has taken.

Looking around at the men who have become so much more than colleagues or friends — who have become family in the truest sense of the word — you know that whatever challenges lie ahead, you’ll face them together. And really, with a support system like this, how can you possibly fail?

As the laughter and chatter continue around you, Nessa stirs in Sebastian’s arms, her tiny hand reaching out. Without hesitation, eleven hands reach back, each driver gently touching a finger or offering a thumb for her to grasp.

In that moment, watching the most competitive men in motorsport melt over one tiny girl, you know that no matter what the future holds, Nessa will never lack for love, support, or, undoubtedly, speed.

***

The sun beats down on the jam-packed karting track, the air thick with the scent of fuel and the buzz of excitement. Amid the crowd of nervous parents and eager young racers, one group stands out: eleven men, a mix of current and former Formula 1 drivers, clustered around a small kart where an eight-year-old girl sits, her hair pulled back in a tight ponytail and her face a mask of determination.

“Remember, Nessa,” Max says, kneeling beside the kart to look the girl in the eye, “smooth on the throttle, late on the brakes.”

Charles leans in from the other side. “But not too late, mon chou. You don’t want to lock up in the corners.”

“And watch your lines,” Lewis adds, adjusting Nessa’s helmet. “The racing line isn’t always the optimal when you’re being pressured.”

Nessa nods solemnly, taking in every word. “I know, I know. We’ve been over this a million times.”

Lando grins, ruffling her hair. “That’s our girl. You’ve got this, kiddo.”

Around them, other parents and children stare in disbelief. Whispers ripple through the crowd as people recognize the famous faces surrounding the young racer.

“Is that really Lewis Hamilton?” One mother hisses to her husband.

“And Max Verstappen!” The man replies, his eyes wide. “What are they doing here?”

A nearby father shakes his head in amazement. “I heard rumors about that kid, but I didn’t believe them. How can she have so many ... well, fathers?”

Meanwhile, you stand slightly apart from the group, watching the scene with a mix of pride and amusement. Your brother sidles up beside you.

“You know,” he says with a wry smile, “when I imagined my niece’s first race, I didn’t quite picture this circus.”

You laugh, nudging him with your elbow. “Oh come on, you love it. Besides, you’re just as bad as the rest of them.”

As if to prove your point, Sebastian’s eyes narrow as he spots Carlos making a last-minute adjustment to Nessa’s kart. “Hey!” He calls out, striding over. “What are you doing to her suspension?”

Carlos looks up, startled. “Just a small tweak. The track’s a bit bumpy on turn three.”

“It’s fine as it is,” George interjects, crouching down to inspect the kart. “Any softer and she’ll lose responsiveness in the chicane.”

“Actually,” Fernando chimes in, “a slight adjustment might help. But not too much, Carlos.”

As the debate over suspension settings intensifies, Alex notices Nessa’s growing nervousness. He kneels beside her, speaking softly. “Hey, little racer. How are you feeling?”

Nessa bites her lip, her eyes darting between her arguing fathers and the other young racers preparing for the race. “What if I let them down?” She whispers. “They’re all so excited.”

Alex’s expression softens. “Oh, Nessa. You could never let us down. We’re proud of you no matter what happens out there.”

“He’s right,” Oscar adds, overhearing the conversation. “We’re here because we love you, not because we expect you to win.”

“Although winning would be nice,” Logan quips, earning a chorus of groans and eye-rolls from the others.

“What Logan means,” Lance says, shooting a glare at his fellow driver, “is that we want you to do your best and, most importantly, have fun.”

Nessa nods, a small smile finally breaking through her nervous expression. “Okay. I’ll try.”

As the call comes for racers to take their positions, the group reluctantly steps back, allowing Nessa to maneuver her kart to the starting line. You move forward, leaning in to give your daughter a quick kiss on the cheek.

“Remember,” you say softly, “you’re amazing, no matter what happens out there. And we love you more than anything.”

Nessa beams at you, her earlier nerves seeming to melt away. “I love you too. And all my dads,” she adds with a giggle, looking at the assembled drivers.

As you step back to join the others, the atmosphere around you changes. The playful bickering and nervous energy give way to a focused intensity that you recognize from countless race weekends. Eleven pairs of eyes are locked on the small figure in the pink and white kart, second row on the starting grid.

The lights begin their sequence, and you can almost feel the collective intake of breath from the men around you. Green! The karts surge forward, and Nessa makes a good start, holding her position into the first corner.

“That’s it, ma princesse!” Charles cheers, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “Hold your line!”

“Watch your inside on turn two,” Max mutters, as if Nessa could hear him. “There’s space if you need it.”

As the race progresses, the commentary from the drivers becomes a constant stream, analyzing every move, every overtake, every defensive maneuver. Other parents cast bewildered glances their way, clearly overwhelmed by the level of scrutiny being applied to what they had assumed would be a casual children’s race.

Midway through the race, Nessa makes a bold move, diving down the inside of the leader into a tight hairpin. The karts touch slightly, and for a heart-stopping moment, it looks like both might spin.

“Steady!” Lewis calls out, his body tensing as if he could somehow influence the outcome through sheer will.

But Nessa manages to control the kart, emerging from the corner in the lead as the other driver runs wide.

The group erupts in cheers, their earlier promises of “it’s not about winning” seemingly forgotten in the heat of the moment.

“Did you see that move?” Lando exclaims, practically bouncing with excitement. “That was pure Norris!”

“Excuse me,” Charles interjects, a proud grin on his face, “I think you mean pure Leclerc. That finesse under pressure? All Ferrari.”

“Oh please,” George scoffs good-naturedly. “That was clearly a Russell special. Calculated risk with perfect execution.”

As the friendly argument over whose racing style Nessa has inherited continues, Sebastian leans in close to you. “You know,” he says, his voice a mix of amusement and resignation, “I’m starting to think we created a monster.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Oh, we definitely did. But look how happy they all are.”

Indeed, as you watch the men who have become your family over the past eight years, you’re struck by the pure joy radiating from them. Their focus is entirely on Nessa, their own achievements and rivalries forgotten in their shared pride for this little girl who has somehow become the center of their world.

As the final lap approaches, Nessa is still in the lead, but with another driver close on her tail. The tension among the group reaches fever pitch.

“Come on, Nessa,” Fernando murmurs, his eyes never leaving the track. “You’ve got this. Stay focused.”

“Defend the inside line,” Carlos advises, as if she could hear him. “Don’t give them any space.”

The last corner approaches, and the second-place kart makes a desperate lunge for the inside line. For a moment, it looks like Nessa might be overtaken at the last second.

“No, no, no,” Alex mutters, his hands clenched into fists.

But Nessa holds her nerve, taking a slightly wider line and using her momentum to slingshot out of the corner and across the finish line, just ahead of her rival.

The eruption of cheers from the group of F1 drivers drowns out even the sound of the karts. They jump, hug each other, and pump their fists in the air as if Nessa had just won the World Drivers’ Championship.

As Nessa brings her kart to a stop in the pit area, she’s immediately surrounded by her fathers, each clamoring to be the first to congratulate her.

“That was incredible, little love!” Lewis exclaims, helping her out of the kart.

“You drove like a champion,” Max adds, his face split by an enormous grin.

“I’m so proud of you, mon petit champion,” Charles says, pulling her into a tight hug.

The other parents watch in amazement as Nessa is passed from one racing legend to another, each offering praise, analysis, and suggestions for improvement in equal measure.

“I can’t believe what I’m seeing,” one father mutters to his wife. “How is this fair? That kid has a whole F1 pit crew!”

His wife shushes him, but nods in agreement, her eyes wide as she watches the scene unfold.

Meanwhile, you make your way through the crowd of excited drivers to reach your daughter. As you approach, the men part to let you through, their chatter dying down.

You kneel in front of Nessa, taking in her flushed cheeks and bright eyes. “How do you feel, sweetheart?” You ask softly.

Nessa’s face breaks into a wide grin. “That was amazing! Did you see when I overtook on the hairpin? And the last corner, I thought for sure he was going to pass me, but I remembered what Papa Fernando said about late apexes, and it worked!”

You laugh, pulling her into a hug. “I saw it all, baby. You were incredible.”

As you release her, Nessa looks around at the circle of beaming faces surrounding her. “Did I make you proud?” She asks, a hint of her earlier nervousness returning.

“Proud doesn’t even begin to cover it,” Sebastian says, ruffling her hair affectionately.

“You exceeded all our expectations,” Fernando adds with a warm smile.

“And trust me,” Lando chimes in with a wink, “our expectations were pretty high to begin with.”

As Nessa basks in the praise and attention of her unconventional family, a race official approaches, looking slightly overwhelmed.

“Excuse me,” he says hesitantly, “but we need to do the podium ceremony now.”

The drivers reluctantly step back, allowing Nessa to follow the official to the makeshift podium. As she takes her place on the top step, her face beaming with pride, you find yourself surrounded by eleven grown men, each looking as proud as if they had just won a world championship themselves.

“You know,” Oscar says softly, his eyes never leaving Nessa as she receives her trophy, “I think we might be in trouble.”

“What do you mean?” You ask, turning to look at him.

He grins, a mixture of pride and mock fear in his eyes. “If she’s this good at eight, can you imagine what she’ll be like at eighteen? We might be out of jobs.”

The group chuckles, but there’s a note of truth in Oscar’s words. As you watch Nessa on the podium, her small hands raised in triumph, you can’t help but wonder what the future holds for this extraordinary little girl with her eleven F1 driver fathers.

But for now, as the sound of applause fills the air and you see the pure joy on Nessa’s face, you push those thoughts aside. There will be time enough for worrying about the future later. For now, you’re content to bask in this moment of triumph, surrounded by the most unconventional and wonderful family you could have ever imagined.

As Nessa runs back to the group, her trophy clutched tightly in her hands, she’s enveloped in a group hug that threatens to lift her off her feet. And in that moment, watching the pure love and pride radiating from these men who have given your daughter so much more than just their DNA, you know that no matter what challenges lie ahead, Nessa will always have the strongest support system imaginable.

After all, with her fathers in her corner, how can she possibly fail?

[joemama-2]

velvet lies

pairing: gojo x fem reader synopsis: crippling debt and possible evictions have ruined you. working two jobs with no downtime, and a five-year-old son, you really don't know the meaning of taking a break. after continuous questions about his father, you have decided to finally let your son meet his dad. only thing is, he has no idea said son exists. and to top it off, you have not a single clue about what kinds of things will transpire from this sudden revelation. wc: 11.9k tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, fluff, romance, alcohol, classism, mom! reader, lying, abuse, MAJOR angst, slow burn, exes to lovers, (mentions of) cheating, scandals, death, blood, drugs, drama, family drama, miscommunication, blackmail, unhealthy coping mechanisms , depression, manipulation a/n: dishin these chaps out series masterlist < previous chapter < next chapter

Himari is not having a good day. 

First, her burgundy patent leather Saint Laurent Nano Sac De Jour bag is ruined by the help accidentally dropping it on the dirty sidewalk, she lost her favorite lipgloss, and finally, probably the worst of them all, her so-called “boyfriend” isn’t acting very boyfriendly. Sure, he took her out just last night for dinner, and sure he fucked her good when they got back to her place, but he left before she even woke up. Treating her like she’s just a dirty hooker. He’s barely even responding to her texts, letting his ringing go to voicemail. She’s confused, annoyed, and extremely infuriated. There’s no reason for him to be acting like this all of a sudden; she’s his girlfriend for crying out loud.

So why is he being so secretive and mysterious all of a sudden? Why is he almost acting like he doesn’t have a girlfriend?

The sound of her red bottom heels pacing her living room is the only thing heard in the spacious environment. Biting her French-tipped thumbnail, eyes flickering to her cell phone that lays face up on the glass coffee table constantly. She has a right to act this way, she thinks to herself. Did she do something wrong? Did she make him mad? The sharp click of her red-bottom heels echoes through the pristine silence of her living room, the noise rhythmic but erratic as her thoughts spiral. Himari continues to gnaw on her perfectly manicured French-tipped nail, her polished demeanor crumbling bit by bit. As she keeps looking back at her phone, it’s like a silent challenge she can’t seem to ignore. The empty screen glares back at her, fueling her growing anxiety. She’s his girlfriend, after all. What could she have said wrong? She doesn’t remember doing anything to upset him. 

Her mind races, replaying every interaction over the past few days. The dinner last night, the way his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. The fleeting moments of silence during their conversations, like he was somewhere else entirely. And this morning—no note, no text, no explanation. Just...nothing. She takes a seat and her nails dig into the leather armrest of her designer couch. Glaring at her phone again, willing it to light up with his name. But of course, the screen remains stubbornly dark.

No. This isn’t her fault. Satoru is the one being distant and evasive. He’s the one shutting her out. This is not her fault.  Her heel taps against the floor, her frustration bubbling over. Maybe he’s testing her, she reasons. Trying to see if she’ll chase him. What a bastard.

Her jaw tightens, her perfectly sculpted features twisted in a mixture of anger and determination. Twirling a piece of her long, lusciously healthy caramel hair. No, she decides, she won’t let him get away with this. She’s not some woman he can keep on the sidelines, only to toss a crumb of attention whenever it suits him. If Satoru thinks she’ll just sit here and wait, he’s gravely mistaken. She’s Himari Nakamura for god’s sake, her parents own Tenka Couture—one of the most, if not the most sought out and luxurious fashion brand in all of Japan. 

She grabs her phone and scrolls through her contacts, pausing at his name. Her thumb hovers over the call button, but instead, she opts for something more pointed—a text, again.

We need to talk. Don’t keep me waiting.

The message is curt, sharp, and dripping with the subtle implication that she’s losing patience. Tossing the phone back on the table, she exhales sharply, her chest rising and falling as she tries to reel in her emotions. But it’s no use. The uncertainty, the rejection—it’s eating her alive.

Himari’s gaze flickers to the ornate mirror hanging on the far wall, her reflection staring back at her with a mix of vulnerability and fury. She’s not used to feeling like this—out of control, discarded. Satoru has always been the one to chase, to charm, to reassure her of her place in his life.

So why now? Why does it feel like he’s slipping through her fingers?

A sudden, dark thought creeps into her mind, unbidden but insistent. What if there’s someone else?

Her stomach churns, the idea sending a fresh wave of anger coursing through her veins. No. That can’t be it. Satoru wouldn’t dare. Would he? The phone buzzes, jolting her from her spiraling thoughts. Her heart leaps, but when she sees the name on the screen, her hope evaporates.

It’s not Satoru. It’s his mother. She stares at the screen, her thumb hesitating over the answer button. What could she possibly want? She finally concedes, pushing her hair over her shoulder, and smiling. ��Hello, Mrs. Gojo. What a pleasure to speak to you again.” She greets the older woman on the phone with a wave of politeness. 

“Ah, yes. Himari, are you busy right now?” Satoru’s mother, Akane Gojo, replies back. Her aged voice mixed with a hint of reluctance that makes Himari want to call her a bitch. She doesn’t—she’ll never. She’s not that idiotic. 

“No, ma’am. I’m not, may I ask why?”

“Well, I was wondering if you happened to know where my son is. My husband has been trying to get a hold of him all day and he isn’t answering. Is he with you?”

So, he’s not with his parents either. That’s even more shady. Just what the hell is he up to? “No, actually, I don’t know where he is. I haven’t seen him since yesterday. I was starting to get a little worried.”

Himari hears the other woman sighing over the phone, muttering something about how her son is a headache. "Well," Akane begins again, her tone sharp with a tinge of frustration, "if you do hear from him, could you tell him to stop avoiding his family? It's unlike him to ignore us like this."

"Of course, ma'am. I'll let him know as soon as I can." Himari’s voice is syrupy sweet, masking her own irritation.

"Good. Thank you, dear." There's a beat of silence before Akane continues, her tone shifting to something more pointed. "And, Himari, I hope you understand how important Satoru's family obligations are. It’s important he doesn’t forget that."

Himari freezes for a moment, the subtle jab not lost on her. "Of course, ma'am," she replies smoothly, though her grip tightens on the phone. The call ends, leaving Himari staring at the blank screen, her mind racing. Family obligations. Avoiding his parents. Acting strange. All of it points to one undeniable truth: Satoru is hiding something. Her nails drum against the glass coffee table as she processes Akane's words. For a moment, she considers whether Satoru’s mysterious behavior has to do with the Gojo Group’s business dealings. But no, he’s always managed to balance that side of his life without much issue.

This time, it feels...personal almost. She stands abruptly, pacing the length of her living room once more. If his own mother doesn’t know where he is, then who does? 

Satoru, the wealthy, trust fund man that he is, has multiple places he calls homes. It’s proof of the fact that he has money, lots of it—more than what he knows what to do with. There’s the high-rise penthouse, where most people will find him. Next, the Next, the sprawling countryside estate nestled just outside the city—a retreat designed for privacy, complete with lush gardens, a pristine pool, and the kind of modern architecture that graces the covers of luxury magazines. This place, he rarely visits, but it’s there, waiting for him whenever he craves solitude away from the chaos of his social and family obligations. Then there’s the minimalist townhouse downtown, a sleek and understated property he keeps for the sake of convenience. Its location near the financial district makes it the perfect spot for impromptu meetings or when he wants to blend into the hustle and bustle of the city without drawing too much attention.

And finally, there’s the seaside villa. A true gem perched on a cliff with an uninterrupted view of the ocean. It's a home reserved for moments when life feels particularly overwhelming, a place where he can lose himself in the sound of the waves crashing below and the horizon stretching endlessly before him. Each property represents a different facet of his life: the penthouse for the public figure, the estate for the privileged heir, the townhouse for the businessman, and the villa for the man who sometimes just wants to escape it all.

Despite all these homes, none of them feel like home.

Lately, though, he’s been spending more time in places that aren’t tied to his wealth—places like a run-down apartment complex on the other side of town. It’s jarring, even for him, to walk through the cracked pavement and hear the hum of buzzing fluorescent lights in the lobby. But that’s where she is. Where they are. 

After seeing that place for the first time a few days ago, he automatically felt uneasy—maybe even disgusted. That is not the kind of place he wants his son being raised, where he wants you living. It’s a place for the unsavory group of people. Sure, it’s a little thoughtless of him to think these things because everyone has different situations, like you for example. But as stated before, he’s a spoiled brat to the core. So while he didn’t outwardly show it (at least he thinks so), Satoru hates the place you and his son call home. 

He’s brewing in these thoughts in his villa. Sitting on the white lawn chair, watching the pearly waves hit the shore and back. His phone’s on silent, taking pleasure in his solitude. For a second, he entertains the brief thought of being with his son and you instead. He can imagine the smile that grows on his face, watching the pretty sight in front of him. He can almost picture it clearly: the sight of you two laughing, Koji’s excited chatter, and the way your eyes soften when you look at him. It’s a nice thought, but he quickly dismisses it. You’ve made your choices, his choices for him. 

Still, the image lingers in his mind. Koji, smiling up at him, full of admiration. You, guarded yet warm, offering him a smile that could mean more if he allowed himself to lean into it. The waves crash again, louder this time, and Satoru snaps out of his reverie. His fingers twitch at the side of his chair, but he doesn’t reach for his phone. Instead, he forces himself to stay present. The world he’s created for himself is simpler when it’s just him. No obligations, no questions he doesn’t want to answer. But that image of you and Koji is still there, in the back of his mind. 

He doesn’t know why, sure he can imagine himself being with his son. But you too? The woman who lied behind his back for years, the woman who he doesn’t know would’ve ever told him if his best friend didn’t run into you? He sighs, a frustration that isn’t entirely his own settling in his chest. The villa’s quiet, but his thoughts are anything but. He looks out over the horizon, trying to push the feelings away, but they remain, a constant whisper in the back of his mind. What if things could be different? 

But there’s no going back now. The phone buzzes again, but this time, he ignores it. He can’t afford to entertain any distractions—not now. The solitude feels safer, at least for now. He’ll drive back in a few hours, but for now, he likes it here. 

“You look like you’d be a good mom.”

You falter, hands pausing around the pot of hyacinths. Giving your boyfriend a weird look, one of confusion and small disbelief. “Hah, what?”

He simply shrugs, watching you go back to fixing the displays of flowers. He’s half tempted to spout some cheesy line about how you’re prettier than the plants, but he’s already done that five times today. He watches you with that signature grin that says he knows exactly what he’s doing. “What? It’s true,” he says with a shrug, his pale blue eyes sparkling with amusement.“Yeah, you know—you got those like, instinctual mother thingies.”

“What even makes you say that?” You huff. 

“I’ve seen you with kids.”

“And?”

“Andddd,” he drags the words out, dramatically rolling his eyes. “I like it, looks good.”

You can’t help but snort, shaking your head at his ridiculousness. “You’re unbelievable.”

“No, really,” he insists, his tone softening just enough to make you glance up at him again. “You’re kind, patient—except with me, obviously—and you care. It’s cute.”

Despite yourself, a small smile tugs at your lips. “You’re so weird to even be thinking about that right now.”

“Maybe,” he says, stepping closer and brushing a stray piece of hair from your face. “But I’m not wrong.” For a moment, his words hang in the air, and you find yourself wondering what it might mean—if he’s just teasing, or if he’s thinking about something more. The thought makes your chest tighten in a way you can’t quite name.

“You’re really something, Gojo,” you mutter, shaking your head as you turn back to the flowers, hoping he doesn’t notice the faint warmth creeping up your cheeks. “We’re nineteen and you’re immature.”

“Something amazing, obviously,” he replies without missing a beat, his grin widening. And just like that, the moment lightens, though his words linger in the back of your mind long after he’s stopped teasing. “And I’m not immature—at least not too much.”

You hum, rolling your eyes. “Debatable.”

He leans on the counter again, his head tilted as he watches you with that annoyingly familiar mix of mischief and curiosity. “Debatable? Come on. I’m the perfect blend of maturity and charm. Like... the top-tier boyfriend package.”

“Top-tier, huh?” you say dryly, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips despite yourself. “Is that what you call forgetting our coffee date last week?”

“That was one time!” he protests, holding up a hand like he’s pleading his case in court. “And I made up for it, didn’t I? Flowers and donuts. And sex.”

“Uh-huh, right, right.” You dismissively respond. 

“You know, someday you’re going to look back at nineteen-year-old me and think, ‘Wow, I was so lucky to date this guy.’”

“Or I’ll think, ‘What was I thinking?’” you counter, though your smile gives you away.

Satoru laughs, his hand brushing against yours for just a moment as he reaches for the pot of hyacinths. “Nah, you’ll think, ‘Man, this guy’s been stealing my heart since day one.’”

You roll your eyes again, but the warmth in your chest lingers. Even if you won’t admit it, a small part of you wonders if he’s right.

You sigh this time, brushing your hand over the petals of the purple hyacinth. Its fragrance fills the space between you two, sweet and heavy, like the weight of the moment you’re trying to ignore. “You’re way too confident, you know that?”

“I prefer the term self-assured,” Satoru counters, but there’s something softer in his tone now. Less teasing, more genuine. He leans a little closer, his eyes fixed on you like he’s trying to memorize this moment. “And hey, don’t act like you don’t love it.”

Your fingers are still against the stem, and for just a second, the air shifts. His words hang between you like a thread, fragile and thin, threatening to snap. “You’re exhausting, Gojo,” you murmur, your voice quieter this time. But there’s no bite to your words, only a faint ache you can’t quite name. 

“And yet, you keep me around,” he says softly, his grin faltering into something smaller, more vulnerable. His hand brushes against yours again, deliberate this time, and your breath catches. His longer fingers interlacing with your own, bringing the back of your hand up to plant one kiss, then another, and another to your skin—slowly making his way up your arm.

“Sometimes I wonder why,” you admit, a half-hearted laugh escaping you as you shake your head. The pot in your hands feels heavier than it should, your grip tightening just slightly. Reveling in the warm feeling of his lips, a small breath of air leaving you.

He doesn’t answer right away, and when you glance up at him, you find his gaze steady on yours. There’s no mischief now, no playful grin. Just him. Just Satoru. “Maybe it’s because we fit,” he says finally, his voice almost a whisper. “Even if it’s messy or complicated... it feels like it’s supposed to be this way.” His lips are now on your shoulder, marking up to your neck; to which he spends extra time at.

Your chest tightens, and you quickly look back at the flowers, pretending to adjust the display again. “You’re talking like we’re some kind of fairytale, Satoru.” Your hand lets go of the pot, settling it back on its shelf. Cheeks beginning to heat up and you do your best to hold in the pathetic mewl that threatens to leave your mouth when he sucks just a little too sharp.

“Maybe we are,” he replies without hesitation, and there’s a sincerity in his voice that makes your heart ache. But fairytales don’t last, you think, the thought clawing at the edges of your mind like a dark shadow. You don’t say it out loud, though. Instead, you force a small laugh, pushing the heaviness aside.

“You’re too much,” you murmur, shaking your head again, eyes closing shut.

Satoru watches you for a long moment before leaning up to your ear. You feel his grin returning, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes this time. “Maybe. But you love me anyway.”

You don’t respond, but the silence that follows feels louder than it should. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you know this moment—this version of you and him—is fleeting. Like the flowers in the pot before you, it’s beautiful, but it won’t last forever, especially with how…different you two are. You don’t tell him that, though. Instead, you smile faintly, keeping your eyes on the flowers, and let the moment linger just a little longer. Letting him continue to worship your skin in kisses, reaching your lips in a magnetizing way that always leaves you begging for more. It’s your own way of letting yourself bask in the simplicity and intimacy of one another, pushing back the brutal thought that this could all change. 

Preparing yourself for the worst, the inevitable because you’re too afraid to admit to yourself that you’re already playing a dangerous game, already biting off more than you can chew. 

The weight of your unspoken fears settles heavily in your chest, threatening to suffocate the fragile warmth between you. Still, you cling to it—this fleeting moment of love—as if holding on tightly enough might make it last. Satoru reaches out again with his other hand, his fingers ghosting over yours, but this time it feels different. Less playful, more deliberate, like he knows something you’re too scared to confront. His touch sends a shiver down your spine, a reminder that he’s here now, that you’re here now.

But for how long?

You glance up at him, catching the faint crease between his brows, the way his lips twitch as though he’s searching for the right words. Or maybe he’s feeling the same quiet dread you are, that bitter knowledge that life has a way of pulling things apart, no matter how tightly you try to hold them together.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant. His teasing bravado is gone, leaving only raw sincerity behind.

You force a smile, one you know doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Yeah. Just... thinking.”

“About?” he presses gently, his gaze unwavering, his thumb moving across your cheekbone gently.

“Nothing,” you lie, your fingers brushing over the petals again, grounding yourself in their softness. “It’s nothing.” Satoru doesn’t believe you, you can tell by the way his eyes narrow slightly, but he doesn’t push. Instead, he leans back, his shoulders relaxing as he shifts the conversation.

“Y’know,” he begins, his grin returning, though softer now, “if you ever get tired of the flowers, I’m always available for career advice. I’m an excellent life coach.”

You laugh despite yourself, the sound thin but authentic. “Yeah? What’s your first piece of advice?”

“Marry rich,” he quips, winking, but the joke falls a little flat. “Meaning me, baby,” he adds, bringing you close by an arm to your shoulders, kissing your temple. You shake your head, but the laughter fades too quickly, leaving you both in the quiet again. The thought returns, sharper now, that this could all slip through your fingers.

And maybe that’s why you let yourself lean into him just a little more, let the edge of your shoulder brush against his. It’s why you kiss him back when he leans back into your lips. It’s not much, but it’s your way of holding onto this moment, even as the inevitability of its end looms over you like a storm cloud. Because deep down, you already know the truth: you’re playing with fire, and it’s only a matter of time before the flames consume you. 

You already know a man like Satoru Gojo would never stay with someone like you.

You jolt upright at the sound of your blaring, very annoying alarm. Quickly turning it off, you give yourself a moment to blanky stare at your sheets. Rubbing your eyes. Were you really just dreaming about that? Or no, it wasn’t a dream—but a memory. A distinct, longing feeling begins to pool in your gut. The kind that makes you feel numb and unresponsive, the kind you get when you just dream about some mystery man you fell in love with but can’t remember his face. You shake your head, trying to push the feeling away as you swing your legs over the edge of the bed. The room feels colder than usual, the early morning light barely filtering through the curtains. It’s a struggle to move, the weight of that memory—no, that ghost of a feeling—pressing down on you.

Satoru.

What once was.

The way your chest tightens, the ache that feels both familiar and unwelcome, tells you everything. You can almost hear his voice, playful and warm, teasing you like he always used to. You can almost feel his touch, fleeting but deliberate, like he was trying to leave a mark without you noticing.

God, why now? For what reason? You’ve long been over him, haven’t you? No doubt he has, considering he’s more than likely dating someone right now. You wonder when—or if—he’ll tell you. He has to, right? Because if this woman will possibly be around your son in the future, you have to know who she is, just like she has to know who you are. And if she and Satoru perhaps get married in the fu—

You quickly stop your train of thought.

You run a hand through your hair, trying to shake it off. There’s no time for this. You have too much on your plate to sit here drowning in nostalgia. The rent. Koji. Work. Life doesn’t pause just because your subconscious decided to dig up a piece of your past you’ve tried to bury. But the feeling lingers, refusing to let go. You stumble into the bathroom, splashing cold water on your face in the hopes that it’ll snap you out of it. For a second, it works. The chill jolts you awake, and you grip the edges of the sink, staring at your reflection.

“You’re fine,” you mutter under your breath. “It’s just a memory.” But your reflection doesn’t look very convinced.

Busying yourself with your other life and mom responsibilities proves to work, the thought of your dream this morning and Satoru in general being pushed to the back burner. You rather it be this way, it’s easier to function. 

“I’ll probably be a little late to pick you up from school today, Koji.” You tell your son, hand clutching his as you make the way to his school. The morning is colder, having dressed him in a puffy jacket, a beanie, scarf, and cute mittens you crocheted when you had the passion. 

He looks up at you, bottom lip jutting out into a frown. “Why?”

You sigh, not sure how to explicitly explain that you’ll be putting in an extra hour today at the cafe so you can scrounge up as much money as you can for the money due this Friday—in two days from now. It really feels impossible, but you’ll find a way. “Mama has to work a little longer today, I’m sorry.”

Koji’s frown deepens, his small brows furrowing as he kicks a pebble along the sidewalk. "It's okay, Mama. I can wait." His words are simple, but the way he says them—the way he tries to be understanding beyond his years—makes your heart ache. You hate this. Hate that he even has to think like this. He should be carefree, worrying about which dinosaur to play with or what snack he’ll get after school. Not whether his mama is working herself into the ground. 

You’re feeling extreme guilt again. Wondering and worrying that you’re making him grow up too fast. But tons of kids stay a bit later at school when waiting for their parents to pick them up, don’t they?  You force a smile, squeezing his hand gently. "Thank you, baby. You're such a good boy."

His face lights up at the praise—as always. He starts talking about what he’s looking forward to in class today. You nod and hum along as he chatters, trying to match his energy, but your mind is already elsewhere. Two days.

You’re running out of time, and no matter how many hours you squeeze into the day, it doesn’t feel like enough. You’ve thought about asking for help, swallowing your pride just this once, but the options are limited. The last thing you want is to open that door with Satoru, and there’s no one else who can offer the kind of money you need.

By the time you reach the school gates, you’re exhausted—mentally more than physically. Kneeling to adjust Koji’s scarf and beanie, you kiss his cheek and give him your warmest smile. "I’ll be there as soon as I can, okay? I promise. I love you."

"Okay, Mama. I love you too," he says, his grin wide and trusting as he hugs you tightly before running off to join his classmates. You stand there for a moment, watching him go, before turning and heading toward the café. Each step feels heavier than the last, the weight of your reality pressing down on you.

Two days. And not a second to waste.

But just because things never seem to go right for you, Mr. Ito comes out from the classroom, standing by his door. “Oh, Ms. Y/N? Good morning.”

Jesus Christ, can he just take a fucking hint. You’re literally walking away. However, you put on a facade of politeness and turn around to face him, holding back a scowl at his ever-present smile. “Good morning, Mr. Ito.”  

He spares a quick glance into his growing room of children before stepping away and closer to you. Instinctively, you take a small one back. “How are you today?”

“I’m great.”

“That’s good to hear,” he nods, clasping his hands behind his back. His eyes do a quick scan of you, and you could almost swear you see his smile widen—like he’s appreciating the sight. Dirty bastard. 

You suppress a shudder, keeping your expression neutral. This obviously isn’t the first time Mr. Ito has made you uncomfortable, but you’ve learned to play nice for Koji’s sake. After all, the last thing you want is to make things awkward between your son and his teacher. “I’m sorry, Mr. Ito, but I really need to get to work,” you say, shifting your weight to one foot, hoping he gets the hint.

“Oh, of course,” he replies, though he doesn’t move away. “I just wanted to tell you how impressed I am with Koji’s improvement with his behavior. He’s such a bright boy, and so polite too. A testament to your parenting, I’m sure.”

There’s something about the way he says it—too smooth, too rehearsed—that makes your stomach churn. You force a tight-lipped smile. “Thank you. Koji works very hard.”

“Yes, well, if you ever need to discuss his progress or anything else, my door is always open. Even outside of school hours,” he adds, his tone far too suggestive for your liking. 

Didn’t he already say this line before? Your grip tightens on your bag, but you keep your composure. “That’s kind of you, Mr. Ito. Have a good day.” Before he can respond, you turn on your heel and walk away, heart pounding. The nerve of that man. You’d always sensed something was off about him, but lately, he’s been crossing more lines, and you’re starting to feel trapped.

It’s not like you can pull Koji out of the school—this is the best option you can afford right now. And confronting Mr. Ito? That could easily backfire, making Koji’s time in class unbearable. As you walk to work, the weight of your problems feels heavier than ever. The looming eviction notice, the landlord’s constant pressure, and now, Mr. Ito’s thinly veiled advances.

Two days. 

You shake your head, forcing yourself to focus. You don’t have time to worry about Mr. Ito or anything else. Right now, all that matters is making it to Friday.

“Did you yell at her?” is the first thing Suguru asks. After not seeing his best friend for a week, Satoru would’ve thought he’d have something else to say. However, he can imagine he just wants to get down to the point after he sent the black-haired man a message about seeing you for the first time again. 

“No, I didn’t.” Satoru cooly responds, finger tapping along the glass rim of his overly sugar-infested coffee. Suguru takes a seat across from him, giving his friend an analytical glare. Satoru’s dining room, save for the weird tension of words having yet to be spoken. 

Suguru leans back in the chair, crossing his arms. "So, what did you do then? Stare at her like a creep?"

Satoru's lips twitch into a smirk, but there’s no humor in it. "I talked to her, obviously."

"Obviously," Suguru repeats, the sarcasm thick. He glances at the untouched plate of food in front of him. "And how’d that go?"

Satoru shrugs, the motion too nonchalant to be genuine. “She was...surprised. And emotional, but I can’t really blame her for that.”

"Emotional, huh?" Suguru raises a brow. “Did she apologize?” 

Satoru nods. 

"I’m guessing you didn’t hold back."

"Why should I have?" Satoru snaps, his voice sharper than he intended. "She’s lucky I didn’t do worse, she honestly deserves every single fucking thing I told her, and more.”

Suguru doesn’t flinch at the outburst. Instead, he lets the words hang in the air, his silence more pointed than anything he could’ve said. Satoru sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t yell at her, okay? I barely even argued. I just...listened and answered.”

"And what did she say?"

Satoru hesitates, his eyes drifting to the cityscape visible through the floor-to-ceiling windows of his penthouse. “She told me why she kept it a secret, how she felt, and whatever.” Satoru's jaw clenches, the memory of seeing you cry filling him with dread—like it used to way back then. He’s surprised he was that receptive to it, especially that quickly. Luckily, he held back the almost innate urge to bring you into your arms and comfort you. Because again, you don’t deserve his comfort right now.

Suguru pauses, letting his own curiosity win over. “Well…why did she do it?”

There’s a moment of still quietness while Satoru thinks over the other man’s question. Satoru’s gaze remains fixed on the cityscape, the towering buildings blurring as his thoughts churn. His chest feels tight, a cocktail of emotions he doesn’t have the energy to name swirling in his gut. Anger, hurt, guilt—they’re all there, fighting for dominance. “She didn’t give me a chance,” Satoru mutters, his voice barely above a whisper. “She decided for me. Like I didn’t deserve to know. Like I wouldn’t have...tried.” He swallows hard, the lump in his throat making it difficult to speak. He’s never been good at this—this vulnerable, messy part of himself. The part that cares too much, that aches too deeply. “I’m angry,” he finally admits, his fingers drumming against the table. “I’m so fucking angry at her for thinking so little of me. But at the same time... I…I think I get it. It was the rejection she was scared of, the first failed attempt, she didn’t want Koji growing up like me, she…she didn’t think I was ready, either. She said she was trying to protect us all.” His words are low and hushed, even reciting them making him feel as if he needs to spill his guts. “She doesn’t deserve it, she doesn’t deserve my understanding, my empathy for her, she…she doesn’t deserve anything. I shouldn’t feel bad for her, I shouldn’t. But I do for some fucking reason, and it’s making me so fucking confused.”

Suguru doesn’t interrupt, letting him vent. Satoru’s words come faster now, spilling out like a dam breaking. “And now, I’m just...stuck. Stuck between being pissed off at her and hating myself for thinking she’s right.” He runs a hand through his hair again, tugging at the roots as if the pain will ground him. “Because she was right, wasn’t she? I wouldn’t have been able to handle it. I would’ve run. I would’ve hurt her in ways she didn’t deserve.”

The admission tastes bitter on his tongue, and for once, Satoru doesn’t try to mask it with bravado or a joke. “But now,” he continues, his voice softer, tinged with something vulnerable, “I just keep thinking about Koji. About all the time I lost. About how I don’t even know how to be a dad, let alone his dad.”

Suguru leans back in his chair, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. “Do you want to be his dad?”

Satoru doesn’t answer immediately. His thoughts drift to Koji’s small, curious eyes, the way the boy had looked at him with a mix of wonder and wariness. The way they got along so well, so quickly. The way the boy was so excited to teach his dad about dinosaurs, to play with him, to his infectious laugh when Satoru lifted him high up in the air. “I don’t know how to,” Satoru finally admits, his voice breaking slightly. “But I want to try.”

Suguru nods slowly, his gaze steady. “Then that’s a start.”

Satoru exhales, the weight on his chest lifting just slightly. But even as the conversation eases, the storm in his mind rages on. Because no matter how much he wants to move forward, the shadows of the past—and the fear of screwing up—loom large. And the fact that he doesn’t know how he can get resolve things with you. How is he just supposed to co-parent and see your face so casually after what you did? 

Is he supposed to just remain cordial? Closed off? Or should he try to fix things? 

But what things even need fixing, there’s nothing between you two. There’s no “them” anymore. There hasn’t been for years. And if there were, shouldn’t that be your job? This entire situation is your fault. You should be the one begging on your knees for forgiveness, you should be groveling for the fact that you kept his son a secret. He’s justified, isn’t he? In being cold? Closed off? In letting you feel every ounce of the pain you caused him? 

The bitterness twists in his chest, a dark, venomous thing that urges him to lash out, to make you feel as helpless and raw as he does. For a fleeting, horrifying moment, the thought slithers in: You should be the one who’s grateful that he didn’t do anything extreme like try to take Koji away from yo–

What the hell are you saying? 

He feels convicted suddenly, wanting to punch himself for even daring to think such an evil thing. Is he that angry? Petty? Does he want to get back at you that bad that he’d threaten to take away your kid from you? The thought makes his stomach churn, the self-loathing hitting him like a punch to the gut. His grip on the edge of the table tightens, knuckles whitening. He’s not that kind of person. He’s not that cruel. No matter how angry, how hurt he feels, he couldn’t do something so vile.

He’s just not. But he just feels so conflicted and…unsure about everything. 

But the anger doesn’t vanish—it just twists into something deeper, more insidious. He feels so troubled, so lost in the storm of emotions that he can’t tell which way is up anymore. And yet... amidst all that chaos, there’s another image. One that keeps replaying in his head like a stubborn melody.

Because he could see it—see how your eyes lit up with a motherly joy after Koji called your name for attention, how you smiled instinctually when seeing your son, how your voice softened so perfectly it practically pulled him in too. He sees the way your face relaxed when Koji tugged at your sleeve, the way your whole being seemed to light up just from hearing his voice. The joy, the pride, the pure, unfiltered love that radiated from you—so natural, so raw, it made him pause.

And for a split second, Satoru forgot the anger, the betrayal, the hurt. He only saw you. You, as a mother. You, as Koji’s mother. Somewhere in the muddled mess of his thoughts, an ache blooms. Not just for the time he lost with Koji, but for the life he lost with you. Because no matter how hard he tries to deny it, part of him still remembers the way you used to smile at him like that. And the other part of him wonders if he’ll ever see it again. 

The war in Satoru’s mind is relentless, his thoughts ricocheting between anger and guilt, blame, understanding, and even longing. Every time he tries to land on a conclusion, another surge of emotions pulls him in a different direction.

Satoru clenches his jaw, his finger now still against the coffee glass. “I didn’t know about Koji.”

“No, but you knew about her.”

The words hit harder than Satoru wants to admit. He doesn’t respond, and Suguru doesn’t push, though the weight of his stare lingers. After a moment, Suguru sighs. “Look, man. If you’re serious about making things right, about stepping up and being a father, you can’t go back. Sure, you just met the boy, but it’s up to you and her to make sure you make up for the time you lost with him—to create even more memories with him. You have to prove you’ll be there for him.”

Satoru looks up at him, his eyes shadowed with something Suguru rarely sees in his best friend—doubt. “And if it’s too late?”

Suguru gives him a small, sad smile. “Then you make sure it’s not.”

It’s around nine at night, the convenience store’s ambience slowly drifting you into a sleepy state before you catch your head upright. It sucks having to force yourself to stay awake, already on your third cup of coffee today with two espresso shots. At this rate, you don’t know if you’ll be able to sleep, but it’s better that than not getting through your days at work. If anything, you can try melatonin again, even if that is just a blatant scam.

Scrolling on your phone through Indeed, Zip Recruiter, and LinkedIn. You hate seeing the same few jobs that say they’re hiring, but ghost you. Or the jobs that you seem completely too unqualified for that it makes you self-concsious. You’re aware you didn’t finish college, very aware. A part at you constantly eats away at your soul, mind running to the loud thoughts of “what if”. What if you finished college? What if you didn’t have Koji? You quickly push that idea away, feeling mad at yourself. You wonder if it’s bad of you to think about never being a mother—if other parents do that too.

It’s just a simple thought. You don’t regret Koji, you never could or would. Still, you can’t stop thinking at time about how life would be if you had a child later on in life. If you had a stable job, life, everything. Would things be better—different? Would Koji have been happier?

The thoughts gnaw at the edges of your mind as you sip from the coffee cup, the bitter liquid doing little to soothe the ache growing in your chest. The sinfulness hits you almost immediately, sharp and unforgiving. It feels wrong to even entertain the idea of a life without Koji, like some kind of betrayal to the tiny, beautiful soul who depends on you.

But you’re tired—so, so tired. And sometimes, when the weight of it all feels like too much to bear, those questions creep in, uninvited and insidious. They don’t mean you love Koji any less. You know that. Still, the mere existence of the thoughts makes you feel like a failure, like you’re not doing enough or being enough. You scroll through the endless job listings again, each rejection or impossibility hammering another nail into the coffin of your hope. A lump forms in your throat as you stare at the screen. Your hands tremble slightly, whether from exhaustion or the overwhelming sense of inadequacy, you’re not sure.

Again, you shake your head, forcing the thoughts away, but they linger like a shadow you can’t quite shake. Koji’s smile flashes in your mind, bright and pure, his laughter echoing in your memory. He’s your light, your anchor in the chaos. No matter how hard things get, you always find your way back to him. But even as you remind yourself of that, the doubts creep back in. Are you enough for him? Are you giving him the life he deserves? You hate that your answer feels so uncertain.

The soft hum of the convenience store's fluorescent lights pulls you back to the present. You set your phone down, closing your eyes for a moment as you press your palms against your forehead. You want to cry but know you can’t afford the luxury of breaking down, not here, not now.

The truth is, no matter how much you love Koji, you feel like you’re drowning. You’re just too good at treading water, keeping your head barely above the surface, to let anyone notice.

And so, you lose focus on your phone and exist in the present. You can’t change the past, but you can change your now, and your future. That starts with working hard, harder than you ever thought you could. The people who rise to the top, the people like Satoru, they fight for what they have. It’s a dog eat dog world out here, and you’d be damned if you let someone else best you. 

You’re the ruler in your own life, not Satoru, not money, not evictions, nothing. It’s you. It’ll always be you. You’ve been working since you were fourteen, practically emancipated because your own sorry excuse of parents couldn’t have been more bothered. 

That’s another thing that’s your driving force. Just like how you didn’t want Koji to grow up like Satoru, you didn’t want him to grow up like how you did either. You would never—ever—be like them. You pledged that, took an oath. Sure, things aren’t looking very good right now. But you’re strong, resilient, smart. You will get through this. For Koji, and for yourself. 

Hard workers get what they worked for. You’ll be there soon. Patience is a virtue, and slow and steady wins the race. 

Almost two hours have passed, once again putting in an extra hour. Right in the middle of ringing up some drunken college girls who came in for snacks, your phone in front of the register rings. You look down, it displays a number you know by heart. Mumbling a ‘have a good night’ to the girls who stumble their way out, you take the liberty to answer; not before you take a deep breath in, however. 

“Hello?”

“Hey.” 

“Um…hey. Can I help you?”

“I’m coming over tomorrow.”

You pause for a moment, the phone pressed tightly to your ear as Satoru's words register. It takes a second too long for you to find your voice again, the casual confidence in his tone throwing you off balance. “Tomorrow?” you repeat, trying to keep your voice steady despite the sudden swirl of emotions his call stirs. “Okay, why?”

He scoffs. “Because I want to see him,” Satoru says simply, as if his answer explains everything.

Your lips purse, a mix of frustration and anxiety bubbling to the surface. “Satoru, it’s not that simple—”

“It is that simple,” he interrupts, his voice calm but laced with a sharp edge. “I haven’t seen him in a few days. I’m not waiting any longer, I want to see my son.”

Your grip tightens on the phone as your free hand balls into a fist at your side. The words you want to say die in your throat, the late hour and your sheer exhaustion making it hard to form a coherent argument. “I…I–I have work tomorrow, he has school.”

“So I’ll come over when he’s out of school,” he counters, his tone softening slightly but still resolute. “Look, I’m not trying to fight with you. I just want to see my son. We’ll figure the rest out as we go.”

You glance around the empty store, the harsh fluorescent lights casting long shadows. The reality of the situation presses down on you, the fact that this is something you’ll have to get used to, have to allow. Because he deserves it. “Fine,” you say quietly, your voice almost a whisper. “He’s off at 2:30, we get home around 2:40, you can be there by that time.”

“I’ll text before I get there,” he promises, though the nonchalant way he says it doesn’t do much to ease your questionable nerves. “See you tomorrow.”

The line goes dead before you can respond, leaving you standing there in the dim light of the convenience store, the phone still pressed to your ear. Tomorrow. You set the phone down, your hands trembling slightly, unsure as to why. It’s just the fatigue. Or maybe it’s the fact that Satoru is officially back in your life, his face will be a regular occurrence now. 

He’s here for Koji. That’s all. Don’t look into it.

When you slug back home, the first thing you do—after paying Sana—is count your money. Mr. Sato needs around four thousand dollars, you’re still fucking short. 

“Nine-hundred.”

“Thousand.”

“Two.”

“Three.”

A thousand short, plus another hundred for the utilities. And he needs it by Friday. It’s Wednesday. 

On a scale from one to ten of how screwed you are, you’d give yourself an eleven. It’s hard to even admit that to yourself, feeling your hot tears wet the green paper in frustration. Gritting your teeth so hard you can hear the creaking of your muscles in your ears, a ringing noise following after. You sit there, staring at the bills fanned out on the table like they’re mocking you. The tears won’t stop, blurring the numbers, but you know them by heart. A thousand short for rent, a hundred for utilities, and nothing left for groceries or the babysitter fees piling up in the back of your mind. 

You take a deep breath, willing yourself to calm down, but it’s like trying to hold back a tidal wave. The frustration spills over, hot and suffocating, as you swipe the money off the table in a fit of anger. The bills scatter across the floor like fallen leaves, and for a moment, you just sit there, trembling in the silence. “Goddamn it,” you mutter under your breath, clutching your head as if that’ll stop the spiral of thoughts. You can feel the panic rising, the way it always does when you’re this close to breaking. How are you supposed to keep everything together when the universe seems hell-bent on tearing it apart? You can already feel your migraine coming back like an old friend, feeling its twisting and pulling on your brain. 

Koji’s soft footsteps break through the haze, his small voice pulling you back to reality. “Mama?”

You hastily wipe at your face, trying to compose yourself as you turn toward him. He’s standing in the doorway, clutching his favorite stuffed animal—a tattered little bear you bought second-hand years ago. His big eyes are filled with concern, and it breaks your heart even more. “Hey, baby,” you say, forcing a smile you don’t feel. “What’s wrong? Can’t sleep?”

He shakes his head, padding over to you and climbing onto your lap without a word. His tiny arms wrap around your waist, and for a moment, the world doesn’t feel as heavy. You stroke his hair, letting the quiet stretch between you. “Mama’s just tired,” you murmur after a while, hoping he doesn’t ask too many questions.

Koji looks up at you, his brows furrowed in a way that reminds you so much of Satoru it’s almost painful. “Are we okay?”

The question hits you like a punch to the gut, but you nod, brushing a stray strand of hair from his face. “Of course we are, baby. Don’t worry about a thing, okay? Mama’s got it all under control.” It’s a lie, but it’s one you tell for his sake. Koji doesn’t need to know how close to the edge you really are. And you’d never let him know just how close you are from sinking completely, he’s too young, too innocent. 

After a few minutes, he’s able to drift off to sleep in your arms, you stare at the scattered bills on the floor, your mind racing. Tomorrow, Satoru will be here. Maybe—just maybe—you can ask him for help. The thought makes your stomach churn, pride and desperation warring inside you. Are you even allowed to? What would he say?

But what choice do you have?

You need this place, no matter how ragged or disgusting Satoru—or anyone for that fact may think it is. It’s home. Home to you, and home to Koji. You’ve stopped caring about what others thought og you a long time ago. It still comes back, of course. Especially in your most vulnerable, most small of moments. And when it hits you, you realize how much you didn’t miss the feeling. You desperately wish you can just give absolutely zero fucks all day, everyday. 

That might be impossible.

As long as you just hold it down, you’ll be good—you think. 

For Koji, for Koji.

Walking Koji home the next day from school, you’re focused on checking the time of your phone; surprised when the young boy suddenly rips from your grip and runs forward. Instantly, you look up and call out for him in a hurry. “Koji! Do—”

“Papa!” 

Satoru, who’s waiting outside your apartment door, crouches down to your son’s height, arms held out with a wide smile on his face. Koji melted into his embrace, small arms wrapped around his father’s neck. Satoru hugged the boy, running a hand up and down his back slowly. “How was school, my big boy?” “Good! We learned about plants, and I drew a sunflower!” Koji exclaims, his words tumbling over each other in excitement as he pulls back slightly to look at Satoru's face. His little hands grasp Satoru’s jacket, his wide eyes sparkling with pure joy.

Satoru’s expression softens even further, a rare glimpse of unguarded tenderness crossing his features. “A sunflower, huh? That’s my favorite flower. Did you know they always turn toward the sun?”

Koji nods eagerly, his grin spreading even wider. “Yeah! The teacher said that too. I wanna show you my drawing when we get inside!”

“Of course. I can’t wait to see it,” Satoru says, ruffling Koji’s hair before standing to his full height, the boy still clinging to his leg like a koala. His gaze shifts to you, his smile faltering just a fraction as his expression becomes unreadable. “Hey.”

You stand a few steps away, your heart caught in your throat. Watching the two of them together feels like a punch to the chest—bittersweet and raw. You manage to swallow the lump in your throat and force a polite smile. “Hey.”

Satoru takes a step closer, his tone light but his eyes piercing. He simply nods in response. 

You hesitate, the words catching in your throat. But there’s an ache beneath the surface, a mix of guilt, resentment, and longing you can’t quite shake. Koji looks happy, that’s all that matters. You step forward to unlock the door.  “I have my other job to get to,” you say finally, keeping your tone neutral. “Do you think you can watch him until his babysitter comes?”

Koji rushes in, but Satoru lingers, looking at you. “Who’s his babysitter?”

“Sana, she usually comes a few minutes before I leave, but if you’re here I can go earlier.” You walk in, arm brushing against his that sends an uncomfortable tingle down your spine—one you ignore forcibly.

He follows in, closing the door behind him. Standing a bit awkwardly around the living room, watching you hang your coat and purse up. “I didn’t know you worked two jobs,” he says, almost like he’s not sure if he should be voicing out this small curiosity of his. 

You pause mid-motion, fingers lingering on the hook of your coat rack. For a moment, you consider not answering, brushing it off with some noncommittal remark. But the weight of his gaze is palpable, pressing down on you until you finally sigh and turn around to face him. “Yeah,” you say simply, your voice flat. “Bills don’t pay themselves.” There’s an edge in your tone, one you don’t intend but can’t quite help. His eyes narrow slightly, and for a moment, you think he might argue, but instead, he just nods, his expression unreadable.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant.

You let out a dry laugh, shaking your head as you move to the small kitchen area to grab a glass of water. “Tell you? What would that have changed, Satoru? Would you have swooped in and made it all better?”

His jaw clenches, his hands flexing at his sides before he crosses his arms over his chest. “Maybe I would have. But you never gave me the chance.”

You set the glass down harder than you meant to, the sound of it hitting the counter echoing in the silence. “You don’t get to say that,” you snap, turning to face him fully. “You don’t just show up now and act like you care about how I’ve been keeping things together.”

“I do care,” he shoots back, his voice rising slightly. “You think I wouldn’t? That I don’t give a damn about you—Koji?” The small correction doesn’t get missed by you.

“You didn’t care enough to stay,” you bite out before you can stop yourself. 

The words hang in the air, sharp and cutting. His expression falters for just a moment before his face hardens, a wall going up that you recognize all too well. God damn it. Why do you keep bringing up the past and your shitty breakup?

“That’s not fair,” he says, his voice low. “You made that decision for the both of us.”

Your breath catches, and for a moment, you can’t speak. The two of you stand there, the room thick with tension, until a small voice interrupts.

“Mama?” Both of you turn toward the hallway, where Koji stands in the hallway, tilting his head. Holding his colored paper of a sunflower in his hands. “Are you fighting?”

Your heart aches at the sight of him, his small frame dwarfed by the weight of the conversation he doesn’t understand. You put on a smile, crouching down to his level. “No, baby. We’re just talking, that’s all.”

Satoru steps forward, his face softening as he kneels next to Koji. “Yeah, buddy. We’re not fighting. Everything’s okay.”

Koji looks between you both for a long moment before nodding, though his expression still carries a hint of worry. “Okay,” he turns to Satoru. “Here Papa, my drawing.” 

The two move to the couch, Satoru listening with fascination as Koji talks and talks and talks. His father doesn’t seem to mind, however. Occasionally touching his cheek or pushing hair out his face as if to remind himself this is real, that this is his son. You look away and go to your room, locking the door as you begin changing into your uniform for the convenience store. In a few minutes, you’re out and putting your shoes on. Satoru and Koji are now discussing video games. 

“I’m heading out now, baby.”

“Alrigh—”

“Okay, Mama.” Koji cuts off Satoru, to which the latter is glad because why the fuck did he just almost respond to you? He knows you weren’t talking to him, he knows you wouldn’t ever call him baby again, but it just felt so natural and instinctual. 

Strange.

He watches you come on over to give Koji a hug and kiss, awkwardly clearing his throat in the seat beside his son; looking away like he’s intruding on something. And so you won’t see the odd flush to his pale cheeks. 

“I’ll watch him, don’t call the babysitter.”

You pause mid-motion, your arms still loosely wrapped around Koji. Slowly, you pull back, giving your son a soft smile before turning your attention to Satoru. “Are you sure?” you ask, your tone careful, guarded. “I don’t want to inconvenience you.”

Satoru scoffs lightly, waving a hand in dismissal as he leans back in his seat. “It’s not an inconvenience. I’m his dad, remember? I can handle one night.” His words feel heavier than they should, loaded with the unspoken history between you two. You don’t miss the slight edge in his voice, though he keeps his expression neutral.

Koji, oblivious to the tension, beams up at his father. “Can we watch that superhero movie, Papa?”

Satoru grins, ruffling Koji’s hair. “Of course, big guy. Popcorn too. But after you finish your homework.”

You hesitate, your eyes flickering between the two of them. It’s hard to argue when Koji looks so happy, his excitement practically radiating off him. Finally, you nod. “Okay,” you say, grabbing your bag and coat, walking over to the door. “Just... don’t let him stay up too late.”

“Got it,” Satoru replies, his tone almost flippant, though there’s a hint of seriousness beneath it. You linger for a moment longer than necessary, your hand hovering on the doorknob. There’s something about leaving the two of them together, about seeing Satoru slip so naturally into this role, that stirs something warm in your chest.

“Alright,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him. “I’ll be back around twelve.” With that, you step out into the cool evening air, the door clicking shut behind you. You exhale, trying to shake off the strange mix of emotions swirling in your chest—wary, relief, maybe even longing.

Inside, Satoru watches the door for a beat longer than he should. Then he shakes his head, turning back to Koji with a forced grin. “Alright, champ. Let’s see what homework you have today.” But as Koji chatters excitedly, Satoru can’t help but feel the weight of your absence pressing down on him, more than he’s willing to admit.

It’s around eight at night now. Satoru took the liberty of making some dinner for Koji, but after sifting through your bone empty pantry and refrigerator, he orders take out. The two are watching Spiderman: No Way Home. His arm is slung around his son’s shoulders, the two sharing a bag of fries. He can almost feel Koji starting to drift off, the sensation of his body sinking further into his side makes him smile subconsciously. However, that small, tender moment is broken when there’s a sudden pounding at the door. 

Satoru looks back over the couch, confused as to who the hell could be trying to see you at this time of night. A hookup? Boyfriend? No, no. Don’t think that.

He looks back down at Koji who’s giving him an equally confused, but tired face. “Is that Mama?”

“No, don’t think so, little man.” You said you’d be back by twelve, it’s only eight. That’s weird. “Stay here, okay? I’m gonna go see who it is.”

Koji nods, Satoru gently laying him on his side and grabbing a fuzzy throw blanket to tuck him in with. He stands with a small grunt, walking over to your front door. He peeks through the hole and sees a man he’s never seen before, Old, ugly, and hairy. He scoffs. The hell do you want? He unlocks it, opening up and coming face to face with the man. 

Mr. Sato regards Satoru with surprise and confusion, bushy brows furrowing. “Where’s Y/N?” he asks, tilting his head to try and get a look over his shoulder.

“She’s at work.” Satoru replies, on guard and a hint of firmness in his voice. “You need her?”

“Correct.”

“And who are you again?”

“The landlord.” Mr. Sato says, heavily huffing as he gazes back up at Satoru. His frown deepening when he feels his neck angle up. “Do you know when she’ll be back?”

“Late.” Satoru simply mutters, arms crossing. “Gotta come back another time.”

“I can’t,” Mr. Sato gruffs. “I need to talk to her about the money now.”

Satoru’s jaw tightens at the mention of money, and a flicker of realization crosses his sharp features. He leans against the doorframe, casually intimidating, his sheer presence making the older man falter for a second. "Money?" Satoru repeats, his tone cool but laced with an edge. "What money are we talking about here?"

Mr. Sato straightens, trying to regain his composure despite the younger man's imposing demeanor. "Rent," he clarifies, his voice firm, though his eyes avoid Satoru's piercing gaze. "She’s late on payments. Again. I’ve already given her an extension, but this can’t keep happening. I gave her until Friday but something came up and I need it now.”

Satoru’s eyes narrow slightly, his posture shifting. Late on payments? He processes the words, his mind jumping to the extra hours you’ve been working, the tired look in your eyes, the way Koji’s jacket was patched up with care but still clearly worn. The pieces click together uncomfortably.

"How much does she owe?" Satoru asks, his tone still calm, though the intensity in his eyes makes the landlord hesitate.

"That's between me and her," Mr. Sato replies gruffly, puffing out his chest as if to assert some authority in this lopsided interaction.

Satoru doesn’t miss a beat, his expression hardening. "Well, she’s not here, so now it’s between me and you." There’s a beat of silence, tension thick in the small space.

Mr. Sato shifts uncomfortably under Satoru’s gaze, his confidence wavering. “Four thousand,” he finally admits, his voice lower. “I told her I need it by Friday, but things changed. She said she’d have it.”

Satoru lets out a slow breath through his nose, his jaw clenching as he processes the number. Four thousand. A drop in the bucket for him, but for you? It might as well be a mountain.

“If she doesn’t have it, I’m gonna push forward with the eviction, I already have possible renters lined up with a more stable income.”

Eviction? And from a place this shitty? Satoru’s jaw clenches, eyes raking over the older man. “Well, she’s not here.”

“Then let me call her.”

Satoru’s eyes narrow, a flicker of something dangerous sparking in his gaze as he steps fully into the doorway, his towering frame casting a shadow that swallows the smaller man in front of him. The landlord, suddenly aware of the shift in the air, takes a half-step back. "You’re not calling her," Satoru says, his voice low and measured, carrying an edge sharp enough to draw blood.

Mr. Sato frowns but falters slightly, the confidence in his stance wavering. "Look, this isn’t personal. It’s business. If she can’t pay by the deadline, I have no choice but to move forward. That’s how it works."

Satoru tilts his head, a ghost of a smirk pulling at the corner of his lips, but there’s no humor in it—just a cold, calculated edge. "Business, huh? Funny thing about business—it’s always personal when it’s someone else’s life you’re messing with."

"She’s late. I’ve been lenient," Mr. Sato protests, though his voice is quieter now, almost defensive.

Satoru’s smirk vanishes, replaced by an icy glare that feels like a physical weight. "Lenient? Let me tell you something. You don’t come here throwing around eviction threats like you’re some kind of god deciding who stays and who goes. That’s not how this is going to play out."

Mr. Sato scoffs with a scowl, arms crossing. “Listen here, I don’t know who you are, or who you think you are. I don’t give a damn about that. All I care about is having the money, right here,“ he holds his palm out. “Right now.”

Satoru chuckles lowly, but there’s no warmth in the sound—it’s laced with something menacing, something dangerous. His eyes, usually glinting with mischief, now burn with icy resolve as he steps closer, forcing Mr. Sato to look up at him again. "Who I think I am?" Satoru repeats, his voice soft but unnervingly steady, like the calm before a storm. "Let me make one thing clear—you don’t get to care about anything except what I tell you to care about. And right now, you’re going to care about backing the hell off." Mr. Sato’s scowl falters, his mouth opening to retort, but Satoru raises a hand, cutting him off before he can even start. "Because if you don’t," Satoru continues, his tone dropping lower, a subtle, menacing edge creeping in, "I’ll make sure you have a lot more to worry about than late rent. Understand?"

The landlord stiffens, visibly uncomfortable now, though he tries to hide it with a scoff. "You threatening me? That’s illegal, you know."

Satoru smirks again, but it’s colder this time, a predator toying with its prey. He leans in just enough that his towering presence feels suffocating, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "Illegal? Oh, I know all about what’s illegal. But see, the thing is, I don’t need to do anything illegal to make your life a living hell. A call here, a visit there… You’d be surprised how quickly someone like you can lose everything they’re so desperate to cling to. You should really care about who you threaten, this is my son and his mother you’re talking about.”

The unspoken promise in his words hangs heavy in the air, and for the first time, Mr. Sato’s bluster cracks. He shifts uncomfortably, glancing around as though expecting someone to step in and save him. Satoru straightens, his piercing gaze never leaving the man. "Take the money," he says simply, pulling out wads of cash from his wallet—carelessly tossing them at him, "and don’t let me see you again. Ever."

For a moment, it looks like Mr. Sato might argue, but the weight of Satoru’s presence, the absolute certainty in his voice, crushes whatever resistance he might have left. With a grunt, he snatches the money, shoving it into his pocket. "This isn’t over," the landlord mutters, but his voice lacks conviction as he turns to leave, his shoulders hunched under the invisible weight of Satoru’s words. Satoru watches him go, the cold fury in his expression lingering even after the door clicks shut. He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair, the tension in his body slowly unwinding.

Not over? Satoru smirks to himself, shaking his head. "Senile bastard doesn’t know what he’s saying.” He turns back toward the living room, his eyes softening slightly as they land on Koji, still sleeping soundly. The weight of his own actions sits heavily on him, but he pushes it aside. There are more important things to worry about—like making sure you and your son never have to deal with scum like that again. But also, finding some way to talk to you about this eviction. 

Would you have ever told him? Would you have asked for help? Are you going to continue to keep secrets from him, even though they directly affect his son—affect you?

The sound of hurried footsteps, practically running footsteps, sounds throughout the long corridor. Ignoring and maneuvering out the way of the office employees who regard the person with confusion and annoyance. There’s a singular focus in their movement, a sense of urgency that prickles the air. The familiar, large doors of the office are in line of sight, to which the person rushes inside. The grand, imposing doors of the executive office burst open.  Usually, he’d knock and wait, but not this time. 

Inside, Yamato Gojo sits at the head of a polished, expansive table, his wife, Akane, poised elegantly at his side. Around them, a small group of sharp-suited businessmen turn toward the intrusion, their murmurs of surprise quickly silenced by Yamato’s cold, calculating glare.

The informant can barely get the words out, stumbling over. “M-Mr. Gojo! I have—there’s—I—!” Their face pale and slick with sweat. Words fail them at first, a garbled mess of syllables spilling out in their panic. Finally, they manage to force out, "M-Mr. Gojo! You need to see this!"

Yamato leans forward, his eyes narrowing as he motions for the informant to come closer, his long fingers curling in a beckoning gesture. The air in the room seems to thicken as the informant, trembling, hurries forward and hands over a tablet. Akane leans in as Yamato taps the screen, her expression calm and unreadable—at least, until her eyes land on the image.

The sound of shattering glass cuts through the room like a gunshot as Akane’s wine glass slips from her hand, crimson liquid pooling across the pristine floor. Her gasp transforms into a piercing shriek that sends a chill through everyone present.

Because on the screen, displayed in haunting clarity, is an image that chills the air in the room: their son, unmistakably, embracing a younger version of himself—while your figure stands to the side.

a/n: uh ohhhh

taglist is now closed

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[kianamaiart]

so i'm watching game changer season 6, and i wasnt expecting to see you on there! what was it like being on set and meeting everyone?

das me! long post under the cut

it was terrifying but super fun. i was notified maybe like 5 days before i was cast so luckily i didn't have much time to be anxious about it. i definitely almost said no but i promised myself a while ago to not shy away from scary or new experiences. sam texted me right after i turned in all my paperwork and was super encouraging and told me to just be myself

it was super cool doing the whole hair and makeup process, all the makeup artists were so kind and helped calm my nerves a lot! it was nice being cast with friends also. just talking with caldwell and nathan in the greenroom beforehand and hearing that they were also nervous made me feel more comfortable. i got to briefly meet oscar and ally since i believe they filmed the "second place" episode right before ours. they were lovely!

this entire thing truly played on so many of my fears. improv, being on camera, and then having to draw on a time crunch and be funny while being recorded at the same time. i texted some youtuber friends beforehand to ask for tips which really helped remind myself stay grounded. i weirdly wasn't too nervous during the actual games since i was so focused on trying to be funny. i did feel like i was gonna pass out every time we took a break tho LOL. it was really funny, during each break, sam kept walking up to me and ominously saying "someone you know is here" which also helped take my mind off of the nerves. i was like "do they know who my brother is? is jaymin about to show up on the show??" it was sarah natochenny which was also a super fun surprise. apparently sam didn't tell her i was gonna be on the show and just alluded to a "pokemon fanartist" being one of the contestants and she told me that she was just like "is it kiana" LMAOOO.

but again, it was sooooo much fun. i don't think i'd ever laughed so much. every challenge was hilarious and everyone was just having a good time. my favorite was definitely face painting for the kids. they were adorableeee and it was the one challenge where literally all my nerves melted away (i wanna be a mom someday and i love working with kids so i was livinggg).

despite the anxiety, i had an amazing time and would definitely do something like this again!

[thedensworld]

Complexity of Us | J.Ww

Genre: Street Racer au, Friends to Lovers, angst (18+ only!)

Summary: Being a friend to Wonwoo is hard. After Wonwoo saw you coming to race with another guy, it added to the complexity.

All your friends knew Wonwoo. In fact, almost all of your friends were also his. That’s just how close the two of you were. At first, they might ask a few questions,

“Are you two dating?”

“You’re only friends?”

“You lived together?”

“How could you never like each other?”

But then they would realize that Wonwoo was like a brother to you, and you, a sister to him. That was your relationship—a family.

You were five years old when your mother brought Wonwoo home for the first time. He stood silently in the doorway, his wide eyes roaming over your home as he clutched the small bag in his hands. You didn’t ask any questions, though you were curious. Your mother seemed busy preparing a meal for him, so you just stayed quiet, glancing at him now and then as you chewed your food.

"Eat, Wonwoo," your mother said gently, setting a bowl of rice and soup in front of the little boy. You watched as he looked from the food to your mother, then let out a tired sigh. It was the kind of sigh you made when you didn’t get your way—like when your mom refused to buy you the candy you wanted.

"Did my mother abandon me?" he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

At the time, you didn’t understand, but later, you learned the truth. Wonwoo wasn’t just some random boy your mother decided to help—he was the son of her best friend, a woman who had tried to take her own life after her husband remarried, leaving Wonwoo alone. Your mother took him in without hesitation, offering him the care and love he needed. From that day forward, he became a part of your family, though you never needed to question it. He was simply always there, like the brother you never had.

Now, watching him race, with every twist and turn of his bike seeming like it might be his last, you felt a knot tighten in your stomach. You couldn’t help but feel both pride and worry. For the first time, you truly understood why your mother used to nag him about his racing.

"He’s an adult, Mom. Stop worrying so much," you’d say, trying to ease her concerns every time she brought up his dangerous hobby.

"It’s reckless! I don’t want anything to happen to my son," she would reply, her tone sharp with anxiety. "If he needs money, he could just ask me or his father."

You’d always dismiss her concerns, but deep down, you knew your mom’s worries weren’t unfounded. Wonwoo’s relationship with his father had always been strained, at best. His father, a cold, distant man, had barely acknowledged Wonwoo’s existence after his mother’s death. With his father remarried and distant, Wonwoo had only his older half-brother, Jisoo, who helped him get his first bike and gave him the encouragement their father never would. Racing had become Wonwoo’s escape—a way to make money and prove himself on his own terms, far from the shadow of the man who refused to claim him as his own.

"I heard from Seungcheol that you’re here. What are you doing?"

Wonwoo’s voice cut through the noise of the dispersing crowd as he approached you, helmet in hand. His hair was damp with sweat from the race, and his eyes held a mix of confusion and irritation. He never expected to see you at one of his races. You never cared about his racing—so why now?

"She’s with me."

Lee Jiseok, another racer, appeared out of nowhere, draping an arm around your shoulder and pulling you closer to him. It was an unmistakable statement, a silent challenge to Wonwoo. His smirk was as irritating as the gleam in his eye, like he was enjoying this little game.

Wonwoo scoffed, barely able to hide his disdain. He knew Jiseok’s type—a classic playboy who treated girls like trophies. And he knew you better than anyone. You wouldn’t settle for someone like Jiseok, not with your values, your standards.

Yet, you said nothing.

Your silence hit him harder than he expected, as if it confirmed Jiseok’s words. You really came with him?

Wonwoo clenched his jaw, forcing himself to keep his composure. You’re my best friend, he thought bitterly. I’ve invited you to my races so many times, but you never came. And now you’re here—with him?

The next morning, Wonwoo stood outside the front door—his next door. He knocked twice before your mother opened the door, already dressed for work. She greeted him warmly, as always, her smile a comfort that momentarily softened his mood.

"I’m sorry I had to call you so early," she said apologetically, slipping on her shoes. "She has class at eight, but if I leave now, I’m sure she’ll skip it. Please wake her up for me, Wonwoo?"

Wonwoo nodded, running a hand through his hair. "Sure, Mom. Don’t worry—I’ll flip her room upside down if she oversleeps."

When the clock struck the time you were supposed to wake, Wonwoo rose from the couch with a determined sigh and headed to your room. There was no need to knock—he knew you well enough to predict you’d still be buried under your blanket, arm flung over your head in your usual deep slumber.

But when he opened the door, his eyes widened in shock.

"Shit! What are you doing?!"

You stood there, fresh out of the bathroom, wearing nothing but your underwear. Your hair was still damp, and you were fumbling with a towel. Wonwoo froze, completely caught off guard, his brain short-circuiting for a few milliseconds before he slammed the door shut.

What the hell? He just saw you almost naked!

His mind flashed back to the last time he saw you with so little on. Right—when you were both six, taking a bath together at your mom’s insistence because “it saved water.” But that memory was far from comforting now.

Clearing his throat, he spoke through the door, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible. "Breakfast is ready. Hurry up!"

The table was quieter than usual as you sat across from each other, eating in awkward silence. You didn’t seem fazed by the earlier incident, casually scrolling through your phone between bites, but Wonwoo couldn’t relax. His mind replayed the scene from your room like a broken record.

"Accompany me to get a new broadcasting supply," you said out of the blue, eyes still glued to your phone.

Wonwoo frowned, his irritation bubbling to the surface. "Don’t you have a boyfriend for that?"

You looked up, startled by his tone. His words were sharp, laced with pettiness. He still couldn’t let go of last night—the sight of you at the race, with Jiseok.

You sighed, already tired of explaining. "He’s just a friend. It was an impromptu invitation. What was I supposed to do? Say no?"

Wonwoo scoffed, crossing his arms. "You said no to me plenty of times. I guess I’m just your personal driver, huh? Always at your service when it’s convenient for you. Have I ever missed your events?"

You groaned, setting your phone down as frustration flared between the two of you. At moments like this, it felt like neither of you had matured past five years old.

"You have!" you shot back. "You missed my interview with Woo Do Hwan, remember?"

Wonwoo groaned, dragging a hand through his hair. "I told you I was stuck at the supermarket with Mom! She made me wait an hour just to get free soy sauce!"

Slamming your hand on the table, you leaned forward, glaring. "Exactly! So don’t act like you have the right to be mad at me just because I went to the race last night!"

The tension fizzled as quickly as it had flared, both of you slumping back in your seats. That was just how you and Wonwoo were—bickering like siblings one moment, laughing at your ridiculousness the next.

Moments like this were why you didn’t understand why so many people mistook the two of you for a couple. How could they? This was far from romance—it was chaos.

*

Wonwoo leaned back in his chair, phone buzzing on the desk beside him. He glanced at the screen—another message from Hansol.

"Bro, I think I gave you the wrong flash drive," Hansol had texted, followed by a facepalm emoji.

Wonwoo frowned, grabbing the drive from his desk and plugging it in. Moments later, he sent Hansol a picture of the folders inside.

"Yeah, that’s mine," Hansol confirmed. "But, uh, I think I handed you the one with… semi-movies."

Wonwoo sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Hansol was one of his newer college friends, part of the crowd he’d reluctantly fallen in with after starting school late. Unlike Wonwoo, who entered college later, most of his classmates were still wide-eyed and full of energy—whether it was for studying, partying, or chasing girls. Wonwoo had been there before, though, so he understood their eagerness to experience everything.

Wonwoo leaned back in his chair, the room dim except for the soft glow of his computer monitor. "It happens," Wonwoo muttered to himself, shaking his head.

Hansol sent another text: "Mingyu says number 12 is the best. Just saying."

Wonwoo rolled his eyes but couldn’t suppress his curiosity. He sighed, grabbed his headphones, and positioned himself comfortably in his chair. He clicked on the folder labeled “12,” his finger hesitating for a moment before opening it.

The video started, and Wonwoo settled in, one part reluctant and another part intrigued. Hansol and Mingyu had hyped it up, after all.

But just as things were getting, well, intense, a notification popped up in the corner of his screen.

He groaned, annoyed by the interruption, until he saw it was a text from you.

"Where are you?!" the message read, followed quickly by another: "You said you were coming with me!"

Wonwoo’s eyes widened in realization.

Days before, you’d asked him to help you pick out new broadcasting supplies, and like the idiot he sometimes was, he’d completely forgotten. Now you were probably standing somewhere, annoyed, waiting for him.

Why would Wonwoo care about anything else when he had his cock in his hand?

His other hand hovered near his mouse, desperately trying to click away the endless notifications cluttering his screen. Yet the scene unfolding before him commanded every ounce of his focus. The moans echoing in his ears and the rhythmic slap of flesh through his headphones sent jolts of heat coursing through his body. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the screen, couldn’t slow the frantic pace of his hand as he worked himself closer to release.

The tension tightened in his stomach, pleasure building with every stroke. His grip grew firmer, movements more urgent, as he chased that blinding high. His jaw clenched; his breath hitched. It was so close. So, so close—

Another notification popped up, your name and profile picture covering the screen. Goddammit. Wonwoo groaned in frustration, his free hand fumbling to get it away, but in his haste, he tapped your profile picture instead.

Your face expanded across the screen, your bright smile abruptly replacing the explicit video. The sudden shift broke his focus, and his cock twitched impatiently in his grip. He growled under his breath, fumbling to switch back to the other tab.

But just as he was about to, a noise froze him in place. A sharp intake of breath.

Wonwoo’s head snapped up, his stomach plummeting like a stone.

There you were, standing in his doorway, eyes wide as saucers, mouth slightly agape. And you weren’t just looking at him masturbating—you were looking at him masturbating with your profile picture plastered across the screen.

His heart stopped.

For a moment, the world seemed to fall silent. No moans. No rhythmic slap. Just his ragged breathing and the deafening beat of shame pounding in his ears.

“Oh… fuck,” he rasped, his voice barely audible. He scrambled to cover himself, his hands awkwardly darting between the computer and his lap as if any amount of damage control could salvage the situation.

But it was too late.

The damage was done.

And God had officially crowned him the biggest loser in the universe.

*

You sat in front of your computer, staring at the words you typed into the search engine box.

"Why would a friend masturbate with our picture?"

Your fingers hovered above the keyboard, unsure whether you were about to dive into an existential crisis or just make a bad decision in the name of curiosity. You glanced around the room as if someone might pop up and say, “Don’t do it, this is a terrible idea,” but no one did. It was just you, your increasingly weird search history, and the growing suspicion that you might be losing your mind.

You clicked on the first link. A vague, clickbaity headline stared back at you: “The Psychology Behind Bizarre Friend Behavior: Why Did They Do That?”

Oh, great. You were now entering the realm of psychology and potentially ruining your future Google search recommendations for life.

You closed the tab and slumped back in your chair, rubbing your temples.

Your phone buzzed, breaking the awkward silence. You glanced at it, half-expecting it to be some random spam message or a notification you could ignore. But no, it was from Lee Jiseok.

You hesitated before opening it. The message read: “Hey, you look pretty in your new profile picture.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “Pretty?” you muttered under your breath. Seriously? You sighed. Yeah, right. You needed to delete that profile picture, now. That image had clearly caused more trouble than it was worth.

Trying to move past it, you quickly typed a reply: “Jiseok, want to help me grab some broadcasting supplies?” Hopefully, that would steer the conversation away from your now-infamous photo.

And here you were now, roaming around the store, hunting for a new microphone.

“Do you find it?” Jiseok asked, looking at you expectantly. You shook your head and sighed. “They don’t have it until next week. We have a podcast this Thursday, though.” You added, your voice tinged with frustration.

Jiseok nodded, an idea forming. “Let’s try another store. We’ll find it.” He was always the optimist.

The two of you stepped out of the store, but as you walked, a familiar figure almost collided with you. You looked up—of course, it was Mingyu, the engineering student you were doing the podcast with, and, to your absolute delight, Wonwoo.

Your eyes widened, and a chill ran down your spine when you locked eyes with him. Two days after that... incident, you couldn’t look at him the same way again. He masturbated to your picture, for god's sake! And now it felt like the words were written on his forehead—only you could see them, though.

“Y/N, how are you? Nice to see you here!” Mingyu’s friendly voice pulled you back into the moment. You forced a smile, saying the usual pleasantries, before introducing Jiseok.

“Wonwoo’s a racer too. You know him?” Mingyu pointed to Wonwoo, who, to your amusement, now seemed to be avoiding eye contact with everyone.

You internally scoffed. He acted like he didn’t like the attention, but deep down, you knew he secretly loved it when people talked about him. What an idiot.

Jiseok, ever the social butterfly, grinned. “Sure. Who doesn’t know him? He’s the best.”

Mingyu turned his gaze to you, a puzzled look on his face. “Then why did you want to do the podcast with me, rather than Wonwoo? He’s got more achievements.” He said it so casually, completely oblivious to the tension hanging in the air.

Oh, Mingyu, you thought, rolling your eyes inside your head. Now you understood why Wonwoo always complained about Mingyu’s lack of awareness when it came to reading a room.

You forced a smile. “We’ll have the podcast later, but right now, we have to go. We’re in a hurry. Bye, Mingyu!” You grabbed Jiseok’s hand and pulled him in the opposite direction, away from Mingyu and Wonwoo’s destination.

“Why did she only say bye to me? Do you guys fight or something?” Mingyu called out, turning his head as he asked Wonwoo, confusion written all over his face.

Wonwoo sighed deeply, shaking his head. He looked at Mingyu for a long moment, then made his way into the store by himself. “You really don’t know how to read a room, Mingyu.”

Mingyu blinked, still not quite understanding, and then shrugged. “Well, whatever.”

*

Wonwoo heard a knock at his door while he was unpacking the late-night snack he’d ordered to accompany the game he was streaming. He immediately ran to the door, expecting it to be your mother, perhaps returning something she’d forgotten or maybe just dropping by to see him. But when he opened the door, there you were.

"What's wrong?" Wonwoo asked, his voice sounding oddly stiff. It had been a week since you last spoke, and though you’d fought plenty before, never had there been such a long stretch of silence. And definitely never because he had—well, you knew what had happened.

"The electricity went out next door," you said, your voice a little shaky as you stepped inside. "I called the owner, but they said they won't fix it until tomorrow morning. I’m... I’m kind of scared."

Wonwoo raised an eyebrow. Your mother had gone to Busan for a trip with friends, leaving you alone for the night. She had asked Wonwoo to look out for you while she was gone and had even handed him a bottle of whiskey her colleague had given her. Wonwoo had shrugged it off at the time—it was just another night—but now here you were, knocking at his door for the first time in ages, even though you knew the passcode. Something had clearly changed after what happened last week.

"Oh my god!" you gasped suddenly, snapping Wonwoo out of his thoughts. He assumed it was because of the food, but then he turned and saw what you were holding—the whiskey.

"Mom gave this to you? I've been wanting to drink it, but she gave it to you? So unfair!" you exclaimed, looking at the bottle as if it were a treasure you had just discovered.

Wonwoo smirked. "Now you know who the favorite is."

You immediately pouted, ignoring the playful tone in his voice. "Let's drink it!" you insisted, eyes sparkling with excitement as you held the bottle up like it was the holy grail.

"No," Wonwoo replied, shaking his head and taking the bottle from your hands. "She just gave it to me. Plus, you haven’t had dinner yet. You shouldn’t drink on an empty stomach."

You stared at him with big, watery puppy eyes, your lower lip sticking out in a dramatic pout. You were sending a signal that clearly said, “Please?”

Wonwoo sighed in defeat, his resolve weakening. He looked at the food he’d ordered and then back at you, who was now practically bouncing on your toes in excitement.

"Alright," he relented, “Eat first.”

You let out a delighted squeal and grabbed the plate, skipping over to the coffee table in front of the TV, already too excited to even think about the conversation that had just unfolded.

Wonwoo watched you go, shaking his head with a bemused smile. It wasn’t often he had to deal with this kind of energy from you, and the contrast to last week’s... incident was striking. But still, it was good to have you here again—even if things were a little weird—and he wasn’t about to let you get away with skipping dinner.

He was already mentally preparing himself for whatever chaos might come next.

23:00.

00:00.

01:00.

You poured another glass of whiskey, the bottle now more than halfway empty. Beside it sat a bottle of Soju and a few cans of beer—clear evidence of the drinking escapade you and Wonwoo had been on.

Wonwoo slapped your hand lightly, his fingers brushing against yours as you reached for the whiskey bottle again. You winced, offended, before giving him a pointed look and downing the shot in one go.

"Who drinks whiskey in one shot, idiot?" Wonwoo scoffed, his words slightly slurred.

The two of you were definitely drunk, but if the scale of your inebriation had a measure, yours was definitely tipping the higher end. Wonwoo, ever the stoic, had become quieter as the alcohol hit him. On the other hand, you turned into a full-on talkative monster—something Wonwoo had often referenced before, claiming alcohol was your “serum truth.” You never could hold back when tipsy.

"Now, tell me," Wonwoo began, eyes narrowing, "Are you dating Lee Jiseok?"

You didn’t answer, not even giving him a glance. You just kept swirling the last of your whiskey, pretending to focus on the glass in your hand.

Wonwoo chuckled lightly. "Who could guess you'd date a playboy like him?" he muttered under his breath, shaking his head.

You kicked his arm, hard enough to make him flinch. "You're not in the place to call anyone a playboy, Playboy!"

Wonwoo frowned, giving you an incredulous look. "I'm not a playboy," he retorted, his words slow and careful, "Haven’t dated in a while. And I’m loyal too."

You gestured with your hands, mocking his serious tone. "Blah blah blah, whatever, Mr. Jeon Playboy," you teased, clearly having fun with this back-and-forth. "I saw you with that pretty junior, walking to the café next to my campus."

Wonwoo’s expression hardened. "It was for a project," he said quickly, his tone defensive, "She's too young for me, not even twenty."

You suppressed a laugh, trying to hold back the drunken grin that was threatening to spill out. "Shut up, Wonwoo. I know you dated a high schooler before. Did you teach her how to kiss?"

Wonwoo’s eyes widened in shock, and he gasped, flustered. "When was I? You think I’m a criminal? You think that low of me?"

Did you mention that Wonwoo also got angry a lot when he was drunk? His tone had shifted from playful to defensive, the edge in his voice sharper than usual.

You smirked, your mind racing with more teasing remarks. "Lost your virginity at 18?"

"Who told you?!" Wonwoo shot back, his face flushing with a mix of indignation and embarrassment.

You couldn't resist. "Your first kiss was with the aunty neighbor, from ten years ago!"

"Y/n, you better shut your mouth!" Wonwoo growled, eyes narrowing, clearly irritated now.

But you weren't done. "You masturbated over my picture."

The room went completely silent, like a cold wave crashing over both of you. For a moment, everything stopped. The words hung in the air, thick and suffocating. You felt your heart skip a beat, realizing, in horror, what you had just blurted out.

The weight of your words hit you like a punch to the gut. It felt as though time froze for a brief second, the drunken haze clearing just enough for you to realize the enormity of what you had just said.

Wonwoo’s face went pale, his expression unreadable. The playful banter had evaporated, replaced by an uncomfortable, pregnant silence.

And then, the awkward tension settled in, wrapping around both of you like a heavy, unspoken confession.

"It was a misunderstanding!" Wonwoo blurted out, his voice rising defensively. "You think I’d ever make you an object? That’s completely the opposite!"

You stood abruptly, the alcohol fueling your indignation. "Yeah? What do you mean by that? Are you saying I’m not good enough? For your information, I do have decent boobs!"

Before he could respond, you grabbed your chest dramatically, emphasizing your point.

Wonwoo's mouth opened, then closed. He blinked at you in disbelief. "Not big enough for me," he mumbled under his breath, as though he hadn’t meant to say it aloud.

Your jaw dropped, and you hissed at him, “Oh, really?” fueled by liquid courage and your mounting irritation. Without thinking, you plopped down onto his lap, challenging him with your eyes. "Let’s see if that’s true.”

You grabbed the hem of your T-shirt and, in one swift motion, pulled it over your head.

There you were, sitting on Wonwoo’s lap, your black lace bra on full display. He froze, his brain short-circuiting as his eyes instinctively dropped.

Sure, he’d accidentally caught a glimpse of you changing once before—an awkward, fleeting moment that had plagued his thoughts for weeks. But this? This was something else entirely.

"Eyes up here, Jeon Wonwoo," you snapped, reaching out to tilt his chin up so his gaze locked onto yours.

His breath hitched as he met your intense stare.

"Are you good at kissing, Wonwoo?" you asked, your voice lower now, almost a whisper.

"Why?" he managed, his voice cracking slightly.

You shrugged, leaning in just enough to close some of the space between you. "I don’t know. I’ve never kissed anyone before. I’m curious... Can you kiss me?"

Wonwoo’s eyebrows shot up, the shock breaking through his haze. "Are you serious?"

You nodded, your determination unwavering.

And just like that, his lips met yours.

The kiss was soft at first, tentative, like he was afraid you’d change your mind. But as you leaned in closer, your fingers brushing against his jaw, he deepened it, his confidence growing with each passing second.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Wonwoo told him to stop—he was sober since an hour ago when you sang that trot song. But right now, with you in his lap, your lips on his, and your scent flooding his senses, he couldn’t bring himself to care.

*

The kiss, once soft and tentative, quickly turned into something deeper, more passionate. Wonwoo’s hands slid beneath you, lifting you effortlessly as he laid you down on the couch. He was painfully aware that you were half-naked beneath him, but he held himself back, his hands hovering, unsure where to land.

Your eyes fluttered open, locking onto his. "Why aren’t you touching me? Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do during a kiss?"

Wonwoo froze, his breath hitching. "You... want me to touch you?"

You tilted your head slightly, your tone teasing but curious. "I don’t know. I told you—I’ve never kissed anyone before."

His lips quirked into the faintest of smiles, a mix of amusement and disbelief flickering across his face. "Right... You did say that."

Without another word, Wonwoo leaned back in, his lips crashing against yours with newfound determination. This time, his hands began to move, sliding across your body as though committing every curve to memory. His touch was hesitant at first, then more assured, igniting every nerve he brushed against.

"Is this what you call making out?" you asked, your voice breathless as his lips trailed down your jaw to your neck.

Wonwoo hummed in response, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of your neck. He licked a slow, deliberate line along it before gently biting down, just enough to leave a faint mark.

Your body jolted slightly at the sensation, and you exhaled shakily, your voice wry as you added, "Isn’t making out supposed to lead to... you know, sex? Are we going there?"

Wonwoo froze mid-movement, pulling back to look at you. His dark eyes searched yours, conflicted yet filled with an emotion you couldn’t quite place. "Wait. You’ve never had sex before?"

You scoffed, the tiniest smirk tugging at your lips. "I’ve never even kissed anyone before tonight. What do you think?"

He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing visibly. "You’re serious?"

"I’m inexperienced," you admitted bluntly, meeting his gaze head-on. Then, with the same boldness that had started this whole mess, you tilted your head, challenging him. "Why? Does it matter?"

His face softened, but hesitation lingered in his voice. "It doesn’t matter," he said finally, low and steady. "I just don’t want to push you into something you’re not ready for."

He laughed nervously, running a hand through his hair as he looked down at you, his cheeks slightly flushed.

Then you whispered the words that made his breath catch: "Teach me."

Wonwoo froze for a moment, his mind racing, but the determination in your gaze erased his doubt. Slowly, deliberately, he leaned back in, his lips brushing yours. This time, his touch was more confident, more intentional.

"I’ll go slow," he murmured against your lips.

And you, already captivated, whispered back, "I trust you."

Wonwoo’s lips moved with an intoxicating rhythm, each kiss deepening the connection between you. His hands roamed freely now, exploring the curves of your body with an addicting reverence. You gasped softly as his fingers danced over your skin, igniting a fire within you that demanded more.

"Wonwoo," you whispered, your voice trembling with a mix of nerves and anticipation, "don’t stop."

His response was a low hum against your lips, his hands now tracing the delicate straps of your bra. He slipped them down your shoulders, his lips never breaking contact with your skin as they trailed along your collarbone.

The tension in the room was palpable, every touch and kiss feeding into the desire building between you. You tugged at his shirt, frustrated by the fabric that separated you. He obliged, pulling it over his head and revealing his toned chest. Your hands instinctively moved to explore him, marveling at the warmth of his skin beneath your fingers.

His lips found yours again, hungrier this time. His hands slid to your hips, and he pressed his body against yours, every inch of him screaming with want. The air around you was charged, and it felt like nothing could stop the moment from escalating further.

But then Wonwoo froze.

You blinked up at him, confused by the sudden halt. "What’s wrong?" you asked, your voice breathless.

Wonwoo sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair as he sat back slightly. "I… don’t have a condom," he admitted, his voice laced with frustration.

Your cheeks flushed as his words sank in, the realization hitting you like a tidal wave. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The charged tension hung in the air, thick and undeniable, but now it was accompanied by an awkward hesitance that neither of you knew how to navigate.

"Well…" you finally broke the silence, your voice softer than you intended. "Maybe we should stop here. I don’t want to… you know… end up pregnant."

Your words hung in the air, blunt yet honest, making you cringe inwardly. Wonwoo’s lips quirked into a small, sheepish smile as he leaned back slightly, giving you space.

"Fair point," he replied, his voice tinged with amusement but also relief. "Guess we got a little carried away."

You nodded, smoothing down your hair and trying to regain some semblance of composure. "A little?" you teased, trying to ease the lingering tension.

Wonwoo chuckled, his hand rubbing the back of his neck. "Okay, maybe more than a little," he admitted.

Silence settled between you again, but this time it wasn’t awkward. It was filled with an unspoken understanding, a mutual acknowledgment that what just happened meant something—something worth protecting.

He shifted, reaching for his discarded shirt and slipping it back on. "You know," he began, glancing at you, "I’m not just here for… that. You can trust me."

You looked at him, surprised by the vulnerability in his voice. A small smile crept onto your lips. "I know, Wonwoo," you said softly. "And I trust you."

The tension melted away as the conversation turned lighthearted again. You grabbed a throw blanket from the couch and wrapped it around yourself, feeling the heat in your cheeks finally subsiding.

"Guess that’s enough excitement for one night," you joked, earning a laugh from Wonwoo.

"Yeah," he agreed, standing up and stretching. "Next time, we’ll be more prepared. Or… not let it get that far."

Wonwoo turned his head to you and found you fell asleep.

*

After that night, you and Wonwoo returned to your usual dynamic as if nothing had happened. Conversations flowed naturally, and you still found yourself knocking on his door whenever you had a fight with your mother. The kiss and everything that followed seemed to have been swept under the rug, left unspoken and untouched. Perhaps it was better that way—a mutual, unspoken agreement to let it stay buried.

One afternoon, Wonwoo received a call from his half-brother, Jisoo, inviting him to lunch. Despite sharing the same father, Jisoo was the only person from that side of the family Wonwoo didn’t dislike. Their relationship had started in his high school years when Jisoo visited him for the first time. Reflecting on it now, Wonwoo thought it was better that they met when he was mature enough to understand Jisoo’s intentions were genuine. He wasn’t there to mock or judge but to offer familial support.

The two met at a renowned high-class restaurant, a place Jisoo often frequented. As Wonwoo took a seat across from his older brother, he observed how composed Jisoo was—every bit the polished executive who worked as a director in their father’s automotive company.

Despite his disdain for anything related to their father, Wonwoo had to admit the bikes the company produced were unrivaled. He even used them for racing, albeit grudgingly.

"How's Y/N and her mother?" Jisoo asked, his tone genuinely curious. He knew how much your mother had done for Wonwoo, essentially raising him as one of her own.

"They're great," Wonwoo replied, leaning back in his chair. "Mom’s still working, though. She doesn’t want to stop."

Jisoo frowned slightly, setting down his glass of water. "I send them an allowance every month. Why is she still working?"

Wonwoo shrugged, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "I give her money every month too, but I don’t think she ever uses it. She says she prefers to stay busy."

Jisoo smiled knowingly, shaking his head. "She’s a remarkable woman. Your mom must be incredibly grateful to her for raising you so well."

Wonwoo’s gaze softened, a rare warmth in his usually stoic expression. "She is," he said simply.

Their food arrived, and the conversation shifted to lighter topics as they ate. They caught up on life updates, with Jisoo regaling Wonwoo with stories of his complicated love life, which seemed to amuse the younger man.

But as the meal neared its end, Jisoo’s tone grew more serious. "By the way, as I mentioned earlier, Father wants to talk to you."

Wonwoo paused mid-sip of his drink, his brow furrowing. "What’s that about?"

Jisoo tilted his head, clearly unsure. "I’m not entirely certain. But I think he wants you to join the family company."

Wonwoo let out a dry laugh, leaning back in his chair. "It’s funny that he suddenly considers me family."

Jisoo didn’t respond immediately, his expression neutral but thoughtful. "He knows you’re passionate about automotive engineering," he finally said. "And he knows you studied it for a reason."

Wonwoo’s smile faded as he stared at his brother, trying to decipher the real meaning behind their father’s intentions. "It’s not about passion, hyung. It’s about control. That’s all it’s ever been with him."

Jisoo sighed but didn’t push further. He knew better than to try to bridge the gap between Wonwoo and their father. Instead, he finished his drink, offering his brother a small, reassuring smile. "Whatever you decide, just remember—you’re not alone in this."

Wonwoo nodded, appreciating the sentiment even if he didn’t fully believe it. As they parted ways, his mind lingered on the conversation, the idea of stepping into his father’s world stirring a mix of emotions he wasn’t ready to comfort.

"You're daydreaming, man," Mingyu teased, nudging Wonwoo with his elbow. His words snapped Wonwoo out of his thoughts, dragging him back to the present moment in the workshop.

Hansol returned from the restroom, joining the duo as they worked on the hybrid and electric vehicle management system. Their lecturer had invited a professional from the field to guide the session, someone who, to Wonwoo’s dismay, worked for N-Jeen, a subsidiary of his father’s company, Jeon Dynamics Automotive (JDA).

"If any of you are interested in joining us through an internship, please let us know," the professional announced. "We’re currently running a program tailored to your major."

As the workshop concluded and the trio transitioned into their cleaning shift, Mingyu brought up the internship opportunity. "So, what do you guys think?" he asked, his mop sliding across the floor with ease.

Hansol paused, leaning on his mop handle. "I think it’s a great opportunity, but it’s not for everyone," he said thoughtfully. His tone hinted at his own limitations, given his part-time job at his parents’ café.

Mingyu nodded, understanding. "Yeah, makes sense," he said before turning to Wonwoo. "How about you?"

Wonwoo’s response was blunt, his tone laced with disdain. "I hate JDA."

Mingyu froze, taken aback. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. Chill, dude! It’s just N-Jeen. I know you hate JDA—you’ve mentioned it a thousand times. But you still race with their bikes!" he exclaimed, his voice rising in mock disbelief as he gestured dramatically.

Wonwoo chuckled, walking to the other side of the room to tidy up the supplies. "I race with them because I know what their products lack," he said, his voice calm but firm. "I won’t waste my time learning from a company that's lacking."

Mingyu groaned, dramatically throwing his head back. "So, I’m the only one signing up for this internship? Just me? As always! No one cares about poor Mingyu," he whined, flopping onto a nearby stool with exaggerated defeat.

Hansol smiled, shaking his head as he resumed mopping. "You’ll survive, drama king. Think of it as your time to shine."

Mingyu pouted for a moment before perking up. "You’re right! I’ll be the star intern they can’t live without!" He grinned, clearly imagining a heroic montage in his head.

Wonwoo smirked as he glanced at his friends. "Have fun with that, Mingyu. Let us know if you discover anything groundbreaking."

*

You decided to put everything in the fridge as it became clear Wonwoo wasn’t coming home tonight. You had tried calling and texting him. You even reached out to his college and racing friends, including Seungcheol, but none of them knew his whereabouts.

Settling into the quiet of his house, you decided to make the most of it by binging entertainment shows on his Netflix account. Hours passed, and just as you started to feel drowsy, the sound of the door opening startled you. Wonwoo was finally home.

But something was different. He wasn’t wearing his usual racing suit. Instead, he was dressed in formal attire, his tie loosened, and his suit jacket slung over his arm. His expression was stormy, his brows furrowed, and he looked straight past you as he made his way to his closet.

You stayed silent, sensing his mood. After knowing him for almost 20 years, you had learned that asking him questions when he was upset would only make things worse. Still, you couldn’t help but feel a growing curiosity—and concern—about what had happened.

"Turn off the TV when you leave," Wonwoo said curtly, his voice clipped and final. Without another word, he stepped into his bedroom and shut the door behind him. Something had definitely happened.

You must’ve fallen asleep on the couch at some point, because the next thing you knew, sunlight streamed through the windows. Groggily, you checked the clock: 11 a.m. Thankfully, you didn’t have class today.

Where was Wonwoo? Was he still home? You stretched and got up, heading to the kitchen. The food you had prepared last night was untouched, exactly where you’d left it in the fridge. You sighed, noting the little sticky note you’d left him, reminding him to heat it up before eating.

Curious, you made your way to his bedroom and knocked softly on the door. A muffled hum confirmed he was awake. Turning the doorknob, you peeked inside and saw him lying in bed under the covers.

"You didn’t go to campus?" he asked, his voice groggy.

You shook your head as you walked in, heading straight for his bed. "Nope. Scoot over—my back’s killing me from sleeping on the couch."

Wonwoo immediately shifted, making space for you without a word. You climbed into the bed, settling beside him. For a while, the two of you lay in silence, the room filled only with the soft sounds of breathing.

Then, out of nowhere, Wonwoo dropped a bomb. "I met my father last night," he said calmly.

The words jolted you awake. You sat up, staring at him in disbelief. His eyes remained closed, his tone too nonchalant for the weight of what he’d just revealed.

"You what? Why didn’t you tell me?" you asked, your voice tinged with both surprise and frustration.

Wonwoo shrugged lazily, turning his back to you. "Too lazy," he muttered.

You smacked his arm, earning a groan of protest. "You should’ve brought me along! I definitely would’ve punched him in the face."

That made him chuckle, a rare sound given his current mood. "That would’ve been funny," he admitted.

You pouted, watching him. His brief moment of amusement faded quickly, and the weight of whatever had happened during that meeting returned. Now it all made sense—why he’d been so distant and angry last night.

"Wonwoo," you said softly, the concern evident in your voice.

He didn’t respond, but the way his shoulders tensed told you he was listening. Something about the meeting had clearly upset him, and though you knew better than to push, you couldn’t help but worry.

"If you ever feel like talking about it, I’m here," you offered, your tone gentle.

For now, you’d let him take his time, but deep down, you resolved to stick around—because no matter how much he tried to hide it, Wonwoo wasn’t as unaffected as he pretended to be.

Jiseok had asked you to accompany him to the races tonight. It was only your second time attending one, and you still had no idea what to do while he raced. That was one of the reasons you always turned Wonwoo down whenever he invited you. Watching the chaotic speed and adrenaline-fueled madness wasn’t your thing—you could barely stand to be there.

Yet here you were, holding tightly to Jiseok as he rode his bike to the arena. The roar of engines filled the air, and the energy was electric as racers stood by their bikes, preparing for the event. Your gaze scanned the crowd, and a familiar face caught your eye.

Seungcheol, one of Wonwoo’s closest friends, waved at you enthusiastically. But his expression quickly shifted to one of surprise when he saw who you were with—Lee Jiseok. You didn’t know much about Jiseok beyond the fact that he’d been trying to get closer to you these past few weeks.

Before you could dwell on Seungcheol’s reaction, you felt a tug on your arm. Looking up, you met Jiseok’s intense gaze.

“I’m racing tonight,” he said, his voice low but confident. “Let’s bet on something.”

You tilted your head, curious. “Alright… What’s the bet?” You’d heard that races often came with bets, though you’d never been involved in one yourself.

Jiseok smirked, his confidence practically radiating off him. “If I win, be my girlfriend.”

It took you a moment to process his words. He wanted to date you? A flush crept up your cheeks, and you found yourself studying his face. He seemed dead serious.

“And if you lose?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady.

He shrugged nonchalantly, throwing his hands in the air. “That’s up to you. But I hope we can still be friends.”

You hesitated, unsure how to respond. Did you even like him? He was charming, sure, but your feelings were still unclear.

After a brief pause, you nodded, deciding to go along with it for now. “Alright. Deal.” You shook his hand, sealing the bet.

As you continued walking, the excitement in the air grew palpable. Your thoughts, however, were distracted when you spotted another familiar figure—Wonwoo. He was leaning against his bike, looking as calm and collected as ever.

Your lips curled into a small smile at the sight of him. Despite the chaos around him, Wonwoo always had this steady presence that put you at ease.

By the end of tonight, it wasn’t just about the race anymore. Whether Jiseok won or lost, you found yourself wondering whose victory you’d truly be rooting for—Jiseok, the confident charmer, or Wonwoo, the friend who had always been there.

*

Wonwoo was adjusting his helmet when the murmured conversation of two nearby racers caught his attention. He wasn’t one to eavesdrop, but the mention of your name made his ears perk up.

“So Jiseok won? That’s why she’s with him?” one of them said, loud enough for Wonwoo to catch.

The other racer chuckled in agreement. “I guess so. They were talking about her—the prettiest broadcast student. I can’t believe she fell for him.”

“I know, right? She doesn’t even look like the type. I bet she’s a wild one then.”

The first racer snickered. “She slept with him. Of course. That’s why he’s so smug.”

Wonwoo froze, his jaw tightening as their words settled in his mind. Without hesitation, he turned to face them, his piercing glare cutting through their laughter.

“What the hell are you talking about?” he demanded, his voice low but menacing.

The two racers immediately looked intimidated, their smug expressions faltering under his stare. One of them stammered, “I-I’m just saying… I heard from Jiseok’s crew. They’ve been betting on her.”

“Betting on her?” Wonwoo’s tone turned ice-cold.

The second racer swallowed hard. “Yeah, uh… whoever sleeps with her first gets the newest JDA bike. It’s just… a stupid bet, man. Jiseok’s been bragging that he’s already won.”

Wonwoo’s fists clenched at his sides, his knuckles turning white as he suppressed the urge to lash out. His mind raced, but one thing was clear—he wasn’t going to let this slide.

Without another word, he stormed off to where Seungcheol was sitting, scrolling through the lineup for tonight’s races on his phone.

“Who’s in the lineup today?” Wonwoo asked, his voice sharp.

Seungcheol glanced up, sensing his friend’s tension. “A lot, man. You’re always the last one, though. Why? Thinking of changing it up?”

Wonwoo patted Seungcheol’s shoulder, his expression unreadable. “Tell a guy named Lee Jiseok I want to race him tonight.”

Seungcheol’s eyebrows shot up. “Jiseok? What’s this about?”

Wonwoo didn’t answer, his gaze fixed on the arena ahead. “Just make it happen.”

Seungcheol shrugged, sensing that this wasn’t the time to ask questions. “Alright. I’ll let him know.”

As Seungcheol walked off to relay the message, Wonwoo took a deep breath, his mind replaying the racers’ disgusting words. This wasn’t about the race anymore. It was about protecting you—from Jiseok, and his crew’s vile games.

The engines roared, and the air was electric with tension as racers lined up at the starting line. Wonwoo tightened his grip on the handlebars, his eyes fixed straight ahead, but his mind was anything but focused. The words he overheard earlier echoed relentlessly in his head.

Jiseok's been bragging that he’s already won.

Wonwoo’s jaw clenched as he thought of you.

So you kissed me while you were dating someone else?

The memory of your lips on his played like a cruel taunt. He had thought that kiss meant something—that it was real. But had you been with Jiseok all along? The idea of you lying about being inexperienced, only to give yourself to someone like Jiseok, made his stomach churn.

You were always so shy... was it all an act?

The flag waved, signaling the start, and the racers took off. Wonwoo accelerated, but his focus wavered. Every turn, every gear shift felt slower, heavier.

“Get it together,” he muttered under his breath, trying to shake off the whirlwind of emotions.

But it didn’t help. With every lap, his thoughts consumed him.

Jiseok is a player, a nasty piece of work who uses girls and brags about it. Why would you be with someone like him?

He remembered asking you outright if you were dating Jiseok. You had avoided the question, brushing it off with a nervous laugh. That laugh haunted him now.

Why am I doing this?

Lap after lap, the internal conflict raged. Wonwoo kept telling himself he was racing for your safety, to put Jiseok in his place. But the more he thought about it, the more the hope drained from him.

What’s the point of protecting someone who doesn’t want to be saved?

The finish line was in sight, and Wonwoo pushed the bike harder, trying to catch up, but his distracted mind had already cost him too much time. Jiseok crossed first, throwing his hands in the air in victory.

The crowd erupted, but Wonwoo barely registered it. He pulled off his helmet, his breathing labored—not from exertion, but from the weight in his chest.

And then he saw you.

Jiseok ran straight to you, grinning like a king. Before Wonwoo could process what was happening, Jiseok pulled you into a kiss, right there in front of everyone.

Wonwoo’s stomach dropped. The sight knocked the air out of his lungs.

So it’s true…

He watched as you smiled at Jiseok, your cheeks red, the kind of look he had only dreamed of seeing directed at him.

The crowd blurred, and the noise faded. Wonwoo turned away, swallowing the lump in his throat. He had lost—not just the race, but you.

And for the first time in years, he felt completely powerless.

*

Wonwoo leaned back in his seat on the flight from China to South Korea, staring out the window as the city lights below blurred into streaks of gold. He exhaled deeply, a weight he had carried for years pressing heavier as the plane descended. After nearly six years, he was finally going home.

His mind drifted back to the night it all changed—the night he confronted his father for the first time in years. It had been an uncomfortable meeting, one where his father barely looked at him, keeping his tone clipped and professional.

“You have two options,” his father had said, sitting across from him with a glass of whiskey in hand. “Study business overseas or join the internship at N-Jeen.”

Wonwoo’s stomach had churned. He didn’t want either option. All he wanted was to keep racing, the one thing that gave him freedom, an escape from the heavy shadow of his family name. But his father had made it clear that freedom wasn’t on the table.

“Choose between those two,” his father continued, his gaze piercing, “or stop racing altogether.”

It wasn’t a choice—it was an ultimatum. Wonwoo felt trapped, suffocated by the invisible leash his father had placed on him.

Wonwoo still remembered the moment he let his guard down and told Mingyu the truth about who he was. They had been in the middle of a grueling project late one night when Wonwoo casually mentioned, “My father owns JDA.”

Mingyu had frozen, tools in hand, his jaw dropping. “Wait. What?! You’re… you’re a conglomerate’s son?!”

It took him a while to process. Mingyu had always wondered why Wonwoo had such a strong disdain for JDA, but after hearing how distant and controlling Wonwoo’s father was, everything clicked.

“Man, your dad sounds awful,” Mingyu had said bluntly, his loyalty to his friend overriding any hesitation. Despite Mingyu eventually landing a marketing manager position at N-Jeen—a position Wonwoo applauded him for—his opinion of Wonwoo’s father never softened.

Wonwoo smiled faintly at the memory. Mingyu deserved every bit of success he’d earned. He had worked tirelessly, and when Wonwoo had given him a standing ovation at his promotion, it had been one of the few moments of genuine joy amidst the chaos of his life.

Meanwhile, Wonwoo had chosen a different path, one that took him far from South Korea and deeper into the family business he had always resented. Studying engineering overseas was his way of carving out a space in the empire without fully submitting to his father’s control. For the past three years, he had managed JDA’s branches in China, putting his skills to use while keeping a measured distance from his father’s world.

Now, as the plane touched down, Wonwoo couldn’t shake the mix of dread and anticipation swirling in his chest. South Korea wasn’t just home—it was where everything had started. It was where the scars of his childhood lingered and where unresolved pieces of his life waited.

As Wonwoo stepped into the arrivals hall, a man in a tailored suit approached him, offering a polite bow. "Mr. Jeon, the car is ready to take you home," the man said with practiced precision, gesturing toward a sleek black sedan parked outside.

Wonwoo paused, his hand tightening on the strap of his bag. Before he could respond, his phone buzzed in his pocket. Pulling it out, he saw a message from Mingyu:

"Hansol and I are on our way to pick you up. Don’t let your father’s people drag you off—we have better plans."

A small smile crept onto his face. Without hesitation, he turned to the driver. “I’ll pass. Tell my father I’ll find my own way.”

The man blinked, momentarily stunned, but nodded curtly. Wonwoo didn’t look back as he walked toward the pickup area, where Mingyu’s car soon pulled up.

The familiar beat-up car, with Hansol’s booming laugh spilling out before the door even opened, was a stark contrast to the polished image of his father’s world. Wonwoo slid into the back seat, greeted by Mingyu’s playful smirk and Hansol’s cheerful wave from the passenger seat.

“Look who’s back from the dead!” Hansol exclaimed, twisting around to face him.

“Yeah, yeah,” Wonwoo said with a chuckle. “Missed me that much, huh?”

“More like missed having someone else to make fun of,” Mingyu quipped as he pulled the car onto the main road.

They fell into their usual banter, the kind that felt effortless and warm. Mingyu and Hansol weren’t just friends—they were family, the kind he had found later in life. Wonwoo thought about how rare it was to meet people like them as an adult. Before Mingyu and Hansol, there had only been you.

How were you, by the way?

The thought hit him unexpectedly, his gaze drifting out the window. He had caught glimpses of you on TV over the years, presenting news on a Korean broadcasting channel with the same poise and determination he remembered. But beyond the polished facade, he had no idea how you were really doing.

He still regretted leaving without a word six years ago. Not explaining. Not saying goodbye. He wondered if you hated him for that.

His chest tightened as his thoughts turned to your mother. She had always treated him like her own, welcoming him into your home with warmth he rarely felt elsewhere. Mingyu had told him about the car accident that took her life. Wonwoo couldn’t imagine how devastating it must have been for you.

He was ashamed to admit that while everyone else had been there for you, he hadn’t been. He had been thousands of miles away, too wrapped up in his father’s plans and his own resentment to return when you needed him most.

“You okay back there?” Mingyu’s voice broke through his thoughts.

Wonwoo blinked, realizing he had been silent for too long. “Yeah, just... thinking.”

Mingyu glanced at him in the rearview mirror, his expression softening. “Well, stop overthinking. You’re home now. That’s what matters.”

Home.

The word felt heavy. Because for Wonwoo, home wasn’t just a place—it was the people he had left behind. And as much as he didn’t want to admit it, part of him hoped that somehow, some way, he could find his way back to you.

*

You stood in front of Wonwoo, your best friend—or at least, he used to be—that you hadn’t seen in six years. His expression was calm, his handshake professional as though he were meeting a stranger. You mirrored his demeanor, shaking his hand briefly before stepping aside to let your team brief him on the details of the interview.

You knew you were going to interview him today. You’d read the script and his profile yesterday, preparing for this as if he were just another guest. As if you hadn’t spent over 20 years knowing him better than anyone else. But with each passing moment, anger churned inside you. What are you even doing here, Wonwoo?

Wonwoo had just returned from China, now representing N-Jeen, a subsidiary of JDA. Your role in the interview was clear: help him gain recognition among students for a new program designed for engineering majors.

“No personal questions,” the producer reminded you. “Everything should focus on his professional journey and the program.”

Wonwoo smiled softly, his demeanor composed as he took a seat beside you. You cleared your throat, trying to ignore how much he had changed—or how much you hated that he had.

“I’ll go over the list of questions once more,” you said, scanning your notes.

“I already read them on the way here,” he replied, his tone casual but polite.

You blinked at his unexpected thoroughness and nodded, apologizing. “Do you have anything you’d like to add, Mr. Jeon?”

A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he glanced at his watch. “Let’s converse for a bit,” he suggested, his voice dropping to the familiar, easy tone you used to know. “How are you, Y/N?”

The question was kind, friendly—even gentle—but it threw you off balance. You could hear Mingyu’s voice in your head, telling you how much Wonwoo had grown as a person. Yet, it didn’t make his sudden reappearance in your life any easier to accept.

“I’m great,” you replied, your voice steady but clipped. “Thank you for asking. I see you’re doing well, Mr. Jeon.”

Wonwoo chuckled softly, the sound painfully familiar. “Mr. Jeon,” he repeated, amused. “It’s the first time I’ve heard you call me that. You used to hate that name…” His reference to your shared disdain for his father stung more than you wanted to admit.

You sighed deeply, reaching for your water as the producer motioned that the interview was about to begin. Thank God. Bowing to the crew, you quickly excused yourself and left the set the moment the interview wrapped up.

Wonwoo stayed behind, chatting amiably with everyone like the polished professional he had become. You, on the other hand, grabbed your bag and practically bolted from the room.

The sound of footsteps followed you to the elevator, and you knew without looking that it was him. When the elevator doors slid open, you stepped inside, hoping the ride down would be short and silent.

“Are you free after this?” Wonwoo asked suddenly, his voice carrying the warmth of the boy you once knew. “Let’s grab some lunch.”

You stared ahead, your grip tightening on your bag. He still looked at you as though nothing had changed, as though the six years of silence between you hadn’t happened.

“I have things to do,” you replied curtly.

The elevator dinged, announcing its arrival at the lobby. You stepped out quickly, eager to escape, but Wonwoo’s long strides easily caught up to you. His hand on your arm stopped you in your tracks.

“At least give me your number,” he said, pulling his phone from his pocket.

You hesitated, glancing at him briefly before snatching the phone and typing in a number. Handing it back without another word, you walked away, your heart pounding in your chest.

Sliding into your car, you let out a shaky breath, gripping the steering wheel tightly. Your phone buzzed in your bag, breaking your brief moment of reprieve. It was your boss.

“What now?” you muttered before answering, your voice polite despite your irritation.

“What’s your agenda tonight?” your boss asked without preamble. “Join me for dinner with the chief of SKB.”

You sighed, closing your eyes as frustration bubbled to the surface. Since when had you accepted being treated like this? But you knew the answer. It was the same reason you had agreed to this interview in the first place. Because you always put duty first, even at the expense of your own peace.

“Understood,” you replied quietly, ending the call.

Staring out of the windshield, you couldn’t help but wonder how much longer you could keep this up. And if you’d ever find the courage to tell Wonwoo exactly how much he had hurt you by leaving.

*

It was unexpected. Wonwoo had just stepped out of the restroom when he caught a glimpse of you through the slightly open door of the private dining room beside his. He froze for a moment, certain it was you—your attire was the same as it had been this morning, leaving no doubt in his mind.

Curiosity pulled him in. As he returned to his own dinner with a board member, his thoughts lingered on the sight of you sitting among what appeared to be senior executives. So, this is what your life looks like now? He found himself wondering. Entertaining superiors... Is this normal for a presenter?

When his meeting ended, Wonwoo stepped out and waited near the entrance of your room, watching as you graciously bid farewell to the older men you had been dining with. You looked tired, but your professionalism didn’t falter until the last of them left. As you turned to head out, his sudden presence caught you off guard.

“Wonwoo?” you said, surprise flickering across your face.

He gave you a small smile and gestured to the room behind you. “I was in the one next door. I saw you.”

“Oh…” You hesitated before nodding. “It’s part of the job.”

“Wanna grab a drink together?” Wonwoo asked, his voice soft but hopeful.

You glanced at your watch, shaking your head. “I have a morning show tomorrow.”

“Fair enough,” he said with a nod. A small, awkward silence fell between you before he spoke again. “You did great, by the way. I’ve seen you on TV a few times.”

“In China?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

He nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah, sometimes.”

For a moment, neither of you said anything. The silence between you was heavy, filled with unspoken words. Finally, Wonwoo broke it, his voice quieter than before. “I’m sorry… about your mom.”

Your expression faltered for a split second, but you recovered quickly.

“I wish I’d been there for you,” he continued, the regret in his tone unmistakable.

You didn’t respond immediately, your face unreadable. It was only after a moment that you quietly said, “Thanks,” before shifting your weight, glancing at the time again. “But I have to go.”

You bowed slightly before walking away, your steps hurried, as though putting distance between you and him was your priority. Wonwoo stood rooted in place, watching as you got into your car and drove off.

His chest felt tight as he glanced at the watch on his wrist. 10 PM. Too early to call it a night, especially with the emotions swirling in his chest.

Pulling out his phone, he dialed a number. “Hansol,” he said when the call connected. “You free?”

Because tonight, more than ever, he needed a drink—and perhaps someone to help him figure out the mess of feelings he didn’t know how to untangle.

Hansol slammed his hand on the table, the sound reverberating through the quiet cafe. He was definitely more drunk than Wonwoo at this point, his frustration spilling over with every word. They were seated in the dimly lit interior of Hansol’s closed café and bakery, Vernon’s. The place was a stark contrast to its usual bustling charm, now filled with an air of tension between old friends.

Wonwoo glanced around, his mind drifting briefly to the thought of how much Hansol had changed. Once the rebellious kid who scoffed at the idea of business studies, Hansol had chosen engineering instead. Yet here he was now, managing a family-owned café—a surprising turn of events. Wonwoo recalled Mingyu mentioning it had taken Hansol three months just to start his first day of part-time work. But people did change, didn’t they?

“You left, man!” Hansol exclaimed, his voice louder than necessary in the quiet space. His hands waved animatedly as he leaned across the table. “What the hell did you expect? You didn’t even send a text when her mom died. You just… poofed!” He mimicked an explosion with his hands, his indignation almost comical if not for the weight of his words.

Wonwoo grimaced, holding the can of beer in his hand like it was his lifeline.

“I met Y/N,” Wonwoo murmured earlier.

Hansol snorted and leaned back in his chair. “Yeah, and I bet she wasn’t exactly thrilled to see you.” He took another sip of his beer before pointing at Wonwoo. “But here’s the real question, Wonwoo: why is she mad at you? What did you do to make her this angry?”

Wonwoo’s gaze dropped to the table, his fingers tightening around the cold can.

“If nothing happened, she wouldn’t be this mad,” Hansol continued, his tone sharp and unforgiving. “And let’s face it—you wouldn’t be this much of an asshole, leaving her without a single word, text, or call.”

Hansol wasn’t wrong, and that was what made it sting. Wonwoo knew there was something more, something unspoken, that had driven you both to this point. And he hated that Hansol could see through him so easily.

Two weeks after that fateful night when Jiseok beat him in a race, Wonwoo disappeared from the arena. It wasn’t like him to skip races, especially after being undefeated for years. Rumors spread like wildfire—was he too embarrassed to show his face? Beaten by someone with only two years of experience?

But the real reason wasn’t embarrassment. It was you.

Wonwoo hadn’t wanted to see Jiseok, and by extension, he hadn’t wanted to see you. That night, when he saw you and Jiseok kissing after the race, something inside him shattered. He couldn’t bring himself to face either of you. Instead, he texted Seungcheol.

“Can you keep an eye on Y/N for me?”

Seungcheol had questioned him, but Wonwoo offered no further explanation.

That same week, Jisoo approached him to discuss his career. “So, what’s next? Another championship?”

For the first time, Wonwoo hesitated. “I think I’m done with racing, hyung.”

Jisoo’s eyes widened in disbelief. “You’ve been racing for almost ten years. You’re at the top of your game.”

But Wonwoo had already made up his mind. He’d had enough. Between the weight of seeing you with someone else and his father’s relentless pressure to “grow up,” he decided it was time to walk away. Following his father’s advice, he chose to pursue business—while still holding on to his passion for automotive engineering.

Under Jisoo’s guidance, Wonwoo applied for a program in China that combined engineering and business studies. What was supposed to be a two-week observation trip and a visit to JDA turned into something more.

He stayed.

Wonwoo let everyone know he was leaving—everyone except you. After the argument you’d had before he left, he assumed you wouldn’t care. But your mother... he couldn’t bring himself to leave without telling her. He called her, explaining his plans and promising to visit soon.

That promise, like so many others, remained unfulfilled.

Months later, on the very day of his final test, Wonwoo received the news: your mother had passed away in a car accident.

The guilt was suffocating. He’d failed you.

He’d called Mingyu immediately. “Can you watch Y/N for me? I can’t leave the test.”

Mingyu hadn’t hidden his anger. “You should be here, not me.”

Wonwoo sighed, his grip tightening on the phone. “I know. Just... please."

Now, years later, Hansol’s words echoed in his mind, each one a painful reminder of his mistakes. Wonwoo stared at the beer can in his hand, his reflection faintly visible on its surface.

“Maybe you’re right,” he muttered, barely audible.

Hansol raised an eyebrow, leaning forward. “Of course I’m right. Now, the real question is: what are you going to do about it?”

*

You stared at the clock, watching the seconds tick by. Midnight was minutes away, and with it, your 32nd birthday. The thought filled you with a strange hollowness. Taking a sip of the wine in your hand, you let its warmth spread through you, but it did little to soothe the ache.

The buzz of your phone jolted you from your thoughts. The screen lit up with a name you recognized instantly—Mr. Park, the Chief of Broadcasting at EBS. You exhaled deeply, setting your glass down before answering.

"Good evening, Mr. Park," you greeted with a carefully polished tone, a professional smile forming on your lips despite the late hour.

"Good evening, darling. What are you up to?" His voice was warm, rich with the kind of charisma that made him magnetic in meetings.

You forced a small laugh, one that didn’t quite reach your eyes. "I’ve got a morning show tomorrow, so I came home early tonight."

His laughter echoed on the other end, deep and indulgent. "Always the hard worker," he teased lightly. The conversation flowed effortlessly, the two of you exchanging pleasantries and updates until he decided to call it a night.

"Rest well, darling. I’ll send you a little something to thank you for listening to my day."

You hung up and sank back into the couch, the smile vanishing from your face as the weight of his words lingered. You rubbed your temples, feeling the heaviness settle in your chest.

What was all of this for? The spacious apartment, the expensive wine, the silk robe that felt like a second skin—none of it brought you happiness.

Six years had passed since your mother’s death, and you’d worked tirelessly to claw your way to the top. You had fought for everything, even compromising pieces of yourself you once held sacred. But now, as you sat in the quiet of your curated life, you couldn’t help but wonder: What had all this hard work been for?

You had powerful men offering you money for a few minutes of conversation. You entertained your superiors, earning their favor and securing promotions. But at what cost? When had you become this person?

Each passing day seemed to erode the parts of you that once sparkled. The vibrant, hopeful version of yourself was long gone, replaced by someone you barely recognized. A stranger. The weight of that realization was suffocating, the feeling of being submerged in endless blue—a deep, inescapable sadness that had consumed you entirely.

As you sat there lost in thought, your phone buzzed again. This time, it was a text message.

Happy birthday.

—Wonwoo

Your heart stopped for a moment. Wonwoo.

After a month of silence, he had finally reached out.

You had told yourself not to expect anything from him, but deep down, you had waited. You had hoped. And yet, his simple message brought more pain than comfort. Six years ago, he had disappeared without a word, leaving you to pick up the pieces.

You sighed and set your phone down, determined not to let the message haunt you. But as the hours dragged on, exhaustion eventually overtook you, and you drifted into an uneasy sleep.

You woke with a start, your body trembling, your breath coming in short, panicked gasps. The image was still vivid in your mind—a shadowy figure looming over you, their weight pressing you down. It felt so real that your skin prickled, and your heart raced as if you had just escaped something dangerous.

Your hands fumbled for the lamp, flooding the room with light. You scanned every corner, your eyes darting to the shadows, but there was no one there. Just your empty room.

Another nightmare.

Your hands shook as you reached for the pills on your nightstand, swallowing one without hesitation. These dreams had been haunting you for years, each one more vivid and terrifying than the last. Sometimes it was a man chasing you, other times a car accident, or the suffocating sensation of being trapped. They felt so real, like memories etched into your subconscious, leaving you trembling long after you woke.

When was the last time you slept peacefully, without pills to dull the edges of your fear? You couldn’t remember.

You wrapped up your morning show with a warm smile, thanking the crew and bowing deeply to the staff before heading backstage to gather your belongings. The long hours and early mornings had become second nature, but today felt slightly different, like something was lingering in the air.

As you walked down the hallway toward your office, your name was called. You turned to see your superior waving you over. "Y/N, come to my office, please."

Without hesitation, you changed direction, your heels clicking against the tiled floor as you made your way to the 6th floor. As you stepped into his office, your eyes immediately landed on a familiar figure sitting comfortably in a sleek suit—Wonwoo.

Beside him sat one of his staff, equally polished and professional. Your superior greeted you warmly, gesturing toward the two men.

"Y/n, this is Mr. Jeon Wonwoo," he said, though you both already knew each other. "He wanted to personally thank you for the interview you conducted. Thanks to your efforts, the student selection process has run smoothly."

Wonwoo's lips curved into a polite smile, and you mirrored it with a carefully practiced business smile of your own.

Your superior, Mr Won, continued, oblivious to the tension. "The program will be broadcast nationally, and Mr. Jeon has specifically requested you to be the presenter."

"Me?" You raised your brows in surprise, masking the irritation bubbling beneath your surface. Of course, Wonwoo would pull something like this—using his influence to drag you into his orbit, all under the guise of professionalism.

You forced a polite response, your tone steady and composed. "If that's your decision, Mr. Won, I’ll follow your instructions. You know what’s best for the me."

Once the meeting concluded, you exited the office, determined to shake off the encounter. But as you walked down the hallway, Wonwoo caught up to you, his voice low and teasing.

"Impressive communication skills," he remarked, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

You stopped abruptly, turning to face him with narrowed eyes. His staff, preoccupied with a phone call, trailed behind before you motioned for him to go ahead. Wonwoo nodded subtly, dismissing his staff to give you two privacy.

"You’ve really changed, haven’t you?" he said, his tone laced with a familiarity that made your skin crawl. "Who would’ve thought the rebel Ji Y/N would be tamed by work? Following orders, smiling for the cameras—so unlike the opinionated girl I knew."

You froze mid-step, his words hitting a nerve. Slowly, you turned back to him, your voice cool but firm. "What do you mean by that?"

Wonwoo raised his hands slightly, feigning innocence. "I didn’t mean to offend. It’s just… the Y/N I remember wouldn’t have played the corporate game so well. She had a mind of her own."

You glared at him, your patience wearing thin. What did he know about you now? Six years had passed since he left, and he thought he could waltz back into your life with snide comments about who you had become?

"And what about you?" you shot back. "Have you learned this condescending attitude from running family businesses or by charming people at dinner meetings?"

His smirk faltered, but you didn’t care. This wasn’t the time for his petty observations or thinly veiled jabs.

"I do what I need to do to survive," you said, your voice steady but heavy with meaning. "You can think whatever you want, but you don’t have the right to judge me."

You turned to leave, the conversation clearly over in your mind. But just as you walked away, you stopped abruptly and looked back over your shoulder.

"I’ve worked harder than anyone these past six years because I didn’t have the luxury of a family supporting me. I didn’t have someone handing me opportunities or funding my dreams. Everything I have, I earned. So don’t act like you know me, Wonwoo. You don’t."

*

Back in high school, you and Wonwoo often spent time talking about your dreams, painting pictures of futures that felt so distant yet so vivid in your minds.

"I want to be a successful racer," Wonwoo had declared one afternoon, the confidence in his voice unwavering.

You grinned, leaning back on your elbows. "And I want to be like my mom. You know, get married to someone nice, have a family, maybe work part-time at a cute shop or something. It sounds simple, but it feels fun."

Wonwoo snorted, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "With your attitude and behavior? Good luck with that."

Your eyes widened as you playfully swung your hand at him, but he dodged, laughing as he hopped out of reach.

"I'm serious, though," you said, letting your hand drop. Then, after a pause, you asked quietly, "Do you still hate your dad a lot, Wonwoo?"

He shrugged, the laughter fading as he glanced at the sky. "I don’t even know what I feel about him anymore. He’s been out of sight for so long that… he’s kind of out of mind."

You nodded thoughtfully. "That’s probably for the best, right? It’s less tiring that way. You don’t have to waste energy hating him." Then, with a teasing grin, you added, "But if you ever need someone to hate him more on your behalf, call me, okay?"

Wonwoo chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "You’re such a weirdo."

"Sometimes I hate my mom, though," you admitted, your voice softening. "Every time she dotes on you like you’re her real son and I’m just… there. But I don’t hate her all the time. I guess that’s just how emotions work, right? They come and go, like waves."

He laughed at that, nudging you with his shoulder. "Of course, I’m her favorite. Who wouldn’t love me?"

"Shut up!" you shot back, rolling your eyes. "If I hadn’t been so nice to you when we were kids, you and your Pokémon bag would’ve been stranded with nowhere to go. You better thank me for being such a kind-hearted kid back then."

Wonwoo sat at the dining table with Jisoo and his father, the atmosphere heavy with an unspoken irony. At the end of the day, it was just the three of them—Wonwoo and Jisoo, the two sons his father had once abandoned, now seated by his side.

The clinking of cutlery was the only sound for a moment until his father broke the silence. "How’s the production plan for N-Jeen coming along? I heard you’ve decreased the credit allocation." Even outside office hours, his father’s mind never strayed far from work.

Wonwoo leaned back slightly, meeting his father’s gaze. "The reduced allocation is intentional. Most of our budget is spent compensating for inefficiencies caused by a lack of skilled personnel. I’m planning to recruit professionals—people who genuinely know what they’re doing."

Jisoo nodded in agreement, his voice calm but encouraging. "That sounds like a solid plan. Do you have specific candidates in mind?"

"I’ve already extended offers to a few people I know who have proven expertise in their respective fields," Wonwoo replied, his tone confident but measured. "I’ve also been looking into recruiting experienced racers. They’ve used our products firsthand and understand our shortcomings better than anyone else."

His father paused mid-bite, considering the proposal. "It’s good that you’re involving people who understand the industry from the ground up. Make sure the contracts are watertight. We can’t afford any liabilities."

Wonwoo’s lips quirked slightly. Even a compliment from his father was veiled with caution. "Of course, I’ve consulted with the legal team about that already."

Jisoo interjected, his voice lighter, diffusing some of the tension. "It’s interesting how you’re integrating practical experience into production strategies. Maybe we’ll finally see N-Jeen at its full potential."

Wonwoo glanced at Jisoo, appreciating the support. Despite everything, Jisoo had always been the steady bridge between him and his father. It felt strange—almost bittersweet—sitting here now, discussing plans for a company that had been both a family legacy and a source of familial discord.

His father set his fork down and studied Wonwoo for a moment, his expression unreadable. "You’ve come a long way from being the reckless kid who only cared about racing."

Wonwoo didn’t flinch, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes. "I'm not the only one who was reckless."

In the quiet ambiance of the restaurant, Wonwoo sat across from Seungcheol, who casually sipped his coffee. As their lunch ended, Wonwoo handed over a proposal, his tone calm but professional.

“This is for the new product launch next year,” Wonwoo explained. “I’d like you to join the production team as part of the assessment division. With your expertise, you’d oversee racer recruitment and have them test our samples.”

Seungcheol glanced at the document and nodded. “Interesting. I’ll need some time to think it over. Is the end of the week okay?”

“Perfect,” Wonwoo replied.

The conversation shifted, and Wonwoo leaned forward slightly. “Do you have any recommendations for racers? Someone with the experience we’re looking for?”

Seungcheol thought for a moment, then nodded. “There are a few people I could suggest. It’s hard to find real talent these days, but I’ll introduce you to some promising names. Drop by when you have time.”

“Sounds good,” Wonwoo said with a faint smile. “By the way, what about Lee Jiseok? He used to be quite skilled.”

At the mention of Jiseok, Seungcheol froze, his brows furrowing. He placed his coffee down carefully, his expression growing serious. “Lee Jiseok?”

“Yeah,” Wonwoo said, sensing the shift in Seungcheol’s demeanor. “What about him?”

Seungcheol let out a deep breath, leaning closer. “You don’t know, do you? He was jailed a few years ago.”

Wonwoo’s brow furrowed. “Jailed? For what?”

“For a sex crime,” Seungcheol said bluntly, his tone laced with unease.

Wonwoo’s eyes widened in shock. “What? That doesn’t make sense. Jiseok was dating Y/n at the time.”

Seungcheol shook his head, his voice heavy with seriousness. “No, Wonwoo. They weren’t dating. Jiseok made a bet with his crew to sleep with her. When she refused, he forced himself on her.”

Wonwoo’s heart sank, and his fists tightened on the table. “Y/n?” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

“Yes,” Seungcheol confirmed grimly. “It happened not long after her mother passed away. She was vulnerable, and he took advantage of that. I assumed you knew. You and Y/n were close. I can’t believe no one told you.”

Wonwoo sat back, stunned. He hadn’t heard from you in years, and now this revelation was unraveling everything he thought he knew.

“No one told me,” Wonwoo said, his voice trembling with anger and regret.

Seungcheol studied him carefully, his expression softening slightly. “I thought you knew. That’s why I was surprised when you brought up his name.”

Wonwoo stared at the table, a storm of emotions raging within him—anger at Jiseok, guilt for not being there for you and regret for how distant you had become.

“Shit…” he muttered, the word slipping out as the weight of the truth bore down on him. You, his once-close friend, had endured unimaginable pain, and he hadn't been there to support you.

Wonwoo loosened his tie as he sank into the passenger seat of his car, his mind racing. His secretary, seated behind the wheel, glanced at him with concern.

“Sir, are you alright?” the secretary ventured, but Wonwoo waved him off, his jaw clenched.

The ride back to the company felt agonizingly slow. The moment the car stopped in front of the building, Wonwoo threw the door open and strode in with determined steps. His heart pounded, not from exertion, but from the tumult of emotions threatening to spill over.

He stormed into Mingyu’s office without knocking, startling his friend, who was seated behind his desk.

“Whoa, what’s going on?” Mingyu asked, his eyes widening at Wonwoo’s flushed face and labored breathing. “Bro, are you okay? You look... upset.”

Wonwoo ignored the question and closed the door firmly behind him. He turned to Mingyu, his voice low but sharp. “Tell me the truth. Was Y/n a victim of sexual violence?”

Mingyu froze, his mouth opening as though to deny it. But he hesitated, his expression faltering. With a heavy sigh, he leaned back in his chair and ran a hand through his hair.

“Wonwoo, listen—”

“Answer me!” Wonwoo bellowed, his voice echoing off the walls. His hand clenched into a fist, trembling at his side.

Mingyu swallowed hard, then nodded reluctantly. “Yes... it’s true. But let me explain—”

“Why the hell didn’t anyone tell me?” Wonwoo shouted, his voice cracking with anguish. In a fit of frustration, he kicked the sofa beside him, sending a loud thud through the room. He turned away from Mingyu, his back heaving as he tried to control the whirlwind of anger and betrayal consuming him.

“Wonwoo, we didn’t mean to keep it from you,” Mingyu began, his tone pleading. “It wasn’t our decision to hide it from you. You didn’t want you to know. She didn’t want anyone to know.”

Wonwoo spun around, his eyes blazing. “I was her friend! I should’ve been there for her. You all knew, and I was left in the dark like some outsider.”

Mingyu stood, his own frustration bubbling to the surface. “And what would you have done, huh? You were in China, handling your own life. She didn’t want to drag you into her pain!”

“That wasn’t your choice to make!” Wonwoo roared, slamming his fist against the wall. His chest heaved as he struggled to process it all—the betrayal he felt, the pain You must have endured, and the guilt clawing at him for not being there.

Mingyu softened, his voice quieter now. “Wonwoo... she didn’t want you to carry this burden. But if you’re this upset, imagine how she felt, going through it alone.”

The words hit Wonwoo like a punch to the gut. He sank onto the sofa he had kicked moments earlier, his head in his hands.

“She didn’t deserve that,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.

“No, she didn’t,” Mingyu agreed, sitting across from him. “But she survived. She’s still here, Wonwoo.”

Wonwoo looked up, his eyes filled with a mix of regret and determination. “I need to see her.”

Mingyu gave a small nod. “Then do it. But don’t come at her with guilt or anger. Just... be her friend.”

Wonwoo clenched his fists, his resolve hardening. He would find you. And this time, he wouldn’t fail you.

Wonwoo drove his own car to your broadcasting company, the hum of the engine a constant reminder of the tension that had been building between the two of you. You were in the middle of your last schedule when he arrived, but as soon as he caught sight of you, he immediately rose from the sofa, his eyes searching yours.

You were caught off guard by his sudden appearance. For a moment, you froze, unsure of how to react. But you quickly regained your composure, as you always did. The years of learning to keep your emotions hidden were not wasted.

"Follow me," Wonwoo said, his tone firm but pleading. You hesitated, instinctively preparing to decline.

"I'm busy," you replied, though the words felt hollow in your mouth.

He didn’t give up. "I know it’s your last schedule. Come with me."

His grip on your arm tightened just enough to remind you that he wasn’t going to take no for an answer. The heat of his hand on your skin made it hard to pull away. Reluctantly, you gathered your things and followed him.

As he drove, you tried to break the silence. "Where are we going?"

But he said nothing, his gaze focused on the road ahead. The world outside the window seemed to blur as your thoughts spiraled. You knew he wasn’t the type to drag you around without a reason. Something was clearly bothering him, but you couldn’t make sense of it.

Eventually, the car slowed, and you recognized the familiar stretch of road. The sound of the waves in the distance grew louder.

You were at the beach.

A sense of unease filled you as memories flooded back. This was the same beach where he had brought you years ago, after your father's funeral, when you felt like your world had crumbled around you. You could feel the weight of time, the shifting of your past and present, all converging in this one place.

The car came to a stop, and he stepped out, his movements purposeful, as though he already knew what he needed to do. You sat frozen for a moment before instinct kicked in. You quickly took off your heels and followed him, your steps leaving imprints in the sand.

"Wonwoo!" you called, your voice rising above the sound of the crashing waves. "What’s going on? What are you doing?"

But he didn’t answer, walking farther away, his back turned to you. You couldn’t make sense of it. Why was he acting like this? Why now, after all this time?

You quickened your pace, calling his name again. "Jeon Wonwoo, what’s wrong with you?"

As you reached him, you tried to grab his arm, desperate to get his attention, to force him to explain himself. But before you could, he suddenly turned to face you. His expression was soft but strained, and before you could process what was happening, he pulled you into his embrace.

"I'm sorry," he whispered into your hair, his voice breaking the silence between you like a cracked dam.

The words were simple, but they carried so much weight. You stood still for a moment, the shock of the gesture leaving you breathless. His arms felt like a refuge, but you couldn’t shake the confusion swirling in your mind.

You stiffened in his arms, the warmth of his embrace both comforting and overwhelming. For a moment, you simply stood there, unsure how to react, your body frozen in his grasp. The familiar scent of him—the cologne you remembered from years ago, the scent that somehow always felt like home—filled your senses. But there was also something else: regret, a deep, aching remorse in the way he held you.

"I'm sorry..." Wonwoo repeated, his voice softer now, as though the weight of his apology had finally found its place in his heart.

You both stood there in the silence, the crashing waves behind you and the setting sun painting the sky with colors of hope.

*

You saw Wonwoo running through the school corridors toward you during lunch break. You were taken aback when he suddenly pulled you into an embrace, his grip tight on your shoulders, his breath uneven, and his eyes brimming with tears.

"Promise me you'll remain calm," he whispered through his breathless words, his hands trembling as they held you tighter. You were stunned, your heart racing as you looked up at him, confusion flooding your mind. What was happening?

"Father..." His voice cracked, and his gaze flickered with a mix of fear and anguish.

"He had a heart attack," he continued, his voice strained, "and now he's being rushed to the hospital."

The words hung in the air like a heavy cloud, and despite your shock, you immediately nodded, swallowing your panic. You couldn't let yourself crumble in the school cafeteria.

Your heart thudded painfully against your ribs as Wonwoo took your hand and led you into a run. His steps were hurried, his determination pulling you along with him as he rushed toward the parking lot. The sound of your shoes pounding against the floor seemed to mirror the racing of your thoughts.

In a blur of motion, you both arrived at his bike, and without wasting a second, he revved the engine and sped toward the hospital.

But it was too late. By the time you arrived, the hospital doors felt like an insurmountable distance between you and the unbearable reality. The news hit like a thunderclap. Both you and Wonwoo had lost your fathers that day.

Wonwoo, in the midst of his own grief, stepped into a role you never thought you’d need him to. He became your rock, your father in ways you never imagined. He stayed by your side through the funeral, comforting you and your mother while silently bearing his own pain. He served everyone, trying to keep a stoic face, but you saw the cracks, the weight of the loss bearing down on him. He had seen your father as his own, a mentor, a second father.

And just like him, you buried your grief deep inside, unable to break down in front of your mother. You had lost your father, but she had lost everything. You couldn't bear to add more sorrow to her heart.

Wonwoo, ever the steadfast presence in your life, took you away from the heavy emotions of the funeral. He brought you to a beach near Incheon, one that your father had taken both of you to when you were just six years old. It was the first time either of you had ever seen the sea, a small, secret escape when your parents had fought. You hadn’t been there in years, but the memories flooded back instantly—the sound of the waves, the salty air, and the way your father had held your hand, guiding you along the shore. It was a place you hadn’t even realized you missed.

Standing behind Wonwoo as he faced the sea, the sound of the waves crashing in the distance, you felt the weight of everything—your father's absence, your mother’s pain, and your own silent grief.

"Just cry. Mom isn’t here," Wonwoo said softly, his voice low and soothing, his broad shoulders unmoving as he looked toward the horizon.

The permission to break, to let go, was what you needed. Your tears came suddenly, unbidden, falling down your cheeks like a river, each one a memory, a piece of the pain you had held back. You sobbed quietly at first, but soon the floodgates opened. The grief you had kept hidden for so long poured out, carried away by the wind and the sea.

As your sobs became harder, more uncontrollable, you leaned your head against Wonwoo's back. His presence, so solid and unshakable, gave you the comfort you desperately needed. You felt his hand on your shoulder, a silent support, as you cried for everything you had lost—and for everything you were still holding on to.

You woke up to the sound of your own sobs, the remnants of tears still streaking down your cheeks. Blinking, you wiped your face with the back of your hand as you sat up on the edge of your bed. The room was dim, and the weight of the night pressed heavily around you. You hadn’t even realized you had fallen asleep—everything felt hazy, as if the moments between waking and dreaming blurred into one.

Wonwoo's words from earlier that afternoon echoed in your mind. "I'm sorry for leaving you..."

The words felt like a haunting whisper, lingering long after he had said them. Despite the years that had passed without any communication between you two, despite the distance that time and silence had created, his apology still had the power to stir something deep within you. The ache that you had buried for so long resurfaced, raw and tender, as if it had never left.

You let out a soft sigh, running a hand through your hair. After all these years, it was strange how much of an effect he still had on you. Even after everything, even after all the distance, he still found a way to worm his way into your heart.

"I like you," you confessed to Wonwoo, just weeks before he disappeared without a trace.

The memory of that night felt sharp—too sharp. You could still remember the heat of the argument, the first time you had seen Wonwoo lose control, shouting at you after days of silence. Whatever sparked the fight, you couldn’t recall. But you did know one thing for sure: he was jealous.

Jealous of Lee Jiseok, who had won the race that day.

At first, you had thought it was childish—until you realized that the jealousy ran deeper. It wasn’t just the race that had sparked his anger. It was the kiss. Jiseok had kissed you in front of everyone, and that’s what really set him off.

The argument escalated, and before you could even process it, you found yourself grabbing his collar, pulling him toward you, and kissing him. For a moment, he froze, but then his lips moved against yours, answering you in the only way he knew how. He pushed you back against the wall of his apartment, lifting you so that your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist.

"You kissed Jiseok, and now you’re kissing me?" His voice was low, almost dangerous, but there was something else behind it—desire, frustration, longing.

The kiss deepened, and before long, you found yourselves shedding clothes, your breaths coming in quick, heated gasps. But in the midst of it, you stopped.

"I like you, Wonwoo," you said, your voice trembling but steady.

He paused, his lips lingering against yours, searching your eyes. "Yeah?" he murmured, his breath hot against your skin.

"I like you," you repeated, your heart racing. The truth had finally spilled from you, the words you had been holding in for months, or maybe years.

For a moment, you both just stared at each other. And then, without speaking, he closed the distance between you again, pulling you back into the storm of kisses and touches.

But in the middle of it all, as you looked into his eyes with burning desire, your thoughts spoke louder than anything else. "Fuck me," you thought.

Wonwoo pulled back suddenly, his expression unreadable. He grabbed your shirt, hastily putting it back on you, his movements sharp and cold. Before you could even understand what was happening, he was pushing you out of the door. The finality of it hit you hard as he slammed the door in your face without a word.

That night, you waited. But there were no apologies, no explanations, nothing. He didn’t show up the next day—or the day after that. Weeks passed, then months. You started to wonder if something had happened to him. If he had vanished entirely from your life.

Then Jisoo informed you—he had gone to his father's house.

Three months later, you discovered the truth. Everyone knew he had gone abroad, except for you.

The silence, the absence, it stung more than you could have ever imagined. And now, here you were—left with only the memories of a night that had changed everything, wondering if he had ever felt the same.

*

"What?!" Both Mingyu and Hansol shot up from their seats in surprise as Wonwoo casually dropped the bombshell.

He had invited Mingyu and Hansol over for a warm housewarming gathering—he had just moved into a new apartment. It was spacious, well-lit, and definitely something Wonwoo could afford with all his success. The minimalist decor, the clean lines, the neutral tones—it was a perfect reflection of Jeon Wonwoo himself, according to Hansol’s personal opinion.

Mingyu and Hansol had brought a variety of food and drinks: fried chicken, spicy tteokbokki, beer, soju, and even a bottle of expensive whiskey Mingyu had been saving for a moment like this.

"Should we invite Y/N? She's next door," Wonwoo said, causing Mingyu and Hansol to freeze mid-bite. The words hung in the air like a shockwave.

"You moved next door to her?!" Hansol blurted out, disbelief written all over his face.

"You're crazy, man!" Mingyu groaned, slapping his palm to his face in frustration.

Wonwoo shrugged nonchalantly, refilling his drink with ice from the fridge before taking a seat beside them. "You weren't this surprised when I told you I lived with her until I was 20."

Hansol, still processing the information, shook his head in disbelief. "But you saw her as a sister. What about now, dude?"

Wonwoo nodded, his expression calm, his eyes steady as he sipped his beer. "She's still a sister."

Mingyu snorted, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. "Sister my ass."

Wonwoo shot Mingyu a knowing glance, his gaze sharp. He knew Mingyu was onto something, but it seemed Hansol, the one who usually got tipsy first, was completely oblivious to the crucial piece of the puzzle—something he had been wondering about for a while now.

The tension hung in the air, and Hansol, now furrowing his brow, leaned back in his chair. He didn’t quite understand what was going on, but whatever it was, it felt like there was more to this story than they were letting on.

"You two are something else," Hansol muttered, still trying to wrap his head around it all. "I thought I knew everything."

The weight of those words lingered in the room, and for a brief moment, all three of them were lost in their own thoughts.

A day before his flight to China for "observation," they had drunk heavily. Hansol passed out first on the couch, leaving Wonwoo, who had definitely overdone it with the soju, still awake. Mingyu, ever the drinker, kept refilling his glass as if there were no alcohol limit for him.

"I kissed Y/N," Wonwoo mumbled, his voice slurred.

Mingyu froze mid-motion, his hand half-raised with the soju glass still hovering in the air. "What?" he asked, disbelief in his tone.

"I kissed Y/N. Twice," Wonwoo continued, his words tumbling out in a rush. "We made out. We almost... We almost... I don’t know! I messed up everything!"

Frustration laced Wonwoo’s voice as he threw the squid snack in his hand across the room. Mingyu blinked, processing the words before his lips curved into a smirk.

"You what?" Mingyu laughed in disbelief. "You made out with Y/N? Almost...?" His voice trailed off, then he put his glass down and fully turned to face Wonwoo, his interest piqued. "But you told me she was like a sister to you?"

Wonwoo sighed deeply, slumping back into the chair, clearly lost in his own confusion. Mingyu, on the other hand, was looking at him like a curious child—amused and expecting to hear it all.

Mingyu had never bought into the idea that Y/N was just a sister to Wonwoo. Hansol? He believed whatever he heard, but Mingyu always knew there was something more beneath the surface.

"She was," Wonwoo muttered, his voice barely audible. Mingyu suppressed a laugh, shaking his head in disbelief.

"But then—" Wonwoo’s words grew heavier, full of bitterness. "She slept with Jiseok... They kissed that night I lost the race... Fuck, I don’t care about her anymore."

Wonwoo grabbed Mingyu’s glass and downed it in one swift motion, the burn of the alcohol momentarily distracting him from the tangled mess of emotions inside him.

Mingyu’s face fell, no longer amused. The atmosphere shifted, and for the first time that night, the weight of the situation truly sank in. He watched as Wonwoo’s facade of indifference faltered, the frustration and hurt clear in his eyes. Mingyu knew then that this was more than just a drunken confession—it was a broken heart, disguised by anger and too much soju.

*

Your eyes widened at the sight of Wonwoo and Mingyu struggling to support a completely drunken Hansol as you stepped out of your apartment door. The three of them looked like a chaotic trio, Hansol barely conscious, his head lolling from side to side, while Wonwoo and Mingyu worked together to keep him upright. They must have been drinking together.

Mingyu, ever friendly and cheerful, greeted you with a grin as if nothing was out of the ordinary. “Hey, Y/N,” he said casually, as though hauling around a passed-out Hansol was just another day for him. Wonwoo, on the other hand, gave you a nod, his expression calm but tinged with slight annoyance as Hansol slumped more heavily against him.

Your finger instinctively pressed the elevator button, and you stepped aside, allowing the three of them to enter first. Hansol let out a groggy mumble, which made Mingyu chuckle as they maneuvered him inside. Once they were settled, you followed, glancing at Hansol with concern.

“Is he always like this?” you asked, your voice laced with curiosity and a hint of worry.

Mingyu nodded, giving you a reassuring smile. “Yeah, he’s kind of a lightweight compared to us. This happens a lot, don’t worry. He’ll be fine once he sleeps it off.”

You raised an eyebrow, amused but still skeptical, as you watched Hansol mumble something incoherent before his head drooped onto Wonwoo’s shoulder. Wonwoo sighed, adjusting his grip to keep him from sliding to the floor. Despite his slightly irritated demeanor, you could tell Wonwoo was used to this.

When the elevator doors opened, you followed them outside to the street, where they carefully loaded Hansol into a waiting cab. Mingyu climbed in after him, ensuring he was seated properly. Before the door closed, Mingyu leaned out and waved at you and Wonwoo.

“Goodnight, Y/N! Take care of this grumpy guy,” he teased, jerking a thumb in Wonwoo’s direction.

You chuckled softly, waving back. “Goodnight, Mingyu. Drive safe.”

As the cab pulled away, you turned to Wonwoo, who stood beside you with his hands stuffed into his pockets, watching the car disappear into the night. The streetlights cast a soft glow over his face, and for a moment, neither of you said anything.

Wonwoo let out a sigh before turning to you, his gaze steady. “Where are you going this late?” he asked, his tone a mix of curiosity and concern.

Where were you going? Nowhere, really. You had stepped out because of all the commotion outside your door, curiosity getting the better of you. But you couldn’t exactly say that, could you?

“Convenience store,” you replied with a casual nod, trying to sound convincing. “To grab some ramyeon. Or beer.”

Wonwoo’s eyes narrowed slightly, his head tilting as he studied you. “You don’t eat ramyeon,” he pointed out, raising an eyebrow as if calling your bluff.

Well, that was true. You didn’t. But you weren’t about to explain yourself. “I eat it now,” you retorted, crossing your arms and raising your chin slightly.

Wonwoo stared at you for a beat longer before nodding in quiet acknowledgment. “Fine. I have some at my place. Come on, I’ll cook it for you.”

You stepped into Wonwoo's apartment for the first time in years. It felt oddly familiar—still carrying the same understated charm that mirrored Jeon Wonwoo himself. However, the living room was a bit of a mess, likely remnants of their drinking session earlier. Empty bottles and snack wrappers lay scattered across the coffee table.

"Don’t mind that," Wonwoo said casually, gesturing toward the clutter before leading you toward the kitchen. You followed him, settling on one of the bar stools by his kitchen island.

“It’s past midnight. Don’t you sleep?” he asked, his voice low as he filled a pot with water and placed it on the stove.

You sighed softly. Sleep wasn’t something you got much of these days. “I was awake already.”

Wonwoo glanced over his shoulder at you. “Was it because of us? Sorry if we were too noisy,” he said with a faint look of guilt.

You shook your head quickly. “No, it’s not that. I woke up about an hour ago.”

“And you’re suddenly craving ramyeon?” His eyebrow quirked slightly, and his tone was teasing.

You nodded with a small, embarrassed smile. “Yes. Craving ramyeon.”

Wonwoo chuckled softly as he opened a cabinet, pulling out a packet of ramyeon. He began preparing it with an easy confidence, adding a few extra ingredients here and there. As the water boiled, he glanced at you. “You never liked ramyeon before. What changed?”

You hesitated, unsure how to respond. You stayed quiet, watching him cook.

A few minutes later, he placed a steaming bowl of ramyeon in front of you, along with a small plate of kimchi from his fridge. Then he settled beside you on a stool, leaning back slightly.

Tentatively, you picked up your chopsticks and spoon, giving the food a cautious taste. You never liked ramyeon because it was always too salty or heavy for your taste. But the moment the soup touched your lips, you froze, surprised.

“It’s not salty,” you said, looking at him in shock.

Wonwoo smiled knowingly. “I figured. You never liked ramyeon because it’s salty and ruins your diet. So, I adjusted it a bit.”

Your eyes widened further. He remembered. He always remembered the little things about you, even things you had forgotten.

“It’s really good,” you admitted softly before taking another spoonful.

Wonwoo stood up, his hand brushing lightly over the top of your head in a familiar, comforting gesture. “Finish it and go get some sleep,” he said gently. “I’ll clean up the living room.”

You watched him walk away, your chest tightening slightly. For someone so stoic, Wonwoo had always had a way of making you feel seen, even in the smallest moments.

You woke up feeling surprisingly refreshed the next morning. However, the moment you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror, a groan escaped your lips. Your face looked a little puffier than usual—a direct result of finishing that bowl of ramyeon last night. You made a mental note to stick to your usual late-night snacks moving forward.

Shaking off your regret, you took your time getting ready, thankful you didn’t have a morning show to rush to. After slipping into a work attire, you grabbed an apple from the kitchen and bit into it as you headed out the door.

The timing couldn’t have been more perfect—or awkward—as you stepped into the hallway and found yourself face-to-face with Wonwoo. He was already dressed sharply in his work attire, his tie perfectly knotted and his expression calm yet focused.

“Morning,” he greeted you with a warm smile.

You nodded in acknowledgment, the apple still held between your teeth, muffling any verbal response.

Wonwoo glanced at the time on his watch, then back at you. “Running late?” he asked casually as the two of you stepped into the elevator together.

You shook your head, taking another bite of your apple as the elevator descended.

“Good. Let me drive you,” he offered, leaning against the wall of the elevator. “We can grab some proper breakfast on the way.”

You blinked at him, startled by the suggestion. “This is my breakfast,” you replied, holding up the half-eaten apple.

Wonwoo raised an eyebrow, his expression a mix of amusement and disapproval. “That’s not breakfast. Come on, I know a good place nearby. My treat.”

Before you could protest, the elevator doors opened, and he stepped out confidently, already heading toward his car. You followed reluctantly, wondering how he managed to convince you so effortlessly.

As Wonwoo navigated the early morning traffic, the soft hum of the car engine filled the silence between the two of you. You sat quietly, gazing out the window, your hands resting on your lap. The city streets blurred past, but your thoughts were elsewhere.

“I never really told you what I was doing in China, did I?” Wonwoo suddenly broke the silence, his voice steady but laced with an undertone of vulnerability.

You blinked, startled by his openness, and turned to glance at him. He kept his eyes on the road, but you could see the tension in his jaw.

“I spent the first six months there working on a project my father insisted I take over. It was… exhausting. But it wasn’t just work that kept me there,” he began. “I wanted to find a way to clear my head. To figure out what I really wanted in life.”

You didn’t respond, unsure of what to say, so you simply listened.

“I went back to school,” he continued, his hands tightening on the steering wheel. “Enrolled in a business program. It was something my father had always pushed for, but I never really considered it until… well, until I left.”

Your brow furrowed slightly, but you stayed silent, letting him continue.

“I wanted to prove I could handle myself. That I wasn’t just running away. So, I worked during the day at my father’s company, managing operations and learning the ins and outs of the business. And at night, I studied.” He let out a dry laugh. “It was brutal at first, balancing everything. But I needed to do it.”

Wonwoo glanced at you briefly before continuing. “I kept thinking about all the things I left behind—what I left unresolved. And when I said I wanted to fix things, I meant it.” His tone was firm now, as though he wanted to leave no room for doubt.

You shifted slightly in your seat, still unsure how to respond. The weight of his words hung in the air, and you could feel your chest tighten. It wasn’t like you hadn’t thought about him during his absence, but hearing him say it out loud made it all too real.

“I know it might sound selfish,” Wonwoo added after a moment, his grip tightening on the steering wheel, “but I needed that time to sort myself out. To come back and face you—not as the guy who walked away, but someone who could try to make things right.”

You turned back to the window, your reflection staring back at you. The raw sincerity in his voice was undeniable, but the wound he left behind was still there, faint but persistent.

The light turned green, and the car moved forward, but the heaviness of his words stayed between you.

“I don’t know if you’ll ever forgive me for leaving the way I did,” he added, his voice hesitant. “But I’m serious about fixing things. And I’m starting with myself.”

You didn’t know how to respond. His confession felt like a wave, crashing against the wall you had built over time. So, instead of speaking, you nodded faintly, letting the silence settle.

“I just want you to know,” he said, his voice softer now, “I’m not asking for anything from you. I’m just… trying to do better this time.”

As he pulled into the parking lot of a café, Wonwoo turned to you with a small, hopeful smile. “Breakfast on me,” he said lightly, trying to shift the mood.

You managed a weak smile in return, unsure what to make of everything he had just shared.

*

Once you stepped out of his car, Wonwoo sat motionless in the driver’s seat, gripping the steering wheel tighter than necessary. The faint sound of the car door shutting echoed in his ears, and an overwhelming sense of failure washed over him. He had messed up everything. Again.

Wonwoo replayed the conversation in his mind, cringing at how he had rambled, explaining and justifying himself like a desperate man trying to prove he wasn’t in the wrong. The realization hit him like a freight train—he had become exactly what he swore he’d never be.

Just like his father.

Your parting question lingered in the air like smoke.

"Do you still hate your dad?"

He had frozen at the sound of it, his mind scrambling for an answer he couldn’t give. Did he still hate his father? No, not anymore. But that realization didn’t bring him peace. If anything, it made him uneasy.

He didn’t hate his father. He disliked him. He resented the ways his father had molded him, the expectations, the cold lectures disguised as wisdom. But the anger that used to burn so fiercely had faded, replaced by something he couldn’t name.

And now, here he was, mimicking the very behaviors he had once despised. He had told himself for years that he would never turn out like his father. That he would live on his own terms, follow his own passions. Yet here he was, no longer a racer, no longer the man you had known. He had left you.

He became the kind of person he hated the most—explaining his mistakes, trying to rationalize them, as if that would make them disappear. He hated it.

But what he hated more was the possibility that you could see it too. That you could see how much he’d changed, and not necessarily for the better.

Wonwoo leaned back in his seat, staring blankly at the dashboard. He was different now, there was no denying that. He had done the opposite of everything he had once vowed to do. The boy who had once been so sure of his dreams, of you, was long gone.

He closed his eyes, exhaling a shaky breath. What was he now? And was this change something he could ever come back from?

As you disappeared into the distance, Wonwoo sat there, feeling like a stranger in his own skin.

*

Wonwoo leaned casually against the railing, observing the bustling set of the N-Jeen program shoot. It had been over a month since the icy tension between you two began to thaw. You had started talking to him again, and on occasion, when his schedule allowed, he would drive you to work. It was a small gesture, but it felt like progress—a step toward mending the fractured relationship.

He had arranged a lunch meeting nearby that day and decided to drop by the shoot when he heard it was close. As you stood a few meters away, chatting with one of the students involved in the program, Wonwoo motioned for his assistant to distribute the energy drinks he had brought for the crew. His gaze softened when it landed on you. Though he quickly redirected his attention, the fleeting smile didn’t go unnoticed.

"Mr. Jeon," the producer spoke up cautiously, pulling Wonwoo out of his thoughts. "May I ask you something? I hope you won’t take it the wrong way."

Wonwoo turned to face him, his expression calm and polite. "Of course. Go ahead."

The producer hesitated briefly, glancing at you before continuing. "Are you and our presenter, Ji Y/N, in a relationship? Forgive me if I’m overstepping."

A faint smile tugged at Wonwoo’s lips. "Why do you ask?" he replied, his tone measured, though the question amused him.

The producer scratched the back of his head awkwardly. "Well... some of the crew have noticed you driving her to work pretty often. And, well, you seem... a bit affectionate toward her."

Wonwoo hummed thoughtfully, letting his gaze wander back to you for a moment. You were laughing at something the student said, your eyes sparkling under the afternoon sun. He looked away, his expression unreadable.

"I’ve known her for a long time," he finally said, a small, almost imperceptible smile lingering. "Maybe that explains it."

The producer nodded, though he still seemed curious. Wonwoo, however, didn’t elaborate. Instead, he shifted the conversation back to the shoot logistics, steering it away from personal matters.

"PD, there's something I need to show you," the assistant producer said urgently, stepping closer with an iPad in hand. His face was pale, and his tone carried a weight of concern.

Wonwoo watched as the producer took the device and stared at the screen. At the same moment, Wonwoo's secretary approached, holding out her own phone with a grim expression. "Mr. Jeon, you should see this."

Wonwoo frowned and glanced down at the article. His jaw tightened as he scanned the bold headline splashed across the screen:

"KBC's Presenter, Ji Y/N, Rumored to Be a Call Girl."

His eyes flicked over the details—a damning accusation from the wife of a high-profile broadcasting executive. The article claimed that you had been involved with her husband for years, presenting call logs, text history, and alleged money transfer records as evidence. Though the photo of you was clear, the man in question was conveniently blurred.

The producer let out a heavy sigh as he finished reading. "This is serious. I'll need to speak to the chief about this immediately," he said, his voice laced with urgency.

Wonwoo’s secretary leaned in closer. "What should we do, sir?"

For a moment, Wonwoo said nothing, his eyes fixed on you. You were completely unaware of the storm brewing around you, laughing and chatting with the students during the break. That carefree smile made his stomach twist.

"We’re facing an internal issue," the producer announced suddenly, his voice carrying across the set. "Let’s call it a day. We’ll reschedule once this matter is resolved."

The cast and crew exchanged confused glances, murmurs rippling through the set. You turned to look, your brow furrowing at the sudden decision. But one by one, everyone began to pack up their equipment and bid each other goodbye, leaving the scene scattered with uncertainty.

Wonwoo’s jaw clenched as he stalked toward the exit, his secretary trailing behind him. Anger simmered beneath his composed exterior, and his usually calm demeanor was replaced with an edge of frustration.

"Cancel the rest of my day," he barked at his secretary without looking back.

"Sir—" he began hesitantly, unsure how to proceed.

"Just cancel it," he snapped, his tone sharper than usual.

As he stepped into the car, Wonwoo slammed the door shut, his fists clenching on his lap. The driver cast a wary glance in the rearview mirror before silently starting the engine.

Wonwoo stared straight ahead, his mind swirling with questions and accusations. He didn’t know who to blame—was it you for not telling him about this mess? Was it himself for thinking things between you could finally settle? Or was it the faceless person behind this rumour?

The image of you laughing with the students earlier flashed in his mind, your carefree expression so out of place in the chaos now unfolding. He felt a pang of guilt for walking away without saying anything, but his anger was louder than his regret.

"She didn’t even know," he thought bitterly. "And I still left without a word."

The silence in the car was heavy, broken only by the sound of the tires on the road. Wonwoo refused to look at his phone or even acknowledge the world outside the vehicle. For now, he let the anger consume him, unsure of where it would take him next.

*

You spent the day trapped in a whirlwind of complicated emotions. The producer and his assistant had immediately pulled you aside, sliding the damning article across the table. The moment your eyes skimmed the headline, your heart sank.

So, this is how it ends?

“Is it true, Y/n?” the producer asked, his voice tense but steady.

Your breath hitched as you forced yourself to read the article again—every word, every comment, every accusation. It all stared back at you, cruel and unrelenting. The headline screamed louder in your mind than any voice in the room.

“We can’t continue the show, Y/n. You know how critical this project is for us and for N-Jeen. Having your name associated with this... it’s the last thing we need,” the producer said, his tone tinged with regret but firm.

You nodded slowly, the weight of his words crashing down on you. Of course, you understood. How could you not?

“It’s true,” you murmured, barely audible.

Both men froze, exchanging uneasy glances before focusing on you again.

“It’s true that I received money from him,” you clarified, your voice trembling as you gestured toward the executive mentioned in the article.

The producer let out a weary sigh, leaning back in his chair. “Alright, that’s all we need for now. We’ll discuss this with the production team and let you know how we’re proceeding.”

You nodded again, too numb to respond.

Later, the call from KBC News came, pulling you into yet another interrogation. They asked the same questions—relentless, prying, cold. But no matter how many ways they asked, you couldn’t bring yourself to say more.

They didn’t want the truth. They didn’t care about your side of the story. At the end of the day, they only wanted to see you fall.

By the time they summoned you to the office that afternoon, the thought of stepping inside filled you with dread. Would this meeting be about finding answers, or would it be the final nail in the coffin of everything you had worked so hard to build?

You struggled after everything fell apart. Life had been cruel to you, but the hardest blow came when your mother passed away in a tragic car accident. She was simply passing by when a speeding car lost control and crashed into her. Grieving alone, you felt the crushing weight of loss, with no one to lean on.

In the midst of your sorrow, Jiseok and his crew appeared, trying to make you smile, to pull you out of your misery. For a fleeting moment, you thought maybe they cared. But their kindness came with a hidden motive.

You didn’t realize the truth until that fateful night. You found out they had been betting on who would sleep with you first. The revelation hit you like a punch to the gut, and it didn’t stop there. That night, Jiseok tried to take things further—he got you drunk and pushed you to the edge of your limits.

You tried to escape, head pounding, your senses clouded by the alcohol. You don’t remember how it all unfolded, but you woke up in a hospital bed days later, disoriented and broken. The doctors said you’d been there for a week. The psychological scars, however, would last much longer. They sent you to a psychologist, and for months, you worked to piece yourself back together.

Life took an unexpected turn when you met Mr. Park, a director at EBS. He had noticed you at a university campus event and approached you with an offer. At first, you were skeptical, but when he said he wanted to meet with you, you knew this could be the break you had been praying for—a chance to pursue your dream of becoming a presenter, a dream you had long buried under the weight of your circumstances.

At dinner, Mr. Park offered to pay for your tuition and even helped you secure a spot at KBC. The only condition? Talking. Just talking.

Conversations with him were nothing like what people would imagine. There were no ulterior motives, no inappropriate behavior—just the words of a man who missed his late wife and longed for the daughter he never had. He said you resembled his wife in her youth, and he found comfort in your presence.

But you understood why the rumors spiraled. Who would believe your story? Who would believe that Mr. Park’s intentions were purely paternal? That all he wanted was someone to fill the void of a lost family?

In a world as harsh and unforgiving as the one you lived in, desperation was a language not everyone could understand. You and Mr. Park were kindred souls in your own way—two people who found solace in the simplest connection. Yet, the world would never see it that way.

There were moments when you couldn’t help but feel disgusted with yourself—disgusted with everything you had done to get to this point. No matter how much you tried to justify it, the weight of those choices hung heavy on you. You told yourself it was just you working harder than anyone else, sacrificing more, pushing further. But deep down, you knew the truth: you were desperate.

Not everyone understood what it meant to be this desperate—to fight tooth and nail just to survive, just to carve out a place for yourself in a world that never gave you a chance.

You thought your hard work, your sacrifices, would pay off. That they would see you as a Presenter—a voice, a face, someone who had earned her place. But now?

Now, they called you a Call Girl. Not a Presenter. Not a professional. Just a scandal waiting to be torn apart.

And no matter how much you had fought to rise above, that label felt like it would bury you alive.

*

Wonwoo realized he shouldn’t have been like this—caught up in legalities and anger. He should have been by your side, supporting you through everything. That thought brought him to your door, hand hovering over the doorbell. He pressed it once and waited, feeling the seconds stretch into an eternity. When no one came, he pressed it again, this time hearing your voice call out, “Wait!”

You opened the door moments later, wrapped in a towel with damp hair and wearing pajamas.

“Come in,” you said hurriedly, disappearing into the kitchen. The warm, aromatic scent of cooking greeted him as he stepped inside.

“You’re cooking? It’s almost midnight,” Wonwoo said, following the smell into the kitchen. He stopped to see a pot of chicken soup simmering on the stove, the rich aroma filling the air. It reminded him of the comfort food your mother used to make when times got tough. The thought tightened something in his chest.

“Go dry your hair,” Wonwoo said softly, stepping closer to tap your arm. “I’ll take care of this.”

You hesitated but eventually nodded, leaving the kitchen. Wonwoo turned off the stove and carefully moved the pot to the dining table, preparing the side dishes and scooping out two bowls of rice. Once everything was set, he sat down and texted his lawyer, his phone in hand when you returned to the room.

“I’m fine, if that’s what you’re wondering,” you said suddenly, breaking the silence.

Wonwoo looked up as you sat down, a faint smile crossing your face as you opened the pot. The fragrant steam curled up into the air, and you let out a small sound of delight.

“It smells amazing,” you said, scooping some soup into your bowl.

Wonwoo watched as you took a bite, savoring the taste. For a moment, it felt like everything was normal.

“I’ll help you sue them,” Wonwoo said quietly, placing his arms on the table. “You don’t need to act fine with me.”

You glanced at him but shook your head. “No need. Mr. Park said he’ll handle it.”

Wonwoo frowned, his brows knitting together. “You mean it’s true? The rumors?”

You paused, setting your utensils down. “Yes. I took money from him. This apartment? He paid the down payment.”

Wonwoo stared at you, his mind racing. What could have pushed you to this? You never used to take money from anyone—not even from him. Back then, he had to secretly give money to your mother just to help you. Were you really that desperate?

“What happened to mom?” Wonwoo asked suddenly, his voice quieter now.

You froze, your hand hovering over your bowl. “I thought you were going to ask why I did it.”

“I’m not curious about that,” Wonwoo said firmly. “I know you have your reasons.”

There was a heavy silence before you finally spoke, your voice breaking the stillness. “It was a hit-and-run. I was in the middle of work when I got the call. By the time I reached the hospital… she was gone.”

Wonwoo exhaled slowly, the weight of your words sinking in. “And after that?” he asked gently.

“I moved,” you said, your tone detached, as if recalling a distant memory. “But Jiseok found me. He was there, but not really there. A lot happened after that—I ended up in the hospital, had regular visits to a psychiatrist, and went through court proceedings. Jiseok was sentenced to ten years.”

You bit your lip, pausing before continuing. “I told Mr. Park everything. He promised to make sure Jiseok wouldn’t bother me again, even after his release. Mr. Park… he cares for me like I’m his daughter.”

Wonwoo sighed, leaning back slightly. “So the rumors aren’t true.”

You chuckled humorlessly. “I told you—I did take the money.”

“But it wasn’t anything like what the media is claiming,” Wonwoo said, his voice tightening with anger.

You shrugged, your tone calm but tinged with bitterness. “It took me years to heal from what Jiseok did. I would never sell my body for money.”

Wonwoo clenched his fists under the table, anger surging through him—not at you, but at the world that had twisted your story into something it wasn’t. He wished he could have been there for you sooner, to stop this from ever happening.

“You have me now,” Wonwoo said softly, his voice steady but carrying an undercurrent of emotion.

You glanced at him briefly before turning your eyes back to your food. “But you’ll go,” you murmured. “You’ll have your own family one day.”

Wonwoo frowned, leaning closer. “You’re my family.”

You shook your head with a faint, sad smile. “We’re not kids anymore, Wonwoo. My mom was the one who took care of you, not me.”

“Then I’ll take care of you,” he said, his tone firm, almost defiant.

You chuckled bitterly, a sound devoid of joy. “It’s not as easy as that.”

Wonwoo leaned back slightly, studying you, the flicker of doubt and vulnerability in your eyes. “But you said you liked me,” he said quietly, almost as if testing the waters. “Do you… not like me anymore?”

You froze for a moment, the question hanging heavily in the air. Then, with a deep breath, you looked up at him. “I do,” you admitted, your voice soft but steady.

His heart leapt, but the words that followed stopped him in his tracks.

“Because of that… it’s not as easy as it used to be,” you continued, your eyes dropping to your hands. “Because I still like you. And I don’t know if it’s mutual or not.”

The silence that followed was heavy, charged with unspoken emotions. Wonwoo’s gaze softened as he processed your words, a mix of relief and guilt flashing across his face.

“It is,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s mutual.”

You looked at him, your breath hitching as his words sank in. But the weight of reality kept you grounded.

“Then you know it’s not simple,” you said. “Not after everything. Not with everything that’s happened.”

Wonwoo’s eyes didn’t waver, determination replacing the uncertainty. “It’s not simple,” he agreed. “But nothing worth it ever is.”

The two of you sat there in silence, the air between you heavy with the past and the possibilities of what could come next. For the first time in a long while, the tiniest glimmer of hope began to break through the storm clouds surrounding you.

*

Two years later, the air was filled with the gentle hum of a string quartet playing a soft melody as guests gathered in the garden of a picturesque villa nestled on a hillside. The late afternoon sun cast a golden glow over the ceremony, making everything feel surreal.

Wonwoo adjusted his cufflinks nervously, standing at the altar. He looked every bit the dashing groom in his tailored navy suit, but his usually calm demeanor was tinged with impatience. Hansol, his best man, nudged him with a grin.

“She’s coming, relax,” Hansol teased. “You’ve waited for years; you can handle a few more minutes.”

Wonwoo glanced at him, rolling his eyes. “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one getting married.”

Hansol chuckled but didn’t push further. Wonwoo’s gaze returned to the aisle, where the chatter of the guests softened into a hush as the first notes of the wedding march played.

And then, you appeared.

The world seemed to stop for Wonwoo. You walked down the aisle in a simple yet elegant gown, its soft fabric flowing effortlessly with each step. Your veil framed your face, but it was your smile—radiant and genuine—that captivated him most.

You caught his gaze, and for a moment, it felt like it was just the two of you. Memories of the past flashed in your mind: the struggles, the heartbreak, the nights spent wondering if happiness was meant for you. But now, here you were, walking toward the man who had stood by you through it all.

Jisoo, Wonwoo's half brother, walked you down the aisle, his arm steady as he whispered, “You’ll be happy.” You nodded, unable to speak past the lump in your throat.

When you reached the altar, Wonwoo stepped forward, his eyes never leaving yours. He extended a hand, and when you placed yours in his, it felt like everything in the world had fallen into place.

“You look beautiful,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

“And you look nervous,” you teased softly, earning a quiet laugh from him.

The officiant began, but neither of you could focus on the words. Your eyes were locked on each other, the vows exchanged feeling like an extension of the promises you’d made to each other in the quiet moments of the past two years.

“I promise to love you, protect you, and stand by your side no matter what,” Wonwoo said, his voice steady despite the tears glistening in his eyes.

“And I promise to trust you, support you, and never let the past define our future,” you replied, your voice trembling but firm.

When the officiant declared you husband and wife, the cheers from the guests were drowned out by the sound of your heart pounding as Wonwoo leaned in to kiss you. It was a kiss filled with relief, joy, and the promise of a new beginning.

As you walked back down the aisle hand in hand, laughter and petals filling the air, Wonwoo whispered, “See? Not simple, but worth it.”

You smiled, squeezing his hand. “Worth it.”

The reception that followed was a lively celebration of your love, with speeches that had everyone laughing and crying in equal measure. Wonwoo danced with you under the stars, the twinkling lights above mirroring the warmth in his eyes as he held you close.

“Here’s to the rest of our lives,” he murmured, his forehead resting against yours.

You smiled, tears of happiness brimming in your eyes. “And to never giving up.”

The past may have shaped you, but together, you were ready to create a future filled with love, trust, and endless possibilities.

*

The soft evening light filtered through the living room windows as you sat cross-legged on the carpet, your small hands fiddling with one of Wonwoo's toy cars. Your mother was seated nearby, knitting a scarf while humming a soft tune. The atmosphere was warm, though a certain sadness lingered as you asked, “Why did Wonwoo’s parents leave him?”

Your mother paused for a moment, her knitting needles coming to a gentle halt. She looked at you with a thoughtful expression, carefully choosing her words. “It’s because adults sometimes have problems they don’t know how to fix. They get overwhelmed, and instead of solving things together, they make decisions that affect everyone. That’s why they left Wonwoo with us.”

You furrowed your brows, your small mind trying to understand something so complex. “But don’t you and Dad have problems too?”

Your mother smiled softly, nodding. “We do, Sweetheart. Every family has challenges. But having you helps us solve them in a better way. You remind us of what’s most important.”

You huffed in frustration, your tiny fists gripping the toy. “Wonwoo is a good kid, though! He even lets me borrow his toys. Why are his parents so mean to him?”

Your mother reached out, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “That’s why you should always be kind to Wonwoo. What do you think about him? Don’t you think he’d make a good brother?”

At that, your face lit up with excitement. “I like him! He’s like Dad! I want to marry him when I grow up!”

Your mother laughed, the sound light and melodic. “That’s sweet, my love, but marrying him will take a very long time. You have plenty of time to decide.”

Before you could protest, the front door swung open, and your father’s voice called out cheerfully, “We’re home!”

Wonwoo’s small voice chimed in, excitement evident in his tone. “Y/N! I got your strawberry milk!” He dashed into the room, his little legs carrying him swiftly as he held the carton out to you, his grin wide and proud.

You gasped in delight, jumping to your feet to accept it. “Thank you, Wonwoo! You’re the best!”

Your mother watched the two of you, her heart swelling at the sight. As she exchanged a warm glance with your father, who had followed Wonwoo into the room carrying grocery bags, she whispered to herself, “Maybe she wasn’t entirely wrong.”

Wonwoo beamed at you as you took a sip of the milk, your happiness evident. “See? I told Dad to get this one for you.”

“Wonwoo, you’re my favorite person ever!” you declared, earning a bashful smile from him.

Your mother chuckled, resuming her knitting. She couldn’t help but wonder if, years from now, you’d look back on this moment and smile, the seeds of a bond already deeply rooted.

The end.

[covenofagatha]

heyyy, could you maybe write an agatha x reader piece where reader is innocent and agatha takes advantage of that? praising her, showing her new things, etc. Maybe from school or doctor environment. Thanks!

I've been really into manipulative Professor Agatha lately

Sex Ed

During a make-up exam for Professor Harkness's Sexual Education class, she helps you out when you don't know a few answers

Word count: 2.5k

Warnings: virgin/naive reader, praise kink, manipulative Agatha, dub-con, fingering

Taglist: @lostbutlovely33 @diorrxckstar @whoreforolderfictionalwomen  @katekathry @onemansdreamisanothermansdeath @tayasmellsapples @natashashill @mybraininblood @mysticalmoonlight7  @cactuslover2600 @loveem0mo @readysteddiero-nance @lonelyhalfwitch @lesbiantortilla @crescendoofstars @sol-in-wonderland @ahsfan05 @gbab09 @sasheemo @agathaharness @live-laugh-love-lupone @chiar4anna @fuckedupforkhahn

This is possibly the worst time you could’ve gotten a cold. 

Three weeks into your first semester of college, classes had just begun picking up in terms of workload, most of your professors were giving the first exam, and you had forgotten to bring a jacket the one day it poured during a cold spell and you had to walk almost a mile in it back to your house, where you lived with your mom. Her house was so close to campus that most of the time you didn’t bother driving. 

You had walked through the front door that day, shivering and shaking and soaked and your mom had taken one good look at you and said, “You’re going to get sick.” 

And she sure was right. The next day, you woke up and felt like you were clinging to life by a thread: your throat ached, your head felt full, and your lungs hurt. Your fever made you bury under three blankets and then strip down to practically nothing the next minute. It was hell. 

Not to mention, you missed four days of classes. In most of them, you just needed to get notes from a classmate, but in Sexual Education, you had missed a test. 

Sexual Education, taught by Professor Agatha Harkness, is your least favorite class. You hadn’t taken it in middle or high school as your mom hadn’t let you, so you had to take it in college. There was something about the subject that made you squirm, and the way Professor Harkness talked about sex, so blatantly and forward, that made your stomach get a weird feeling. 

You had emailed her and told her that you wouldn’t be able to take the exam because you were sick, attaching the doctor’s note and everything, and she had replied almost immediately, telling you to just see her during office hours whenever you could to make it up. She ended it with Feel better, honey ;) and for some reason, that made you get the same sensation in your gut as you did in her class. 

The following Monday was when you decided to make it up. You had replied to her email and asked, and she told you that day was perfect. 

You did feel better, and you had tried to study. The test is on anatomy and sexual intercourse, and although you kept having to take breaks because it kept making you uncomfortable, you had gotten through all the material. 

But now, as you trudge across campus, a cough still tickling your throat every now and then, you wonder if there’s any way to postpone the make-up even more. Nerves have settled into your body and you’re worried your mind is going to go blank. Test anxiety has always been something you’ve struggled with, and you think that with the sensitive nature of the test, you might be especially prone to it now. 

The blinds are drawn on Professor Harkness’s door to her office when you get there, so you knock as to not catch her unaware. You hear a faint “Come in!” and you push open the door and step inside. 

Your professor is sitting at her desk, a pair of big, black glasses resting on her nose, and she looks up at you from a paper she’s been writing on. 

“Feeling better, sweetheart?” She asks. 

You nod. “Much better, thank you. I’m here to take the exam that I missed?” 

A smile slowly spreads across her face and she waves you forward. Your shoes pad lightly on the carpeted floor, one step for three beats of your heart. You wipe your sweaty palms on your skirt and you sit down in the chair facing her. 

She reaches into a drawer and pulls out a packet of paper, handing it to you over the desk. You swallow roughly when you feel how many pages there are. It makes your heart sink when you see lines on the first page, meaning that it’s not multiple choice either. It already has your name on it, like she made it just for you. 

“I have to write a harder test for the make-ups,” she explains, seeing your troubled look. Is that supposed to make you feel better? “It’s to discourage people from skipping the exam the first time and getting answers from friends or anything.” 

It makes sense, it really does. But you had a legit excuse as to why you couldn’t take it. There’s no use arguing though, so you give her a tight smile and look down at the paper.

How does the body respond to sexual arousal, and what are the physiological changes that occur? 

You rack your brain, searching for anything you remember about this, but there’s nothing. Taking a deep breath to calm yourself down, you skip and move onto the next one.

2. What happens during an orgasm?

You look at the next one.

3. What is the role of lubrication?

You don’t remember reading anything about that or even Professor Harkness saying anything about that. 

Skip. 

There’s nothing in your brain about the next question either. Visibly getting flustered now, you frantically flip through the pages of the exam to find a question that you do know, ignoring the stinging sensation in your eyes. 

Finally, at the bottom of the third page, you find one. Incidentally, the last question of the test.

7. How does the sperm fertilize an egg? 

You breathe a sigh of relief and scribble down the answer, and with renowned confidence, you find at least a few things you’re able to write for the three questions in the middle. 

Feeling pretty good now, you go back to the start, and then you realize you just have the first three left, but they’re worth the most amount of points. The sinking feeling starts to come back. The other questions are worth ten points each. These are worth twenty. If you don’t answer, you are going to fail. 

“Professor?” You rasp, having no other option to ask for help. “I’m having some trouble on a few of these questions. I don’t remember you saying anything about some of this stuff.”

Professor Harkness frowns and leans over to look at your paper. “Which ones?” 

“Um, the ones about arousal, and lubrication, and orgasms,” you say, voice dropping to a whisper like it’s too embarrassing to say any louder. “You never said anything about it in class, unless I missed it while I was sick.” Even then, you poured over the slideshows she posted, and you swear you didn’t see anything about those terms. 

Professor Harkness lounges back in her chair and fixes you with a certain look. “I didn’t necessarily say anything about those, but you should be able to infer based on your own experiences.” 

And that makes your cheeks heat up. “Well, I, um–” You stutter, completely flustered. 

“Ah,” she says, like she’s had a realization, and your eyes flit to hers. “Are you a virgin, honey?” 

You nod hesitantly, feeling shame burn through you. Now you’re going to fail the test because of your lack of experience. “I’m sorry,” you mumble. 

“Oh, sweetie,” Professor Harkness coos and reaches her arms out across the desk, palms outstretched. You blink back tears and take her hands and she squeezes in reassurance. “Don’t ever apologize for that. I shouldn’t have assumed. Here, why don’t I give you a quick lesson to make it more fair for you, hm?” 

“That would be so great, thank you so much!” You exclaim gratefully. 

Professor Harkness smiles, although there’s something dangerous behind it, and she gets up out of her chair. “Why don’t you come over here and sit on my desk?”

It’s a bit of a weird request, but she’s already helping you out so much that you don’t argue. You sit on her desk and she places her hands on your knees to gently spread your legs apart so she can stand in-between them. 

“Have you ever touched yourself before?” She asks gently and you shake your head, upset. She tilts your chin up and then strokes a piece of hair behind your ears. “Hey, it’s okay. It can be hard to figure these things out by yourself. And I’m sure the slideshows and text, books and my lectures aren’t helping much either,” she jokes and you giggle. “Why don’t I give you more of a hands-on lesson? Some people learn a lot better that way.” 

Your brows furrow. “What about the exam?” 

Professor Harkness nods. “Don’t worry. Let me teach you some things and this should be able to answer those questions you were having. Now, I just need you to be a good girl and relax for me, okay?” 

“Okay, Professor,” you agree, but stiffen when her hands start to slide up your thighs. She pauses and moves them back down and repeats, each time getting a little higher up. 

Something is happening in your stomach, a heat is growing, a little like what happens when you’re in her class, but stronger than it ever has been. You suddenly feel like you’re running hot. Has the fever come back? 

Your professor is watching you carefully, a slight smile on her lips. “The first step in the physiological process of an orgasm is excitement. During this stage, arousal builds. Pupils dilate. Heart rate and breathing rate increase. Your blood pressure rises, making you feel warm.” 

“I think that’s happening to me, Professor,” you say faintly and she chuckles. 

“I would say so, honey. And you can call me Agatha,” she tells you and the feeling inside you only gets worse. “Lubrication should be starting right about now.” 

You gasp when she finally cups you over your underwear and your hips instinctively buck. You’ve never had anyone’s hand there, not even your own, and the sensation is indescribable. 

Agatha is fully smirking now, rubbing up and down the fabric. You can feel how sticky it is, just from her light touches. “You’re doing so well for me, pretty girl. You’re almost in the plateau phase. Your vagina is getting swollen, your clitoris is becoming sensitive–” She rubs at a small circle towards the top of your vagina, you remember seeing a diagram of it, and it makes you keen. “–and you’re going to just keep getting wetter.” 

There’s a fire inside you now, flames licking up your stomach into your ribs and spreading throughout your whole body. It feels like there’s an ache inside you and you just need more. “Agatha,” you gasp. “I need–” You don’t even have the words to explain it.

But she knows. She slides your panties to the side and swipes through your folds and then holds her glistening fingers up to the light so you can see. It takes your breath away. 

“The role of lubrication,” she references the question you didn’t know, her hand dropping back down between your legs and toying at your entrance. “is simply to reduce friction, discomfort, and pain during sex.” 

And then she pushes a finger into you and you make a strangled sound. She feels so good and when she curls her finger up and rubs against something, you clench around her and make another explicit noise. 

She chuckles and presses on it again, enjoying the way you jump. “That’s your G-spot right there. Extra credit if you mention that on your exam,” she says with a grin and you’d make a note of that if there were any thoughts left in your head. 

Agatha pauses for a second after she pulls out of you and you whine, before it quickly turns into a gasp when she slides two fingers in. It burns and you whimper, your hands scrambling to grab on her shoulders and cling to her while she gently works to stretch you out with shallow thrusts. 

“You’re doing so well, baby,” she purrs. “Such a good girl for me, my best student. Look at how well you’re taking this lesson. So perfect.” 

You preen and when she rubs her thumb against your clit, she’s slowly able to slide her two fingers into you. The feeling of fullness is just what you need right now, and even though you’re incredibly tight around her, it still feels so much better than anything you’ve ever felt. 

Agatha starts lazily dragging her fingers against your walls, in and out, occasionally twisting and making your hips roll. You’re holding onto her body, panting into her neck, and the tension inside you is building. 

“If only you knew how pretty you look right now,” she mutters, now picking up to a faster pace. Each thrust leaves you breathless and you can hardly comprehend what she’s saying. She circles your clit and you cry out with pleasure. “You’re so innocent, I see you squirming in your seat every time I talk about sex.” That makes you flush with heat even more. “Look at you now, honey. Taking my fingers like a good girl.” 

You gasp out something incoherent and she starts to pump her fingers harder. You’re throbbing and pulsing around her, pleasure starting to spread from your stomach to the rest of your body and you don’t know how much more you can take. 

She smiles when you moan her name. “You’re about to be in the orgasm phase. Your pelvic muscles will contract, and your vaginal walls will tighten. There will be an increase in lubrication and your heart rate will get even faster. It will feel euphoric.” 

It’s happening, you can feel it. “Agatha, please,” you groan and she twists her fingers inside you. 

“Cum for me, pretty girl,” she says and the pleasure explodes inside you, the release of the tension overwhelming you and making your mind go completely blank for a minute. You can barely feel Agatha’s fingers still inside you, gently stroking against your inner walls until you come down from your high, and while it still feels amazing, you’re incredibly sensitive now. 

“Agatha,” you groan and she chuckles before pulling her fingers out of you, making you wince. They’re absolutely soaked and she pops them into her mouth to clean them and your jaw drops open. 

She moans at the taste and sits back down in her chair, putting her hands above her head and nodding at your test that’s still sitting there. “You should have no trouble finishing now,” she says and you swallow hard before getting off her desk and going around it to take your seat. 

You pick up your pen and begin writing, trying to ignore how you can still feel Agatha’s fingers inside you. 

And Agatha? Agatha smirks to herself, still tasting you on her tongue, knowing that she got exactly what she wanted just by making a few well picked-out questions worth a few more points.