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lazyjellyfish300 · 25 days ago

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"It feels like an eternity, but finally, his lips brush against yours. It’s a ghost of a kiss—feather light and achingly tender as chapped skin teases your lips. But it’s enough. For a second too long, you’re suspended in time, searching each other’s eyes for permission, for absolution. Then, as if pulled by that same inviting force, you come together again."

Pairing: Sheriff!Nanami Kento x Black Fem Reader

Summary: A terrifying close call catapults your festering guilt, your secrets slowly consuming you.

Rating/CW: slow burn romance, mild intoxication, brief violence and mentions of blood, smut, vaginal fingering, angst. MDNI!

WC: listen buddy..

Author notes: Hello! Apologies for the wait but here is part two! Only one more part to finish up the story. Thank you all so much for your patience, support, and kind words. It truly means the world. I used this part to focus more on emotion and simmering conflict that will finally shatter in part 3.

As always, likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated.

Happy reading!

Header: myself (image from pinterest) | Divider: @anitalenia @saradika network tag: @pixelcafe-network

Masterlist | Ao3 | Twitter | Part Three

The universe, it seems, has a cruel and unforgiving sense of humor. Since that night of the cattle drive, when you let yourself believe in the possibility of more, when you basked in the warm desire of Nanami’s gaze and the electricity of his touch—it was the beginning of the end.

Since that night, every step has been in error, every word a potential betrayal, every shared moment tainted by the secrets you keep—

“I’m not one to put my hands on a lady. But you’ve been slippin' past me for too long. This ends tonight.”

His words echo a haunting melody in your head as you sag against your bedroom door, sweaty and lungs burning with every desperate gasp for air. Your heart is beating so fast it feels as if it will burst from your chest, pounding at your sternum like a snare drum—

The deafening pop of your pistol. The bullet that was meant to be a distraction so you could escape the Phillips’ house had hit the wall and then flesh. Horror flooding your veins in an icy wave as Nanami grunted in pain, a hand flying to the now torn upper arm of his navy long sleeve—

You choke on a floundering breath, fingers trembling and wet with blood as they press against your throat. The coal on your skin feels suffocating, a physical manifestation of your sin—

His weight pinning you to the floor, the heat at the apex of his thighs forbidden and delicious against yours as you struggled beneath him, twisting your bandana-covered face from his prying fingers. Your desperate fingers acting on impulse—anything to get you away—pressing hard enough into his wound that he spat out a curse, giving you enough leverage to buck him off you and disappear into the night, your spoils from Mr. Phillips sashaying against your hip—

You snap back into focus, eyes stinging from a fresh wall of tears. You’ve crossed a line tonight, one you prayed and prayed to never even get close to. As you try to catch your breath, you acknowledge that, yes, this is the beginning of the end. The moment you realize that you can no longer keep up this double life. That you can no longer help in a way you find worthy.

You trudge across your bedroom to the dresser that holds your porcelain basin of cold water. You keep it full on nights like these, ready for you to wash the coal off your face before you collapse into bed. Panting, you dip a washcloth in the cold water, wiping the disguise and Nanami’s dried blood from your skin, pulling your fear from tonight along with it.

You look up into the mirror above your dresser, taking in your haggard form. Eyes no longer filled with determination, a tear in your shirt at the shoulder that exposes the faint scar from an injury sustained years ago, your braid frazzled and coming loose at the ends. You don’t look like the fearsome bandit that you’ve made of yourself.

You look tired. Afraid.

As your pulse begins to steady, a wave of exhaustion washes over you, taking the ordeal of tonight and carrying it into the abyss. You set your coal-soaked washcloth on the dresser, ready to shed your bandit persona and collapse into bed, when—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The sound makes you freeze, your heart seizing in your chest with halted breath as you leave your room and quietly tip-toe to the front door. The darkness of your living room gives you enough cover to peek through the curtains, but you know who it is. Of course, it’s Nanami. Heaving with high raised shoulders as he presses his forehead to your door.

You exhale a shaky breath as you stagger back, walking backward to your room as you think of what to do and—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

You jump, your back bumping into your door frame as you gape at the open air.

“J-just a minute!” you call out, your voice higher than usual. With trembling hands, you begin to strip, fingers shaking as you unbutton your shirt and slip out of your leather pants. You toss your clothes under the bed.

Knock! Knock! Knock!

“I’ll be right there!” you shout again, slipping into one of your long off-white nightgowns. Your hands fumble with your braid, snagging knots against your fingernails as you unfurl your curls to hang free. One glance in the mirror makes you curse, and you throw on a thick flannel to hide the view of your nipples from behind the near-transparent linen.

POUND! POUND! POUND!

“I said one second!” you yell, frustration and fear curling the edges of your words as you balance the nearly full porcelain basin in your hands. You quietly slide open your bedroom window, throwing the coal mixture out into the night and shucking the blackened washcloth into a dresser drawer.

You rush back to the front door, taking a deep breath as you smooth down your hair and pray he’s not as sharp as usual when he looks at your frazzled form. You pray he hasn’t figured it out. You hope and plead to whoever is listening that your fears about the world falling apart do not come to fruition right now.

You know the sight to expect, but seeing it is still a horrifying shock. He takes up your entire door frame, all muscle and authority, sweaty with pinched eyebrows as he clutches at his bleeding arm. Your stomach coils tight, nausea brewing like a bubbling pot. He’s panting heavily, no doubt from the adrenaline of mounting Flint and racing through town to get here, his Stetson resting on his back, blonde locks sweaty on his forehead.

He swallows, his throat bobbing beneath a sheen of sweat.

“Are you alright?” he asks, his voice strained and urgent. “I saw her—the bandit come this way.”

Nanami’s too kind, too caring, too willing to put himself on the line for someone else. Because the irony of his concern about you, the fact that he’s injured and came this way instead of getting first aid…it’s almost too much to bear.

You shake your head harshly, slipping into a regrettable mask and pushing away the festering guilt that bubbles to life along with the action.

“I’m fine, but you’re hurt! Why didn’t you go to Shoko?”

“I don’t want to wake her. Besides, there’s no time,” Nanami grunts as he squeezes his upper arm. As much as you internally beg your body not to look, your eyes flicker to the crimson blood that oozes between his fingers. Guilt, unbridled and disparaging guilt, threatens to undo you.

“I need to check the house,” he insists, stumbling past you without waiting for an invitation, his spurs clanging against your floorboards. He yanks his pistol from its holster, fingers shaking as he loads the bullets from his sling into the chamber with precision.

Your Nanami would wait to come in, removing his hat at your threshold with kind eyes. So the blood that trails behind him with every step, marking his path like breadcrumbs, the desperation in his gait, the quiver in every exhale from his chest as he fingers bullets from his gun sling and loads them into his pistol, it’s a glaring reminder of just how bad you’ve made things.

Any other moment, you would freely let him roam.

“Nanami, please,” you plead softly, following his aimless form as he wanders without a purpose, his gun raised at no one as he starts for your hallway. “You need to sit down. You’re hurt—”

“It’s just a graze,” he snaps, dismissive even as a fresh gush of blood seeps his darkened shirt and drips crimson onto the floor. “She could be here. Could’ve followed you, could be waiting.” His words tumble faster, more disjointed as he sweeps your kitchen with barely contained panic.

You fight to keep your voice steady. “Well, she’s not here. I would have heard somethin'.”

Nanami turns to face you, gun still raised, a flicker of it trained on you as the bandit just an hour ago making you flinch. Blood has soaked most of his sleeve now, dripping steadily onto your floor.

“You can’t possibly know that. She’s dangerous, clever—”

“I’m fine,” you insist, stepping closer, flinching as he opens and slams your cabinets. Blood smears on the wood from his hands. “Please, you’re bleeding. Let me help.”

Nanami scoffs, it’s a foreign sound from deep in his chest that echoes into the air. Even with a slight hunch from the pain, he towers over your home from his place in the kitchen, that imposing but welcoming frame casting shadows onto your floor as he takes a step back, regarding you as if you’ve grown a second head.

“Why aren’t you taking this seriously?”

The accusation stings, even though you’re the source of it. The source of his frustration and the wound on his arm. If only he knew how seriously you took this.

“I am,” you press, desperately trying to quell his erratic movements now that he’s gone back to searching the pantry for a second time. “But you’re hurt, and I—”

“For God’s sake!” You jump from the boom of his voice, flinching as his gun clatters to the floor and crosses the space in two strides. His hands grip your shoulders with bruising strength, blood from his fingers seeping through your flannel. “You could be in danger!” he snaps, acidic anger spitting from split lips, his face inches from yours with breath hot on your skin. You’ve never seen him like this.

“Nana—” you try to speak through your shock, your whisper drowning in his desperation.

“Why can’t you understand?!” His grip on your shoulders tightens, your skin pinching beneath fingernails. But you can’t register the pain as you take in the fire in his eyes, burning bright and tinged with a vulnerability that makes you want to disappear entirely. “Do you even know what it’s like to lose someone that you—that—”

He struggles, words catching in his throat as his mouth fights silently with indecision.

You watch as he battles with himself, trying to force out words that seem too big in his throat, too consequential to voice as if he’s held them in from the moment they were lodged there. You pick up on the implication quickly. The weight of it, of his unspoken feelings and the pain of his past, somehow connected to that bullet-sized dent on his badge.

“I can’t—” Nanami tries again, voice hoarse. “If anything happened to you, I—”

“Okay,” you whisper, a hand laying softly on his heaving chest. His eyes search yours, frustration giving way to desperation and pleading. It’s rare with Nanami, but when you see the man behind the badge, that raw and exposed cowboy with a hidden past that he will never divulge, you cherish every second it’s presented to you.

He has never told you about that person who changed the course of his life, about the dark side of his work, the death and cruelty that he refuses to talk about. But you won’t ever ask for more, because every minute with him, even if you’re the cause of his misery, is precious and fleeting.

“If that’s what you need to feel safe—to know I’m safe—then check the house.”

The vice grip on your shoulders vanishes immediately, blood rushing back to fill in the gaps of his harsh fingers as he steps away and sweeps through your home with a practiced eye.

You watch, nerves frayed and heart pounding like a hummingbird in your chest as he moves from room to room. The back of your neck breaks into a sweat when he crosses the threshold of your bedroom, lungs seizing as he disappears from your view. But when he finally returns to the living room seemingly more relaxed, you hide the sag in your shoulders from relief.

Gone is the furious and demanding sheriff, duty-bound and crazed with the urge to protect. Now, regret fills his features, brown eyes sweeping over your form and furrowed brows taking in the sight of his bloody hand prints on your flannel. He’s ashamed, remorseful of his sharp words and fierce touch.

“Sit,” you demand as a means to distract him from his inner turmoil, pointing to your sofa. “Let me look at that arm.”

“Ma’am, you don’t need to do that. I should get on,” he tries to fit back into a professional shell, refusing as best he can even though he shuffles closer to you, lingering in front of your sofa with indecision in his eyes.

“Stop calling me that,” you can’t help but snap, glaring at him. “Sit down, Nanami,” you soften your tone, to show just how worried and unwilling you are to entertain his embarrassment. How sorry you are that you’ve caused all of this.

He hesitates, opening his mouth to argue with you, but the glare on your face must be enough. He unbuckles his gun sling and sets it carefully on your coffee table before plopping on your sofa, knees tucked together as if sitting on fine china, afraid to break anything.

You return to lay a medical kit, two basins—one empty to flush his wound, the other filled with water—and a bottle of whiskey on the small coffee table in front of you both, sinking onto the sofa and turning to him expectantly. He eyes the whiskey only for a second before he registers the meaning. You’re not an expert like Shoko, so alcohol may be the only cleaning and numbing agent that will help Nanami with whatever you need to do.

“You’ll need to take off your vest.”

“Right,” he sluggishly moves out of the leather garment, grimacing and biting his lip as he pulls his injured arm free. His upper arm is soaked red, the navy fabric sliced through where the bullet pierced its surface.

“And your…your shirt.”

“What?” he fumbles, eyes slightly wide as he looks down at you.

You clear your throat, blood boiling from his hesitant gaze. “I’ll need to see the entire wound. To clean it and—well…”

“Right, of course.”

Nanami pauses for a second too long, squeezing his fists against dirty denim pants as if to steel himself before his bloody fingers move to the buttons of his navy button-up. But the pain makes him clumsy, the adrenaline finally giving way to the present, and he can barely bend his injured arm. You can tell from the look on his face and swallowed groans that he’s struggling.

Without thinking, you reach out to help, your fingers brushing against his to knock them out of the way. The touch buzzes against your fingertips.

“Let me,” you offer, your voice barely above a whisper.

You take his silence as a cue to continue, and you work the buttons open, hyper-aware of Nanami’s steady breathing and the warmth that heats your fingertips from his skin. Slowly, the lapels of his long sleeve part to reveal sun-kissed skin.

It’s hard to look away from the planes of thick muscle that make up his torso, a firm chest, and chunky bands of abs that bunch together with his haggard breaths. There’s a dusting of honey-brown hair on his chest, littering the skin so faintly that you long to card your fingers through. Saliva pools in your mouth at the sight, scratching an itch deep in your mind that only rears its head in the middle of the night.

You help him guide the fabric off his shoulders, your fingertips kissing his skin in a forbidden dance as you slide his shirt out of the way. The billow of his clothes wafts his scent up your nose—leather, gunpowder, a hint of a cigarette. So uniquely Nanami that it makes your head spin and you have to take a second, swallowing against a thick ball of desire in your throat so that you can focus on the task at hand.

“It’s a graze,” you mutter as you bring the empty basin to rest under his elbow. “But it’s gonna need stitches.”

Nanami simply nods, tersely following your hand that snatches and uncorks the whiskey, body tensing as you pour the amber liquid over his wound.

“God damn—” he snarls, the curse cutting off into a harsh groan as his head falls back against the sofa. His free hand grips the armrest, knuckles turning white, the dried blood between his fingers more prominent with his squeeze. The whiskey runs dark down his arm, a muddy brown collecting in the basin.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, hoping he can taste the sincerity and double meaning. He answers with a noise in the back of his throat, snatching the bottle from your hands, pulling deeply from it as you wipe his wound dry and prepare your needle and thread.

By the time you’re ready to start stitching, he’s three gulps in, his eyes locked on your unlit fireplace, body heaving with pained and frustrated breaths.

You hesitate, hand hovering over his bulging bicep before you wrap your hands around his arm. He’s soft to the touch and so incredibly warm; you want to melt into him—curl against his chest and bury your face in his skin so you can forget about the world.

But the moment the needle pierces his skin, Nanami lets out a sharp bark of pain.

“Jesus, are you sure you know what you’re doing?!” he hisses, grimacing with discomfort as he tries to pull his arm away from you. You tighten your hand on his bicep, fingertips collecting the blood that leaks from his wound at the action. “Are you stitching me up or trying to kill me?”

“Oh, hush up, you big baby!” you snap, angry at his misplaced discomfort. It’s already daunting that you have to do this—that you’ve caused this. While you deserve to be barked at, you’re not one to go down without a fight. “I’ve seen children take stitches with less complaint!”

There’s a moment of stunned silence, your eyes locked with each other as you process what’s happened. His eyes are wide with shock, a tinge of red coloring his cheeks.

Then, suddenly, his lips twitch. A chuckle escapes him, eyes widening at the uncontrolled expression before he breaks into full-blown laughter.

It’s rich and guttural, a cacophony of deep rumbles that traverse across your sofa and caress your body, just like that night as you both rode back into town. It’s such a rare sound to hear from him, such a treasured piece that you and few others have. But your urge to laugh, to join in this rare glimpse of Nanami with his guard down isn’t deserved, so you swallow it down.

“I’m sorry. I was rude.” Nanami’s eyes are soft as he regards you, strands of honey wheat kissing his forehead and upper lids. “I shouldn’t have doubted your medical expertise. I’m more thin-skinned than I realize.”

You roll your eyes playfully as you press the needle to his skin again.

“Don’t bark at me this time,” you warn, absentmindedly rubbing his large bicep with your free hand to soothe him before you guide the needle through jagged skin.

He hisses, teeth bared like a dog, jaw clenching from biting down, the muscles of his stomach twitching as a grunt rumbles from within.

As you continue stitching, that tension he always carries in his shoulders fades away. With every pierce of the needle on his skin, he takes a generous swig of the whiskey, body relaxing inch by inch. It’s a shame how quickly he turns to whiskey, even if you both weren’t in this predicament now, you hate how much you’ve made him turn to something that is slowly killing him.

The motion of the needle is almost hypnotic, compelling your mind to wander to the danger of tonight, of your hand in all of this, of your desire for some sort of redemption without having to say anything.

“Nanami,” you start, ignoring the weight of his gaze that turns to you, “have you ever thought about…why the bandit does what she does?”

He grunts, tensing slightly under your hands, the next needle prick more difficult against taut skin. “Can’t say I’ve spent much time wonderin' about the motivations of someone who’s made my life hell.”

The revelation stings. Oh, does it sting.

You want to press on, to ask him if he would ever forgive the actions of someone like the bandit if it meant helping those less fortunate.

You want his opinion, his validation, his reassurance that if you were to show him your coal-soaked washcloth hidden in your dresser and the torn black shirt, he would still hold you close and say what you are doing is noble. That he doesn’t think any differently of you. Oh, how you long for that.

But there’s a large part of you that knows your definition of reality is faded and unobtainable. So you change the subject, asking him to talk about his frustrations of tonight even though it pains you to listen.

As you work, Nanami’s usually clipped cadence relaxes, the alcohol loosening his tongue. That Western drawl he usually keeps in check now flows without a barrier at the end of his words.

You listen, heart heavy with guilt, pounding thick regret through your veins as he describes the encounter from his perspective. Each word is more agonizing than the last.

“I was so close,” he mutters, chagrin coloring his voice before he takes another swig. “But lately, everythin’ has fallen from my grasp. No matter what I do, it feels like I’m fightin' against somethin' that should be left alone. And I hate it.”

You tie off the last stitch, fighting back the fuzziness at the corners of your eyes.

“There,” you whisper, throat tight. “All done.” You run your fingertips along the protruding edges of his stitches, admiring your work and the warmth of his muscled skin. It’s a piss-poor attempt to atone for your mistakes.

He looks down at your handy work, then back to you. There’s a fogginess in his gaze, a slightly unfocused demeanor in his irises from the alcohol, dark brown warm with gratitude.

“What would I do without you?”

It’s such a simple statement, something that would have made you smile so bright that it could brighten the room. But now…after everything, hearing the earnest trust in his voice—

You throw him a small smile, turning away quickly to shuffle through your medical kit so as to hide your trembling hands. Your curls create a curtain between your misery and his relaxed form on your sofa.

“Oh, I’m sure you’d manage just fine without me,” you offer truthfully. You know, deep down…if you weren’t in this town making his life miserable, he would be happier.

You turn back to him, not meeting his eyes as you procure a small container of salve.

“Calendula?” Nanami hums, watching as you glide a sticky finger along his wound.

“I got it from Shoko,” you lie, despising the taste of it in your mouth. You stole this salve from a doctor’s office years ago when you began this troublesome life. It’s yet another reminder of how unclean you really are.

“You’re a good sheriff,” you admit softly, tracing a particular spot of reddening skin while your mind clambers away from the darkness that is ever-present. “Stop bein' so hard on yourself.”

Each ridge of his stitches feels mocking—reflecting your deception and a physical manifestation of everything you’ve done. He is so good, the best protector a town could ever have, and you’ve made him miserable. Pushing him further into the bottle and deeper into a pit of self-loathing.

The urge to confess roils like bile up your throat, burning your esophagus and tinging the back of your tongue sour. Nanami’s eyes are on you, heavy and searching, his naked chest rising and falling slowly, veins no doubt pumping with the calming effects of whiskey.

You can feel the weight of his gaze, and it takes every ounce of willpower not to meet it. You’re afraid of what he might see—the pain and fear, the guilt and longing, the desperate need for forgiveness.

It’s too much—you can’t do it.

Those tears you’ve been fighting back all night—every month, week, hour, minute—well up, fogging your vision until the sight of his stitches is a sea of black and red. You blink rapidly, trying to clear them away before they make things worse, but it’s too late.

He’s already moving the second a tear drips from your lashes, reaching for you before you can turn away.

“Hey now,” Nanami murmurs, voice soft and comforting as you feel the warmth of thick fingers caress beneath your chin before tilting it up so you’re looking at him. “What have I done?”

A scoff bubbles wet from your lips, disbelief at his words that only make your lips quiver with an onslaught of more tears. He’s done nothing. He’s never done a thing to hurt you or steer you wrong or cause you pain. Nanami has only given you protection, a gentle gaze, and mannerisms laced with so much affection that you want to hope that it’s love.

You shake your head, unable to speak past the dry lump in your throat. How can you tell him that every injury whether mental, emotional, or physical, is one you’ve inflicted? That you want nothing more than to wish he was like every other sheriff you’ve come across in this life—willing to turn a blind eye to anything that is not serving themselves. He should be like them, not kind and determined to a degree that’s self-sacrificial.

“I just—” you manage to choke out, lips trembling until his thumb glides along your bottom lip to settle the quivering muscle.

‘I want you to tell me it’s okay. That I’m not a terrible person. That you’ll forgive me.’

“I hate seeing you hurt,” you sigh instead on a shaky exhale, blinking away a fresh wall of tears that leaks from your bottom lids. “I worry about you.”

His expression softens, and you hate the way his presence pulls at you, silently beckoning you to fall into him. He brushes away your tears with his thumb, the touch so gentle it nearly makes more fall.

“This is why I don’t like to trouble you with what I do,” he mutters, downtrodden in his admission. “I hate worryin' you.”

“No,” you grip the open lapels of his shirt, yanking at the fabric as a means to make him understand. “I want to know. I want to worry. We’ve been…friends for years, Nanami. I don’t care if it’ll make me sad, make me cry, or make me angry at you. When will you understand that?” You parrot his words back to him, laying the irony of it all at his feet.

His eyes search yours, a mix of surprise and something deeper, more intense, and overwhelming that makes the air between you both thin.

“You want to know everything?” he asks, a whisper that’s barely audible in your quiet living room.

“Everything,” you breathe, twisting your fingers more in the fabric of his open shirt.

It’s true. You want to know his fears, wants, and desires. You want to know what he thinks about in the morning and at night before he goes to sleep. You want everything, even though you are the last person who should wish for it.

His thumb slides across your cheekbone, his large hand cupping your face. You resist the urge to lean into the warmth of his touch.

He’s always so warm. When it brushes against yours on your walks. When he hovers too close at the bar on Wednesday nights when you see Kilmer for moonshine. When you close your eyes at night, and dream of every line of him pressed against you, branding your skin in his touch so you’ll never know anyone else but him.

Nanami leans in closer, his breath hot against your face, the faint scent of whiskey and tobacco rushing up your nostrils to wrap around your brain.

“Even if I come to you in the dead of night, bloodied and beaten?” Your heart races at his words, at the implication. “Would you—”

“Patch you up,” you finish, not bothering to hide the shiver that runs down your spine with equal parts desire and dread. “Yes,” you whisper, “Especially then.”

It has to be the whiskey, because the feel of Nanami’s injured arm sliding behind your back, pulling you more into him, would be against everything he holds moral.

But there’s no chance in the world that you’ll pull away now. You soak in his touch while you have it, beneath a tipsy gaze and the heady scent of his breath on your skin.

“And if I tell you about my failures?” he’s rough, wrapped around a pearl of vulnerability that you want to cradle and store away like it’s precious. “The times I’m not the sheriff this town deserves?”

You can’t ever tell him that most of his failures are because of your very existence. But you still meet his gaze without flinching, hoping to convey how much you mean to him. How much you yearn for him even when he’s broken and disappointed in himself.

“I could never think less of you, Nanami. Never.”

He hums as he strokes your cheek, the sound crawling hot and molten down your body, seeping into the thick fabric of your flannel and the threadbare linen of your nearly translucent nightgown. It’s scalding and should make you turn away, but you pitch closer to him, inhaling a deep breath of alcohol that clings to his lips.

There’s a question in his eyes, something he wants to ask but can’t find the words for. You think you know what it is; you hope so because the air is thick again. Only now, it’s leaden with tension and desire, of promise and a line that’s been danced on without care for far too long.

Even as you inch to close that gap, the shame is persistent. You don’t deserve his curiosity and his want. You’ve twisted his kindness, his affection and laughter, and even his frustrations into a warped justification of your own actions. Your selfishness has cast him into a Hell of your own making, and that realization burns just as hot as your desire.

You should pull away and brush the hair from his forehead with a teasing smile. You should roll your eyes and usher him out of your home with the complaint of having to rise early in the morning to prepare for the kids.

But you’re both close—so so close—and the logic of what you should do dissolves into nothing with every breath you take.

The whiskey has left a slight flush on his cheeks, slightly sweaty from the pain of your stitching. You can’t help but flick your gaze to his lips, slightly parted and split down the middle from dryness, and so tempting.

When your eyes catch his, you swallow a gasp at the intensity, at an emotion you dare not name. You can’t. Every fiber of your being screams to close the distance between you, to finally see how his lips feel and taste—even as your mind equally screams with all the reasons you should turn away.

“Promise me you’ll be more careful,” you breathe, the words a prayer and a plea whispered into the dwindled space between you.

His response is wordless, visceral. The scalding hand on your back presses firmly, pulling you even closer with a strength that makes your stomach twist, your knees knocking against thick thighs.

Your fingers twist into the lapels of his open shirt, the fabric groaning in protest, buttons digging into your skin. You’re both tiptoeing on a thinning line of something profound, fighting against an invisible force that screams the implications of what this could mean—a warning for you to step back and not make this worse.

That rope unravels with the weight of you both, strands splintering open and threatening to snap. And oh, how you want to fall with him.

It feels like an eternity, but finally, his lips brush against yours. It’s a ghost of a kiss—feather light and achingly tender as chapped skin teases your lips. But it’s enough. For a second too long, you’re suspended in time, searching each other’s eyes for permission, for absolution. Then, as if pulled by that same inviting force, you come together again.

It’s deliberate this time, awakening and filled with intention. His lips move against yours, warm and insistent and heavy with whiskey and want, and you respond in kind, hoping the way you bite down on his bottom lip that he can taste the years of want.

One of your hands slips from a lapel, smacking onto his bare chest, palm flat against skin feathered with tawny hair. His heartbeat is rapid, matching the frantic pace of your own, and you gasp into his lips, pulling harder for him to fall into you.

In this kiss, you taste possibility. You see a future where you have no secrets, where the guilt in your insides is replaced with the butterflies he consistently makes you feel, where it’s you and Nanami happy in this dusty town. For one beautiful moment, you let yourself believe.

But reality comes crashing down like a bucket of cold water on your body. Nanami pulls away slightly, but enough for the air between you to grow stale, molten desire cooling rapidly.

“Forgive me,” he murmurs, resting his forehead against yours. The alcohol on his breath is like a siren to you, pulling you further under with each whiff. His nose brushes against yours, gentle and exploratory, as he inhales the smell of your skin.

“We shouldn’t—I shouldn’t—” His lips trail down the side of your cheek as he speaks, each word a caress that contradicts his attempted withdrawal.

You shake your head to dispel the cloudiness in your mind and also to convey that he did nothing wrong and that it just might be better this way. That he’s right to regret touching you, kissing you, letting you into his life. It’s better for you both.

You can see the conflict slicing through the fogginess in his gaze, a mirror of the turmoil in your own heart. Your fingers are still twisted in his shirt, still pulling inch by inch, unwilling to be the first to let go.

“I should go,” is what escapes his mouth even as he makes no move to leave, his thumb still stroking your cheek. “It’s late, and I’ve forgotten my manners—I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

The words shouldn’t hurt, shouldn’t smack you with such force, but they do. What he hopes to sound humble, only reveals as insulting.

You offer a wobbly smile, fighting against a stinging sensation of tears that threaten to bubble from his rejection.

“Was it that bad, Sheriff? I know I’m not the best kisser in town but—”

“No. It was perfect,” he interrupts, the hand on your cheek caressing the skin, his thumb stroking in reverence as he offers a regretful chuckle. “You just deserve someone else. Not a man like myself.”

His words fall like heavy weights in your stomach, plummeting into acid that bubbles with guilt and fear. You pull yourself from his embrace before you can stop, his warmth evaporating into the cold air.

“And just what kind of a man are you?” you ask, incredulous, as you regard him with slightly widened eyes.

Nanami sighs heavily, his uninjured arm coming up to card a hand through his unruly strands.

“The kind that spends most of his time with outlaws and criminals instead of decent folk. The kind that smokes with no regard for his health. The kind that drinks far too much whiskey than what is good for him.” He shakes his head, frustration twisting around his fingers as he fumbles for the buttons of his open shirt. “I won’t subject a woman to my carelessness.”

Your mouth hangs ajar, fighting to form words to dispel his worries even as the opportunity to distance yourself presents like a meal on a silver platter.

“Why would you say that about yourself?” you whisper, incredulous as you watch his fingers slip on his buttons, the pain in his arm flaring from the angle with which his arm is bent.

“Because it’s true.”

You smack his hands away from his lapels with far too much force, your anger permeating from your fingertips as you snatch up the fabric in your hands and fasten each button.

“No. It’s not true. You’re a good man. You spend your days and nights convincin' yourself that you’re not good for what? For happiness?” Your fingers falter on the last button that hovers over his collarbone, the words at the tip of your tongue.

For love?

His hands draw themselves up to wrap around yours, cocooning in their warmth even as they burn with the reminder of what you can’t have. What you shouldn’t have.

“I’ve done a poor job of conductin' myself around you. I’m sorry…”

The words hang in the air, heavy and suffocating. At that moment, something snaps inside of you. It feels like a dam breaking, flooding you with a combination of sadness, frustration, and a desperate need to stop this torturous dance.

“Okay.”

It’s clipped and sharp, cutting through his apology like a knife. It leaves a lingering bitterness on your tongue. A single syllable but loaded with so much resignation and unspoken pain.

For a second, you wish you could take it back, to smile up at him, wrap your arms around his neck, pull him close, whisper in his ear that he deserves more than he gives himself credit for.

When you finally drag your eyes from his collarbone to meet his gaze, the regret in his eyes is so heavy you almost drown in them. It etches onto his features, pulls at the edges of his lips as he frowns, and pushes at the top of his nose to make his brows furrow. Your fingers twitch beneath his, an involuntary urge coming to life as you swallow the need to smooth the worry lines from his skin.

“Please understand that I never want to hurt you. You’re precious—I need you to understand how much you mean to me,” he presses; he sounds insistent, begging, wishing that you could understand his inner turmoil.

It’s ironic just how much you do. Every day you spend with him is another day that you have to live with feeling inadequate. He deserves a woman who is honest and forthcoming, who would never lie to him and hide a secret so heinous it might kill you before you’re half a century old.

So just like he yearns to put distance so that you can find someone more worthy, you do the same.

“You better get on,” you mutter, the words like sand in your mouth, eyes downcast to your floor as you stand and tuck your flannel around your body. It’s a poor substitute for his embrace, but it’s all you will have of him for the foreseeable future.

From your peripheral, you faintly see Nanami’s hands curl into tight fists on his denim-clad knees, knuckles pressed white like sun-bleached bone before he relaxes, blood filling the skin again.

As he stands to leave, you’re struck by the duality of the moment—the warmth of his touch that lingers on your skin, the silent admission from both sides of this conversation—of the kiss that was not enough, and the cold weight of much-needed denial settling in your stomach.

It’s enough to make you nauseous as you watch him shrug on his vest, the rustle of fabric unnaturally loud in the loaded silence of your home. Your eyes take him in a while his gaze is turned away, tracing every curve of muscle, every worry line from work and the harsh sunlight.

“Thank you,” he finally speaks, voice low as he clicks his gun sling in place. Your eyes finally meet, uncertainty and hesitant desire from both sides.

You dig your fingernails into your flannel, tightening its hug around you to desperately hide every inch of yourself and the emotions that are threatening to seep through your pores.

You nod at him softly, offering a gentle but dishonest smile that feels so brittle it could crack at any moment. The door creaks open, the late-night air rushing in cool and with memories of your haste to get home, guilt in your hand at the stitched bicep beneath his coat.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” he offers, hopeful. And oh does that nasty side of you, the one that Mama always chastised with a smack to your hands, coils like a rattlesnake—ready to strike.

You could slap him for even thinking you would entertain his presence after giving you so much for months, years, tonight—and stripping it away in a matter of seconds because of misplaced self-righteousness.

But that other side, the side that longs for every inch of him, understands that while your feelings are tumultuous, you know he wants you close, even if it means hurting you both.

“I’ll be working later than usual for the next few days,” you lie blatantly for the second time tonight, your stomach churning. “So maybe next week sometime.”

There’s a hitch in his breath, quick and staggered as it catches in his throat. He lingers, mouth opening as if to speak, shoulders hitching with stolen breath before he sags in defeat, exhaling whiskey-tinged breath across your face.

“Have a good night.”

You don’t offer anything else, not trusting your voice to speak, eyes stinging with more unshed tears as you watch him disappear from your view. You don’t watch to see him mount his stallion. You don’t strain your ears to pick up the rustle of leather as he mounts his saddle. You don’t even peek through your curtains to watch the dust kick from Flint’s hooves as they make their way home.

Instead you press your back to the door, bottom lip trembling before you let your body give in to the mess you’ve made of everything.

“Storm might be the worst one this year.”

Against the backdrop of a clap of thunder, Nanami hums noncommittally, calloused fingers idly twirling his badge, sliding it between each knuckle with practiced ease.

His office isn’t much, just a little room in the jailhouse. His walls hold no relics of his life and are littered with wanted posters and photographs of his form stock still next to outlaws and bandits he’s caught over the years.

But on his desk, there is one photo of him with the schoolchildren, Yuji perched on his shoulders, peach hair spilling beneath the brim of Nanami’s stolen Stetson. There’s a freshness that began to brew on Nanami’s face from that moment, still stone-faced and aloof, but with a soft look in his eyes because of the woman holding the camera.

You’d been new to town then, eager but uncertain, insisting on capturing the moment rather than being in it. Nanami was adamant you be in the frame, to commiserate your first day, but you’d stood firm, that familiar fire in your eyes that’s always drawn him in.

He likes to look at it every day, reminding him of why he protects the town and fights so hard to keep everyone safe. It makes him feel wanted and anchors him when doubt creeps in, and the weight of his duty threatens to overwhelm him.

But Nanami really should be paying attention.

Across from him sits the town’s new lawyer, Higuruma Hiromi, overworked but effervescent as he describes a case that he’s working on. He’s only been in town for almost a week, already capturing the hearts of the town’s citizens, who like to linger in the shiny new law office a few streets over.

While Nanami has never been one to work with others if they will only slow him down, the conviction that radiates from Higruma as he gestures wildly with lightly tanned hands, running them through dark brown hair that’s styled back over and over, Nanami can tell that they will get along. He’s strong-willed with a fierce belief in justice that this town needs.

But Nanami’s mind is, regrettably, miles away. Back to that night when he’s gotten the closest he’s ever come to the bandit with her thrashing underneath him, his arm pulsing with white-hot pain from her attempt at distraction.

She had gotten away again.

And when the bandit had jumped from the window at the Phillips’ house and disappeared into the night towards town, his sole thought was you.

Find you. Make sure you’re safe.

His mind shamefully recalls his raised voice and the shock on your face as he dug his hands into your shoulders. He replays the feel of his limbs loosening with every drag of whiskey, canting toward your body as if you’re a magnet that he spends every waking moment trying to pull away from so he doesn’t stick to you forever.

He can still feel the ghost of your lips, smooth and hot, passionate and tasting faintly of the love he wishes he could have from a woman. Your hands were soft even with the dryness from chalk. Your voice alluring even when tinged with frustration as you chastised him, reeling from his rejection.

“You’re a good man,” you had said, fiery and exasperated. “You spend your days and nights convincin' yourself that you’re not good for what? For happiness?”

He’d pushed you away, insistent in his belief that it was for your own good. But the memory haunts him—your always illuminating melanin-kissed skin twisted with hurt, that brittle smile, the small pearls of tears bubbling at the corners of your lids that you thought he couldn’t see. The consequences of his choice now cut deeper than ever.

He hasn’t seen you since that night—not properly. He finds himself at the saloon more often than usual and can no longer blame the bandit for seeking solace in whiskey.

In the past, his days had been measured by moments with you—walking you home, watching Yuji drag you to the general store as he trailed behind with a somber gait, treasuring that smile you’d shoot his way from over your shoulder.

It’s barely been a week, and to put it simply, Nanami is unbearably lonely.

Fleeting glimpses through saloon windows or watching you with the schoolchildren aren’t enough. Every night since that bullet grazed his arm, when he can’t sleep because all he can think about is you, fingers tracing idly along his healing stitches, he wonders what kind of man pushes away the one woman who only wants him.

A fool of a man, apparently.

His mother always told him that self-righteousness is more foolish than denying your own heart. She’d be clicking her tongue in disappointment at him right now.

His mind is so lost, so caught in its own web of self-destruction, that he doesn’t register Higuruma's question. “I’m sorry,” Nanami says, one hand still twirling his badge while he sits up in his chair. “Could you repeat that?”

The lawyer chuckles, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from his suit as he fixes Nanami with keen brown eyes.

“I was just rambling about the town festival and asked if you’re taking a pretty lady? I’ve finally worked up the courage to ask a beautiful sweetheart to accompany me.”

Nanami’s expression never changes when faced with anything that a situation out of his control. Too many tells in the eyes of the enemy could cost him his life. He’s calm and collected, even with a gun pointed between his eyes.

So he exercises the most restraint he’s ever needed to keep his eyes from twitching, to keep from shifting in his seat under the painful squeeze in his chest.

“Anyone I know?” The question brims to life of its own volition.

Higuruma's tired eyes flash with warm admiration so genuine that it turns Nanami’s stomach. For the first time in many years, he finds himself comparing his adequacy to the lawyer. He looks too refined in his suit, aquiline features too handsome for the rustic surroundings of the sheriff’s office.

“I should think so. It’s the schoolteacher.” Nanami’s heart seizes in his chest, painful and lurching in a desperate act to beat again. “Surely you know her? Radiant as the sun, always wears the nicest skirts, beautiful curls, and smells like lavender—a man could lose himself.”

The physical description of you hits him like a physical blow, punching his gut hard enough to make his lunch gurgle up his throat. The memories of that cool night after the cattle drive flickering like a time reel in his mind.

“…pick someone else. I imagine you have a line of suitors with far more promise than Gojo hoping to escort you to the festival.”

You’ve taken his advice and chosen a man to accompany you. He should be happy that you’re doing the right thing. Shouldn’t he?

“She has the most beautiful smile,” Higuruma continues, seemingly unaware of the badge that’s stopped twirling between Nanami’s knuckles, to the subtle groan of tin as his fingers clench around it.

Nanami knows how to navigate most situations. He has a backup plan for every single unexpected situation in his life.

But not right now. Not while he’s trapped under the guise of propriety with a lawyer he suddenly can’t stand.

Now, Nanami imagines if he punches him in the face, he might smooth the curve in his nose. Now, Nanami hopes that every case Higuruma takes will keep him awake for days, never to know relaxation or peace. Now, he hopes he wakes up each day to more of those silky strands on his pillow until he’s bald for daring to breathe in your direction.

Now, now, now Nanami hates.

The badge protests in his grip, jagged edges breaking thin skin. Anger flares hot and sudden in his chest, irrational and consuming him to the point where he barely recognizes himself. Vitriol burns his mouth, bubbling past his teeth before he can stop it.

“You don’t know a thing about her.”

The words permeate in the air, sharp and accusatory. Higuruma blinks, taken aback by the sudden vehemence in Nanami’s tone. Surprised that the stern sheriff, who usually moves in silence, carries a bark that hangs in his belly, locked in a cage, ready to pounce at a moment’s notice.

The office is silent save for the storm that rages outside and the faint trickle of laughter from the schoolchildren across the street. No doubt you’ve let them out early so they can get home safe.

Another clap of thunder booms through the office, rattling the windows as if the storm is trying to force its way inside. The white-hot anger that boiled in Nanami’s gut is doused immediately with humiliation. It drips over him like a cold sweat, sliding down his leather vest and beneath his clothes.

“I apologize,” the lawyer starts, clearing his throat. “I didn’t mean to offend.”

But he did offend. By coming into this town, by breathing your air, by having the mitigated gall to ask for your hand to an asinine town festival that Nanami should have stepped up for. That Nanami should have swallowed his pride and let his heart guide him for once. Not Higuruma. Not this lawyer who would probably treat you well.

He’s offended Nanami to the highest degree.

Yet, his humiliation runs rampant enough to quell his fury.

“No, I apologize. That was uncalled for.”

“If she’s spoken for, I’m not a man to make matters complicated. I can—”

“No,” Nanami insists, eyes flickering to the rain-stained window. Water droplets cascade as if racing against each other, the landscape a torrent of wild wind and dusty dirt turned muddy. “She’s not spoken for. I’m simply…protective of her.”

The words taste like ash in his mouth, but Nanami swallows down the acrid flavor. He has no right to be jealous, no right to lash out, no claim on your affections. If anything, the very thought him claiming any part of you under the guise of protection would have earned him a rightful scowl on your face.

He made his choice that night on your couch, his lips still tasting of you, his body singing for more. Duty over desire. Now, he has to live with the consequences.

“I’ll be sure to do right by her,” Higuruma insists, earnest and sincere. Nanami wishes at this very moment that his father had taught him to be a violent man. The kind of man that wouldn’t hesitate to reach across this desk and show men like Higuruma what happens when they speak about a woman that Nanami wants. Deeply, viscerally, from a jagged pit in his belly.

Because you’re his—not really. But you are, you are, you are—

Another clap of thunder, his office flashing white. The sound closing the door to his internal rambling.

“If that’s all,” Nanami presses as politely as an impatient man can manage, hand still a vice around his badge as he stands from his seat.

“Right,” Higuruma picks up on the moment turned sour, ready to leave the tense atmosphere, and Nanami wouldn’t mind shucking him out the window if the lawyer wanted a boost. He claps his hands on his suit-clad knees and rises from his chair. There’s a small seed of triumph that blooms in Nanami’s belly as he takes in the two inches he has over the lawyer.

“I’ll bring everything by tomorrow morning and we can discuss further.”

Nanami doesn’t offer any further words, simply extending his hand for the lawyer to shake, unconsciously squeezing a little tighter before they part. He watches in silence, narrowed eyes trained on his back, as the lawyer throws a hat on his head and ducks out into the rain.

The open door carries hot and humid air into his small office, the roar of the storm rising with every passing second before the door closes, and he’s cast back into silence and regret.

Nanami quickly strides across his office to the window that gives him a view of the schoolhouse. He watches as the last of the school children disappear down the street, his eyes catching Yuji as he stumbles in the thick expanse of mud in front of the schoolhouse door, smiling bashfully as he turns back to listen to whatever is being spoken to him.

He seems jovial and careless at his young age as he tries to trudge through the mud before his foot is caught, and he falls to his knees. He yanks at his ankle, tiny fingers slipping over wet skin as he fruitlessly tugs at his foot.

Nanami’s eyes catch the movement of you before he can think, fixating on the flash of dark green calico of your skirts as you race out of the schoolhouse and into the torrential downpour.

He admires the flash of your shins as you hike your skirts up, clambering heavy-footed across the schoolyard before you wrap your arms around little Yuji and heave with the strength of ten men, his feet shucking from nature’s grip.

You fall backward, your skirts fluttering to a thick smack onto the ground, soaked beyond comprehension. You pat Yuji's hair gently, your affection for him clear even from the distance before letting him scurry off, uncaring of the rain that drenches you as you remain firmly planted in the mud, a small smile on your face as you watch him go.

Nanami longs to run outside, to race across the street, pull you up into his arms, and get you to safety. He longs to draw you a hot bath, stoke the fireplace in his home that he built with his two hands, and allow you to curl on his prized fur that he keeps in front of it.

But he can’t have that now.

And as Higuruma comes into view, running across the street to your drenched and relaxed form, Nanami realizes that he’s not only a fool—he’s unequivocally, painfully stupid.

Your curls kiss your cheeks in wild abandon, unfurling along the break of your smile as Higuruma approaches. Something dark and possessive twists in Nanami’s gut as he watches the lawyer reach for you, seemingly uncaring that the downpour ruins his pristine suit.

The casual way his hands find your waist, pulling you easily onto your feet, makes Nanami’s fingers tighten around the badge in his hand until the metal bites into his now raw flesh. The lawyer guides you up the steps to the schoolhouse, work-worn eyes bright with affection that he wants to strangle out of him.

Then, as if to twist the knife further that Nanami has willingly lodged in his own chest, Higuruma takes your hand in his and brings it to his lips for a chaste kiss. The gesture is kind, nothing untoward, especially for a man who’s trying to court a woman.

But for Nanami, it may as well be the most scandalous sight because his blood boils, the sight of another man’s mouth anywhere near your skin makes him so angry it nearly blinds him.

Before he realizes what he’s doing, Nanami slams his badge on the windowsill, cursing beneath his breath as he storms from his office. He barely registers the rain that soaks him as soon as he steps outside to stride across the street. His eyes are locked on Higuruma's retreating form as he runs away from the schoolhouse and to his home, hardly paying Nanami any mind.

The red-hot and foreign jealousy whispers like a cat in his ears, beckoning for Nanami to follow the lawyer home and give him a piece of his mind. But he won’t, not this time, his sight only on the fluttering schoolhouse door.

The familiar scent of chalk dust envelops him when he steps into the schoolhouse, lingering with the lavender that always radiates from your skin. His hot fury splinters from the sight of you, your back to him, wringing water from your curls.

Each strand wraps around your wrist like a tendril, water droplets scattering across the floorboards. Nanami watches, transfixed, as rivulets trace thick lines down the rich brown column of your neck. He wants to trace those trails of water with his tongue, to feel the warmth of sun-blessed skin in stark contrast with the coolness of the rain. He wants to gather your curls in his hands, to know how silky they would feel in his calloused palms, to turn you around and—

“Did you need something, Sheriff?”

Your voice, coolly formal, cuts through the silence. You don’t turn to face him, continuing to wring out your hair as if his presence means nothing at all. Even though it means everything. The scent of him—leather and tobacco wrapped around rain—fills the schoolhouse, permeating the air so quickly that you’re dizzy with it.

You hear the shuffle of his boots against the wood behind you and feel the weight of his gaze on your back like a physical caress. Your spine shouldn’t itch to shudder under those invisible hands.

“I hear you’re going to the festival with the lawyer,” he blurts out, the words rough against your wet back, piercing through the drenched calico of your dress like a pin needle pushing through the thickest of fabric.

Your scoff is bitter as you turn to face him, so unlike your usual melodious laugh that he flinches.

“Is that what you stormed in here to say? After almost a week of silence that you asked for?” Your voice trembles—with festering rage or the slow trickle of hurt in the hollow of your chest, you’re not sure anymore.

“You didn’t speak to me either,” he counters weakly, trying to sound firm even though the words paint him like an idiot. As if he’s a young boy again, trading blows with a classmate that means nothing but is more destructive than the last.

Immediately, you’re angry as you soak in his words, wide-eyed and seething. Your hands curl into fists at your sides, shaking against your skirts as you drip wet onto the floor.

“Do you take me for a fool, Nanami Kento?”

It’s the first time in months that you’ve said his full name. You brandish it like a weapon, deliberately sharp. He has that look on his face again—a mischievous schoolboy caught in mischief, all that stern authority crumbling under your gaze with no Stetson to anchor him.

“No ma’am, of course not—”

“Then let me spell it out for you,” you begin, your voice trembling slightly with barely suppressed emotion. “I like you. You like me. A few days ago, we shared somethin'…” your voice cracks traitorously. “Somethin'…intimate. After so many years of dancin' around each other. And then you decided to pull away, to make decisions about how I should live my life, to tell me what I deserve, as if I’m incapable of takin' care of myself!”

Thunder rumbles like a hovering figure, matching the storm brewing in your chest. Lightning flashes through the windows, catching in the water that falls from his locks, illuminating the conflict in his brown eyes.

“Hiromi is a nice man. He asked me on a friendly date, and I said yes. That’s all there is to it.”

“You said yes to a man who’s only been in town for a few days,” Nanami growls, jealousy coloring his words that strike your chest like a dagger. “Already calling him by his first name?”

The temperature in the room seems to drop several degrees as your gaze turns icy. You’ve never known Nanami to have a scornful bone in his body. So while you know his actions now stem from some deep-rooted insecurity in his choices, the words still sting.

You stalk towards him slowly, purposefully, your leather boots squelching as they leave wet prints with each step.

“What exactly are you tryin' to imply, Sheriff?”

“A few pretty, albeit stuffy, words from a stranger in his pressed suit, and you forget yourself entirely,” he hisses, the words so painful as they stab at your cheeks that you can’t help the tears that spring to your eyes.

It’s hurtful because these words come from someone who knows you so well, how carefully you’ve built your reputation, and how hard you’ve worked to earn a place in this town. It’s a feeling you never thought would be directed at you.

“How dare you,” you snarl, raising your hand to smack, punch, do anything to hurt him like he’s hurting you.

But Nanami is faster, catching your wrist mid-swing and yanking you against him. The impact against his chest steals your breath—or maybe it’s the feel of him, towering and burning hot despite the rain-soaked clothes between you. Your free hand flies up to twist in his shirt, fingers catching on the fabric in a dance of pushing him away and pulling him closer.

You struggle against his grip, grunting with futile effort that meets iron strength. His fingers don’t dig enough to hurt you, but to remind you of his brutal strength, of all the times you’ve dreamt of how that strength would feel when channeled into his hands on your body. The thought only fuels your anger.

You wrench your hand from his grip with a sound that croaks from your chest like a raging dragon, turning to storm to your desk. Papers scatter in your wake like startled birds, floating to the slick floor beneath your sodden boots.

You have no right,” you spit, fingers trembling as you bend down to gather the papers. “No right to act like I belong to you when you pushed me away!”

You need to push him away. God the hypocrisy is overwhelming, but not enough to grasp the logic you need right now.

“You don’t know Higuruma—” Nanami starts, and you whirl to face him, wet skirts slapping against your legs, eyes flashing with a storm of your own that claps with the next ring of thunder and lightning outside.

“And you do? He’s a good man, a respected lawyer—”

“He’s not good enough,” Nanami cuts in, voice rough like gravel. You watch his jaw clench, the muscles jumping beneath sun-weathered skin moist from the rain that slides down his throat.

“Oh?” You bare your teeth in a mockery of a smile. “Let’s play this game then, Nanami. Put the shoe on the other foot. I guess Thomas from the general store won’t do it for you?!”

“The man can’t keep his hands to himself even in the saloon,” he growls, the corner of his lip twisting into a snarl.

Something in his tone makes your skin prickle with heat despite your anger. You’ve never seen him this furious, not with you, and it shouldn’t make your stomach churn with arousal, shouldn’t make your stomach twist with want, shouldn’t make heat bloom between your thighs.

“Mr. Foster.”

“Unfaithful to every woman who’s given him the time of day!” Nanami’s words crack through the air like a whip, furious at your suggestion.

“Deputy Gojo then,” you challenge, lifting your chin in defiance.

It’s a low blow, a harmful punch to the intimacy of the conversation and closeness that brewed from Gojo's presence that night after the cattle drive. But you don’t care. Your heart pounds against your ribs like a war drum, each beat echoing the pain and anger that pushes through your veins and thrums in your ears.

His warm brown eyes widen with fury, menacing as they liquefy into a glare so dangerous that your core pulses with a need you should be ashamed of.

“Don’t,” he says simply, low and deep, unwilling to entertain it any longer. The very thought of Gojo's name in association with you is enough to make him crazed.

Something inside you snaps, fraying like an old rope, finally giving way to the push and pull of you both. You slam your hands on the desk, the sharp smack of your palm echoing through the schoolhouse.

“Well, then, enlighten me, Sheriff!” Your voice rises with each word. “Since apparently no man in this town meets your precious standards, what exactly do you want from me?!”

He’s silent. So dreadfully silent, broad shoulders heaving with each ragged breath, eyes locked on yours, conflicted but unwilling to back down.

You storm up to him until you can smell the tobacco on his clothes, and you have to tilt your head back to meet his gaze. Dark blonde eyebrows are pitched down in barely contained rage, sharp cheekbones beckoning your hand to slap him. You’re so unfortunately attracted to this cowboy, but so angry that your head spins.

You jab a finger into his chest. His shirt clings to every muscle like a second skin, reminding you of how his chest felt under your fingers that night, how his skin burned against yours as you stitched him up.

“You don’t get to push me away and then dictate who I spend my time with,” you whisper with deadly intent. “You don’t get to act like some—some jealous husband when you made it clear that I wasn’t—that we weren’t—”

The words stick in your throat like thorns, choking you from speaking any further. Nanami’s eyes darken, black nearly eclipsing brown, something dangerous and wild flickering in their depths. The air between you crackles with electricity, every breath shared between you charged with the energy that seeps through the walls from the storm.

But despite the quiver of want in your bones, the close proximity, you can’t do this anymore—you can’t stand here in this now suffocating schoolhouse and lay your emotions at your feet that need to be locked away.

You have to leave.

Without thinking, you shoulder past him, flinging open the school door and stepping out into the rain. The harsh pellets are a jolt on your feverish skin, quickly soaking through your barely dry clothes.

The thud of Nanami’s boots and the jingle of his spurs behind you spur you on, your legs trudging through the mud to Buttercup’s stable and away from him. You only make it halfway through the schoolyard before a large hand catches your wrist, firm and calloused but somehow still gentle as he spins you to face him.

“I’m done talkin' Nanami!” you yell over the storm, glaring at his handsome face soaked in rain. You yank free from his grip, gait heavy and sticky as you stagger away until you’re several feet from each other. “I’m done arguing with a man who doesn’t know what he wants!”

Through the veil of rain, you see his eyes widen in disbelief before they narrow into heinous slits. “You think I don’t want you?” Thunder punctuates his words, your heart fluttering against its cocoon of rage. “That I don’t think about you every waking moment?!”

“Then why—” you holler, throwing your hands up to the sky in exasperation before he interrupts.

“Because I can’t have you!” The confession rips through him like tearing open a wound, his words cracking along the next lightning strike in the mountains. “I’m supposed to be dedicated to this town. To my citizens. To my career. If you weren’t so—” he stops short, growling beneath the howl of the wind. “If you hadn’t shown up that day all those years ago, if you didn’t bake me those pies, if you weren’t so goddamn beautiful and—”

“This is my fault!” you screech, taking a step towards him only for your leather boots to sink into a particularly deep patch of mud. The wet soil seeps into the spaces, coating your socks and toes. The rain continues its onslaught, your curls heavy as they sway and stick to your face. You wipe them from your cheeks in a fury, sputtering through dirt and water.

“You’re blamin' me because you’re too much of a coward—”

“Yes!” he shouts, shoulders shaking in a wave of vulnerable anger as he glares at you. “Because every time I see you smile, every time Yuji comes to me happy that you taught him something new, every time you look at me like I’m worth something—” His voice catches Adam’s apple bobbing and lips gaping for words. “I forget why I need to stay away.”

You flop your hands against your thighs in defeat, huffing a humorless laugh. “Just tell me what you want,” you whisper, half challenge, half plea. You should run, turn around, and make your way home before you fall deeper into a web of lies you’ve spun. “For once in your goddamn life, Nanami, just tell me.”

“I want you to tell him no,” Nanami growls. “I want you to turn down every. damn. man. in this town who thinks they deserve you.”

The whiplash of his want and need is enough to make your neck hurt. That simmering rage boils to the surface, churning like melted butter in your limps as you yank your feet from the mud to storm toward him.

“You stubborn—” you start, boot immediately sinking in mud. You yank it free with a wet squelch. “Just wait until I get my hands on you, you self-righteous—” another step, another struggle against the soaked earth. Your deep green skirts are heavy with water and mud, tangling around your legs as you fight tooth and nail to get closer. “Insufferable—” Yank. Step. “Maddenin' excuse for a man—”

Your last step is interrupted by him, stomping and angry and biting as he navigates the schoolyard like it’s nothing, his hands digging into your wet waist before he yanks you to him, crashing his mouth to yours. The kiss is so brutal, so possessive, and everything you’ve been fighting and craving all at once that your eyes roll into the back of your skull from the force.

Your boots slip against the ground as his mouth claims yours, teetering backward to fall, but his hands are there instantly—one tangling in your soppy curls while the other digs further into your waist, steadying you as he angles your mouth without having to ask.

How can you be so hypocritical right now? Why have you made such a mess of things? The wall that you need to erect between you is crumbling beneath weak weight, freely giving up any resistance as his lips slide against yours. You chastise yourself even as you twist your fingers into his transparent shirt, pulling him closer as thunder cracks overhead.

“They don’t know you,” Nanami hisses into your mouth when you break for air, rain streaming between the gaps of where you don’t touch. His grip at the base of your neck tightens, arousing licking to life as your core tingles in betrayal at the twinge of pain. You bite into his bottom lip, swallowing his groan that vibrates down your throat and into the muscles of your pelvis.

Nanami spins you—you stumble in the mud, flailing even though his strong arms reach under your thighs to yank you up. Your skirts stretch uncomfortably, legs begging for more room so you can wrap your thighs around his waist. But he has other plans, swallowing another whine as his lips take yours, the sound of his spurs rattling the jumbled space in your mind as he climbs the schoolhouse steps.

Your back crashes into your desk, more papers scattering and floating to the water-slicked floor. You’re both dripping everywhere—creating puddles beneath your feet, water running from his shirt to collect on the wood between you. His hands squeeze your waist, the strength permeating a thick pulse between your thighs as he lifts you onto your desk.

“Those men could learn about me,” you gasp, involuntarily bunching your skirts around your waist as Nanami crowds into the space between your legs.

His fingers reacquaint themselves with their hair at your nape, twisting and yanking your head back to expose your throat.

“He doesn’t get to learn a thing about you,” Nanami growls into your pulse point, dragging sharp teeth along the skin. You can’t help the whimper that breaks free, leaking past your lips. “Not how you sound.” A tongue to your neck that makes you arch, eyes shut tight as your cunt thrums in your panties. “Not how you taste.”

Your hands fly up to find purchase on the wet fabric of his shoulders, grabbing the muscles of his trapezius as he growls into your neck.

You have to stop, you have to. But when his hips press forward, the metal of his belt buckle grinding against you through sodden layers of fabric, all coherent thought vanishes.

You gasp at the feel of his hot hand trailing along your leg, up the canvas of your thighs, that part even more for him without thought. Calloused fingertips tease the edge of your panties, the touch electric enough to make your hips buck for more, a whine dying in your throat as you nod to his silent ask for permission.

“Tell me,” he demands, a seductively low timber against your mouth as he pulls your panties to the side, the cool air yanking a wanton moan from your throat. The touch of two fingers to your clit is enough to make you faint, your fingers digging into his shoulders to keep yourself from screaming. The hand in your hair squeezes, rewarding you for your sounds. “Tell me you don’t think about this.”

You do. You do. God, you do. You think about him exactly like this, skin to skin, reverent words of desire in your ear as he takes you higher and higher.

You bite his lip instead of answering, and the fingers on your clit begin to move in torturous circles that make you moan into the cool air. You were wet the minute he raised his voice, the minute you could taste his jealousy, the minute you smelled that leather and gunpowder from his skin. So your essence pools to the bottom of your panties now, embarrassingly wet and dripping as he circles your clit with a precision that makes you wary.

His fingers slide down your wet folds, teasing your entrance that clenches around nothing. The callous of one fingertip press inside, barely enough to do anything, and you pull against his resistant shoulders, whining desperately for more. A broken sound creaks from your lungs as he sinks in one finger and then the next inside of your pussy.

“Oh god,” you cry out in what feels like relief, your boots hitching on his hips, mud streaking the denim.

“No one else,” Nanami demands, setting a pace just shy of too slow within you. Water drips from his hair and catches on your collarbone before sliding down between the hint of cleavage of your bodice. His eyes are dark, mahogany depths gone as they take in every flicker of pleasure on your face. “No one else gets to see you like this.”

“I—” you gasp, swallowing around a dry throat parched from your guilt and building pleasure that tingles in your cunt against his fingers. You’re still shivering from the rain, but his touch burns, each stroke of his fingers devastating. Your head falls back as his fingers curl inside of you perfectly, brushing against the spongy wall of your pussy like he’s studied you for centuries and knows just how to pull you apart.

“Look at me,” he demands again, his grip tightening in your hair. When your eyes meet him, you flinch at the intensity of his gaze. There’s an unspoken danger there, a hint of untethered lust that barely overshadows the flickers of guilt he’s trying to keep at bay.

It’s the perfect opportunity for you to take charge of the situation, to pull away and agree that this needs to end now. To grab his wrist and tell him that you don’t need anymore. But—

“Tell me he’s not worthy of this.” His thumb finds your clit, stroking with fervor, fingers sinking deeper inside of you. “Tell me.”

“He’s not—” you choke, your orgasm rounding the corner sharp and fast. “He’s not worthy—oh please, please.”

You have no idea where the words are coming from—surely some deep cavern in your chest where you keep all your desires for him in the dark. But they rise freely now with every curl of his fingers and every desperate sound.

But even as ecstasy threatens to consume you, anguish claws at your heart. The reality of what you’ve done crashes over you in waves, each crest of pleasure tinged with the bitterness of your dishonesty. Nanami worships you with abandon, hypocritical in his touch, his lips whispering possession against yours while you hold back the very essence of who you are.

Another flash of lightning illuminates the room, a rivulet of water sliding down your lower back, a reminder of the storm that drove you to this moment.

“That’s it,” he growls against your mouth, watching as your orgasm begins to shake your body on your desk. “Show me what no one else gets to see.”

You’re so close—so, so close, tumbling on the edge of something that feels like falling and flying. The furrow of concentration between his brows, the raw hunger in his gaze as he watches you come undone—it’s too much. Tears prick at your eyes, blurring your vision as your orgasm builds to a devastating crescendo.

“Let go for me, Dove,” he whispers against your mouth, and that endearment, that tenderness when you’ve been so aggressive with each other—it’s what you finally need to vault over the edge. Your orgasm rips through you, blissful pleasure obliterating everything in its path. You cry out his name, whimpering into his mouth that he takes for a kiss, your body arching into him as release crashes over you in burning waves of fire.

As you slowly come down, you’re left gasping, trembling, utterly wrecked with your gaze locked on his. The magnitude of what’s transpired settles over you like a murky shroud, beautiful and terrible. You’ve never raised your voice at Nanami, just like he never has with you, but these fading moments were overwhelming, with hidden desires being shoved to the front without a barrier to guide them.

You use the feel of his wet shirt as a beacon to keep you rooted in the moment, doing whatever you can to push those guilty thoughts away that waste no time teasing you wickedly. Even now, dripping wet and breathing deeply against you, he’s devastating to look at.

You want to touch him, to make him feel what you just felt, to have the memory of the weight of him in your hands one time before you leave this town forever.

So you slide one hand from his shoulder to reach for his belt, but his fingers catch yours, impossibly gentle, as he stops you from going further. The softness of his touch hurts more than if he had smacked your hand away. It hurts because you see it clearly, so clearly that it makes your chest ache.

Even if you didn’t have another persona, even if you were just the schoolteacher in this town who bakes him pies and makes him smile, his want for you palpable in the air, he would never let himself have this. He would never let himself be completely yours.

The realization smacks you in the face, the flames of your rage that had been put out with his touch now roaring back to life. You’ve been handed yet another opportunity to right your wrongs, and this time you don’t hesitate to snatch it up.

You push him away, sliding off the desk on shaky legs as you yank your hand from his grip.

“This is never going to change, is it?” you ask, voice steady even as your heart stutters out of rhythm. “You’ll always push me away in the name of duty or nobility or whatever excuse helps you sleep at night.”

“I—“ he starts, reaching for you, but you push him away further, savoring the muscles of his chest one last time.

“Save it.” You swallow, squaring your shoulders for what feels like an impossible task. “After today…nothin' needs to happen between us. No more walks home, no more pies or acting like we know somethin' the other doesn’t.” You wrap your arms around yourself, cold and wet now that the heat of his skin is gone. “Because we both know we can’t be friends without wantin' more….and I won’t let you string me along any longer.”

He stands there, dripping, with hands hanging at his sides in defeat. He can’t argue with you, he has no right. And you use his dejection as fuel.

“I don’t want to talk to you,” your words cut like glass in your throat. “I don’t want to see you. You had every opportunity to take me as yours…splayed me on this desk until I had nothing left, and still you…I’ll find someone who isn’t afraid to want me completely. Like you said, it’s what I deserve.”

The muscle in his jaw jumps, but he stays silent. You hate how well you know him—how he’s retreating behind duty been now. That this pain is noble somehow. And you couldn’t agree more.

“I should go,” you whisper, deliberately formal, deliberately final.

The silence stretches between you like a chasm, punctuated only by the sound of rain and thunder outside and the water dripping from your clothes. You wait a moment longer—some foolish part of you hoping that he will fight for this, for you. But Nanami remains silent, his leather vest striking on his wet frame as he stands with rigid shoulders.

“Goodbye, Sheriff,” you mutter, turning away first and gathering what’s left of your dignity.

Your skirts are still heavy, clinging on cold legs that still tremble slightly from your orgasm. Each step feels like you’re traversing through the mud in front of your schoolhouse all over again.

Let him keep his duty. Let him wrap himself in nobility and righteousness while you finish up what’s left of your path in this dusty town.

The storm greets you again when you step outside, immediately soaking you as you make your way to Buttercup’s makeshift stable. The physical discomfort you feel as you gather her reins is nothing compared to the ache in your chest, the knowledge that even without your secrets, the outcome would have been the same.

He doesn’t come out of the schoolhouse. He doesn’t chase after you and drop to his knees for forgiveness. And the reality of it all makes your eyes blur with a fresh wave of tears.

As you race home on Buttercup’s saddle, the rain is harsh on your skin, and the clarity cuts through your emotional haze.

You know what you have to do.

The treasure.

You’ll gather it up, just as you’ve planned all along. But now, it’s not just about helping the town. That thought of freedom no longer seems wary. You’ll get the treasure, yes. You’ll distribute it to the town, giving them the help they need. One final good for the people you’ve grown fond of. And then… then you’ll leave. You’ll disappear, never to return to this place that’s become both heaven and hell to you.

The thought sends a fresh wave of pain through you, but you embrace it. Pain means you’re alive and that what you’ve experienced here matters. You’ll carry it with you, a bittersweet reminder of the life you’re choosing to leave behind.

As your house comes into view and you take it all in, soaked to the skin and shivering, the distant sound of Buttercup whinnying beneath you, you make a vow to yourself.

No more hesitation. No more torn loyalties.

The storm rages on when you finally close your front door, but inside your heart, a strange calm settles over you. You have a plan now. And soon, you’ll have your freedom. Even if it comes at the cost of everything – and everyone – you’ve grown to love.

Thanks for reading! Finale coming soon!

#jelly's library ☁︎༄｡ﾟﾟ･｡･ﾟﾟ｡ﾟ #nanami kento x reader #nanami x reader #mysteria writes #x fem!reader #x black fem reader #jjk angst #jjk smut #nanami kento smut #jjk x reader #GIRLLLLLLLLLLLL #I-#i cant speak actually #SHAKESPEARE WISHES HE COULD #the plot the romance the longing the angst THE-#THIS IMPECCABLE CUISINE #*snorts the rain scene like cocaine*#INJECT THIS INTO MY VEINS

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domjaehyun · 4 months ago

Text

the boy is mine (l.dh) — part one

PAIRING. haechan x fem!reader (also jeno x reader) GENRES. smut, angst WORD COUNT. 19k CONTENTS. infidelity, alcohol & weed consumption (MC is a non-smoker if that matters to you), explicit smut (dirty talk, fingering, finger sucking, oral (receiving), rimming (receiving), groping/frottage, marking, spit play, (brief) ear play, breast play, creampies/unprotected sex (if you explicitly need me, a stranger on the internet, to tell you not to fuck raw, you are not responsible enough to be reading this. move along now), snowballing, public sex, car sex, riding, bratty dom-leaning switch!haechan, bratty sub-leaning switch!reader, sweet dom!jeno, face riding, handjob, overstimulation (receiving), praise kink (receiving), light degradation kink (giving), mating press, morning sex) NOTES. welcome back to meeeeeeee!!! i hope you enjoy this fic because i worked very hard on it!! please leave feedback if you liked it :) i would also greatly appreciate tips if you really liked it :3 THANK YOU LIKE THE HUUUUUGEST THANK YOU TO BRI (@jalitepng) FOR BETA READING THIS BIG OL FIC :D PLAYLIST. the boy is mine - ariana grande // fantasize - ariana grande (unreleased) // lowkey (feat. erykah badu) - teyana taylor // agora hills - doja cat // pussy is mine - miguel // softest touch - khalid // cut - tori kelly // seatbelt - josh levi // often - doja cat // surrender - nbdy

how can it be you and me? might be meant to be, can’t unsee it but i don’t wanna cause no scene i’m usually so unproblematic, so independent, tell me why ‘cause the boy is mine.

You suppose your fate was sealed from the beginning.

Even as you’re riding in the passenger seat of Yunjin’s car as she speeds down the freeway, your heart filled with a relief and fulfillment you haven’t had for the past six months, you can’t help but feel like something’s… lacking.

“So, spill,” you hear Seulgi pipe up from the backseat. “How many little British boy hearts did you break on your little Oxford trip?”

“Who says I broke any hearts?!” you exclaim with an incredulous laugh, and everyone in the car turns and gives you the same unimpressed look. “Oh, that was creepy. Did y’all plan that?”

“You were gone for six whole months and you want us to believe you got up to no romantic shenanigans? Hm?” Seulgi asks, narrowing her eyes at you, and you narrow yours right back.

“I didn’t break any hearts!” you defend yourself, and Chaewon sighs.

“Did you stow away a cute British boy in your carry-on?” she asks, and you make a face.

“Certainly not.”

“Then there’s a broken heart floating around in Oxford as we speak!” Chaewon insists, and you scowl.

“Let me out right here.” you mutter, turning to open the door on the freeway, laughing as the other inhabitants of the car gasp and shriek in alarm. “I’m joking!”

“You’re crazy, that's what you are.” Yunjin clarifies, and you giggle.

“I was having a laugh.” you say unapologetically. “Anyway, I didn’t really get up to too much in Oxford, really. I was focused on studying, I guess.”

“Oh, lame!” Seulgi boos, and you roll your eyes.

“I’m here now, though, so the hot girl spring and summer can commence!” you say happily, and your friends cheer.

“Winter just texted asking if we got you off the plane okay,” Chaewon announces, and you shake your head.

“Tell her my seatbelt got stuck and wouldn’t let me out and so they took me back to England.” you suggest, and Yunjin snickers.

“Tell her the pilot got confused and took her to the wrong New York. If she asks what other New York, just be like, ‘the other one?’” she adds on, and Chaewon snorts.

“You’re both terrible.” she laughs as she types in a response.

“What’d you tell her?” Seulgi asks.

“That she got held back for getting her bag searched and they found five kilos of cocaine. So they took her out back and made her snort all of it as punishment and now she’s running amok in the city like Cocaine Bear. She’ll beat us back to the house.”

“And we’re terrible?!” you exclaim indignantly.

“Well, yes.” Chaewon replies calmly. “Mine is obviously a lie.”

“Wh— My seatbelt getting stuck isn’t an obvious lie?” you splutter.

“Well, that could actually happen!” she defends, and you blink at her incredulously.

“I didn’t expect the lesbian to forget that scissors exist.”

Chaewon’s jaw drops and she jabs a finger in your direction. “Homophobe!” She turns to Seulgi for support, but Seulgi just shakes her head.

“You’re alone in this one, Chae,” Seulgi giggles. “I laughed, I’m sorry.”

“Man, this is some bullshit.” Chaewon grumbles. “You’re supposed to have my back! We’re… we’re sapphic sistren!”

“You actually did not just say that.” Seulgi marvels. “Sapphic sistren is crazy.”

“I had to pull the gay card to win.” Chaewon says with a shrug. “I’m not sorry.”

“Can we get back on topic, please?” Yunjin laughs incredulously. “Jesus, it’s like if you put squirrels on a podcast.”

“We should make a podcast, actually.” Seulgi suggests, and you nod.

“We could call it ‘That’s Nuts,’” you say excitedly.

Chaewon snorts. “I’m in.”

Yunjin beeps her horn loudly, garnering all of your attention as you all jump in surprise. “We’re outside all spring and summer, right?”

“Well, after work, yeah.” you agree, and she smiles, nodding.

“I don’t want to hear you missed out on a fun fling or opportunity because you were busy working.” Yunjin jabs her finger at you accusingly, and your hands fly up defensively.

“In my defense, doing my job is way less risky than taking chances romantically.”

“Yeah, but where’s the fun in that?” Yunjin complains. “Live, girl!”

“There are gonna be cute guys at the party, obviously. So I will live!” you insist, and Yunjin nods.

“That’s more like it.”

Returning to your thoughts for a moment, it dawns on you that romantic excitement is exactly what you’re lacking. You want to love; you want to love someone and be loved by that someone and for that love to be something beautiful and consuming, and you’re not sure how much longer you’re going to have to wait.

You’re in the middle of making a mental pact with yourself to be just a bit more daring, a tad more forward and bold when it comes to love, when Seulgi and Chaewon laugh loudly at something on one of their phones, snapping you out of your internal monologue, and you shift in your seat, turning to face them.

“I can’t believe you guys left your whole apartment unattended during a house party just to welcome me home,” you sniff dramatically, and Seulgi snorts.

“Anything for you, my friend.” she replies with a playful crinkle of her nose, and you reach out to pinch it lightly.

“Besides, it’s not like it’s completely unattended! Winter’s there.” Chaewon points out, and you raise your eyebrows skeptically.

“Right… what is her non-confrontational ass gonna do if something goes wrong?” you ask, and Seulgi winces.

“Good point. Maybe step on it, Yunjin.”

“I’m already going twenty over the speed limit!” she exclaims defensively.

“You’re not even exaggerating,” Chaewon half-gasps, half-laughs as she leans forward to look at the speedometer. “We might make it there quicker, but we might not make it there safely.”

“We are here for a good time!” Yunjin yells, whipping her hair around excitedly. “Not a long time!”

“Deeply concerning words coming from our driver.” Seulgi snickers quietly, and you nod, turning back to sit in your seat properly. “So…”

You peer at her through the rearview mirror curiously. “So?”

“I’m just imagining Jeno’s reaction when he sees you again for the first time.” She shrugs with a faint teasing smile, and you can feel your cheeks warming as a small smile starts to tug at your lips.

Jeno’s had a thing for you for the past… year and a half—at least, that you’re aware of—and you won’t lie, he’s definitely easy on the eyes and a sweetheart to top it all off. Before you went away to Oxford, you two had built up a bit of a flirtationship that neither of you tried to push further because of your study abroad trip you had planned.

Now, however, you’re back, and you’re admittedly excited to see if it leads to something worthwhile.

“He’ll probably do that little crescent-eyed smile he always does when you spare him a crumb of attention.” Chaewon supplies as you’re lost in thought, and you roll your eyes as Yunjin nods knowingly.

“I’m willing to bet he’s gonna try to be glued to your side all night.” she adds, and you sigh loudly and dramatically.

“You guys are really something else, you know that?”

“You love it!” Chaewon says confidently, and you can’t help but smile fondly, nodding in agreement.

“I kinda do.”

Yunjin spares you a sideways glance that lingers for suspiciously long on your frame, and you raise an eyebrow.

“My eyes are up here.” you joke, waving a hand in her line of sight, “and, more importantly, the road is over there.” She chuckles and relents, refocusing her attention on the road, but she has that telltale look on her face that usually means she has something on her mind. “What are you thinking about?”

“Well—not that I’m judging at all, because, you know… live your life, girl.” Yunjin pipes up, and you turn to look at her, curiously awaiting the rest of her thought. “But are you gonna wear that to the party?”

You look down at your comfortable sweats and hoodie, perfect airport attire, and look back up at Yunjin with a playful frown. “What, is this not cute enough?”

“Well…” she trails off, and Seulgi pops her head forward between the front two car seats.

“No! It’s not a good enough outfit! You’re the guest of honor at your own welcome home party, and you have to come harder than some cozy gray sweats with a hole by the ankle.” Seulgi scolds, and you roll your eyes with an amused smile.

“Obviously I’m not going to wear this to the party, girl.” you laugh, and Seulgi sighs in relief. “I was just messing with you.”

“Well, cut it out! You know I’m gullible.” She frowns, and you reach into the backseat to pat her hand comfortingly.

“All the more reason to mess with you, my love.” you reply with a deceptively innocent smile. “Anyway, when we get back home, I have to shower and freshen up and change into my actual outfit. I also have to sort out the presents I brought back for everyone and make sure Jeno’s cake is still in good shape.”

“I still can’t believe you baked him a cake,” Chaewon marvels. “It’s giving domestic. Housewife, even.”

“Martha Stewart found jobless,” Seulgi adds, and you snort.

“I know this is his favorite type of cake, so I just… thought I’d make it for him.” you mumble quietly with a small, dismissive shrug.

“That is very cute to me,” Yunjin says reassuringly before punching the horn roughly and making the rest of the three of you jump in surprise. “Stupid fucker doesn’t know how to use his turn signal?!”

“Yunjin, calm down,” you advise, patting her knee gently.

“I am calm,” she replies, her tone level, and you pull your hand back, still eying her suspiciously. Sure enough, as she drives by the driver that failed to use his turn signal, she rolls her window down and yells out a string of expletives that makes Chaewon gasp in horror.

As Yunjin rolls her window back up and turns the radio up, you sit back and smile, thinking about how happy you are to be back at home.

You get home an entire eight minutes before your initial ETA, making Yunjin grin proudly when you make the announcement.

After your friends help you bring your luggage up to your apartment, you go into the bathroom to freshen up. After the extensive process that was showering, brushing your teeth, reapplying your skincare and makeup, and applying lotion and getting dressed, you emerge, fresh-faced and victorious, into your living room where your friends lie sprawled on your couch as they wait for you. The only eyesore about your appearance is the large sack you’re carrying of presents you brought back for your friends.

“I’m ready!” you chirp happily, and Yunjin is the first to look up from her phone at you, eyes taking in your casual and comfortable yet cute attire before she nods appreciatively.

“It’s giving Santa Claus,” Seulgi chuckles, gesturing at your large bag slung over your shoulder.

“Ho, ho, ho,” you drawl with an amused roll of your eyes.

“Stop it, Seulgi,” Chaewon scolds before focusing her gaze on you. “You look cute! Bet you-know-who’s gonna be all over you.” she says with a teasing grin, and you roll your eyes despite smiling before you set the bag down and set about getting out your gifts for your friends that are present.

You hand Yunjin a wrapped box of gorgeous shoes from an England-exclusive boutique and she sets about unwrapping it, her eyes widening with excitement as she reveals the present inside.

“Holy shit?” she gasps, gaping at the shoes. “These are perfect!”

“They’re so you,” you agree with a proud nod. “I saw them one day through a window while I was walking down the street and had to stop in and get them for you.”

“My turn, my turn!” Chaewon exclaims eagerly, bouncing in place as you root through your large sack and pull out a small wrapped box, which you hand to Chaewon carefully. She squeals in excitement once she’s opened the present, leaping up and engulfing you in a tight hug. “My perfume! I thought they discontinued it!”

“They stopped selling it in the States, but I managed to track down a store that still had some in stock, so I got you a couple—y’know, so you wouldn’t run out.” you say, smiling, and she beams at you.

“You’re the best.” she says seriously, looking you directly in the eyes to drive home her sincerity.

“I try,” you reply with a nonchalant shrug before reaching into the bag once more and pulling out one last present for Seulgi, wiggling the box at her invitingly.

“For moi?” she asks with feigned surprise, a hand to her chest.

“Indeed,” you confirm with a grin, and she sits forward, taking the gift from your hand and opening it up.

“Oh, my God.” she exhales in shock, staring down at the designer earrings and bracelet set. “These look expensive as fuck.”

“They kinda were,” you admit sheepishly. “All of your gifts were a pretty penny, actually, but you guys definitely deserve them. Those really spoke to me, and I thought they’d look gorgeous on you.”

“Thank you, my love,” Seulgi coos affectionately, standing up to engulf you in a hug. Yunjin and Chaewon join in a brief moment after, the four of you hugging tightly for a lingering, blissful moment.

“You’re all very welcome. Are we ready to go now?” you say, changing the subject with ease even as your voice is muffled into Seulgi’s shoulder, and Seulgi pulls back immediately with an emphatic nod.

“Ready as ever! Our fridge has snacks that are calling to me from over here.”

“You’re such a drama queen.” you scoff in amusement as you all head to your front door and file out after each other.

“Must have gotten it from hanging out around you.” she replies with playfully narrowed eyes in your direction.

“Oh, really?” you challenge, biting back a laugh, and she nods, puffing out her chest comically as she chest-bumps you on purpose. “Assaulting me in the middle of my apartment complex is actually wild and unheard of, and you will be hearing from my attorney.”

“Bring it on, baby!” she urges, and Yunjin rolls her eyes in poorly concealed amusement as you two start to giggle at your antics, the sounds of mirth ringing out in the lobby as you exit the elevator.

“You two are so strange,” she remarks in wonder. “But later for that. Onto more pressing matters!”

“Such as?” you question, holding the door open for Chaewon to follow behind you into the street.

“How long will it take us to get from our house to yours?” Yunjin asks, pulling out her phone to search for it, but Chaewon seems to be one step ahead, already focused on her phone screen.

“The travel time from here to our house,” she announces loudly, squinting at her phone momentarily, “is roughly twenty minutes.” You all stand around Yunjin’s car at your respective doors, waiting for Yunjin to unlock the car so you can get in.

“Hm, yeah? Why so long?” Yunjin asks curiously as she moves to look over Chaewon’s shoulder. “Traffic, huh? …I bet I can shave that time down to fifteen minutes.” Her eyes glint with excitement as she presses her car door remote, the sudden and loud beep-beep of the doors unlocking making you and Seulgi flinch for a moment.

“Dear Lord, help us all,” Seulgi mumbles as you all climb into Yunjin’s car, strapping in before she peels out of her parking space and zooms into the night.

True to her word, Yunjin precariously shaves six minutes off your travel time and you pull up to Chaewon’s and Seulgi’s apartment earlier than anticipated, exhilarated and pumped full of adrenaline.

“Are you excited to be back at La Casa Payasa?” Seulgi asks with a smile, and you nod with a relieved sigh.

“It’s just like I remember it.” you hum fondly as you head up to their door and bring your fist to the door, only getting to knock once before the door swings open and Mark throws himself at you for a hug.

You catch him with a surprised laugh, stumbling back from the impact slightly but returning the tight hug nonetheless. He tucks his face into your neck and mumbles something that you can’t hear, prompting you to pull back slightly.

“I didn’t hear a word you said,” you chuckle, and he pulls back as well so you can see his bright smile.

“I missed you so much,” he repeats, and you coo fondly, pulling him back into the hug.

“I missed you, too!” you chirp warmly, squeezing him in the hug for good measure. When you two pull apart, Chenle’s standing beside Mark and grinning at you. “Hey, Chenle!”

“Hey, stranger,” he teases, pulling you into a hug of his own. “Long time, huh? Let’s hear that British accent you developed over there.”

“I don’t know what you’re on about,” you reply in your best British impression, and he bursts out laughing.

“Man, that’s good stuff,” he chuckles with a shake of his head. “We missed you over here!” he complains, moving to swat you on the arm. “Don’t leave again.”

“I’ll do my best to stick around.” you assure him, and he smiles and nods, content.

“Now what’s with this big ass bag you’re carrying, huh? Did you stow away some British goodies for us?” Chenle asks curiously, pinching the fabric of the sack over your shoulder.

“Something like that,” you say slowly before you set it down and reach inside, handing Chenle and Mark their respective gifts. As they open them, Mark being considerably more careful than Chenle, you wait, hands clasped behind your back and rocking back and forth on your heels.

“How the hell did you get a signed Steph Curry jersey?” Chenle questions, baffled and thrilled, and you shrug with a secretive smile.

“I have my ways.”

“Never mind that—how did you get Frank Ocean himself to sign this album?” Mark asks, downright bewildered, and you shrug again.

“Ways that I have… that are mine.”

“You’re so silly, but this is amazing,” Chenle laughs, hugging you. “Thank you so much!”

“You’re welcome,” you lilt sweetly, and Mark looks up from the Frank Ocean vinyl again to meet your inquisitive gaze with wide, awestruck eyes.

“You’re incredible. Genuinely.” he stammers, and you smile widely as he pulls you into a hug as well once Chenle’s released you.

“I do my best,” you reply happily.

“Wait, also, how was your flight? Anything crazy happen?” Chenle asks curiously, and you pause as you think back.

“Actually, yeah; these two guys got into a verbal argument and then one of ‘em was like, ‘I’ll beat everyone’s ass right now!’ Which, objectively, is a crazy thing to say, but crazier to insist when you’re in a metal contraption thousands of feet in the air.” you start explaining, and Chenle’s eyes widen.

“No way,” he mumbles. “Then what?”

“Then he started threatening the flight crew, and I’m pretty sure he got placed on the no-fly list.” you finish with a solemn nod, and Mark gasps.

“I could never imagine never being able to fly again.” he mutters in awe, and you nod in agreement.

“I know, right? He had it coming, though.” you say, and they shrug, nodding in agreement.

“I guess so,” Mark agrees before his face lights up as he seems to remember something. “Hey, where’s Jeno? He’s been waiting for you to show up.”

“I think he’s with Winter and Haechan right now,” Chenle answers, and you scrunch your face up in confusion.

“Who’s Haechan?” you ask, baffled, before it dawns on you. “Oh, wait, that’s Winter’s new boyfriend?” you ask, and they nod. “I see… well, can’t wait to meet him, I guess.” You shrug indifferently, now craning your head to look around for Jeno.

You spot him before he spots you, the male standing alone texting on his phone by the couch. As if he can sense you looking, he looks up and his eyes lock on yours a moment later, his entire face brightening up as he starts to make his way over to where you’re standing.

By the time he’s where you are, you’re both sporting excited yet shy smiles as he opens his arms for a hug and you step into it. His arms drop to your waist and you wrap yours around his middle as he squeezes you gently.

“Hey,” he mumbles into the embrace, a smile audible in his voice.

“Hey, there.” you greet.

“Welcome back.”

“Good to be back,” you reply with a little grin.

“Did you have a good flight?” he asks curiously, and you nod.

“Minus a crazy guy on the plane, but it all ended fine,” you assure him, and he looks momentarily bewildered but manages to rein in his reaction.

“That’s good, I think… what seat did you get?” he questions, leaving you somewhat touched by his thoughtful questions.

“I got a window seat,” you answer with a smile, and he nods in approval.

“I love a good window seat,” he hums. “Did you watch a movie or nap or something?”

“I napped for a bit, yeah,” you chuckle, suddenly remembering how you’d had a bit of drool dried on your cheek earlier. Subconsciously wiping at the spot, you smile up at him casually. “I’m still a little tired, though.”

He frowns sympathetically before a little hopeful smile appears on his face. “Well, I hope you’re not too tired, because I wanted to give you something.”

Your eyes widen. “You got me something?”

He nods shyly. “I got you something. It’s in my car, though, and I parked kinda far, so I have to go get it. Come find me later when I come back so I can give it to you.”

“You got it,” you say with a smile. “I’ll come find you for sure. I actually have something for you, too, so we can trade.”

“Oh, no way! You’re the best.” He beams, squeezing your waist, at which point you realize you two never let go from the hug. Your cheeks on fire, you withdraw your arms from his middle and he does the same to you with an amused chuckle.

“I’m actually gonna go grab something from the kitchen,” you say, jerking a thumb in the direction of the hallway. “You want anything?”

“Nah, I’m good. I’m gonna run to the bathroom, actually.” he answers, and you nod before you two go your separate ways. You turn back at the sound of your name to see Jeno looking at you with a soft gaze and an even softer smile that makes you feel like you’re a giggly school girl all over again.

“It’s really good to have you back. It really wasn’t the same without you. Seeing all your Instagram stories gave me a crazy sense of FOMO, and our little phone calls here and there really made me miss you even more,” he says sincerely, and you place a hand over your heart, touched.

“I’m really happy to be back,” you assure him. “I missed you.” His brows flick upwards in surprise at your somewhat bold admission, and you blink twice in mild alarm before continuing in a slight rush with, “I—well, like, I missed you, and Yunjin, and Chae—I missed you all, y’know? The story posts were so you wouldn’t forget about little ol’ me. I loved our phone calls, but it’s so much better getting to talk to you in person.”

He laughs lightheartedly and nods, waving you off reassuringly. “I get you. Go get yourself some snacks! We didn’t stock up on your favorites for some random people to eat it all up before you get any.”

“Copy that,” you say with an emphatic nod, saluting him jokingly before heading to the kitchen.

As you’re making your way to the snacks, you catch the eye of a very handsome stranger leaning against the wall in your hallway talking to one of your friends from work. To your surprise, he doesn’t look away from you as you approach, even going so far as to turn his head as you walk by to keep staring at you.

You’re not sure if you’re more intrigued by him than by the challenge he’s posed, but you keep eye contact until you get to your kitchen and round the corner to find yourself a snack.

Moments after you’ve entered the room, you feel someone enter behind you, a smile coming to your lips as you realize who it most likely is.

When you turn to face the newcomer, he’s standing surprisingly close to you, his eyes scanning your face with an intrigue and intensity that leaves both of you a little breathless.

“Hi.” the handsome stranger says as his lips curl into a grin.

“Hi, there,” you echo, smiling back at him. ”Did you follow me in here?”

“Would you believe me if I said it was fate?”

You pretend to think about it. “By the way you watched me walk in here… no.”

He chuckles. “Fair. I had to ask you a question.”

“Luckily for you, I love questions.” you hum, placing both hands on the counter behind you and leaning against it in a silent invitation not only to ask his question, but also to approach.

Thankfully for you, he does both, stepping closer with a small chuckle and asking, “I was wondering if you believe in love at first sight.”

“Oh, brother—” you start to laugh, and he joins you before waving his hands to get you to stop.

“Hear me out!”

“My listening ears are on,” you reply with a smile and coy tilt of your head that definitely doesn’t go unnoticed, based on the way his already probing gaze intensifies.

“Do you?” he asks again, and you think about it for a moment.

“Not really,” you admit, letting out a small giggle at the disapproving look he gives you. “But maybe I can be convinced.”

He smiles widely, looking so bright that it truly dazzles you before continuing on to say, “I’m glad to hear that.”

“Why?” you ask. “Do you?”

“I don’t think I did,” he answers carefully, “until I saw you just now.”

“Oh, brother!” you burst out laughing—half from surprise and half from being flustered by how surprisingly sincere he sounded. In your attempt to recover from your outburst, you catch a glimpse of him to see that he’s gazing at you openly with a fond look in his eyes. “You are really something, you know that?”

He steps closer to you with a heat in his eyes, a glowing ember of intensity burning as he asks, “Something good or something bad?”

You shrug playfully and lean closer, wanting him nearer to you. “Jury’s still out on that part.”

He chuckles and wets his lips before his gaze drops to yours. “Can I present some new evidence?” he murmurs, and you tilt your head to the side as you pretend to think it over. “Has anyone ever told you that it’s really cute when you do that?”

“Of course,” you snicker. “Why do you think I do it?”

“So you’re turning up the charm right now, but you don’t believe in love at first sight?” he asks with a raised eyebrow.

“Is it love at first sight or attraction, sir?”

He grins and steps even closer, dangerously close to touching you. “So you’re attracted to me.”

You look around, confused. “Now who said all that?”

“You just did.”

”I most certainly did not.”

He half-scoffs, half-laughs in disbelief and points at you accusingly. “I heard you.”

“You heard wrong, I guess,” you reply with a nonchalant shrug before patting his chest twice. Your phone buzzes in your back pocket and you both hesitate, neither of you wanting to exit the intimate moment. However, when it buzzes a second time, then a third, you decide to give up and pull your phone from your pocket to check it.

jeno [23:04] hey i’m back

jeno [23:04] i have your surprise :)

jeno [23:05] let me know where to find you

You lock your phone and look up at the handsome stranger with a small frown. “Anyway, this was great, but I have to go find someone.”

He frowns deeply and catches your hand as it leaves his chest, lacing his fingers with yours and looking up at you. “Do you actually have to leave or am I making you nervous?”

“I told my friend I’d find him later, and it’s officially later,” you explain truthfully, and he seems to hear the sincerity in your voice, because he relaxes visibly. “Maybe I’ll find you after?” you offer, and he perks up, gently squeezing your hand.

“I’d like that.”

“Can I get a name? So I know who I’m looking for later?” you ask.

He smiles, shaking his head. “I’ll tell you when you find me later.”

You pout, and he smiles fondly at you. “I guess.” you relent, grabbing the soda and snacks you came to get off of the counter and heading towards the kitchen exit. “See you later?”

He nods resolutely. “See you later.”

You exit the kitchen with a small smile that threatens to take over your whole face if you don’t calm your spirits as you begin your second search of the night for Jeno.

After grabbing the presents you got for him from where you’d stashed them in Chaewon’s room, it doesn’t take you long at all to find him, the male still lingering by the entrance when you spot him. You sneak around a small group of people and pop up beside him, making him jolt in surprise and clutch his chest.

“Hi,” you giggle, and Jeno slumps with relief when his eyes lock on you, a warm smile coming to his face.

“Hey,” he chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck nervously.

“So… how do you want to do this?” you ask curiously. “I can go first if you want?”

“No, I want to go first for sure,” he replies with a sureness in his voice that leaves you a little surprised and mildly impressed.

You gesture for him to start, still holding your present for him behind your back, and he retrieves two small, rectangular boxes from inside his jacket pocket.

“That looks expensive,” you say worriedly, and he chuckles fondly before waving a hand dismissively.

“It wasn’t too bad, don’t worry.” he replies reassuringly as he hands you the small boxes.

You gesture awkwardly with your hands still behind your back, trying your best to indicate that your hands are currently out of commission, and his eyes light up with understanding before he’s gingerly opening one of the navy blue boxes.

You gasp once you’ve peered into the box, your eyes wide as you look up at him in surprise. ”Jeno.”

“Is it too much? Oh, God, you hate it. I’m sorry–” he starts to worry aloud.

“Wait—Jeno—”

“I can take it back, maybe, and you can pick out something you’d like more—”

“Jeno?”

“I should have thought it through more carefully—”

”Jeno!” your voice is gentle in tone but loud enough to catch his attention, his worried eyes locking in on yours. “Please relax.”

“Sorry,” he mumbles embarrassedly, looking down at the floor.

“I was going to say that I genuinely love them. The necklace and the earrings are stunning, and they’re exactly my style.” you say sincerely, in awe as you stare down at the beautiful pieces of jewelry Jeno bought you. The necklace is a silver choker, a paperclip-like link type chain with a diamond-encrusted butterfly in the center. The earrings are matching silver hoops with butterflies adorned along the rings of metal, and your jaw drops slightly as you take in the beauty of Jeno’s present.

“You really like it?” he asks excitedly, a hint of worry still in his voice, but when you nod, his brows unfurrow and he smiles widely, relieved. “I saw the set and it reminded me of you. It’s beautiful, classy, and fun.”

You can’t help but smile. “You think I’m classy and fun?”

“Of course,” he answers instantly, and your smile widens as you step closer to him curiously.

“You think I’m beautiful?” you ask with your eyebrows raised, and Jeno visibly swallows.

“I do,” he bashfully agrees, and you coo fondly, wanting nothing more than to set his present down and wrap him in a tight hug. “I really do.”

“Jeno,” you tease playfully, “I’m kinda dying to know what’s in the other box.”

“Oh, yeah!” he exclaims, closing the first box and opening the second as he explains, “I just got them in gold and silver because I know you tend to wear both depending on your mood and your outfit, so I gave you options.”

“Jeno, that is so thoughtful.” you gush appreciatively, and he blushes immediately, cheeks pinking along with the tips of his ears. “I absolutely love them,” you say gratefully, a warm smile curling your lips.

“Thank God,” he sighs with a laugh that you join him in.

“Okay, so… don’t know how I’m gonna top that,” you joke, “but it’s my turn now.”

“You have my undivided attention,” he assures you, and you can’t help but bat your lashes at him slightly.

“I like the idea of that.” you say flirtatiously, and he chuckles, shaking his head in amusement. “Okay, here, we’ll trade and you’ll open.”

“Deal,” he agrees, swapping presents with you. You watch nervously as he unties the ribbon on the white box and lifts the lid. “This looks delicious, holy shit.”

“I made it myself,” you say carefully.

He looks up at you in surprise. “From scratch?”

You nod. “From scratch.”

“That’s amazing,” Jeno marvels. “Isn’t Victoria sponge cake hard to make?”

“Baking is only hard if you can’t follow instructions.” you say with a resolute nod, and Jeno snickers.

“I never thought of you as a rule-follower, if I’m being honest,” he admits.

You shrug. “Rules and instructions are very different to me, but I can be very obedient when I want to be.”

Jeno pauses at that, eyeing you suspiciously. “Oh, yeah? Like when?”

“In the bedroom.” you answer without hesitation, smiling in amusement as Jeno’s eyes widen slightly.

“You never gave off ‘obedient,’ y’know.” Jeno informs you.

“If I can tell you know what you’re doing, I’ll listen to you.” you reply with a nonchalant shrug.

“Yeah? Would you listen to me?” Jeno asks, voice quieter and, if you’re not mistaken, lower than before. There’s a suggestive edge to his voice, playful and flirtatious, but in the way that very much indicates that he’d stop joking in a minute if you were into it.

“Depends,” you answer, smiling up at him. “Do you know what you’re doing in there?”

His responding chuckle is significantly deeper than the ones before it, the sound undeniably attractive as he regards you carefully. “Absolutely.”

“Is that so?” you muse softly, watching him intently. “And I’m supposed to go off of your word?”

“You don’t trust me?” he asks, raising an eyebrow, and you shrug.

“I just tend to learn better from experience.” you reply with a small flirtatious smile that threatens to overtake your whole face.

“Maybe we can arrange that.” he says with a playful grin.

“I’ll keep my schedule open.” you say with a curt nod, and he snorts in amusement.

“Perfect.” he agrees before focusing his attention on the smaller box in his arms. He sets the cake box down on the table by the entryway and unwraps the other, cube-shaped box, his eyes widening with excitement when its contents are revealed to him.

“No way!” he gasps, turning the Big Ben snow globe this way and that.

“I remembered you have a snow globe collection and I thought I could help you add to it.” you explain, and Jeno looks up at you, eyes bright.

“You’re amazing. Thank you so much.” he gushes happily, and you beam at him before waving him off.

“Of course, Jeno. I just wanted you to know I was thinking about you while I was gone.” you say sweetly, and he grins before opening his arms for a hug,

You step into his embrace readily and wrap your arms around his middle, the two of you squeezing each other tightly. When you pull back slightly, you realize Jeno still hasn’t let you go, his arms still securely wrapped around your waist.

“I really missed you, y’know.” Jeno says softly, and your heart warms.

“I missed you too, Jeno. It’s good to be back.” you echo, and he smiles before gently releasing you, his reluctance apparent in the way his fingers linger as they pull away from you. “Oh!” you say, remembering something out of nowhere. “I actually still have to give Winter her present, so I’m gonna track her down and do that.”

“Oh, of course, yeah, go for it. Thank you again—I’m gonna demolish this cake later.” Jeno says, finishing his sentence in a conspiratorial whisper, and you giggle.

“I’m glad. I’ll see you in a bit, yeah?” You reach up and pinch his chin gently, smiling wider when his blush from earlier returns in full force.

Jeno nods shyly, and you release him before venturing further into the party in search of Winter.

Finally spotting Winter across the room on her phone, you cross the living room and tap her shoulder from behind, smiling widely when she turns around.

“Hey!” she greets excitedly, wrapping you in a hug. You two rock from side to side for a moment, hearts full, before you release each other. “What’s up?”

“I just wanted to give you your present,” you say with a small shrug and a smile, and her eyes widen. “It’s nothing crazy!” you warn her, waving your hands dismissively, and she shrugs, reaching out for the gift bag in your hand with opening and closing fists.

“I wanna see! Can I see, please?” Winter pleads, and you give in with a fond laugh, handing over the gift bag.

You wait with bated breath as she opens the present, her eyes softening fondly as she gazes down at the stuffed plushie in her hand.

“It’s so cute! How’d you even find a desert fox plushie?” she asks, in awe as she turns it this way and that.

“I had it commissioned from a toy store boutique only in England,” you explain, and she smiles widely, wrapping you in another tight hug.

“Thank you so much,” she gushes, pulling back from the embrace to clutch her plushie to her chest tightly. “I gotta come up with a name for you, little guy!”

“You do that,” you laugh, moving a stray curl out of her face. “I’m gonna keep making my way through the party.”

“Okay,” she sing-songs. “See you later!”

“See you, babe!” you chirp, waving goodbye before heading back the way you came, deciding to take a detour into the kitchen for more snacks.

You’re barely in there for five minutes, munching happily on salty and sweet snacks alike, before you exit and run almost directly into the chest of someone; the only thing stopping the collision are their quick reflexes as they steady you in place.

“Sorry!” you apologize, stepping back and looking up to your victim before you stop short and a pleased smile curls your lips.

“Hey, you. Was wondering where you’d run off to.” the handsome stranger from earlier says, smiling at you.

“Oh, y’know. Making the rounds, saying hi to everyone. It is my party, after all.” you reply with a secretive smile, and he steps closer with raised eyebrows of intrigue.

“Is that so?” he asks, and you nod, stepping a bit closer to hear him better.

“Mm, yeah,” you hum. “You know what’s weird?”

“What is it?”

“This party is for me, and yet there are people here I’ve never met before,” you muse. “Like you.”

“Maybe it’s a sign you're meant to get to know me.” he suggests with a wry grin, and you roll your eyes with a laugh.

“Good one.” you reply playfully. “So what should we do to get to know each other?” you ask with a playful lilt and feigned curiosity.

“Mm, you could start by telling me more about yourself.” he replies, and you raise your brows.

“‘Myself’ is a very broad topic,” you point out, and he snorts. “Be more specific.”

“Fair, fair.” he agrees with a chuckle. “What are…” he trails off thoughtfully before he perks up again, “your love languages?”

“I feel like this is an unfair advantage sort of question,” you reply with a small pout. (You do not miss the way his gaze softens fondly. Or the way it drops to your lips.) “So, I’ll only answer if you do, too.”

“That’s fair,” he agrees with a smile. “You first, though.”

“Mine are,” you say as you try to recall what the quiz results said the last time you took it, “acts of service, physical touch, and quality time. What about you?”

“Wait, let’s unpack yours first—”

“No, you say yours, then we’ll unpack mine. Fess up, bucko.” you press, poking him gently in the chest.

He laughs at your poke and mini outburst before obliging. “Physical touch,” he murmurs, leaning into your space and smirking slightly when you half-step, half-stumble back, “words of affirmation,” he straightens up and gestures between the two of you casually with a cheeky grin before finishing with, “and quality time.”

“You’re so smooth,” you gush sarcastically, and he snickers.

“Why, thank you. I’d say I try, but then I’d be lying.”

You shoot him a look. “Don’t push it.”

Holding his hands up in surrender, he shrugs. “My bad.”

“As long as you know.” you reply with a sweet smile, and his gaze softens. “What?”

“You’ve got a beautiful smile, you know that?” he murmurs, and your cheeks warm.

“Thanks,” you mumble bashfully, and he coos fondly at you.

“So cute,” he fawns.

You glower at him. “I’m out of here,” you mutter, undeniably flustered and embarrassed about it.

“Aw, come back, cutie—” he slips his fingers around your wrist gently and tugs you closer, smiling when there’s virtually no resistance from your end. “I didn’t mean to make you all nervous,” he apologizes with a playful, teasing lilt that tells you he might not actually be all that sorry.

Turning your nose up, you look away from him even as his hand slips down to let his thumb stroke gently at the back of your hand. At your small intake of breath, he smiles and tugs you even closer—dangerously close, actually—before moving to wrap his hand around the small of your back.

It’s almost as if the Fates themselves decided to intervene, the divine timing is that impeccable.

His phone pings, and he frowns before pulling it out of his back pocket and checking the screen. His face falls visibly and so drastically that it actually hurts you to see for a moment, leading you to avert your gaze politely.

His hand slowly retreats from its original path, and you’re shocked to find that you’re a bit disappointed.

“Do me a small favor? Schedule some time for me later before your busy, busy party ends? I’ll be back.” he says hopefully, squeezing your hand gently before shooting you an apologetic smile and turning to weave between a couple of people before disappearing into the hallway.

You try not to look as disappointed as you feel, but apparently you fail because Seulgi’s by your side moments later from out of virtually nowhere.

“I saw you pouting from all the way across the room,” she chuckles fondly as she strokes your back gently. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m not pouting,” you mumble, and Seulgi raises an eyebrow.

“Tell that to your bottom lip,” she points out, and you tuck it back in with an air of defeat. “Exactly. Now what’s wrong?”

“I was talking to this really cute guy earlier,” you admit with a slowly deepening frown, “but he had to leave really suddenly.”

Seulgi makes a sympathetic hum. “Did you get his name?”

“No!” you complain, and she nods in understanding.

“Well, even if he had to leave, he might come to another party in the future—because he clearly knows someone here, you know?”

“What’s wrong?” Chaewon asks, a tipsy Winter in tow.

“How do you know something’s wrong?” you ask, confused.

“You’re pouting,” Chaewon points out, and you splutter, bewildered.

“I’m not!” you exclaim defensively, and Winter winces sympathetically.

“You are.” she confirms, reaching out and unceremoniously poking your bottom lip before giggling to herself.

“She’s mad her party crush pulled a Cinderella and dipped on her,” Seulgi explains.

“Ah,” Chaewon and Winter both say sympathetically.

“That sucks,” Winter sighs. “Speaking of cute guys disappearing—has anyone seen my boyfriend anywhere?”

“What’s he wearing?” you ask, and Winter moves to answer before Chaewon unknowingly cuts her off.

“It’s so weird that you and Haechan have been at this party for so long and have yet to run into each other.” Chaewon marvels aloud, and you shrug casually.

“I probably walked by him or something and just didn’t know,” you brush it off, and Chaewon nods thoughtfully.

“Walked by who and didn’t know?” Yunjin asks from behind you, and when you turn to face her, she frowns. “Why are you pouting?”

“Mother of God—” you huff, crossing your arms, and Yunjin winces.

“Jeez, tough crowd.” she chuckles. “Walked by who and didn’t know?” she presses.

“Haechan,” you explain, and her brows furrow together in confusion, but she doesn’t say anything.

“Oh,” is all she says after a moment. “Wait, can you, um, come help me with something in the bathroom?” she asks you, eyes concerningly piercing.

“Sure,” you mumble, definitely confused but picking up on her sense of urgency.

“We’ll be right back,” Yunjin explains, tugging you away. “Roommate problems!” she calls over her shoulder, and you grimace to really sell the direness of the situation.

You let her tug you into the bathroom towards the back of the apartment by Seulgi’s and Chaewon’s bedrooms, and she sits you down on the toilet before taking a deep breath.

“I don’t exactly know how to tell you this, but I was trying to find you earlier before this spiraled out of control.” she starts.

“You’re scaring me,” you complain, and she shushes you as she unlocks her phone and starts searching for something.

“You did meet Haechan, actually, but I have a feeling no one told you that you met Haechan.” Yunjin says finally, and you think back to the very small amount of people you met for the first time today, pondering over who it might be before Yunjin turns her phone to show you the screen, and—

“Fuck.” you mumble hoarsely, and Yunjin nods slightly before closing her phone on the screen she’s just showed you of a photo of your friend group, presumably from when you were abroad, where Winter is sitting happily on the lap of— “that’s the stranger I was talking to.” you say sadly. “My party crush.”

“Did he ever say his name?” she asks, and you think back, growing increasingly more irritated when you realize—

“No,” you mutter bitterly, “he must have conveniently forgotten to share that part.”

“Can I say something?” Yunjin says carefully, and you nod solemnly. “I saw you two staring at each other before he followed you into the kitchen.” Your blood runs cold, and it must show on your face, because she quickly adds, “I’m not mad at you, and I’m not going to tell anyone. I’m just gonna warn you, because that staring contest was intense, and I don’t know what happened in that kitchen—I don’t want to!” she says suddenly, putting her hand up to silence you as you move to speak before slowly continuing with, “I just know none of that can happen in front of Winter, so it shouldn’t happen at all.”

“Agreed.” you sigh sadly. “Yeah. I mean, I’m pissed as hell, and I might maim him the next time I see him, but other than that, I guess I’m fine.”

“I mean. yeah. Definitely agree with maiming him, actually.” she agrees after a moment of thought. “Just do something subtle and easy to explain away.”

You smile at her, your spirits lifted slightly. “You’re the best.”

“Love you, girl.” she says sincerely, bending down to hug you before helping you to your feet. “I got your back.”

You head back out there with no pout in sight, only a deceptive smile as you plan your revenge.

It’s not long before the not-so-mysterious stranger comes back around, by which time you’ve fully worked yourself up into a huff about the situation once more, crossing your arms, leaning against the wall, and eyeing him disapprovingly as he approaches.

“Why so serious?” he jokes, and you raise an eyebrow.

“At what point were you going to tell me you’re dating Winter?” you ask, deciding to get right to the point, and he freezes, shock on his face. “Yeah.”

“I’m sorry,” he says immediately.

“For what?” you test him, and he frowns deeply.

“For hiding that from you.” he sighs, and you huff as he continues, “I just really wanted to get to know you, and I felt like I had to hide that because you knowing would ruin it!”

You look at him with an eyebrow raised pointedly. “And what would you call this?”

His frown turns to a petulant pout. “Ruined?” he asks.

“Ding, ding, ding,” you say sarcastically before turning to leave.

“Wait, I’m— I’m really sorry,” he pleads, catching your hand before you can slip away. “Can we start over a little bit?”

“How are we gonna start over a little bit?” you ask skeptically, and he stands up straighter, tugging you a bit closer before smiling hopefully and releasing your hand to wave in greeting.

“Hi, I’m Haechan, Winter’s boyfriend,” he introduces himself as he offers his hand to shake. As you take it, he gently urges you closer with a testing tug before adding, “and I think you’re beautiful.”

“Haechan!” you whisper, half-laughing in surprise, and he shrugs with a sheepish grin.

“Figured I’d lay all my cards out on the table this time.”

“Kinda ballsy, no?” you raise your eyebrows, crossing your arms, and he chuckles.

“I’m a pretty ballsy guy.”

You eye him up and down before tilting your head to the side and saying, “I’m sure.”

“So am I forgiven?” he asks hopefully.

“For now,” you reply after a moment of thinking, and continue at the sight of his excited smile, “but I’m watching you.”

“I’d be upset if you weren’t.” he murmurs, and you roll your eyes with a laugh.

It doesn’t take long for your one-sided animosity to dissipate as you and Haechan manage to fall into a normal enough conversation about your activities in Oxford. At one point, the familiar but unpleasant smell of weed filters into your senses, making you subconsciously wrinkle your nose in distaste.

Haechan raises an eyebrow, amused. “You alright?”

“You don’t smell that?” you ask, and he sniffs the air before he chuckles.

“I’m guessing you’re not much of a smoker?” he speculates.

You shake your head, tipping your head back to swallow the rest of your drink. “Definitely not.” You lick your lips to clean up the remnants of your drink, and barely stifle the laugh that bubbles up when you notice Haechan watching your mouth with both entirely rapt attention and a slightly dazed expression. “See something you like?”

“Sure do,” he breathes, and you yelp, swatting his arm lightly. “You asked!”

“As a joke!”

“Well, sorry for failing to read the room properly. I was a little, um, distracted.”

“Haechan.”

“Hm?”

“Stop staring at my lips.”

“What if I don’t?” he asks, stepping closer to you slowly. “Hm?”

“You’re awfully bold for a guy who’s dating one of my friends.” you murmur back, and he shrugs, smiling flirtatiously.

“I know what I want.” he answers casually, and the resolve in his voice takes you by surprise, leaving you to swallow a growing lump in your throat.

“I’m, uh,” you stammer, looking around for something, anything, that can save you from his intense attention. “I’m gonna go see if they want snacks,” you finally answer pathetically, and he doesn’t buy it for a minute, a smug grin curling his lips before he nods, seemingly complying.

He waits for you to move past him, staying perfectly still and therefore forcing you to squeeze between him and the counter, and head towards the living room before he’s so close behind you that he’s practically on you and only then does he reply, a smile audible in his voice as he murmurs, “Let’s go, then.”

“Hi, my dear friends. Are we having a good time?” you ask as you re-enter the living room and scan over each of your friends, all sitting in a circle with Yunjin’s infamous hot pink bong placed carefully in her lap. The party continues on around them, people only sparing cursory glances at the very occupied couch and nearby seating of Seulgi’s and Chaewon’s living room, but you couldn’t care less about the other guests, instead focusing your attention on your seven cross-faded friends.

Yunjin, ever the lightweight, looks up at you with red-rimmed, half-lidded eyes and a dopey smile. “Never better.”

“I actually just want to say that I missed you so much,” Chaewon sniffles, hurriedly wiping away a tear before looking up at you earnestly. “I’m so happy you’re back.”

“I missed you, too!” you reply, touched, and she sniffles loudly, the tip of her nose pinking in that signature way that lets you know more tears are en route whether she likes it or not.

“I’m not gonna lie, yo,” Mark mumbles, rubbing a hand over his face and looking over at you. “I’m about to be starving.”

“‘About to be starving’ is crazy, actually.” you snicker, and Mark joins in your laughter, his laugh bubbling up inside of him almost uncontrollably.

“Well, you know how it goes; we smoke, we get high, we get the munchies.” Mark explains, and you nod in understanding.

“Mark… I went to England for a study abroad program… not to get a lobotomy.” you say slowly, and he snorts loudly in surprise and amusement. “I remember what happens when y’all get high.” you remind him, and he lifts his hands up in surrender, nodding back at you with a grin. “Do you guys want food from the deli down the block?”

“Yes!” The resounding chorus of assent from all your high friends actually takes you by surprise, sending you stepping back in shock only to stumble directly into Haechan’s chest. He steadies you instantly, hands gripping your shoulders securely, and quietly double-checks with you to make sure you’re actually sturdy before releasing you.

You hate that you found his touch comforting for even a second, trying your best internally to squash the initial attraction you had to him as you attempt to focus on the task at hand.

“Okay, sounds good to me. Can y’all just type your names and what you want in my Notes app?” you ask, unlocking your phone, opening the Notes app, and passing your phone to Yunjin. As your phone makes its way around the circle, you turn slightly to face Haechan, who’s already watching you with an unnerving level of intensity.

“Haechan, why don’t you go with her?” Seulgi suggests, completely missing the warning glare you send her way. “She can’t carry all of that by herself.”

“Yeah, sure, no problem.” he agrees easily, and you purse your lips for a moment, breathing in deeply before turning fully so you’re face-to-face with Haechan. “Looks like we’re gonna spend some more one-on-one time together.” he says with a secretive smile, and you swallow hard, not knowing what to expect from this little excursion.

Your phone eventually makes its way back to you and you look over the orders before putting your phone in your back pocket and heading to grab your coat, Haechan following diligently behind you.

“Okay, we’ll be back soon! Try to hang in there, guys.” you announce, stepping out of the apartment and holding the door open for Haechan, who exits and shuts it behind himself.

As you two make your way down the hall to the elevator, he speeds up slightly so he’s walking in front of you before turning fully around to face you, taking smooth backwards strides down the hall.

“Can I help you with something?” you ask, confused, and he shakes his head with a smile.

“Don’t mind me.” he replies, and you snort in amusement.

“Kinda hard not to mind you when you seem hellbent on staring holes into my face.” you mutter as you press the elevator button.

“Not my fault you’re nice to look at.” he defends himself, and you look over at him instantly, shock written all over your face. “What’s wrong? Surely you’ve heard that about yourself before.”

“I sure have,” you agree readily, sighing in relief when the elevator door opens. Stepping in, you add, “I just haven’t heard it from the mouth of my friend’s boyfriend.”

“Ah, well.” He follows you into the elevator and shrugs with a “what can you do?” type of smile, making you narrow your eyes. “First time for everything, yeah?”

“Yeah…” you reply slowly, regarding him suspiciously. “Let’s try and make that first time the last time, okay?”

“No promises.” he murmurs, a smile audible in his voice. When you look over at him, he winks at you so quickly you almost think you imagined it, and you jolt, making a noise of bewilderment that sounds embarrassingly close to a mix of a squawk or squeak before turning to face forward again.

The weather actually feels quite nice, you realize when you both get outside, a light, cool breeze filtering through the trees, and you and Haechan walk alongside each other for the first two, maybe three minutes in silence before he breaks it.

“Can I ask you a question?” Haechan asks, looking over at you as you two walk to the deli.

“Depends… is it weird?” you return his question with another question, and he chuckles, shaking his head.

“Don’t think so.”

“Okay, then shoot.”

“I noticed your reaction to the smell of the weed smoke earlier,” he recalls, and you hum in acknowledgement. “Do you not smoke?”

“Not at all,” you reply, and he nods in understanding. “I don’t do any drugs.”

“Me either,” he replies, and a mildly surprised smile makes its way to your lips. “Can I ask if you have a reason for never wanting to try anything?”

You’re silent for a moment as you attempt to find the right words to explain yourself and Haechan waits patiently, the two of you walking in a comfortable silence before you break it. “I don’t like the feeling of not being in control of myself.” you say carefully, and he gives you an emphatic nod that piques your curiosity. “You too?”

“Somewhat, yeah, but I was mainly nodding because I completely get it. For me, I don’t like moving any slower than usual or feeling restricted in any way.”

“That makes perfect sense, too.” you say, giving him a firm, approving nod of your own, and he chuckles quietly. “I’ve always wondered about what it might be like to just… mellow out and calm down, y’know?”

“Definitely,” he agrees. “They usually get so… happy.”

“Exactly! Well, except for when Chaewon starts crying out of nowhere.” you add.

Haechan laughs. “Yeah, I don’t know what that’s about.”

“That’s another thing, too.” you say, starting to feel more comfortable talking about it to someone who understands. “I feel like some drugs—especially, like, weed, LSD, acid, shrooms, and stuff like that—they tend to bring out, like, parts of your subconscious that are typically hidden away.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard about that and I’ve definitely seen it happen,” Haechan says, sounding surprisingly solemn.

“Yeah, so… whatever’s going on under the surface in here,” you say, tapping your temple, “is none of my business.” you finish with a resolute nod, making Haechan snicker. “I will simply continue raw-dogging life on this bitch of an earth.”

“That’s so real.” Haechan says through his laughter, making you smile.

“Thank you!” you chirp. “Also, when you say you don’t like moving slower or feeling restricted, do you mean in a physical or mental sense? Or is it both?”

“Hmm,” Haechan hums thoughtfully. “Definitely both. I just feel like… I would describe myself and my lifestyle as somewhat fast-paced, y’know? Like, not really very sedentary, I’m always on the move, and if I’m high off of, like, weed or something, I feel like all I’d be able to do is… vegetate… and I hate the thought of that.”

“That’s so real,” you say, echoing Haechan’s earlier statement. “Well, you know, if you want to move faster, there’s always cocaine,” you joke, and he snorts loudly, clearly not expecting your comment.

“I definitely wouldn’t try cocaine,” he laughs, shaking his head. “I can just imagine my poor mom if I came to visit her one day and I was all strung out and tweaking.”

“Aw, are you a mama’s boy?” you ask teasingly, nudging him with your shoulder.

“Maybe a little bit, yeah,” he admits with a shy smile, and you grin.

“That’s sweet.” you assure him, and he visibly relaxes, laughing with an air of bashfulness. “We’re here, by the way!” you point out, gesturing to the deli less than thirty feet away at the end of the block.

Haechan jogs slightly ahead of you, opening the door and holding it for you to enter.

“Thank you,” you say with a grateful smile as you step inside. The smell of the deli is delicious, the scents of various foods being cooked wafting through the air, and for a moment you half-expect to start floating involuntarily towards the tastiest smelling dish.

“Okay, let’s get these orders in,” you mutter to yourself before making your way over to where the grill cooks are stationed. “Hi, how are you feeling tonight?” you greet politely, exchanging brief pleasantries before continuing on with, “I actually have a pretty big order I’d like to place with sandwiches and sides, but I don’t mind waiting if I have to!”

“Go ahead, miss,” one of the cooks says, and you look down at your phone before starting to read off the orders.

Haechan stands off to the side and watches on as you rattle off the nine different sandwich and side order combos to the cooks, who nod and start to prepare them. When you’re finished, you turn to face Haechan and smile sweetly before leading him towards the drinks and snacks.

“Okay, can you help me carry these to the front?” you ask Haechan.

“Of course, yeah,” he answers, and you start to hand him various drinks and snacks off of the note everyone wrote in.

“Okay, a raspberry peach Snapple for me… a Redbull for you—wait, Haechan, you like Redbull but you won’t try cocaine…? Seems fake,” you comment, and Haechan lets out a shocked laugh before raising his hands—well, he’s holding a drink in each hand, so fists—in surrender.

“Take it easy on me!” he begs jokingly, and you pretend to think about it before relenting with a smile and continuing to collect the drinks.

“Mountain Dew for Seulgi… Sprite for Jeno… oop, and a Sprite for Chenle, too… root beer for Winter… blue Gatorade for Mark… Arizona raspberry iced tea for Yunjin, and finally, that XXX Vitamin Water that Chaewon’s always raving about.” You close the refrigerator door with your hip, the two of you carefully carrying your armfuls of beverages to the counter.

“I never got the Vitamin Water hype.” Haechan admits.

“It’s essentially juice, but like water with a splash of juice, maybe two if you’re lucky.” you say. “At least, that’s what I think, but some of them do actually taste pretty good, too.”

“Hm,” he remarks thoughtfully. “I don’t know, I just never got into it.”

“You got into that Redbull pretty easily though, huh?” you tease, and he laughs, his cheeks pinking ever so slightly, and you’re glad he’s looking away so he can’t see how blatantly you paused to look at him.

“Miss, some of your order is ready!” One of the cooks calls out to you, and you shoot them a thumbs up as they bring two sandwiches and a couple of trays to the counter for you. “Do you want to pay now or when we’re finished preparing everything?”

“Oh, I can pay now! Just let me go get the chips and stuff.” you say before whizzing off to where the snacks are, returning shortly after with Seulgi’s Takis and Chenle’s red Doritos and placing them on the counter triumphantly.

The worker manning the register rings your stuff up and reads you out the total, to which you respond by pulling out your phone to tap the card reader, but Haechan calls your name before you can complete the transaction, making you look over at him in confusion.

“I got it,” he offers, reaching for the card reader with his own phone only for you to shoot him a funny look and nudge his phone out of the way to finish paying with your own phone.

“You didn’t have to pay for it, Haechan,” you assure him. “Think of it as the small fee I had to pay for disappearing from the country for about half of a year.”

“Yeah, but I was being a gentleman.” he protests with a frown.

“It’s okay! Be a gentleman to your girlfriend—not me.” you say with expectantly raised brows.

“I’m trying to impress you, though,” he points out, and you roll your eyes.

“Read the room, maybe?” you chuckle, and he scrunches his nose up in distaste. “Something wrong?”

“I’m not much of a reader.” he replies with a dismissive shrug, and you raise your eyebrows.

“I’m a librarian.” you remind him. “My job is literally all about reading.”

“On second thought,” Haechan blurts out, “I literally read every day, all the time.” When you snicker in amusement, he grins and continues with, “I’m being so serious. I’ve read every bottle of shampoo and body wash in my shower front to back!” he presses, and you burst into laughter.

“You’re ridiculous.” you giggle as you recover from your laughing fit, and he grins shamelessly.

“I made you laugh, though,” he points out with a smug little grin. “So you kinda like it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you lie with a sniff, looking away.

“You think I’m funny,” he teases, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively as he gets closer. “And if earlier was any indication, you think I’m attractive.”

“Where are you going with this?” you say with a roll of your eyes.

“You like me.” he replies simply, and you choke on your spit.

“Two fairly objective observations are not an indication of me liking you.” you splutter indignantly, and Haechan raises his brow.

“Being attractive is objective now?” he asks skeptically, and you glare at him, turning to the row of deli cooks pretending not to be watching your conversation intently.

“Is he a handsome guy?” you ask them, and they all look between each other with confusion and mild discomfort. “Literally no homo. Please relax. Is he a handsome guy or is he an uggo?” you emphasize, and one of them snorts.

“He’s definitely not ugly, no,” one of the cooks pipes up, and they all nod in agreement. “Handsome guy, actually.”

“Good bone structure,” the cook beside him adds, and you could swear Haechan starts to blush. “Yeah, he’s a good looking dude.”

“Sí, muy guapo.” A cook you can’t even see chimes in, and you and Haechan look at each other, bewildered.

“How many of you are back there?” Haechan asks as he chuckles nervously.

“No te preocupes, amigo.” the same cook says, still concealed from view. “Eres guapísimo.”

“Thank you, guys.” you reply gratefully before turning to stick your tongue out at Haechan triumphantly.

To your surprise, his gaze darkens. “Do that again.”

“No, I’m good.” you reply immediately, fixing your face and turning away from him. “Little freak.”

“Mm, maybe a little bit.” he hums, and you grimace.

“Yuck.” you mutter, narrowing your eyes in his direction. “Get a grip. As I was saying, me finding you funny or attractive has nothing to do with liking you.”

“Why wouldn’t you, though?” he presses, and you let out an exasperated sigh before turning fully to face him.

“You have a girlfriend!” you whisper-shout, confused even further by the way he looks at you, smug and unimpressed.

“So that’s the only thing stopping you?” he says slowly, and you pause as you realize what you’ve admitted to.

“It’s the only thing that matters.” you huff with an air of finality, and Haechan just chuckles, stepping closer.

“Not this? Hm? Not how good—no—how right this feels?” he murmurs suggestively, and you shake your head firmly.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” you mutter, and he scoffs in disbelief.

“Are you really gonna keep playing dumb?”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” you sing-song, and he rolls his eyes.

“Sure.” he murmurs, amused.

Desperate to change the topic, you look around, your eyes landing on the bags of food on the countertop.

“Man, those fries smell so good,” you groan, staring enviously at the bag containing Winter’s order of curly fries.

“Mm, yeah?” Haechan hums, looking from the bag to you. He puts a finger to his lips in a shushing gesture and pops open the plastic container. He pulls out a small handful of Winter’s curly fries, about as much as he can fit between his thumb and forefinger, and grins at you, winking before popping one in his mouth.

He reaches his hand out, offering you one of his stolen goods, and you hesitate for a second before deciding to reach forward and take the proffered curly fry. As you chew it, your eyes roll back into your head in ecstasy, the fried good the perfect amount of salty, crunchy, and warm.

“Thank you,” you say gratefully, and he waves you off dismissively.

“You’re welcome,” he replies. “It’s our little secret, okay?”

“Jeez, I just met you tonight and you’re already trusting me with secrets?” you chuckle, and he shrugs.

“Well, should I not trust you?” he asks curiously, and you shake your head instantly in disagreement.

“You can trust me, don’t worry.” you assure him, and he smiles widely, nodding slowly in understanding.

“Great.”

“The real question is if I can trust you,” you continue, and he chuckles.

“You can,” he says confidently, and you raise your eyebrows skeptically.

“How do I know I can trust that?” you ask, and he laughs, rolling his eyes slightly as he leans closer to you conspiratorially.

“That’s just a risk you’re gonna have to take.”

“No, thanks. I’m not big on risks.” you admit.

Haechan tilts his head to the side curiously. “You don’t take any risks?”

You pause to think about it, thoughts racing back to earlier when you made the mental pact with yourself to be more daring and take more risks. “Not really, no. Unless you count letting Yunjin drive.”

He snorts. “I’m talking big risks.”

You stare at him blankly. “Have you ever been in the car with Yunjin?”

Chuckling and shaking his head slightly, he says, “I have.”

“It’s pretty risky.”

“I’m talking about different risks, though. Think harder.” he presses.

You sigh loudly but oblige, thinking about it again. “I guess studying abroad in Oxford felt pretty risky… I was essentially all alone on the other side of the world.”

He shakes his head. “Bigger,” he explains. “I’m talking about something that,” his gaze slowly falls to your lips and he continues, “could go really wrong.”

It feels like he’s hinting at something, and you’re not sure you want to find out.

“Truthfully, I don’t get why I would take risks like those.” you say with a pensive frown, and he smiles, eyes still trained on your mouth with an unmistakable fascination as he steps closer to you, practically cornering you against the snack rack behind you, and if he hears your squeak of alarm, he chooses not to comment.

“It’s about the reward,” he murmurs, his tongue slipping out to wet his lips slowly. “People take risks because they think that the reward is worth it in comparison to what could go wrong.”

“Well, I don’t think most risks I can think of off of the top of my head are worth it,” you say with a stumped pout.

“I can think of one I wanna take right now,” he hums softly, reaching up to rest one hand on the rack behind you, and you balk, finally starting to understand what he’s been hinting at.

“I, um, think that might be too risky.” you reply cautiously, and he chuckles quietly.

“I disagree,” he says plainly. “I think it’d be so worth it.” he breathes out, his gentle breath fanning over your lips, the minty scent tempting you more than you’d like to admit.

“If you try and kiss me right now,” you say quietly, “I will bite your lip until it bleeds.”

He snickers and nods in understanding. “Understood.”

“Is that risk worth it now?” you ask wryly, and he bites back a laugh.

“I don’t know, let me find out.” he says, leaning in closer, and you yelp, pushing his chest reflexively and, when he barely budges, clapping a hand over your mouth and glaring at him as he laughs loudly. “Man, you’re cute.”

“Shut up,” you mutter contritely, moving your hand away when he relents and steps back. “Let’s not ask why I don’t feel comfortable taking risks and ask, instead, why you—” you poke his chest accusingly, “feel so comfortable being so reckless.”

He shrugs nonchalantly, explaining, “I don’t think it’s that I’m reckless—”

“Yeah, right.” you mutter.

He ignores you. “I think it’s that I want to know what it feels like to truly live.” he finishes, and you pause at that, genuinely taking in his words. “Life is too short to be scared to indulge, you know?”

“Well,” you say slowly, thoughtfully, “I guess that makes sense.”

His eyes widen slightly in surprise. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Maybe I could stand to live a little more,” you ponder, noticing the way his eyes drift down to your lips once more and quickly adding, “but that doesn’t mean you can kiss me. I’ll still bite you.”

“Oh, yeah?” he asks softly, teasingly, and you nod. “What if I said I kinda like it a little rough?”

“I’d say you’re in the wrong relationship.” you blurt out before you can stop yourself, and Haechan’s eyes widen as he points at you with a bright, triumphant grin. “I’m joking! I’m joking.”

“I don’t think you are.” he replies smugly.

“Oh, brother.”

“You think I’m in the wrong relationship?” he presses, and you shake your head vehemently, desperately trying to cover your tracks.

“Only because Winter is not a ‘likes it a little rough’ kind of girl,” you explain quickly.

He nods in agreement. “This is true.” he admits, and you relax slightly, glad he gets your point. “So, who would be the right relationship for me, hm?” he teases, and you groan loudly, tipping your head back in exasperation. “Got any ideas?”

“Nope.” you answer flatly.

He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, leaning closer. “You sure about that?”

“Miss, the rest of your order is ready!” One of the cooks calls out, and you pounce on the interruption eagerly.

“Thank you!” you call back to the cooks before turning to Haechan with a relieved smile. “You know what? We’d better go back before they put out a Missing Persons report for us.” you dodge his taunting question from earlier and carefully remove yourself from your very compromising position, walking towards the counter of the bodega to collect the bags of food. “Are you coming or what?” you huff, attempting to conceal how flustered his previous line of questioning has left you by placing a hand on your hip impatiently.

He shakes his head with a chuckle, but meets you by the door, slipping his fingers in the loops of the numerous bags weighing down your index and middle fingers to relieve you of the burden. He leans forward, opening the door for you and gesturing for you to exit first. “You’re lucky I don’t want to hear any of them complain about their food being cold, because I could do this—” he gestures between the two of you, “all night and then some.”

“That’s great, Casanova,” you drawl, pointing ahead of you down the street towards where you’re heading. “Now walk.”

As you two walk back from the bodega, you can’t help but notice that Haechan’s path keeps veering slightly off-course, the male repeatedly bumping into you as you two walk.

“You good?” you ask finally after what must be the eighth mini-collision, and Haechan chuckles, albeit somewhat sheepishly as he brings a hand up to rub the back of his neck. “Is there a reason why you keep bumping into me? Are the bags throwing you off-balance or something?”

“Would you, uh, believe me if I said that I just like you and want to be close to you?” he answers, and you stop short, blinking at him impassively which causes him to stop walking as well.

“Bold words for someone with a whole girlfriend back at the party.” you reply with a dismissive snort, and he shrugs.

“I don’t know what it is,” he says as you two slowly fall back into a comfortable pace. “I think we’d be good together.”

“Haechan,” you warn.

“You fascinate me,” he admits plainly, staring at your face openly. “I wanna get to know you better.”

“Mm, I don’t know about that,” you say apprehensively.

“I’m gonna learn about you eventually, because I’m not going anywhere.” he replies confidently. “I’m gonna learn everything about you—your hopes, your dreams, your fears—” he leans closer so his breath hits your cheek and continues, “what makes you tick.”

“Well, you wanna know something?” you offer, and he nods instantly, leaning towards you in anticipation. “Something that makes me tick is when guys with girlfriends hit on me very blatantly.”

“Ah, I see,” Haechan remarks thoughtfully. “So I should be more subtle.”

“I—well—no, that’s not really what I meant.”

“Well, what did you mean?”

“Stop saying flirtatious things!”

“So you want me to stop saying flirtatious things—”

”Yes, that’s quite literally what I just said—”

“—and start doing flirtatious things.”

Your mouth snaps shut and you stare at him incredulously. “Not even remotely what I meant.”

“No, I think that’s what you were hinting at.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“You’d better believe it, baby.”

“Calling me ‘baby’ when you have a whole girlfriend is crazy, by the way.”

“Maybe I’m crazy. Did you think about that?”

“Clearly. I’ll let Winter know her boyfriend is actually an escapee from the insane asylum and she’ll just dump you.”

“So you can have me all to yourself… I like it.” He grins, and you open and close your mouth repeatedly, at a loss for words.

“Where are you hearing these things? Haechan, do you often hear things other people don’t?” you ask with patronizing concern, and he bursts out laughing. “It’s not funny, actually! Maybe I will tell Winter after all.”

“She won’t do anything,” he replies through his laughter.

“You’re right.” you agree in disappointment. “Poor girl. She’d probably think she can fix you.”

“I know what could fix me,” he says, fixing you in place with a serious stare.

“Haechan, you’re kinda scaring me.”

“Relax, it’s nothing crazy.”

“You’re not exactly what I’d consider a good judge of what’s crazy or not.”

“I just want your number, God.”

“Oh!” you reply, relieved, and an equally relieved smile appears on his face. “You’re not getting that.”

“Aw, come on!” he whines, leaning on you dramatically. “How am I supposed to get to know you?”

“Through speaking to me in person?”

“So you wanna see me… in person…” he trails off with a suggestive lilt to his voice, wiggling his eyebrows, and you suck your teeth. “If you like me, you can just say that, you know. I won’t tell.”

“You really are crazy.” you marvel, and he grins over at you.

“Is that… intrigue I detect in your voice?” he teases, and you balk.

“No?” you reply a bit too quickly, and his eyes light up.

“You’re intrigued by me!”

“I just wanna know how and where Winter found your crazy ass!”

“So you can go there and get yourself another me?” he replies, and you groan, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Hate to break it to you, princess, but there’s only one of me.”

“Thank God for that.” you mutter under your breath. “So, do you have, like, a mute button or something?”

“I’ll shut up for the rest of the walk back if you give me your number.” he says with a mischievous smile, and you roll your eyes, Haechan’s ever-so-keen eyes noticing your hesitation. “You’re totally thinking about it.”

“I really want you to stop before you get one or both of us in trouble.”

“I will be as quiet as a street rat if you give me your number and don’t block me before I can text you.”

“Damn, how’d you know I was gonna do that?”

“I know the signs of someone playing hard to get.” he says proudly, and you snort.

“I’m not playing hard to get, Haechan. You’re playing hard to get rid of.”

“And I’m gonna play until I win. Now—your number, please.” He smiles dazzlingly at you, pulling out his phone from his back pocket and handing it to you.

You stare at his unlocked phone then at his twinkling, hopeful eyes before sighing in defeat and taking the phone from his hand to enter your number.

“Hell yeah!” Haechan cheers, and you shoot him a judgmental stare.

“Ground rules.” you say plainly, and he nods, instantly attentive. He is cute, you think reluctantly, especially like this as he hangs on your every word like a puppy. “No texting me suggestive photos.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Keep the texts harmless.” you warn him, and he nods in agreement.

“You got it.”

“And don’t call or FaceTime unless it’s an absolute emergency.” you finish, and he scrunches his face up in confusion.

“What if the emergency is that I want to see you or hear your voice?”

“Absolutely bonkers thing to say with a girlfriend, by the way.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“I have Instagram… just look at my pictures or something, I don’t know.”

“What if I want to see you right then exactly how you are?”

“That’s too bad.”

“Fine,” he huffs, and you already know this is going to be a bad decision. “What exactly constitutes an emergency?”

“Honestly, I don’t know. If you were injured or in danger or something and no one else was picking up?”

“Okay…” he trails off skeptically.

“Even then, though, I think you should just call emergency services.”

“You’re brutal,” Haechan remarks in awe. “I like it.”

“Watch it!”

“Watching,” he replies smoothly, grinning in your direction, and you turn to face forward quickly, hoping he didn’t catch your smile. “I saw that.”

“You saw nothing.”

“You smiled. You like me—at least a little bit!”

“First you’re hearing things, and now you’re seeing things? Maybe we should get you checked out.”

“…We?” he points out with a sly smirk, and you roll your eyes as you trudge ahead and up to the apartment building, repeatedly (and with an air of impatience) buzzing the intercom to be let in.

“Thank God we’re back.”

“Since when was the museum so damn expensive?” Chenle mutters in awe as he forks over the thirty dollars for the admission fee.

“It’s the price of knowledge,” Yunjin sighs with a shrug as she takes Chenle’s place at the ticket till and hands the attendant three $10 bills.

“Psst,” Haechan whispers to get your attention, and you turn your head slightly to see he’s leaning towards you. “This is enough to radicalize me,” Haechan huffs bitterly before releasing Winter’s hand and stepping forward to pay. You notice with a curious tilt of your head that he’s taken longer than the rest of your friends so far, despite using Apple Pay, but you don’t think much of it until he’s walked away with Winter and it’s your turn at the register, where the attendant hands you a ticket with a smile.

“Oh, I didn’t pay yet—”

“The gentleman before you paid for your ticket,” she explains with a small nod, and you pause, mentally buffering before smiling at the attendant, taking the ticket, and walking to join your group.

When you meet up with them, Haechan already has his eyes trained in your direction, his left eyelid dropping down into a secretive wink before he grins at you.

“You’re too much,” you mouth at him, walking up beside him to nudge him with your shoulder surreptitiously. He lets out a small chuckle and shrugs as casually as he can before he tickles the palm of your hand with his fingers in a gesture that has you wondering if he plans to hold both your hand and his girlfriend’s. Before the thought can gain much traction, however, the tour guide for your group appears and introduces herself as she passes out museum maps to everyone in your party.

After introducing herself, she takes you through a corridor to the Egyptian art section, walking you by a preserved tomb and detailing funeral processions and Egyptian customs. The guide herself is very engaging and the artwork is fascinating, but you actually came on a mission to see certain wings of the museum. As she walks you through the Egyptian art wing, you consult your map, trying to see if there’s a point coming up where you can casually separate from the group.

Initially, you were following after the tour guide, but now you’re admittedly starting to fall towards the back of the group due to your lack of interest in this particular time period, when the exhibit at the end of the hallway you just passed catches your eye.

You look around you to see if anyone in your tour group is around, observing that the coast is clear before you attempt to break off from your group and do your own thing.

“And where are you sneaking off to?” Haechan’s voice appears out of seemingly nowhere, making you gasp as you whip your head around to look at him.

“Why?” you ask, furrowing your brows. “Are you gonna snitch on me for leaving?”

“I’m not snitching,” he promises you, and you relax slightly before he continues with, “I’m coming.”

You stop short and look at him like he’s grown a second head. “You seem to be mistaken.”

“Definitely not that,” Haechan assures you, and you roll your eyes before quickly turning to leave. He catches up with you easily, making you huff quietly in frustration, and continues to attempt to persuade you, saying, “You need someone with you in case you get lost.”

“Haechan, if I’m with someone and I’m lost, then I’m pretty sure they’re as good as lost too.” you explain slowly, and Haechan pauses to think, leaving you the open opportunity to slip away from him yet again.

He manages to find you yet again, grinning triumphantly when he does, and argues, “I think you should travel with someone—like me—who has a map.”

“Haechan, I am quite literally holding the map they just gave me.” you remind him, and he seems to buffer in real-time, lips parting to form a shocked little “O” shape that is, for all its silliness, stupidly attractive on him.

You’ll give it to him; he’s definitely not lacking in the looks department.

“Well—haven’t you ever heard of the buddy system? There’s safety in numbers, y’know.” Haechan catches up with you once more as you speed walk down a mostly empty hallway.

“Oh, my God, fine.” you whisper-yell exasperatedly. “Fine, you can come with me.”

He perks up immediately, smiling brightly and you can see his body relax as you gradually slow your pace into a comfortable stroll so he can fall into stride with you.

“Great,” he says happily. “Where are we going first?”

“Well, I really want to see the Greek sculptures…” you half-say, half-suggest hopefully.

“Okay, sounds great; let’s go!”

“Haechan.”

“Mhm?”

“Can you walk faster, please? I’m not trying to lose a whole person in the Met.” you complain, stopping in your tracks and turning around to let Haechan catch up to you. The section you’re passing through is packed, the room filled with the din of various animated conversations all overlapping one another.

“Sorry, I’m just taking in all the art in front of me,” he replies, and your expression softens as you remember that this is, in fact, a museum exhibit you’re standing in and not merely a hallway to where you want to go.

“Yeah, the paintings are beautiful,” you agree, and he looks over at you with a confused look.

“Oh—yeah, the paintings are cool, too.” he answers unconvincingly, and you stare at him expressionlessly.

“What were you looking at if not the paintings?” you ask, confused, and he looks you up and down pointedly as if to answer your question. “You’re ridiculous,” you groan, turning to walk away.

“Oh, come on, you can’t blame me! You in that outfit is a goddamn masterpiece.” he defends himself, and you just sigh loudly as you keep walking.

“Keep up!” you quip, and he catches up to you, leaning down slightly so his lips are by your ear.

“Don’t even get me started on this cute little skirt you’ve got on,” he murmurs suggestively, and an involuntary shudder travels down your spine from the ticklish sensation of his breath on the hair on the back of your neck. “Kinda driving me crazy,” he half-mumbles, half-chuckles.

“It can’t be that hard to drive you crazy,” you point out. “You already live on the corner of Bonkers Boulevard and Delulu Drive.”

“Wow, and you call me a menace?” he snorts in amusement, reaching over to pinch your side in retaliation and laughing when you dance away with a giggle. “Come back, I thought we had to stick together,” he complains.

You roll your eyes but stop just ahead of him, hands placed on your hips as you wait for him to catch up.

“That’s better,” he finally says when he’s beside you once more. “You know, maybe we should hold hands.” he suggests, smiling wider and nodding vigorously in an attempt to convince you when you look over at him with a “no” already on the tip of your tongue.

“And why would we do that?” you ask, tilting your head to the side in a patronizing act of confusion.

“It’s crowded. What if someone walks between us and you turn to enter an exhibit but I don’t see where you went?” He frowns petulantly, and you scoff dismissively.

“You can hold my purse,” you offer, holding it out to him.

“How is that gonna help me stay close to you?” he asks with a frown, and you shoot him a look.

“It’ll help me stay close to you,” you clarify. “All my stuff is in there, so I’m not going anywhere that bag’s not going.”

“Hm. I’d rather hold your hand but I guess this will do.” he sighs dramatically, and you snicker.

“Keep wishing.” you reply casually.

“Oh, I will. Got any loose eyelashes I can wish on and blow away?”

“No.”

“Lucky pennies?”

“I don’t have change. Does the universe take Apple Pay?” you reply in a bored tone, and he snorts loudly in amusement.

“Man, gorgeous and funny,” he sighs contentedly, and it’s your turn to exhale in amusement. “Fine. I’ll wait until 11:11 to make the wish.”

“You know that because you told me what you’re gonna wish for, it’s not gonna come true now, right?” you remind him with a teasing smile, and his eyes widen comically.

“I’ll wish for something different.” he relents, and you can’t help but frown slightly at the crestfallen look on his face. You look around to see if anyone you know is nearby and, seeing no one, let out a defeated yet amused sigh before reaching out and linking your fingers with his. “I knew you liked me,” he remarks with an air of smug satisfaction, and you scowl at him before ripping your fingers from his.

“...And you’re done.”

“Nope, too late,” he replies with a wide grin as he links his fingers with yours again, either oblivious to the fight you’re putting up or simply unfazed. “We’re locked in now.” he teases, and you raise your brows in a silent challenge.

“Oh, yeah? Should I call you something cutesy like—oh,” you say, stopping mid-sentence and turning to look at him with a slowly growing mischievous smile. “What was that name Winter called you on the way here?”

“Oh, please don’t.”

“Was it Snookums?” you think aloud, and he groans, tossing his head back dramatically.

“Please?”

“Cuddlebug?”

“No—”

“Oh!” you exclaim, snapping your fingers and pointing at him. “Pookie Bear.” you say triumphantly, and the grimace on his face is beyond rewarding.

“You don’t have to call me that,” Haechan says hurriedly. “In fact, I’d rather you not—”

“But I love calling you Pookie Bear, Pookie Bear.” you coo affectionately, putting extra emphasis on the embarrassing pet name to leave it dripping with saccharine sweetness.

“You know what’s kind of crazy?” he asks, and you shake your head.

“Besides you? No.”

“Ha, ha.” he drawls. “What’s crazy is that it’s kinda hot the way you say it.” he points out, and you whine loudly in protest.

“I can’t have anything, man! I get to torment you back for less than two minutes, and your freaky little self likes it?” you gripe under your breath as you pull him towards the large sign indicating the doorway to the beginning of the Greek sculptures exhibit. “We’re here!” you announce happily.

“Anything I should know before we enter this section?” he asks curiously, and you think for a moment before nodding.

“Most, if not all, of these statues have micropenises.” you warn him, and roll your eyes instantly at the immediate amusement on his face. “Keep the dick jokes to a minimum.”

“You got it, princess.” he agrees, nodding cooperatively, and you whirl around to look at him.

“Princess?!”

“You call me Pookie Bear, I call you princess.” he says with a nonchalant shrug, and you narrow your eyes at him in a silent staredown. “It’ll grow on you,” he says confidently as he starts walking into the exhibit.

And as you’re tugged along after him, protesting all the while that “it most certainly will not,” you can’t help but feel like it already has—that is, if the sensation you’re feeling of a lone butterfly fluttering around your stomach has anything to do with it.

“Haechan,” you whisper urgently, shaking your linked hands to get his attention.

He looks over at you curiously, eyebrows raised expectantly, and you point towards a sign in the corridor. “What is it?” he asks. “The café?”

You nod. “I’m hungry.”

“Honestly, I could eat,” he agrees, and you beam up at him, tugging him towards the entrance to the café.

The café is lovely, with a fairly large selection of ready-to-eat foods, and you and Haechan walk around the tables of food before you spot one in the distance and slip your hand out of his to go check it out.

No less than a moment after you’ve let go of Haechan, he practically snatches your hand back up, stubbornly linking his fingers with yours once more.

When you shoot him a look, he just stares at you with a challenge in his eyes, daring you to let go again.

“You’re something else.” you laugh, and he shrugs.

“Give a guy a warning next time,” he replies. “I wasn’t ready to let go.”

“Warning: I’m about to let go,” you say patronizingly, and he just shakes his head. “Wh—no? What do you mean, no?”

”No, you’re not.” he says simply.

“I literally am,” you let out a laugh of disbelief before attempting to tug your fingers from his again. “Haechan, quit being a brat!”

“It’s in my DNA,” he replies with a dismissive shrug. “I like holding hands.”

“Hold your own hand, then.” you snicker, and he shakes his head decisively.

“Like holding your hand better.” he coos fondly, and you roll your eyes. “Just take me with you to check out the food, princess.”

“I’m ignoring that,” you huff, but lead him to the sushi rolls you were staring at nonetheless. “Happy now?”

“Thrilled,” he confirms as he smiles over at you, and you bite down on your lip to hide the smile that threatens to greet him. “What are you gonna get?”

“Nothing crazy,” you muse, picking up a tray and inspecting the rolls inside. “Maybe just this and a drink.”

“Which one’s that?” Haechan asks curiously, peering over your shoulder.

“California roll,” you answer with a smile before reaching into the refrigerated drink section and grabbing an organic peach soda.

Haechan follows your lead, picking up a sushi roll container and snagging a Dr. Pepper from the drink area before you two make your way to the cashier to pay.

The cashier greets you both with a friendly smile and rings you up first. When you’re about to pay, Haechan grips the back of your cardigan and firmly but gently pulls you away from the counter before tapping his phone to the payment screen.

“You didn’t need to do that,” you huff with a frown, and he just smiles as the receipt comes out.

“I’m a gentleman,” he replies simply as the cashier rings him up, and you snort in amusement.

“Is that what they’re calling it these days?” you ask dryly, and he narrows his eyes at you. When it’s his turn to pay, you inch closer to the payment screen in the hopes to return the favor, but Haechan is one step ahead of you, plucking your phone from your hand with ease and pocketing it before tapping his phone to the screen again.

“Yeah, it is,” he replies with a cheery grin, smugness laced in his voice. “Come on, let’s eat.”

You two thank the cashier before heading towards the back of the café, where you sit at the corner table, Haechan sliding in beside you.

“You couldn’t sit over there?” you ask flatly, gesturing to the empty spot in front of you, and he shakes his head with a teasing smile. “Of course not.” you sigh in defeat, instead opening your California roll tray and breaking the wooden chopsticks to start eating. “What’d you get?”

Haechan pauses to look at the label on his container before opening it. “Seaside salmon roll,” he replies, snapping his chopsticks neatly into two before picking up a piece of sushi from the carefully composed roll.

“Ooh, yum,” you say before placing a piece of your own roll into your mouth and chewing, your eyes sliding shut in bliss. “God, that’s good.”

“This sushi tastes like heaven,” Haechan groans happily, and you giggle, your mood lifting with some good food entering your system.

“Hey,” you say as you pick up your next piece, “I just realized; what if they want to get food after this?” you ask, and he shrugs.

“Either we’re not hungry, or we get something small.” he suggests, and you nod in agreement before eating the next piece of sushi.

“Are you gonna be sneaky and pay for that, too?” you ask, unamused, and he nods proudly. “I can pay for my own food, you know; my librarian job makes decent pay.”

“Yeah, well, I can pay, too. My job definitely pays decently.” Haechan replies stubbornly.

“Oh, yeah? And what do you do?” you question.

“I’m a wine sommelier for a high-end restaurant downtown.” he answers proudly, and you purse your lips in quiet defeat.

“That actually does sound like a decent-paying job.” you admit, and he nods confidently. “Well, hey, did you know they sell wine here?”

“Oh, yeah?” he asks, looking around for the wine menu and relaxing once you point it out to him.

“Yep. So tell me, Mr. Sommelier, which wine would go best with my California roll?” you quiz him, and his lips quirk up into a smile.

“What’s the taste like?” he asks, and you pick up a piece and put it on his tray, signaling for him to try it. “Without tasting it, I’d say a nice… light, fruity wine would be good for this.” he suggests before placing the piece of sushi in his mouth. As he chews, his smile widens and he nods in confirmation, adding, “I’d definitely say a nice Pinot Grigio would go great with this. The sweet and light notes of the Pinot Grigio would go really well with the flavors here.”

You’re not going to lie to yourself; it’s a little attractive to see him talk about something he knows so much about.

“Yeah?” you hum. “What about yours?”

“Oh, Pinot Noir, for sure. It’s sharp enough to match the heaviness of the salmon, but not too sweet where it takes away from the overall flavor.”

You nod, taking in the information and secretly composing yourself as your insides squeal girlishly at his confident explanation.

“That’s pretty cool, Haechan,” you remark, impressed, and he smiles in satisfaction.

“Isn’t it? You know, we should go on a wine tasting date some time.” he suggests, and you shoot him a suspicious side glance.

“A wine tasting what?” you press.

“Did I say date?” Haechan asks with a chuckle, and you nod slowly, still regarding him carefully. “I meant outing. A wine tasting outing.”

“Nice save,” you snort, and he huffs petulantly.

“It’s not my fault,” he defends himself. ‘I was distracted.”

You raise an eyebrow skeptically. “Distracted?” you ask, and he nods firmly.

“Yeah, your little skirt is messing with my head.” Haechan grunts, and you look down at your lap with a bewildered questioning noise.

To be fair, it is a cute skirt; your beige and black plaid pleated skirt was carefully selected from your closet earlier and clearly must have been a flattering choice, given that Haechan literally can’t keep his eyes off of you.

“Then look up and not at my legs, silly.”

“But if I look up, I see—” he starts to complain but stops as he does just that, looking up from his—well, your—lap and trailing off slowly as he gazes at you.

You’re pretty sure you don’t need to hear what he was going to say, because his face reads loud and clear; there’s desire swimming clearly in his gaze and his lips are parted ever so slightly as he spaces out staring back and forth from your lips to your eyes.

“If you look up, you see… my face?” you supply in an attempt to help him regain his sensibility, and his lips part more as he struggles to find the right words. “I mean, yeah, and my shirt? Well, it’s a white tank—like, yeah, it’s a little short, but—and this is just a beige cardigan, so it’s not as distracting if you look up instead—”

“If I look up,” Haechan says carefully, “I see you.”

For a moment, you’re rendered speechless as the implications of his words sink in.

Looking at him again, you realize there’s an awe in his eyes as he watches you, an adoration almost, and the context of him seeing you sets in. His eyes rove over your face with an almost greed, darting around rapidly as he frantically takes in every detail he can manage to commit to memory.

He’s not looking at you like he’s undressing you, like he’s groping you with a glance; he’s looking at you like you’re one of the seven wonders of the world—like he can’t quite contemplate everything he’s seeing, but he’s damn sure going to try. His gaze caresses you like you’re an antique artifact at the museum that could break if you so much as stare at it too hard.

Observing the way he looks at you is the closest you’ve come yet to understanding how and why the eyes have been referred to as the windows to the soul. His gaze is so open, so vulnerable and wondrous that you have to ponder, for a moment, if this is what it looks like to fall in love.

You push the thought from your head as soon as it emerges, not willing to give it any space in your mind, but you can’t shake the way his gaze completely unravels you.

He watches you like he can see every complexity of your personality in your pores; like he can see your unspoken words reflected in the gloss on your lips—like your eyes hold the manuscript of your hopes and dreams and he’s about to pore over it, memorizing it down to the letter.

He looks at you like he’s dangerously close to seeing you; you, past your barriers and caution tape; you, with all your intricacies and contradictions; and you, with all the hope and yearning and vulnerability you’ve had since your youth that you’ve been trying to convince everyone is no longer around.

You’re utterly overwhelmed with all the thoughts swimming in your brain at the moment, and one thought swims up to the forefront, displaying itself loud and clear and unignorable.

He looks at you like he’s falling in love.

“Haechan, please stop looking at me like that,” you beg in a whisper, scared to speak any louder in case your voice trembles. Something about the intensity of his gaze is beautiful and terrifying all at once, and you’re not ready for him to see you unraveled like this.

Haechan must be able to sense the panic in your voice, your underlying fear of being truly seen and known undoubtedly ringing out in the silence between you two, because he smiles reassuringly and relents, softening the intensity of his gaze until he’s displaying nothing more than mild curiosity and fascination.

“Thanks.” you mutter shyly, averting your gaze to inspect your cuticles in a feeble attempt to act natural.

“No problem. Can I say something, though?” he asks, and you nod, internally bracing yourself. “Have you heard of twin flames?”

“Yeah, isn’t that like soulmates, kinda?” you reply.

something about him was made for somebody like me baby, come over, come over and god knows i’m trying, but there’s just no use in denying

“Kinda,” he says slowly. “Some people call them ‘mirror souls,’” he explains. “Essentially, they’re two people with an intense soul connection that makes them complete when they’re together.”

You pout thoughtfully. “Like two halves of a whole?”

“Something like that, yeah,” he agrees. “The term ‘mirror souls’ is a bit more fitting, because they complement each other; they’re opposites in crucial ways, but in ways that could either ruin things or make them work really well together.”

”Okay,” you say carefully. “Well, thanks for the mini lesson. Why’d you bring that up?”

“I feel drawn to you.” he explains in a rush, almost like he’s been waiting for the opportunity to say it. “Like, I can’t explain it, but when I first met you, I felt—I don’t know—something.”

“I’d wager that the something you felt was just the blood rushing down to your d—” you remark dryly, but he cuts you off, shaking his head.

“It wasn’t.” he insists. “I felt a connection. And you felt it too—remember?”

“No,” you lie. You remember all too well, actually.

“You flirted with me.” he reminds you with a triumphant grin, and you frown.

“That was before I found out you were dating my friend!”

“So the connection magically went away? Hm? The initial attraction you had to me just vanished into thin air?” he presses.

“I locked it in a closet.” you admit. “It can’t come out.”

“Well, unlock it.”

“I have swallowed the key.” you reply stubbornly.

“Well, I’m picking the lock.” he counters, and you gape at him indignantly.

“You can’t do that!”

“And why not?”

“You have a girlfriend.” you remind him, and he has the audacity to scoff and roll his eyes, making you gasp in horror. “Ooh, I’m telling.”

“Who cares about that?” he asks, waving a hand dismissively.

“Um, gee, I would wager that your girlfriend does.” you reply sarcastically. “And you should care, too.”

“All that yapping—”

“I know this boy did not just say I’m yapping—”

“—and you still didn’t say that you care.” he finishes, and you stop short, blinking at him in surprise. “Gotcha.”

“Oh, shut up,” you groan. “I’m not your girlfriend, you know—I don’t have to put up with this.”

“Do you want to be her?” he asks, and you freeze, staring at him incredulously.

“No? I barely know you, and from what I do know, you like stepping out on your girlfriend.”

“False. I don’t like to step out on my girlfriend,” he corrects you, and you roll your eyes. “I just like you.”

“Stop saying that.” you warn.

“I mean it.” he says simply.

“You’re gonna get us in trouble if you keep talking like that.” you reply nervously.

“The risk is so worth it though, don’t you think?” he murmurs conspiratorially, and you stare at him blankly.

”No.” you reply flatly, entirely unamused.

Haechan pouts—somehow handsomely—and nudges you with his shoulder, saying, “Come on… try living a little.”

“No.”

”You know you want to.” he coaxes, and you grumble unintelligibly under your breath.

”What I want is for you to drop the subject,” you say, batting your lashes at him for the effect. “Pretty please?”

His gaze darkens slightly. “Beg again.”

“I didn’t beg!” you splutter, both indignant and flustered by the shift in the air. “I requested politely.”

“Well, request politely again. You’re really cute when you do that, you know.”

”And on that note, this conversation is over. Now,” you say slowly, patting your lap and nudging him with your shoulder. “I think we should probably get back. Y’know… before they notice we went missing.”

“I guess you’re right,” Haechan agrees with a reluctant sigh, gathering your and his food containers and standing up. “Lead the way, princess.”

“Don’t call me that,” you whisper loudly, and he grins cheekily as you two make your way to exit the museum café.

“Stop liking it and I’ll stop doing it.” He retorts, stopping in front of you suddenly so you bump into him.

“Haechan!” you can’t help but laugh at his refreshingly playful nature, and he looks over at you with a twinkle in his eyes. “Has anyone ever told you you’re kind of a brat?”

“Yes, actually.” he replies thoughtfully. “But it takes one to know one.”

You stop short and he turns back to look at you curiously. “Are you calling me a brat?”

“Yes,” he replies easily with a smile. “Yes, I am.” And before you can retaliate, he’s speed walking towards the garbage to throw out your waste, stopping just in front of the exit to wait for you. When you get closer, still staring at him with narrowed eyes, he shoots you a dazzling smile and opens the door, holding it for you.

”Ladies first.”

“Oh, now you’re a gentleman.”

“What do you mean, ‘now?’” Haechan replies, shocked. “I let you sit first, I held the door for you, I threw out your garbage for you and paid—”

“Which you definitely shouldn’t have done, by the way.” you interject, and he stares blankly at you. “Don’t get me wrong, my wallet and I appreciate you greatly, but I was more than capable of paying for myself.”

“It’s okay,” he muses lightheartedly, shrugging. “You can just make it up to me sometime.”

You pause, staring at him suspiciously. “And how would I do that?”

“I’ll come up with something,” he replies with a small secretive smile.

“I don’t like the sound of that.” you say slowly, and he laughs, throwing his arm around your shoulders goodnaturedly.

“It won’t be anything drastic,” he assures you. “Just something like… a kiss.”

“A kiss?” you splutter, and he grins, nodding. “You’d better be joking.”

He turns his head towards you, tightening his grip around your neck not enough to be overbearing but just enough to prevent you from turning your face away. “And what if I’m not?” His voice softens as he continues, “Hm?”

A long silence passes between you two—far longer than socially acceptable—during which Haechan stares pointedly at your mouth and you attempt to avoid doing the same. After what feels like ages, you break the tension-laden quiet by clearing your throat and walking forward and out of his embrace.

“You’re dangerous, you know that?” you say over your shoulder, and Haechan chuckles as he catches up to you.

“I do.” he replies simply, and you snort. He leans over, bringing his lips to your ear, and murmurs, “And I think you like it.”

TA DA!!!!! i hope you enjoyed your read! the second part will be up in exactly two weeks! reminder that (only if you’re able) tips are very much appreciated, as is positive feedback! if you’d like to be added to the taglist, just shoot me an ask and please make sure your privacy settings are updated accordingly!

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#haechan smut #nct smut #nct 127 smut #nct dream smut #lee haechan smut #donghyuck smut #lee donghyuck smut #will be making a masterlist !!!!!!!! and tagging ppl in the reblog!!#haechan x reader #donghyuck x reader

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rafesfavgirl · 8 months ago

Text

stop asking me to stay — r. cameron

❝ please don't fall apart i can't face your breaking heart i'm trying to be brave stop asking me to stay ❞

pairing: bf!rafe x fem!reader

context: you and rafe have been dating for seven months, and while the relationship started it out well, as soon as the honeymoon phase ended (about 3 months in), everything went to shit. you've been trying to put up with it, but tonight, you realize you've had enough.

words: 1.4k+

warnings: toxic relationship, cocaine use, alcohol use, attachment issues, might make you cry, no happy ending, angst asf

you walk out into the backyard full of girls in swimsuits and guys in swim trunks with drinks in hand, strobes of light flashing around, and music blasting, hoping to find your dear boyfriend who had disappeared on you. again.

god, how much longer did he think you were gonna put up with this?

you look around, and head for topper when you spot him. he was playing pong against kelce and some of their other golf buddies.

"top," you call out to him when you walk up to the table to join them.

"hey, y/n," he greets you, as he readies his hand to shoot a ball. he does, and it lands in one of the cups, causing the surrounding guys and girls to erupt in cheers. "what's up?"

"have you seen rafe?" you ask him.

"nah, not lately," he shook his head at you, shooting his other ball.

he misses that one.

you snap your head towards kelce. "kelce?"

"last i saw him he was cutting a line in the living room upstairs, y/n," he shrugs, and you groan, rolling your eyes.

of course he was. fucking fantastic.

you don't even say another word to either of them before you walk away and head back towards the house. you manage your way through the crowd just fine and scurry up the stairs to the second floor.

just as kelce described, you find rafe seated on a couch in the living room surrounded by some guys and girls—one who was a little too close to him for your liking—cutting a line of coke with his black card.

"rafe," you say his name, and his head snaps up at the sound of your voice, his dark blue eyes meeting yours.

he immediately stands up, pretending as if you didn't just see him cutting the line of coke with his card, shaking off the girl draped over his arm in the process. "y/n."

"can you take me home?" you ask, pulling your eyes away from his. you just couldn't stand to look in them anymore. "i have that interview with the admissions officer from yale tomorrow."

"yeah," he nods, rounding the coffee table to approach you. "whatever you want, baby."

everyone else eyes the two of you carefully, the girl previously draped over rafe giving you the stink eye. no one could ever pull rafe away from the coke faster than you.

when he stops to stand in front of you to block your view of the "friends" he left snorting lines of coke, you look up at him through your lashes, not knowing what to think.

"i've been looking for you for an hour," you say, and he sighs.

"i'm sorry," he replied—you were sick of hearing that though. it was the same half-assed apology every time. and yet, nothing ever changed.

you'd probably go through this exact thing again next weekend when he drags you to some other party.

"save it," you say, catching him off guard.

he knew you didn't like it when did coke, but you never stopped him from apologizing before.

"just take me home," you turn around and walk away from him, making your way back downstairs.

he follows closely behind you, but falls behind a little when you quickly course your way through the crowd on the first floor and he struggles to do the same.

"y/n, wait up," he jogs to catch up to you when you both step outside, but you just quicken your pace towards his car. "babe!"

you hear him call after you, and since his legs are much longer than yours, he manages to catch up and walk in front of you, stopping you in your tracks.

"can you just stop for a second?" he asks, placing both of his hands on either of your arms to make you look at him. "what's wrong?"

"do you even have to ask?"

he sighs, and drops his hands from your arms. "okay, so i snorted a line. what's the big deal?"

"was it just a line, rafe?" you asked, knowing he could never just stop at one.

"so maybe it was two or three," he admits with a shrug. "but what's the big deal? we're at a party, y/n. we came here to have fun!"

"you think this is fun?" you ask him, the pent up anger caused by the way he's been acting the last few months rising to the surface. "it is not fun for me to come with you to these parties only to find you've abandoned me after i go to the bathroom to go snort lines of coke, rafe! let alone find some girl draped all over you and you don't even seem to care!"

"oh for fuck's sake, it's not like i'm sneaking off to fuck them, y/n!" he defended. "they do that shit on their own. what do you expect me to do about that?"

"uh, i don't know, tell them to fuck off? to get off you? to stop? to move?" you say, stating several different things he could have said to them.

he knows your right, but as always, he refused to back down.

"god, are you seriously bitching about this?" his voice was louder know, the adrenaline from the coke clouding his judgment and riling him up. "wait- no, that's-"

he immediately realized what he just said to you, and though he wanted to take it back—and even tried to—it was too late.

"you know what? just go back inside, rafe," you shrug, finally giving up.

there was no use fighting back anymore because you were never gonna get through to him. not when he was like this—coked out of his mind.

"go back to your coke buddies, go back to whatever girl decides to throw herself onto you next, and just forget about me," you tell him. "i'm done."

his coke-induced state of mind seems to fade completely when he hears those two words come out of your mouth.

"what?" his voice was much quieter now, and delicate. something not usual for rafe.

"you heard me," you said, looking him in the eyes. "i can't keep doing this, rafe."

"no, no, no, no, no," he shakes his head frantically, panic clearly building up in him at the thought of losing you. he closes the distance between the two of you and takes your hands in his. "i promise i'll do better, baby. i'll change. i love you."

as much as you wanted to give in and believe him, you knew that your relationship had run its course. he did love you—you never doubted that. but it shouldn't have to be this hard. enough was enough.

you needed to do what was best for you, and this just wasn't it anymore. as much as you loved him, you knew this was the best thing for you. no matter how badly it broke your heart, you had to walk away.

"not enough to choose me," you shook your head, tears threatening to well up in your eyes. "you give in every time."

he drops your hands from his, his demeanor changing again. now, he looked furious. cold. meaner.

"well, i'm sorry i'm not fucking perfect like you!" his voice was full of venom. the rafe cameron you fell in love with was gone. "you know what? just do what you want, y/n. go run off to yale and find some perfectly polished guy! see if i care."

his eyes filled with disgust as he trailed them over you, a scoff leaving his mouth, "i should've just fucked all those other girls. at least they know how to have fun."

while you knew he wouldn't take your words well, you never expected him to be so cruel. but then again, wasn't it always this way? when he was off of it, you never really knew what to expect.

another reason why you had to walk away. it wasn't worth all the exhaustion going back and forth with him. he wasn't worth it anymore.

"go ahead," you say, trying your hardest to keep a solid front. no way you were going to give him the satisfaction of seeing you break.

he rolled his eyes. "find your own way home, bitch," he spat, bumping your shoulder as he walked back towards the house.

the second you knew he could no longer see you, you break.

the rafe you knew was gone.

part 2.

reblogs and comments are deeply appreciated <33

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rafesbabygirlx · 18 days ago

Text

Time Loop

Masterlist

Rafe x Reader

Summary: Rafe finds himself caught in a time loop, reliving the same disastrous 2 days when everything goes wrong. He must figure out how to break the cycle by changing his choices, leading to new insights into his relationship, motives, and a self-realization.

A/N: might be a little delusional from school but I rewatched Happy Death Day on Halloween and had this idea written down. Read this over 100x and I’m pretty sure I follow through. Enjoy :)

Word count: 3k

Warnings: angst, smut at the end

Rafe’s relationship with you was a storm of highs and lows. When other couples argued over trivial things—what to eat, misplaced items, or being late—your conflicts with Rafe were on a different level. They revolved around coke, cheating, and his relentless need to please his father.

Rafe’s habit of disappearing for “errands” tied to his dad’s business, his unapologetic flirting at parties, and the lines of cocaine that constantly blurred his reality had worn you down. Three years together, and it had only gotten worse. His betrayals were countless, yet somehow, you both stayed. Amid the chaos, there was a twisted comfort that kept you to each other.

Loop 1. It was a Saturday, and Rafe was at Kelce’s party. He hadn’t responded to your texts or calls all day. Sitting in his usual spot, hunched over the coffee table with white powder all over it, he looked oblivious to everything except the high. You arrived reluctantly, dragged by your friends who insisted you shouldn’t stay home alone, overthinking. You told yourself you’d stay hidden, avoid Rafe, and just get through the night.

You led your friends to the kitchen and grabbed drinks, steering them out to the pool where Rafe rarely went. Hours passed, with each of you taking turns fetching refills. When your turn came, the kitchen was crowded, so you slipped into the living room instead. And that’s when it happened. Your eyes locked with Rafe’s across the room. A blonde was straddling his lap, pressing kisses down his neck while he smirked at you, a cold and taunting expression. Something in you snapped. Without thinking, you threw the remains of your drink at them and stormed out before he could react.

The next morning, Rafe woke up in one of Kelce’s guest rooms, head pounding and eyes squinting against the sunlight. He reached for his phone, seeing a flurry of messages from you.

You 1:46 AM – FUCK YOU, RAFE CAMERON. You never deserved me.

You 1:55 AM – I hope you snort yourself to death, you asshole. Enjoy your coke while you can.

You 2:04 AM – YOU WILL NEVER SEE ME AGAIN. I HATE YOU.

You 2:06 AM – WE’RE THROUGH. ROT IN HELL.

He groaned, a mix of regret and anger simmering beneath his hangover. He needed to talk to you. You always went to brunch at the club on Sundays, so he threw on some borrowed clothes and headed there.

There you were, sitting on the patio with your friends, your hair catching in the breeze, looking radiant and untouchable. It hit him how much he had messed up. He approached cautiously. “Hey, can we talk? Please?”

You didn’t acknowledge him, eyes focused ahead. “Please, Y/N. I need to talk to you.” You turned to him sharply. “We have NOTHING to talk about. You’re not my problem anymore, Rafe.” His jaw clenched, ego a bit strained, anger bubbling up. He rolled his eyes. “You think I wanted to be tied down with you? Always breathing down my neck? That’s probably why I cheated. I needed a break from you.” He didn’t mean it.

The lie hung between you like a knife. Your voice was icy. “You’re such a piece of shit,” you said, louder than you intended. “What was that, angel? Say it again,” he goaded. You stood up, refusing to back down despite his height. “You’re a piece of shit, Rafe Cameron. A slut, a drug addict, and a failure who will never be good enough for your father.”

The entire patio fell silent. The slap came without warning, sharp and loud, leaving him stunned. You threw down cash for the bill and walked out, your friends hurrying after you. Humiliated and seething, Rafe’s pride took over. As he left, he spotted your car. Without a second thought, he grabbed a rock and smashed the windshield, then slashed three of the tires. Adrenaline pumping, he sped off to Barry’s place and spent the rest of the day numbing himself with beer and more lines of coke. By nightfall, he was a mess, barely coherent, when he picked up his phone and typed:

Rafe 7:32 PM – baby pls I mis u dont do thiss to mee, ur al I want

Rafe 7:38 PM – bby

Rafe 7:39 PM – bbay

Rafe 7:40 PM – pls I ned you answr me

Finally, your response came, slicing through his fog.

You 7:50 PM – You should’ve thought of that before you were a complete shit boyfriend. Before you chose drugs over me, your dad over me, other girls over me.

You 7:53 PM – AND BEFORE YOU DESTROYED MY CAR, ASSHOLE.

Rafe’s rage erupted, and he hurled his phone, shattering it on the floor. “SHIT!” Barry jolted awake. “Damn, country club. What’s your problem?” He throws his crushed phone back at him. “Nothing,” Rafe muttered, tossing cash down before leaving. He considered going to your house but decided to sleep it off and try again tomorrow.

Loop 2. The next day, he woke up at noon, head heavy, stomach in knots. His phone, perfectly intact, rested on the nightstand. The date read Saturday. Confused, he checked his messages—none of what he remembered existed. Before he could think too hard, Ward barged in, ordering him to get dressed and join him on errands.

The day felt like a warped replay. He ignored your incoming texts, but told Kelce he’d be at the party, and numbly followed the script. That night, as he sat at Kelce’s, a girl climbed onto his lap, and he froze. Between the drugs, and the shock of realizing what’s happening he just sits there. She straddles his lap, grinding down onto him and kisses his neck. He looks up and sees you and gets instant deja vu. You appeared at the door, eyes wide with betrayal. Just like before, you stormed out after throwing your drink. He threw the girl off of him and tried to reach you but you slipped through the crowd before he could. He couldn’t believe what was happening. This is exactly what happened in his dream. At least he thinks it was a dream.

With the drugs and what just happened he feels like he’s loosing his mind. He heads upstairs and passes out on the guest bed. Not surprising when he wakes up to see you sent the same text messages again. He doesn’t know what to do. But he repeats the same process. Finding you at the club, trying to talk to you, you embarrassing and leaving him standing there. He walks out to the parking to see your car but he doesn’t touch it this time. Panic crept into his mind, a distressing realization that something was wrong. At Barry’s later, he tested his theory. “Hey, did I come here already?” he asked. Barry squinted. “Yesterday to pick up some for the party, you good man?” Rafe’s stomach dropped. The night had repeated itself. He left, pacing in his room later, mind racing. Glancing at his phone, he stomped it underfoot, shattering it again.

Loop 3. Rafe woke up with a migraine, instinctively grabbing his phone. The screen glowed brightly, not a single scratch, displaying the day: Saturday. His heart sank as a familiar wave of confusion washed over him. Everything was playing out exactly as it had before. The knock on the door was immediate, and soon enough, his father burst in, barking orders. His phone buzzed throughout the day incessantly with your texts, followed by Kelce’s message about the party and a request to score some coke. Rafe felt a nauseating sense of deja vu again, an unsettling lightheadedness clinging to him throughout the day.

At Barry’s place, Rafe pocketed a bag of coke, glancing nervously at the dealer, who was lounging with a cigarette. Barry was the only person who might not think he was entirely out of his mind. “I gotta ask you something,” Rafe blurted out. Barry raised an eyebrow, blowing out a cloud of smoke. “If it’s a favor, I’m not doing it.” Rafe sat down across from him, trying to still the tremor in his hands. “No, it’s not a favor. Do you ever feel like you’re stuck in a loop? Like, the same thing playing over and over again?”

Barry’s eyes narrowed. “What the hell are you talking about, Country Club?” Rafe rubbed his face, feeling his pulse race. “I’m serious. It’s like I’ve lived the same two days over and over for nearly a week now. I don’t know what’s going on, but it’s real. I can’t shake it.” Barry snorted, a half-laugh slipping through. “Man, lay off the coke for a while. It’s messing with your head.”

At Kelce’s party, Rafe felt the buzz of anticipation crackling around him. He sat in his usual spot, beer in hand, taking only a small line of coke, half-dreading and half-expecting what came next. Just as he suspected, the blonde girl approached, eyes glinting with interest. His heart raced; it was happening again. He let her sit beside him, testing the reality of the loop. Just then, he spotted you entering the room, and the recognition in your eyes shifted to anger. You threw your drink, and before you could walk away, Rafe caught your arm.

“Baby, please,” he said, voice trembling with urgency. “I need to talk to you. It’s important.” Your eyes flashed with hurt and rage. “Oh, now it’s important? Not when I called or texted you all day? Not when you’re so high you fuck anything that breaths and forget I exist? Now, suddenly, it’s important?”

Rafe pulled you into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him as the noise of the party dulled. “I know this sounds crazy, but I’m not high. I knew everything that was going to happen today. I had to make sure I wasn’t still dreaming. Please trust me. I love you.” Your expression hardened, eyes glistening. “You don’t love me, Rafe. You’re not making any sense. You sound insane. I’m leaving. We’re done. Officially, done.”

He reached for you, desperation turning his voice raw. But you pushed him away, tears streaming as you walked out. Rafe stood frozen, guilt and helplessness clawing at him. For the first time, he left the party nearly sober, trudging up to Kelce’s guest room. He threw himself face-first onto the bed,

The next morning, Rafe bolted upright and glanced at his phone. Sunday. Again. He quickly dressed and drove straight to the club, determination hardening his features. Before you could brush him off, he dropped to his knees by your table, ignoring the looks of your friends and the other members

“Please,” he begged. “I know I look crazy, but you have to hear me out.” You stood up and motioned for him to follow you out to the golf course, away from prying eyes.

“About what I said last night,” Rafe continued, breathless, “it wasn’t just rambling. The party—it’s happened three times. I’m living the same 2 days over and over. I get up, do stuff for my dad, get to the party, you find me, we break up, I come find you hear, there’s no resolve, I go to bed Sunday night and when I wake up it’s Saturday again. I don’t know why, but I’m losing you each time, and I can’t take it anymore.”

You crossed your arms, a wall of hurt and skepticism. “You expect me to believe that? After three years of lies and betrayal, you think I’ll buy into some theory about time loops all of the sudden? No, Rafe. I’ve had enough.”

He reached for your shoulders, his voice breaking while he smacks his cheek. “Look at me. I’m sober, I’m awake, and I’m telling you the truth. Something isn’t right, and I can’t let you walk away.”

Your eyes softened for a moment, but you shook your head, stepping back. “I can’t do this.” And with that, you turned and left him standing on the empty fairway, the early morning light casting long shadows. Rafe stood there, piecing together the pattern. The loop was about you. It was punishment, a reckoning for the way he’d taken you for granted. Each version of the day confirmed that losing you was the universe’s way of making him face the consequences. But if he had this chance, he’d use it. That night, he skipped Barry’s and stayed in his room, scribbling notes and plans, willing himself to break the cycle.

Loop 4. Rafe woke up early, it’s Saturday… again. His heart thumping as he texted you before you could reach out first. He asked if you’d meet him at the dock, the place where you’d had your first date. When you agreed, a rare glimmer of hope sparked inside him. When you arrived, he stood and hugged you tightly, pressing kisses to your forehead. You pulled back, a puzzled smile playing on your lips. “What’s all this for?”

“I just love you,” Rafe said, voice steadier than it had been in ‘days’. “Please, sit. I need to talk to you.” You settled on the blanket, accepting your favorite snack he handed you. “So, talk.” He took a breath, the weight of three years and three repeated days pressing down on him. “I know this will sound insane, but hear me out. I’ve been in this loop—like, I’ve woken up on the same Saturday, again and again. Every day, the same mistakes. Ignoring you, getting high, letting someone else come between us, and you leaving. When I go to bed Sunday night, k wake up and it’s Saturday again.It’s the worst pain I’ve ever felt, and I can’t lose you again. I need you to believe me. I don’t want anything to be the same. I want to change for you. Maybe it’s just a dream. But it feels so real, I can’t shake it. I can’t lose you.”

You studied his face, eyes searching for any hint of deceit. Then, cautiously, you placed your palm on his forehead, half-joking. “You’re right. You do sound crazy. But you’ve never promised to change before. That’s… something.” A sad, hopeful smile tugged at Rafe’s lips. “I mean it. I’ll do anything. I’ll go to rehab, give up the coke, anything. I just want you.”

Your lips curved into a small smile, and you leaned in, kissing him gently. “Come on,” you said, pulling him up by the hand. “My parents aren’t home. Let’s go somewhere we can really talk.”

Back at your house, you sat on your bed, facing him. “You know how much I love you, Rafe. But how much do you really love me? These past three years have been exhausting. I’m tired of giving and getting nothing in return.” “I love you more than anything. I’m sorry it took something this insane to make me realize how much I need you. I want to make up for all the time I wasted. I promise.”

You brushed your thumb along his cheek, turning his face to yours. “Then prove it. Promise me again.” You leaned in, and he whispered between kisses, “I… promise.” He lays you down on the bed, resting in between your legs. You grip his shirt trying to get it off. He sits up pulling it off and you mimic him pulling off yours. He reaches your lips again and you both fumble with each other’s pants. When you finally get each other’s clothes off, he lifts you up into the center of the bed. Kissing his way back down to lean in front of you. Leaving kisses on your inner thighs making his way to your clit. Just the simple kiss has your back arching. Rafe is never this gentle with you. It’s usually quick fucks or rough. Never soft or intimate so you make sure to take in everything. He takes his time. Making sure he tastes every bit of you. He keeps going and your back lifts off the more and more until a wave of relief washes over you. Rafe doesn’t stop until you’re back on the bed and your grip of his hair loosens a bit. He cleans up what’s left and makes his way back to you, leaving behind a trail of kisses.

He stops for a second just to stare at you. Wondering how he got so lucky to have someone as beautiful as you and how he just managed to fuck it up and take advantage of all that beauty and love. You stare back at him wondering if he’s serious, but you’re so in love with him that if he is you’ll be there every step of the way. You grab the back of his head and pull him back in to continue kissing him. Your other hand reaches in between you to line him up and you nudge him to push in by wrapping your legs around his waist. He slowly enters you, savoring each second. He moves instantly but the thrusts are different. They’re strategic and careful. You let out moans and he moves to the crook of your neck kissing it softly. He keeps these movements the entire time. You both climax at the same time and he goes to move but you hold him against you.

“You swear promise?” You ask while rubbing his back. “I promise, every bit of it. The both of you lay in bed for the rest of the day and when nightfall comes you fall asleep in each other’s arms. When Rafe is woken up by the light peaking in from the morning sunrise. He checks his phone instantly it’s Sunday. He panics a little but then he notices the weight on him. It’s you, lying on his chest. He lets out a sigh of relief realizing the cycle was broken, he’s back in reality. He pulls you in close giving you a kiss on the top of the head.

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rafesapologist · 15 days ago

Text

the setback ─ rafe cameron; part seventeen

summary: it's been two years since your departure from the outer banks and rafe cameron has seemingly convinced himself that he can go on with his life as if you never happened, except now more than ever his addiction is at an all time high. whether he was snorting lines of cocaine at wild parties or drowning himself in alcohol to numb the pain, rafe couldn't escape the memories of you. despite his efforts to bury his feelings, your absence lingered like a shadow, haunting him at every turn. meanwhile, you've been navigating life outside the outer banks, trying to carve out a new path for yourself. but no matter how far you've traveled, the memories of rafe cameron still linger in your heart, leaving you with a sense of unfinished business. as you find yourself facing new challenges and opportunities, you can't help but wonder if fate will eventually bring you back to the place where it all began.

warnings: angst, swearing, fluff

author's note: this series has been a long time coming and i am so happy it has taken off the way it has. i appreciate all the love and support you all have given this story, but we have reached the end. i do not want to overkill this story or beat a dead horse, because the longer it goes on it leaves room for more to happen than i planned for. i plan on pursuing other stories from here but this one will always have my heart because it was my first ever on tumblr. <3

Sofia’s admission hit Rafe like ice water on a fevered brow, jolting him out of his haze with a suddenness that nearly knocked the air from his lungs. The dim, pulsing lights of the club blurred as he shoved through the writhing crowd, his mind teetering on the edge of panic. Every step felt like wading through quicksand, the noise of laughing strangers and the thrum of bass only deepening his disorientation. His chest tightened, his breaths coming short and rapid as the realization of your danger tunneled his vision, choking his throat with an unfamiliar dread.

By the time Rafe burst through the doors and into the humid night air, he was gasping. His hands gripped his knees, his body doubled over as he fought for control, the sharp sting of fear pumping through his veins like a poison. The streetlights cast jagged shadows across the cracked pavement beneath him, their orange glow flickering with every unsteady breath he drew. His heart hammered against his ribs as if it were trying to tear free, every pulse of it screaming a warning that reverberated through his entire being.

His thoughts came in fragmented bursts, spiraling—she’s in danger—a relentless echo. He pictured you, vulnerable, caught in some trap his father had set. His mind spun with worst-case scenarios, each more terrifying than the last, while the terror of losing you drove him to the brink of collapse. A wave of nausea hit him, but he forced it back, squeezing his eyes shut and swallowing down the panic threatening to unravel him.

He couldn’t lose you. Not now. Not like this.

Standing upright, Rafe ran a shaky hand through his disheveled hair, the night air doing nothing to cool the heat surging beneath his skin. The world outside the club seemed to spin in slow motion, people passing by oblivious to the storm raging within him. He clenched his fists, forcing himself to focus, adrenaline igniting something feral and primal in his chest. He knew only one thing: he had to find you, and there wasn’t a second to waste.

Rafe’s eyes darted wildly around the street as he paced, his mind racing with chaotic thoughts that he struggled to piece together. His fingers raked through his dirty blond hair, pulling at the strands in frustration, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribcage. Every muscle in his body was tight with anxiety, and he could feel his pulse throbbing in his temples. He had to calm down—he knew that. But the fear gnawed at him, relentless, pulling him deeper into a spiral.

Get it together. Focus. He whispered to himself, his voice barely audible over the rush of his own breathing. The thought of you being in danger sent another wave of panic through him, but he forced himself to push it down. Now wasn’t the time to fall apart. He couldn’t afford to. Not with you on the line.

The idea of getting in his truck crossed his mind, but the very notion of driving in the state he was in felt like a death sentence. His body still buzzed with the remnants of coke and alcohol, the drugs pulsing through his bloodstream, clouding his judgment. If he got behind the wheel now, it would be reckless, maybe even fatal. And then there was Topper—no help at all, slumped somewhere back in the club, likely even more wasted than Rafe was. No, he was on his own. Or at least he thought he was.

Then it hit him like a bolt of clarity: Barry.

He grimaced at the thought, but desperation left him with no other choice. Barry was the last person he wanted to rely on, the kind of person you only called when things were far past the point of no return. But that’s exactly where he was now—past the point of no return. If anyone had the connections, the means to track down his father or whatever shady plot Ward had concocted, it would be Barry.

Rafe’s phone trembled in his hand as he pulled it out of his pocket, the screen blurry as he scrolled through his contacts. His fingers hesitated above Barry’s name, but he took a breath and tapped the call button. The dial tone seemed to stretch on forever, each ring tightening the knot of anxiety in his stomach.

Finally, a gravelly voice answered on the other end. “Rafe? The hell you callin’ me for at this hour?”

Rafe swallowed hard, his voice strained as he spoke. “I need your help, Barry. It’s… it’s about my dad. And it’s about her.”

There was a pause on the line, a low chuckle from Barry that sent a chill down Rafe’s spine. “This better be worth my time, Cameron. You know how I work.”

“I know,” Rafe gritted his teeth, feeling the weight of the situation settle even heavier on his shoulders. “Just meet me at the docks. I’ll explain everything.”

With that, he hung up, his jaw clenched as he stuffed the phone back into his pocket. His hands were shaking again, but this time it wasn’t just from fear—it was anger. Anger at his father, anger at Sofia, anger at the world for putting you in this mess.

Rafe’s feet pounded against the pavement, the night air sharp against his flushed skin. His vision tunneled once again, the world around him reduced to nothing but a blur of shadows and streetlights. His breath came in ragged gasps, the sting of adrenaline burning in his lungs, but he couldn’t stop. He wouldn’t. His legs carried him forward with reckless speed, driven by the sheer force of desperation.

The dock wasn’t far, but it felt like miles as he sprinted down the road, heart hammering in his chest. Maybe it was the cocktail of substances still coursing through his veins, or maybe it was the raw fear gnawing at him, but he ran like his life depended on it.

No, not his life—yours.

Every thought, every heartbeat, was consumed by the image of you in danger, your face flashing before his eyes as he pushed himself harder. The world around him felt surreal, distorted, like a fever dream where time slowed and sped up at random. The night sky seemed to tilt above him, the ground swaying beneath his feet, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t.

The familiar smell of saltwater hit his nose as he neared the dock, the wooden structure looming ahead, dimly lit by a few flickering lamps. His steps faltered for just a second as he spotted a figure leaning against one of the posts, the outline unmistakable even from a distance. Barry.

Rafe forced himself to slow down, his heart still racing as he approached. He could feel the weight of the situation pressing down on him like a vice, but there was no turning back now. He needed answers. He needed you safe.

Barry lifted his head as Rafe came into view, his smirk visible even in the low light. “You look like shit, Cameron.”

Rafe's words came out in a frantic rush, barely coherent as his panic clawed its way to the surface. His breath was uneven, and his eyes, wild with desperation, darted toward Barry with an intensity that made it clear how urgent this was. “We have to find Y/N. I need you to help me find her, please, I—”

Barry narrowed his eyes, exhaling another lazy stream of smoke, clearly enjoying watching Rafe unravel. "Whoa, slow down," he said, his voice thick with amusement, like he was savoring Rafe's desperation. "You're all worked up for what? A girl? I thought you'd grown a spine by now."

Rafe took a step closer, fists clenched at his sides, his voice strained as he tried to steady himself. “This isn’t a joke, Barry. My dad’s involved. Sofia’s involved. They’re coming after her, and I can’t—” his voice broke for a moment, "I can’t let them hurt her."

Barry tilted his head, flicking the cigarette butt onto the ground and grinding it under his heel. “Ward’s always got his hands in some deep shit, doesn’t he?” His smirk widened, but his eyes sharpened with interest. “So, you’re saying there’s trouble. Sounds like a dangerous game, Rafe. How do I know your daddy won't turn around and fuck me over next?"

Rafe’s jaw tightened as Barry’s smirk deepened, the question lingering like a taunt. He knew Barry wasn’t the type to jump into anything without weighing the risks—especially when it involved the Camerons. Taking a shaky breath, Rafe tried to steady himself, to present some semblance of control. "Because I’ll make sure it doesn’t. This is on me, not you. I just need your help."

Barry let out a low chuckle, amused by Rafe's desperation. "Oh, so now you're the hero? What makes you think you can keep me out of the crossfire when your whole family’s knee-deep in it?"

Rafe ran a trembling hand through his dirty blond hair, feeling the weight of the substances in his system pulling him down. "You won't be on the radar. My dad won’t even know you're involved. This is between me and him. Sofia’s already in, so you’ve got leverage."

Barry’s expression shifted, the smirk fading as he considered the offer. His fingers drummed against his side, eyes studying Rafe. “Leverage, huh? Sounds like you’re neck-deep in something nasty. And if it backfires...”

“It won’t,” Rafe interrupted, his voice sharp and pleading all at once. "I’ll make sure it doesn’t."

Barry stared him down for a long moment, weighing his options. Finally, he flicked a glance at Rafe, sizing him up. “Alright,” he said, his voice slow, calculating. “But if this does turn sideways, I’ll bury you before Ward even gets a chance. You hear me?”

Rafe nodded quickly, the words slicing through his panic. "Yeah, I hear you. Just help me find her."

"Well alright," Barry sighed almost in defeat, his shoulders slumping as he turned his heel, motioning Rafe to follow, "let's get goin'."

Rafe let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, his pulse still racing but with a flicker of hope now threaded through the fear. He quickly followed Barry to the beat-up truck, the gravel crunching under their feet. The night air felt heavy, thick with the tension of what they were about to do.

Barry opened the driver’s side door, glancing back at Rafe with a half-smirk. “Get in. And try not to puke in my truck, yeah?”

Rafe ignored the jab, climbing into the passenger seat as Barry started the engine. The old truck roared to life, and they took off down the road, the headlights slicing through the dark.

As they sped away from the dock, the inside of the truck was filled with the low hum of the engine and the rattling of loose parts. Rafe stared out the window, his mind spinning with thoughts of you. Every second that passed felt like an eternity, the knot in his stomach tightening with every mile. He couldn’t stop imagining what his father might do, or what Sofia’s resentment might lead to.

Barry, sensing Rafe’s silence, glanced over, his eyes flicking between the road and his passenger. “So, what exactly does your daddy have planned this time?” he asked, voice casual, but there was a sharpness behind it.

Rafe didn’t answer right away, his jaw clenching as he replayed the chaotic events of the past few days. Ward’s betrayal, Sofia’s confession, the looming threat that seemed to press down on him like a weight he couldn’t shake.

“I don’t know all the details,” Rafe finally muttered, his voice tight with frustration. “But it’s bad. Real bad.”

Barry raised an eyebrow, his hands steady on the wheel as they sped down the dimly lit road. “Define ‘bad,’ Rafe. You’re talkin’ like your old man’s about to blow up the island or somethin’.”

Rafe shook his head, running his hand through his disheveled hair. “He put a hit out on her. On y/n.” His voice cracked slightly, as if saying it out loud made the threat even more real. “He thinks she’s tied up with John B and the Pogues, thinks she’s some kind of liability. But she’s not, Barry. She’s innocent.”

Barry let out a low whistle, shaking his head slowly. “Ward Cameron never could tell the difference between business and personal, could he?”

The truck hit a bump in the road, but neither of them flinched. The silence stretched, the gravity of the situation settling between them like a storm cloud.

“So, you’re up against Ward now,” Barry said, glancing sideways at Rafe again. “Man, you’ve got balls. Most people would’ve run for the hills by now.”

“I’m not running,” Rafe snapped, his anger flaring up again. “I’m not letting him ruin her life like he’s ruined mine.”

Barry grinned, the corners of his mouth tugging up in that familiar, crooked way. “Alright, man. I’m in. But just know, whatever comes next—it’s gonna get ugly.”

Barry's truck roared down the deserted streets, the engine's growl a constant, urgent reminder of the time slipping away. Rafe sat in the passenger seat, his fingers gripping the edge of his seat, knuckles white and strained. The road stretched out before them like an unending ribbon of asphalt, the dim streetlights casting long, flickering shadows that seemed to dance with his growing panic.

Every minute felt like an eternity as they drove through familiar yet alien landscapes. They passed by the docks, the bars, and the places you’d once frequented. Rafe's eyes darted around, desperately scanning for any sign of you, but the night remained stubbornly indifferent. The neon signs of local bars blurred into a chaotic smear of color, each one a reminder of how many places he had searched and how many hours had slipped by.

“Damn it!” Rafe yelled, his voice cracking with frustration. He punched the dashboard with a force that made the truck’s interior shudder but didn’t quite break anything. His breath came in short, ragged bursts as he tried to keep himself calm, but the fear that something terrible might happen to you was relentless.

Barry's eyes flickered over to Rafe, a mix of concern and impatience etched on his face. He gripped the steering wheel tighter, the knuckles on his hands turning a stark white. “Look, we’ve been driving around for half an hour, hitting all your usual spots. There’s no sign of her,” Barry said, his voice steady but edged with frustration. He glanced at Rafe, who was staring out the window with a look of desolation.

Barry’s gaze shifted back to the road, then to Rafe. “Alright, look, why don’t we just show up at John B’s and ask ‘em where she’s at? I mean, it won’t hurt to check. We might find something there.”

Defeat etched over Rafe's features as he slumped down into the passenger's seat, momentarily peering over at Barry as if he was contemplating his suggestion. Everywhere else seemed to be a bust, therefor it was the only option left for him to go. "Alright," he sighed, throwing his hands up, "let's go."

Barry's eyes softened with a hint of empathy as he observed Rafe's expression. The stark contrast between Rafe's usually confident demeanor and the current look of defeat was jarring. Without a word, Barry turned the truck around, the vehicle's headlights slicing through the night, leading them back toward familiar terrain.

The road felt endless under the truck’s tires, each mile stretching out with agonizing slowness. The lights of bars and shops, once vibrant and promising, now seemed to mock Rafe’s anxiety with their indifferent glow. He sat in the passenger seat, his gaze fixed on the window, eyes following the blur of passing streetlights and shadows.

As they approached the chateau, Rafe’s mind raced. The enormity of the situation pressed down on him, the fear for your safety overwhelming every other thought. Barry parked the truck outside John B’s place, the vehicle’s engine rumbling to a stop. The street was quiet, the only sounds being the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze and the distant hum of a late-night radio.

Rafe glanced over at Barry, his face drawn and weary. “Thanks for doing this,” he said, his voice heavy with gratitude and exhaustion. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself before they approached the front door.

Barry nodded, giving Rafe a reassuring pat on the shoulder before stepping out of the truck. They walked up the path to the house, the porch light casting long shadows that danced with their footsteps. The door loomed ahead, a barrier to answers and perhaps, hope.

Rafe hesitated for a moment, then raised his hand and knocked. The sound of the knuckles hitting the wood was sharp and clear, breaking the silence of the night. The minutes felt like hours as they waited, the anticipation almost unbearable. Rafe shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his mind replaying every possible scenario.

Finally, the door creaked open, revealing a groggy John B with disheveled hair and a puzzled expression. His eyes widened as he took in the sight of Rafe and Barry standing on the doorstep.

“Rafe?” John B’s voice was a mix of confusion and concern. "What are you doing here?"

Rafe’s voice trembled with urgency as he stepped into John B’s living room, his eyes scanning the space frantically. His gaze darted around, searching for any sign of you. “I need to find y/n. Is she here?” he asked, his voice laced with desperation and a tinge of fear.

John B’s expression shifted from surprise to a mixture of concern and secrecy. “No, she’s not here.” He swallowed thickly, his gaze darting away briefly as if grappling with something unspoken. His demeanor was tense, a stark contrast to his usual easygoing nature.

Rafe’s pulse quickened. “What do you mean? Where is she? John B, I need to know.”

John B hesitated, his face a mask of conflicted emotions. “Look, Rafe, there’s more to this than you realize. We’re trying to protect her. Ward’s threats— they’re serious. If we don’t keep her hidden, things could get worse.”

Rafe’s eyes widened, panic and anger mixing in his gaze. “What the hell are you talking about? You’re hiding her? Why wouldn’t you tell me? She’s in danger, and I need to find her!”

John B’s face hardened with resolve. “We’re hiding her because it’s the safest place for her right now. Ward’s dangerous, and if he gets a whiff of where she is, it could end badly. I know you’re desperate, but honestly, you’re the last person who should see her right now. You’re the reason she and all of us are in this.”

Rafe’s eyes widened, his heart pounding in his chest. “Don’t you dare say I did this to her.” His voice cracked with a mixture of outrage and anguish.

John B’s expression softened for a moment, but his resolve remained firm. “He’s your dad, Rafe.”

The words hung heavily in the air, cutting through the tension like a knife. Rafe’s face contorted with a mix of pain and frustration. “What does that have to do with anything? You think I’m just going to sit back and let him hurt her? I don’t care who he is—he’s not going to touch her.”

John B’s gaze was steady, though there was an undercurrent of sorrow. “It’s not about who he is. It’s about what he’s capable of. He’s dangerous, and you’re right in the middle of it. That makes it harder for us to protect her if you’re involved.”

Rafe’s fists clenched at his sides, his knuckles white. “So, what am I supposed to do? Just sit around and wait? I can’t do that. I need to find her.”

John B stepped closer, his tone firm yet sympathetic. “I get that you want to help, but right now, the best thing you can do is stay away. We’ve got a plan to keep her safe, and bringing you into it could complicate things further. You need to focus on dealing with Ward.”

Rafe wasn't simply going to let it go, not when it involved your wellbeing. His frustration began bubbling higher and higher, his anticipation eating away at him as time passed. John B's refusal to give up your whereabouts only complicated things for Rafe further, leaving him to feel like he was backed into a corner waiting for a war to erupt. He knew John B was not one to back down when he stood his ground, but neither was Rafe.

"Look John B, I know we have never gotten along and probably never will, but for just this instance can you please just put that aside and at least give me a clue to where she could be? I've looked at every corner of the Cut and you guys are my only chance to figure out where she is."

John B's jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing as he considered Rafe’s plea. "You think I’m just going to give her up? After everything?" His voice was sharp, defensive.

Rafe stepped closer, his frustration boiling over. "I’m not asking you to trust me, or even forgive me. I just need to know that she’s safe. Ward’s not going to stop, John B. And if I can’t find her, he will."

John B's hardened expression faltered for a moment. He could see the desperation in Rafe's eyes—the desperation of someone who was genuinely afraid for you. Still, he shook his head, taking a breath as he crossed his arms. "Rafe, I don’t trust you. And I don’t trust that you won't lead your dad straight to her, even if you don’t mean to."

Rafe’s shoulders slumped in defeat, his voice cracking as he spoke. "I would never let him touch her. I’m trying to protect her—same as you. I just—" His voice wavered, barely a whisper. "I can't lose her."

John B hesitated, his brow furrowing as he watched Rafe. There was something different in his voice, something more genuine than he’d expected. He wasn’t used to seeing Rafe like this—vulnerable, pleading. It made him hesitate.

"She’s safe," John B finally said, his tone quieter now. "But that’s all you need to know. You need to back off. The more you push, the more danger you put her in."

Rafe’s frustration flared again, but he swallowed it, knowing that arguing more would get him nowhere. He stared at John B for a moment longer, feeling the helplessness creeping up on him. "Just… just tell her I’m trying to help. Please." His voice broke on the last word.

John B nodded stiffly, his expression unreadable. "We’ll make sure she knows," he said, turning to walk back toward the house. "But you need to leave this alone, Rafe. For her sake."

Rafe swallowed hard, the fear and frustration mixing with a sense of helplessness he hadn’t felt in years. "I don’t know how to walk away from this," he admitted, his voice barely audible. "I can’t just leave her in danger."

John B’s gaze softened, and he took a step closer, lowering his voice. “You love her, don’t you?”

Rafe’s throat tightened, his emotions threatening to overwhelm him. He looked away, staring at the floor as he nodded slowly. “Yeah,” he whispered. “I do.”

A silence settled over the room, heavy with unspoken words. Finally, John B placed a hand on Rafe’s shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. “Then trust us,” he said quietly. “Trust me. We’re on the same side here.”

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

Rafe had never been good at handling silence, and the last three weeks had felt like an eternity. He’d made it through plenty of rough patches before, but this time was different. There was an emptiness he couldn’t shake—a nagging, constant fear gnawing at him from the inside out. The usual distraction tactics weren’t working anymore.

He'd spend hours at the golf course with Topper and Kelce, making small talk about future trips and complaining about the latest club drama. But every time he lined up a shot, his mind wandered back to you. He could see you in his peripheral vision, your smile, your laugh—always just out of reach. Even at the Pelican Yacht Club, with its sun-drenched decks and cool sea breeze, he found no comfort. He'd sit there with a drink in hand, zoning out as his friends talked about plans for the next regatta. It felt like they were in another world, one he couldn’t access.

Rafe had told himself you were with the Pogues, hiding out, and that they were probably getting into their usual reckless trouble. At least if you were with them, you weren’t alone. It should’ve been enough to reassure him, but it wasn’t. No matter how hard he tried to convince himself, he knew that if Ward had any idea where you were, he’d already have made a move. The thought made him nauseous. Ward was gone too—radio silent. It wasn’t like his father to stay off the grid this long, and the eerie stillness around his disappearance made Rafe’s skin crawl.

Every time his phone buzzed, his heart would leap into his throat. He'd drop whatever he was doing, half expecting your name to light up his screen. But it never was. It was always Topper asking about plans for the night, Kelce wanting to hit the links again, or one of the Kook girls trying to make conversation. He was slipping—losing his grip on his usual cool demeanor. His patience had worn thin, and the smallest annoyances set him off. He could feel his friends’ stares when they thought he wasn’t looking, exchanging concerned glances behind his back.

“What’s with you, man?” Topper had asked him last night, standing on the deck of the club, his voice low so the others wouldn’t hear. “You’ve been out of it lately.”

Rafe had forced a smile, brushing it off with a shrug. “Just family stuff,” he’d said, offering no further explanation. Topper didn’t press, but the worry in his eyes lingered, as if he could see the cracks forming in Rafe’s facade.

In moments of quiet, when the noise of the club died down and the laughter from the other tables faded into background chatter, Rafe felt the crushing weight of his own powerlessness. He didn’t know where you were, if you were safe, or if you were thinking about him at all. And the thought of you being hurt—or worse, alone and afraid—made him want to tear apart the entire island until he found you.

It had never been like this before. He’d never cared so deeply for someone that their absence felt like a physical wound. And now, with both you and his father missing, Rafe felt like he was standing on the edge of a cliff, the ground crumbling beneath his feet.

He pulled out his phone again, his fingers hesitating over your contact. He hadn’t called you in weeks, not since the last time you’d spoken—the argument you’d had before you disappeared. He wanted to hear your voice, to know that you were okay, but he was afraid you wouldn’t pick up. Afraid you would, and he wouldn’t know what to say.

In the end, he just stared at your name on the screen, his thumb hovering over the call button. He hated how weak he felt, how much he needed you. With a frustrated sigh, he shoved his phone back into his pocket and ran a hand through his hair, staring out at the horizon.

Rafe couldn’t stand the noise anymore. The laughter, the clinking glasses, the mindless chatter—it all grated on him like nails on a chalkboard. He clenched his jaw, feeling the tension building in his chest, and before he could talk himself out of it, he pushed back his chair and stood up abruptly.

"I'll catch you guys later," he said, his voice flat.

Topper and Kelce exchanged puzzled looks, caught off guard by his sudden departure. "You good, man?" Kelce called after him, but Rafe didn’t even bother to turn around. He gave a half-hearted wave over his shoulder as he made his way out of the club, ignoring the murmurs of confusion from the group behind him.

He needed to be alone, away from the forced smiles and meaningless conversations. He needed to escape the pressure building inside him like a storm ready to break. His feet carried him quickly to his truck, his hands already fumbling for his keys as he approached. The second he got inside, he slammed the door shut and let out a long, shaky breath.

For the first time all day, he felt a sliver of relief. The silence of the truck enveloped him, offering a brief respite from the chaos swirling in his mind. He leaned back against the seat, staring at the steering wheel as he tried to gather his thoughts. It was the first quiet moment he’d had in weeks, and he felt like he could finally breathe.

He pressed his palms to his eyes, as if the pressure could somehow force the pain out of his head. The knot in his chest tightened when he thought of you—where you were, if you were safe, if you even missed him. He was used to feeling in control, to having answers, but right now, he felt like he was spiraling, clutching at straws to make sense of it all. And then there was Ward's disappearance, which left an eerie silence hanging over his life, amplifying his uncertainty tenfold.

After a few minutes, he exhaled deeply, starting the truck. The engine’s rumble filled the air, grounding him in the moment. He pulled out of the lot and headed back home, his hands gripping the steering wheel tightly. He needed to get away from it all, to shut the world out until he could figure out how to mend the mess inside him.

As he drove, the familiar scenery of Figure Eight blurred past him, the golden hues of the setting sun casting long shadows on the road. It was a drive he’d made a thousand times, but today it felt different. The wind blowing through the open windows didn’t bring its usual comfort; it only reminded him of how empty everything felt without you by his side.

When he pulled into the long driveway of his family’s estate, the house loomed before him, its white facade glowing in the fading light. It was eerily quiet. He cut the engine and sat there for a moment, staring at the mansion he’d grown up in. It was supposed to feel like home, but right now, it felt like a prison—a stark reminder of everything that was slipping through his fingers.

He made his way inside, letting the door click shut behind him. The silence of the house was suffocating. Rafe threw his keys on the table and headed up the stairs to his room. He shut the door behind him, leaning against it as he took in the familiar sight of his space. It felt just as empty as everything else.

He sank down onto the edge of his bed, dropping his head into his hands. For once, he didn’t try to push the feelings away. He let them wash over him—the fear, the frustration, the longing. He knew he couldn’t hide from it anymore. You were gone, his father was missing, and everything was falling apart.

He squeezed his eyes shut, whispering into the darkness of his room, “Where are you?” The words were a plea, a question directed at you, even though he knew you couldn’t hear him. He just hoped that, wherever you were, you were thinking of him too.

Rafe's chest tightened, and the room seemed to shrink around him as his emotions threatened to boil over. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to hold back the tears, but they welled up regardless, turning his vision blurry. His eyes became red and glossy, the ache in his heart growing unbearable with every passing second. It was like a ghost of you lingered in the room, haunting him with memories he couldn’t escape—your laugh, the way you’d look at him, the feel of your hand in his. Now, all he felt was emptiness.

He couldn’t shake the gnawing feeling that this was his fault. He had made a grave mistake, he was sure of it. If only he had kept a closer watch, if only he had been more careful, maybe you wouldn’t be in danger now. The thought of you being out there, vulnerable and alone, tore him apart. He could almost see you, scared and needing him, but no matter how hard he tried to reach out, you slipped further away from his grasp.

“I’m so sorry,” he muttered, his voice cracking as he bit down on the words. The apology felt hollow, echoing back at him in the empty room. He wanted to scream, to punch something, to make the pain stop—but he was trapped in this limbo of not knowing, of being helpless. And for someone like Rafe, who thrived on control, the helplessness was its own special kind of torture.

His hand tightened around his phone, his knuckles turning white as he gripped it like it was the source of all his pain. In a sudden burst of frustration and grief, he hurled it across the room. It hit the wall with a sharp crack, then fell to the floor, the screen shattering into pieces. For a moment, the silence after the impact felt almost comforting. He stared at the wreckage, chest heaving, his breaths coming in ragged gasps.

But the brief satisfaction faded quickly, replaced by a hollow ache. He started pacing, the walls closing in on him as his thoughts spiraled out of control. His mind raced with all the worst-case scenarios, images of you hurt or scared flashing in his head. He ran his hands through his hair, tugging at it as if the pain could snap him out of this nightmare.

“Dammit!” he shouted, his voice breaking with a mixture of anger and desperation. He felt like he was losing it. He needed to do something—anything—but there was nowhere to go, no one to fight, and no way to find you. He was stuck, and it felt like drowning in quicksand.

Rafe stopped pacing, leaning against the wall as his body sagged under the weight of it all. His fingers dug into the plaster as he tried to ground himself, taking deep, shuddering breaths to calm the storm raging inside. The tears he had been holding back spilled over, streaking down his cheeks. He wasn’t used to this—crying, feeling this vulnerable. It made him feel weak, and he hated it. But right now, he couldn’t help it. He felt broken, shattered like the phone on the ground, and the pieces were too scattered to put back together.

He slid down the wall, sitting on the floor with his head in his hands. He couldn’t escape the thought of you—your smile, the way you’d look at him like he was more than just a Cameron, more than just the troubled son of Ward. He hadn’t realized how much he needed you until you were gone. And now, he was left with nothing but the crushing guilt that he had failed to protect you.

Rafe’s breath hitched as he heard the knock echo through the house, slicing through the heavy silence. He froze, wiping his tears quickly and forcing himself to compose. He hadn’t spoken to anyone in hours, and he certainly wasn’t expecting company. The confusion quickly morphed into paranoia. He clenched his jaw, his eyes darting to the front door. His mind raced, imagining who it could be. His father? Back from wherever he’d disappeared to, ready to follow through on his threats? The thought alone sent a chill down his spine.

He needed to be ready.

Rafe’s gaze shifted to his bedside table, where the knife gleamed under the dim light. He reached for it, gripping it tightly in his hand, finding some comfort in the cold metal pressing into his palm. He moved cautiously, his steps light and silent, like a predator stalking prey. As he descended the stairs, every creak of the old wood sounded like a gunshot in his ears, making his heart hammer against his ribs. He held his breath, trying to keep quiet as he approached the door, his pulse throbbing in his throat.

He reached the bottom of the steps, his eyes locked on the door. It was slightly ajar, as if whoever was outside had hesitated, not yet willing to push their way in. Rafe moved closer, his back pressed against the wall, knife held at the ready. He strained to listen, trying to pick up any hint of who it might be on the other side. He didn’t hear much—just the faint sound of someone shifting their weight, maybe a shaky breath. His grip on the knife tightened, his knuckles turning white as he mentally prepared himself for an attack.

With a deep, steadying breath, he reached for the doorknob. His fingers trembled as they wrapped around the cool metal, twisting it slowly. He pulled the door open just a crack, peeking through the small sliver to catch a glimpse of whoever was on the other side. He gulped, his throat dry, as he took in the figure standing in the dim porch light.

Rafe's breath hitched as he stared at you, feeling a wave of emotions he couldn't quite place. Relief, disbelief, anger, and something else he couldn’t name all swirled together, leaving him speechless for a moment. His hand trembled, the knife still held in a death grip at his side. He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. He just stood there, taking you in like he was trying to convince himself you were real and not some figment of his imagination.

"Y/N?" he whispered, voice cracking. It was as if saying your name aloud might break the fragile spell of the moment. He’d pictured this reunion a thousand times—what he’d say, how he’d react—but now that you were actually here, all those plans evaporated. He felt paralyzed, his eyes scanning you up and down, searching for any sign of harm.

But you looked...fine. Unscathed. Healthier than he'd expected. It threw him off completely. He’d been imagining the worst for weeks, thinking you were in danger, or worse—hurt. Yet here you were, standing on his porch, seemingly calm and collected.

Rafe’s shoulders slumped, his posture collapsing under the weight of all the worry he'd carried. He let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, feeling the knife slip from his fingers and clatter to the floor. He didn’t even care. He just took a step closer, his eyes fixed on yours, desperate to make sense of what was happening.

“What the hell, Y/N?” he croaked out, his voice breaking. “Where have you been? Why—” He cut himself off, shaking his head as he raked a hand through his hair. “Why didn’t you tell me you were okay?”

“I’m tired of hiding, Rafe,” you said flatly, your voice carrying a strange calmness in the chaos of his thoughts. “Nobody else knows that I’m here. I left without telling them.”

Rafe’s brow furrowed in confusion, his mind trying to connect the dots. His heart still pounded in his chest, the weight of everything he’d been through over the past few weeks making it hard to focus. “I... I don’t get it. I thought you hated me because of all of this. I don’t get why—why you’re here.” His voice was shaky, filled with uncertainty as his gaze darted between you and the ground, as if the truth might be hiding in the space between.

"I never hated you," you said, your voice surprisingly steady. You met his gaze head-on, your eyes unflinching, though there was an underlying tension in your shoulders. "I did what I had to do to stay safe."

Rafe's brows furrowed as he processed your words, a painful confusion swirling inside him. "Why didn’t you call me? Why did you disappear without telling me where you were?" His voice cracked with the strain of his emotions. Every inch of his body screamed for answers, for the clarity he'd been missing for weeks.

You stood there, taking a deep breath before answering, the calmness in your voice betraying the storm brewing in your chest. "Because I didn’t want you to come looking for me. Ward knew you would be wherever I was, and I couldn’t risk it."

The words hit Rafe like a punch to the gut, and he felt his world tilt for a second, the weight of your actions now making sense, but only in the way that left him struggling to breathe. He didn’t know how to feel. His hands tightened at his sides, fists clenching as the frustration built up inside him.

"Of course I would look for you, Y/N," Rafe finally choked out, his voice rough with emotion. "I had to make sure you were safe, and it was killing me having to just sit here and hope you were protected."

Your gaze softened, the conflict in your eyes clear as you watched him struggle with the words. You could see the hurt, the years of worry in his eyes, and it made your heart ache in return. But there was something else there too—something you couldn't ignore any longer.

"I know, and I’m sorry." Your voice came out quieter, more fragile, as if it hurt you just as much to say those words. "But I don’t want to do this anymore. No more games, no more hiding, no more danger."

Rafe’s breath caught in his throat as he took in your words, his chest tightening. His first instinct was to reach for you, to pull you into his arms and keep you safe, to make up for the weeks of fear and confusion. But there was something else behind your words, a finality that stopped him in his tracks. He stared at you, disbelief and pain mixing together.

"What do you mean, Y/N?" His voice cracked again, and he fought to steady himself. "What do you mean, 'no more hiding'?"

You took a deep breath, stepping forward slightly, your posture firm but vulnerable. "I mean I want to stop running. I want to stop being afraid. I’ve been through enough, Rafe. And I don’t want to keep living in the shadows, waiting for the next threat to come."

Rafe’s eyes softened, a mix of guilt and understanding crossing his features. He wanted so badly to fix things, to make everything right, but the weight of what you were asking him to do loomed heavy between you both. The past few weeks, the pain, the fear—it was all more than he knew how to handle. But looking at you, standing there, finally free of the fear that had controlled you, he knew what he had to do.

Rafe’s heart hammered in his chest as he processed your words. His mind raced, but the ache in his chest intensified. "What do you want to do, Y/N?" he asked, the rawness in his voice betraying the vulnerability he couldn’t hide.

You didn’t hesitate. Your expression was steady, determined. “I want to leave this place,” you said softly, but with the weight of everything behind it. “I want to go somewhere nobody can find us. Somewhere we can live a normal life, without the constant fear. I can’t take this anymore, Rafe. I need out.”

His breath caught in his throat as you stepped closer. “I want a new life," you continued, your eyes locked on his. "A life where it’s just us, without all the chaos.”

The words hit Rafe like a storm. For a second, he couldn’t find his voice, too overwhelmed by the possibility of a life with you that didn’t have to be defined by the fear and danger that had haunted him for so long.

“You… you really mean that?” he choked out, the doubt evident in his voice. “You want to leave all this behind? For real?”

You nodded. “Yes, Rafe. I’m tired of running, tired of being afraid. I want to build something different. With you.”

Rafe’s chest tightened at the sincerity in your words. He had always known you were strong, but this—this was something different. The weight of what you were asking, what you were willing to risk for the two of you, settled in the pit of his stomach. It was overwhelming, but it also felt like the right kind of overwhelming.

“You’d really leave it all behind? You’d trust me with that?” His voice cracked on the last word, the depth of his feelings for you surfacing in a way he hadn’t expected.

You took another step forward, closing the distance between you. “I trust you, Rafe,” you said, your voice unwavering. “And I’m done with this life. I want more than this. I want a future. With you.”

Rafe stood there for a moment, his mind scrambling to catch up with the magnitude of what you were saying. The idea of a life without his father’s control, without the constant tension, without all the chaos—it was almost too much to comprehend. But the one thing that stood out, clearer than anything, was you. You were standing there, offering him everything.

He stepped forward, his hand finding yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles as if trying to ground himself in the reality of what was happening. “Then let’s do it,” he said, his voice fierce with determination. “Let’s leave this place behind, together.”

The words hit you like a breath of fresh air, lifting the heaviness that had been suffocating you. You didn’t have to pretend anymore, didn’t have to hide behind walls of fear or uncertainty. You could finally see a future, a future with him, far away from the chaos and the danger. Your heart swelled in your chest, and for the first time in what felt like forever, a genuine smile spread across your face.

Rafe noticed it instantly—how your eyes softened, how the sadness and strain seemed to melt away. The corners of your lips curled upward, and without thinking, you stepped into him, closing the space between you. His hand tightened around yours, but before he could say anything, your lips found his.

It was sudden, but it was everything. The kiss was deep, urgent, and filled with the unspoken promises you both had carried in silence. Rafe responded instinctively, pulling you closer, his hand sliding to the small of your back as if to hold you in place, as if he could anchor you to him, keep you safe, keep you close.

In one swift motion, Rafe lifted you off the ground, his arms strong around you, as if he could carry all of your burdens with the ease of holding you in his arms. You let out a soft, surprised laugh as he kicked the door shut behind him, still holding you against him, your lips still locked in a kiss that spoke louder than any words could.

Once he gently set you back on your feet, he didn’t immediately pull away. Instead, he carefully brushed a lock of hair from your face, his touch lingering on your skin. His eyes softened as he looked at you, a mixture of love, relief, and something deeper—something raw that he couldn’t hide even if he tried.

“I’m gonna give you the life you deserve,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I promise, Y/N.”

Your breath hitched in your throat as you looked up at him, feeling the weight of his words settle deep in your chest. You could see the sincerity in his eyes, the conviction in his expression. This was no longer about survival or fear—it was about a future that was finally within reach.

You smiled, your heart full, your gaze unwavering as you met his. “You already are,” you whispered back, your voice barely above a breath, but it was enough. “Just being here with you... that’s all I ever wanted.”

Rafe’s expression softened further, a slow smile spreading across his face, and in that moment, you saw the man he could be—strong, protective, and driven by love rather than chaos.

"I love you, Y/N." The words hung between you like a promise, deep and unwavering. Rafe's breath caught for just a moment, the weight of what he'd just said settling in. He'd said it before, in fleeting moments, but now, in this moment, it felt different. There was no fear of loss, no uncertainty clouding his mind. It was just the raw truth.

"I love you, too, Rafe," you whispered back, your voice steady and sure. This time, you didn’t have to doubt it. It wasn’t just about the words—it was the way you felt in this moment, with him. Your pulse quickened, not from fear, but from the certainty of what was to come.

He pulled you closer, his arms strong around you as if to keep you tethered to him, to the life you were about to build. His lips brushed over your forehead, and then he pulled back just enough to look at you, his gaze unwavering, filled with all the raw emotion you’d both buried for too long.

With a soft smile, Rafe leaned down to kiss you again, this time more tender, slower, as if savoring the moment, cherishing the bond that had been built through all the chaos and uncertainty. This kiss was a promise—one of protection, of understanding, and above all, of love.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

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chocosvt · 4 months ago

Text

HER | part four.

✧✎ synopsis: wonwoo, a heartbroken and burnt out writer nearing the end of his math degree, wants nothing to do with the seemingly perfect, intimidating girl who has everyone under her thumb. you. unfortunately, his literary talent has got him shoved him between a rock and a hard place when you want to write a book and require his expertise. you two are the furthest from compatible. wonwoo can’t see this going well. at all.

pairing: wonwoo x fem!reader word count: 22.5k genres/tropes: writer!wonwoo, university!au, plug!vernon + boyfriend!mingyu as prominent side characters, SLOWBURN (i am not fucking around this is my slowest burn yet), relationship drama, soul searching, strong angst/hurt (i’m coming for the jugular), comfort, romance, smut, a smoothie of every emotion on earth.

(!) warnings: drug use (weed, cocaine, ecstasy), wonwoo has anxiety + anxiety attacks + fairly dark thoughts, prescribed medication, gambling, intense language, infidelity, throwing up.

✧✎ a/n: just some quick things i want to make apparent!

the fic is told from wonwoo’s pov, not the reader’s!

all major timeline events are organized through chronological dates

any smut or potentially triggering scenes are NOT MARKED bc the content is already quite mature, so just plz be aware of that!

bolded and italicized text implies the characters are conversing in korean, tho it doesn’t happen often!

the fic in its entirety is 140k, so it has been split into 6 parts.

here we goo. part four :o i can't believe it's already the fourth part!! i guess the last chapter ended on somewhat of a cliffhanger so may this quench your curiosity! but, beyond that...

this part has a punch of its own... dotdotdot...

⇢ part one | part two | part three | part five | part six ⇢ soundtrack for those curious! ⇢ read at ur own pace! :)

Wonwoo was lucky to discover an empty, spare guest bedroom down an off-shooting hallway for you two to refuge in while the volcano settled upstairs. Furthermore, he was grateful that you had relaxed enough to be released from his straightjacket arms, and even more grateful the room was quiet. The confrontation had shot his nerves. His hands were still trembling. As you took a seat on the bed, Wonwoo moved toward the window and stared into his darkly silhouetted reflection, taking paced breaths until everything stopped pressing down on him. He’d already had his fair share of stalling fights between Vernon and other drunks at the downtown bars.

He had never anticipated stopping you from a fight.

“Fuck, I feel like absolute shit…” you groaned, and when Wonwoo turned around, he saw you crunched up, fingers digging at your hair while you sat at the very edge of the primly dressed bed.

“Should I get you anything?” He asked in a soft voice, coming over to crouch down in front of you. “Do you want some water?”

You wouldn’t look at him, instead staring into your knees that were bent and flush against your chest. For a moment, there was nothing said, until you sniffed that very distinctive sniffle of someone who’d just snorted a line. Rubbing at your nose, you nodded.

“Please?”

“Yeah, ‘course. I’ll be right back, okay?”

Wonwoo didn’t know where to get water, though he did remember the bottle dropped at the bottom of the staircase. He practically ran to grab it. Coming back into the spare room, Wonwoo clicked the door shut as quietly as possible and joined you at the bed.

“Here,” he offered, uncapping it for you.

You sipped from it eagerly, gulp after gulp, then wiping off your lips when it became too cumbersome to swallow.

He took the bottle back, capping it again and throwing it somewhere random on the bed. Wonwoo could see with concern that you weren’t entirely there—jaded, from the drinking and smoking and intaking a dangerous substance you probably shouldn’t have. Your face appeared so hazy, disconnected, as though you were staring off into a warm light buried in the distance that only presented itself to you.

“That was a lot, wasn’t it?” Wonwoo sighed into the dark room, rolling up his sleeves, unsure of what he should do or even say.

You sniffled again, and shook your head. “I feel sick.”

“I know, I’m sorry... what do you want to do?”

Breathing out heavily at the small amount of labour it required to look backward at the bed, you nodded. “I want to lie down.”

“Okay,” Wonwoo said, feeling relieved, “that’s a good idea.”

You smiled at him, though it was misted over and a bit loopy.

He watched you lean down, fiddling with the tiny buckle belonging to the right heel strapped over your foot. Afraid you might hit the floor like a flour sac if you stayed hunched over for too long, he instantly squatted down to help you, gently nudging your hand away.

“I’ll take them off for you,” Wonwoo reassured, loosening the buckle enough to slide the expensive, black heel from your foot, doing so with the utmost delicacy, akin to sorting fine china.

Just before he removed the other heel, Wonwoo caught you staring down at him with a particular admiration behind those glassed eyes that made his entire chest become swollen. He tried to ignore the feeling, no matter how elated it made him on the inside.

“Thank you.”

“Uh, no problem,” Wonwoo answered, standing up and gesturing to the bed, “do you think you’ll take a nap?”

“… I don’t know.”

“That’s okay… should I get Princess to come stay with you? Or, I can always get Mingyu, too. Whatever you think is best.”

You were still looking back at the guest bed, unresponsive, and Wonwoo had wondered if you even heard him speak. The moonlight that cascaded in from the windows patched an intricate shadow overtop the quilt, and you started spreading your hand across it, as though you could pick up the silhouette and move it.

And then you glanced at Wonwoo again, smiled slightly. “Would you lay down with me… if I asked you?”

He immediately cleared his throat, “uh, lay down with you?”

“Mmhm,” you nodded, “I need your company. Please?”

He clenched his fist tight, an index nail carving along the cuticle of his scarred thumb. Logically, Wonwoo should leave—he should march back upstairs and go search for Mingyu or Princess to help nurse you through your brain fog. Realistically, however, Wonwoo wasn't going to do any such thing. Realistically, Wonwoo was very high, and very delirious, and completely at your beckon.

Kicking off his sneakers, Wonwoo crawled onto the guest bed alongside you. He breathed out a sigh of comfort as his back was perfectly cushioned by the supple pillows organized against the headboard. If he thought about it for too long—relaxing on a stranger’s bed in a stranger’s home at two or three in morning beside a girl who’d just snorted coke upstairs in the attic and nearly leapt on her friend in a fight—his head would start to ache. So, Wonwoo didn’t think about it. He let everything happen as it naturally desired to.

You tucked yourself close against Wonwoo, closer than what was appropriate for two people who were presumably friends, stretching your leg across his waist and latching it over his hip, an arm around his wide chest, your head settled cozily underneath his chin.

He couldn't care less about the morality.

Especially when he wriggled his arm beneath you, his knuckles coming to stroke up and down your bare, soft back, feeling along the subtle groove of your spine with every lulling, especially tender caress. Truly, Wonwoo didn’t know why he cared so remarkably little about how wrong it was to touch you and hold you. Maybe it was your shallow and warm breathing that kept tickling his neck, or the weight of your leg against his pelvis—you as a whole seemed to smudge his rationality—his own personal drug.

“Can you please tell me a story?”

“Hm?” Wonwoo murmured, stilling his fingertips at the top of your shoulder blade. “Tell you a story? Why’s that?”

“Because, my head hurts. And I want a distraction.” You then poked your face up from his neck, staring at Wonwoo through the clouds in your eyes, sounding sleepy enough to lose consciousness. “And I love the sound of your voice, and how it makes me feel.”

He proceeded to rub something off your chin with a few brushes from his thumb, and nodded, tucking your head back down.

“Okay… let me think for a second...”

“Wait—” you suddenly mumbled, awkwardly reaching behind you for his hand rested against your shoulders, “—I liked when you were going up and down. It felt good. Please, can you do some more?”

“Yeah, sorry. I just stopped to think,” Wonwoo hummed with an amused smile, continuing to stroke his knuckles and hearing the heavy sigh you breathed aloud.

He thought a few moments longer for a story that he could tell you; something interesting, but not too detailed.

“I’ve got one.”

He made a rumbling noise in his throat to clear it, staring off at the dresser mirror opposite to the bed, where Wonwoo could just decipher that vague, silvery thread outlining your entangled bodies.

“When I was around eleven, twelve years old, my family used to go to this waterpark every summer, like an hour car ride from our house. My brother and I made up this game. We called it lifeguard, or, like, swimming attendant. Basically, you play dead in the water, and whoever’s the attendant has to save you. Anyway, it was a pretty stupid fucking game to play at a water park as you can imagine. But when we got there, the lifeguard wasn’t in his chair. So, like, my brother, trying to be cool or funny, thought it would be a good idea to sit in the chair himself. I had to pretend to drown.

The problem with that, though—the actual life guard was coming back. He sees me pretending to drown, thinks I’m actually drowning—I don’t know, I guess I was selling it super well—and he dives right into the water, pulls me out and everything, lies me across the cement all surgical like. I’m so fucking embarrassed, my brother’s ran off somewhere—I just go along with it while everyone’s watching, knowing damn fucking well I’m a sham. My mom’s panicking. She didn't realize it was part of some idiotic game we made up. I hated my brother for a week straight. I’ve refused to swim ever since.”

There was a chuckle against his neck, and Wonwoo felt your body vibrate with a soft fit of laughter. He hadn’t recalled that story in years, though it dusted off the latent anger toward his older brother that he had never quit holding. Nonetheless, it was still rewarding to tell you. That water park was once his most cherished place to visit, admittedly during a much different period in his life, when the only thing he worried over was whether or not they’d have his favourite ice cream flavour or if he might miss that gigantic bucket full of freezing water that dropped every half-hour.

“I’m sorry that happened…” you mumbled against his neck, your breath akin to a sweeping feather, “but it’s a bit funny.”

“No, I know,” Wonwoo agreed, grazing his hand low to the base of your back, “I can laugh at it now... even if I’m still mad.”

“Can I ask you something, please?”

“Sure.”

“I just want to know… when did you move here? Did you come here for university? Or, was it before that? And, like… did your family come with you? Did you move alone? I’m just curious…”

“So, I spent two years at a university in Korea, for something different than what I’m doing now. It was accounting stuff—”

“Oh, more boring.”

“Yeah,” Wonwoo laughed, reaching his hand underneath the warm plump of your thigh to adjust it more comfortably against his hip, “I actually agree with you. It was boring, and I was… to put it lightly, miserable. Very, very miserable. So, I dropped it, had a really long and excruciating conversation with my brother about the whole thing—what I wanted to do, where I wanted to go. I have an uncle that lives out here. Not close to our school. He’s hours away. But I figured, I’m old enough. I need, just—I need a fucking change. I’ll move out, stay with him, find my footing. And, uh, I ended up here.”

You smiled against his skin, lips practically pressed at his neck, and then you exhaled, pulling a shiver along the length of his spine.

“Hm… I’m glad you made that choice.”

Wonwoo’s fingers fleshed deeper against the underside of your thigh as he sighed into the still bedroom air, thinking back to the pressure, the bickering between himself and his parents, the desire to at last pull the pin and take a risk, even if said risk was going to crash and humiliatingly burn at his feet. In a way, it had. But with you, his reward was building back up again. It wasn’t all fruitless.

“Me too.”

"Thanks for sharing that with me,” you murmured, snuggling impossibly closer into his body and breathing him in like the sweet, baked scent of pastries fresh from a hot oven, or the airy honeysuckle outside on a summer’s day. “I like knowing about you.”

For once, Wonwoo wasn’t scared that you knew.

Maybe he should be scared. He wasn’t being cautious enough, instead pouring more soul into his heart than his logic. But then—why did it feel so good in that moment? Something he was terrified of had flipped on its head and turned into a real, tangible happiness. He continued to lay with you in the silence. The ceiling was full of shadows that he studied to keep himself awake while his thumb rubbed easy circles into your thigh. Your body was giving him heat.

If no one ever opened that door, Wonwoo wouldn’t complain.

He could lay there until the earth caved in.

“Wonwoo?”

“Mm?”

“I want to try getting up now.”

Rubbing the heel of his palm against his eye, he massaged away the desire for sleep that had finally managed to catch up to him.

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Okay—” he began slowly pushing himself upward, helping you in the process with an arm at your waist, “—I’ll grab your shoes.”

“Thank you.”

Nonetheless, he knew you couldn’t stay cocooned against him forever, even if he wanted it more than his next breath. It felt awfully vapid to lose your warmth. The air around him was so much colder, like an icy metal. Wonwoo had nearly stumbled over his sneakers as he searched around the end of the bed, prompting him to squat down and shove his shoes back on. Next, he collected your lacquered, expensive high heels, which had practically blended into the darkness if not for the moonlight raining through the windows.

You were sat at the edge of the blankets, waiting for him.

“How do you feel? Better?” Wonwoo asked while crouching at your knees and fishing up the right heel first.

“My head still hurts a little. But I think I’ll be fine,” you admitted, allowing Wonwoo to softly touch at the back of your ankle as he helped guide your foot through the black loop. “It’s like—I can feel it a lot more now. I’m getting that weird, dreamy sensation, right before it really hits. And my mouth is kinda dry.”

“Hm,” Wonwoo hummed, now helping to fasten on the other heel, “I’m sure there’s more water upstairs. Is that too tight?”

You wriggled your toes and rolled your foot.

“No, it’s perfect. Thank you so much.”

“Should we try standing?”

Wonwoo straightened back up, reaching out his hand for you to grab. Carefully, you intertwined your fingers with his, and then he accepted some of your weight as he gave you a supportive tug. At first, you wobbled, but Wonwoo was right there to steady you.

You complained about the dizziness, but after a few more steps it had gotten better, and Wonwoo let go of your hand.

“Oh—uh,” he gently grasped your elbow, “before you leave—”

Lifting up your arms, you watched rather cluelessly while Wonwoo pinched at the fabric of the very short, white skirt and tugged it further down your thighs, covering the sensitive areas where it had ridden up when you were stretched out against him. A hand latched into his shoulder for balance, and you sighed out gratefully.

“Fuck, thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Please don’t tell me if you saw my underwear.”

He laughed, “I won’t.”

A manicured finger scratched your cheek.

“… They’re pink… with hearts.”

Wonwoo stayed quiet, but then he couldn’t fight his smile.

“… I know. Cute.”

You seemed flustered at the offhanded comment, which came as a surprise to Wonwoo, because he truthfully didn’t believe much—if anything at all—could fluster you. The phone in his back pocket buzzed with a text message and Wonwoo assumed it was Vernon asking him about where he’d gone. It was best to go back up to attic and reunite with your friends rather than dwell in the guest bedroom for an eternity. Though, Wonwoo didn’t want to leave at all.

“Uh, Wonwoo? Can you please wait one second?”

As you two paused at the door, his hand fell off the knob.

“Everything okay?”

Uncharacteristically, you fumbled with your fingers, tugging at the joints like they were disconnectable. He tilted his head at you, curious, and when your eyes locked with his he bit back a dumb facial expression at how wide your pupils had dilated, like an ocean abyss.

“Um, so, that girl Seokmin was talking about earlier? Sarah Gomez?” Sarah? He knew you meant Sierra, though he didn’t bother correcting the mistake. “I chatted to Vernon about it. He said she likes you and was flirting and... well, like, I-I have no issue if you… if you like her and want to do something, and—” you took in a really big, long breath that felt like a reach for self-comfort, “—just, if you two want to start hanging out, if you can still make time for our writing.”

Wonwoo stared at you for a second, blinking vacantly.

“… Oh, you think—no, Her. It’s not anything. It’s nothing."

“Nothing?”

“Yeah, nothing. I promise.”

And it was exactly that. Wonwoo would never—could never feel anything even half as strong as the yearning he felt for you. It was something unmeasurable, something bigger than the universe, and yet, it fit into the core of his own chest like a dense and heated star compacting in on itself. Despite being so numbed by heartbreak, and years of a growing apathy, and all that disappointment he harboured toward himself, Wonwoo had sensed each and every time you thawed him out. You—a light, and yet a cold, awakening breeze.

The girl he was in love with.

Stupidly and utterly in love with.

Your shoulders began to sink as you relaxed at his remark.

Wonwoo shook his head. “She’s nice. But I’ve talked to her once, and that was tonight, for like, two minutes at most.”

“Really?”

“Mmhm.”

“Oh, okay. Sorry. I just—I didn’t want you to think that I hated it, or that I was going to jump her ‘cause of what happened upstairs… I don’t want to talk about what happened upstairs, actually, but that’s not what—anyway. Sorry. And, uh, thank you… for being there for me. I didn’t mean to ruin your night.”

“No, no. Nothing is ruined,” Wonwoo reassured you, picking up your hand and giving it a squeeze. “I’m having fun. It’s all a lot but… I’m enjoying it. I’m always going to be here for you, alright?”

You smiled at him. It was oddly shy, but Wonwoo loved it.

“So, if you want to head back up, I’ll join you soon enough," he said. "I’m gonna attempt to find a washroom in this place.”

“There’s one by the staircase. Clara and Bells used it.”

He kissed his teeth as you giggled at him.

“… Oh. Right.”

After you disappeared back upstairs to the attic, Wonwoo locked himself in the washroom for a moment of quiet. He checked his phone, realizing the time—3am—in addition to the horribly spelt text messages from Vernon, saying that Mingyu had taken Bells on a walk outside to calm her down. He sighed, signing off on the texts with a thumbs up. The night was only getting louder. Wonwoo didn’t know how much longer he could survive or who he would even call upon to get a ride home. Everyone was plastered or buzzed.

He had no desire to sleep here overnight, though if push came to shove, Seungcheol would likely have guest bedrooms to spare.

Turning on the sink faucet, Wonwoo set his glasses aside and cupped a handful of cold water against his face. It was a shock at first, yet it felt so refreshing, and Wonwoo couldn’t help but splash some more water until he felt the drops begin uncomfortably running down to his elbows and nudged the tap back off. Once patting dry his cheeks and forehead with a towel folded through a rung secured into the wall, Wonwoo proceeded to sit down on the tiled floor.

Readjusting the glasses back to his face, he stared across the dimly lit room at the half-opened shower curtain and its patterned seashells. For a second, he didn’t move at all. But then Wonwoo was getting up, walking over to the curtain and yanking it fully open. He returned to his initial position, sitting against the wall, and started counting all the different seashells. They weren’t organized in rows like the yellow rubber ducks from his aunt’s shower curtain back in Changwon—they were miscellaneously placed, spotted more than organized, and Wonwoo counted all the shells at least three times.

“Thirty-two,” he whispered to himself.

Deep within his pocket, Wonwoo’s phone buzzed again.

[ Vernon | 3:09 am ]: h ey glasses where tf are yoi?

He decided to text his friend back, though he knew Vernon was most likely off his face and wouldn’t notice for another hour.

[ Wonwoo | 3:09 am ]: Washroom. Be up in a few.

To his surprise, Vernon’s little typing bubble immediately appeared. Wonwoo developed a sick, squirmy feeling in his stomach for some reason, only to watch the bubble abruptly disappear and not return. God—he hoped the boy hadn’t fucking fallen out the window or slipped off the billiard table in his inebriation.

Setting his phone down on the tiles beside him, Wonwoo raked his fingers through his hair and sighed aloud again. He didn’t care much about messing up the very particular way he’d brushed and swooped it. Instead, Wonwoo thought about you.

He was just with you, and yet he missed you.

Unsure of when the feeling had ever started, Wonwoo began to recognize the ache for you some time ago—and like a little kitchen light in a prairie house that never burnt out, seen across meadows and rivers, even through the darkest nights—Wonwoo had felt the ache ever since. He thought it would die away quietly. It hadn’t. It wouldn’t. He thought that love would never again step foot inside the house that was his heart. But it had. And it was the little light.

His phone vibrated.

Wonwoo glanced down at the illuminated screen, skimming over the jumbled, misspelt words to Vernon’s text with little regard, thinking nothing of it other than how sky high his friend was.

Another text. He scooped the phone up, grumbling to himself.

[ Vernon | 3:12 am ]: yo I dont mean t be weird buthahha I’m not gbnna lie u shud come upsrairds of u wanna see it

[ Vernon | 3:13 am ]: acyaully don’t lol

Wonwoo had not a fucking clue what Vernon was rambling about and was half-considering it to be all hallucinations. Maybe another fight had broken out. Maybe you were dancing on the table and had kicked over someone’s drink. There was a small cherry pit of curiosity in his stomach, though Wonwoo wasn’t ready to get up. He sat on the washroom floor for another ten minutes or so, deciding that he would go back upstairs, pitch his goodbyes, and book an Uber.

It had been fun, tiring, enlightening even.

But Wonwoo had no energy left to give.

After playing with his hair in the mirror and smoothing out the pieces he’d disheveled, Wonwoo at last pulled open the door and emerged back into the warm corridor, the music still soaring underneath his feet. He began making his way upstairs and back to the attic space. There were at least ten new people to fill the smoky room, none of whom Wonwoo recognized, though he assumed most were Seungcheol or Mingyu’s friends. Vernon was seated on the couch, his arm sunk around a girl’s shoulders—the girl that had almost bumped into him when leaving the kitchen hours ago.

Someone had cranked the music loud enough to rumble the speakers sitting on the desk. Wonwoo could hardly decipher a single word that came from Vernon’s mouth, forcing him to lean further down as he grasped onto his friend’s hand and announced his leave.

“Awe, you’re headin’ out?!” Vernon shouted into his ear.

“Have to,” Wonwoo replied, “my brain’s gonna pop.”

Vernon slapped his shoulder. "All good—hey, thanks for even comin’ along, y’know? Stay safe. Text me when you get home.”

“Yeah, will do. Uh, you seen Princess or Seungcheol?” He asked by Vernon’s head. “I’d be nice to see them before I leave.”

“No fuckin’ clue where they went, to be honest!” Vernon answered, leaning back with a shrug. “Oh! Fuck!” He’d suddenly latched onto Wonwoo’s arm. “Dude, you missed it. But if you’re lookin’ for Her—no luck. She’s uh, a little busy right now.”

“Hm?” Wonwoo mumbled. “I can’t fucking hear.”

Vernon proceeded to jerk his friend closer, breath fanning hot against Wonwoo’s ear. He turned frozen solid as he intently listened.

“Her—she came back upstairs, high as a fuckin’ kite. Mingyu came back up right after. I don’t know what happened, but, like, within a few minutes, they were on each other, man. I got scared—thought they were gonna start fuckin’ on the table. But, nah, Mingyu took her to the bedroom down the hall. We all scurried down and listened for a sec. Holy shit—she had to be gettin’ pounded—like, must’ve been face down ass up, fuckin’, gettin’ her guts rearranged or some shit. They were both so out of their minds. It was insane, y’know. You’re not gonna see her for a good while.” Vernon then sat back with a hopeless, husky laugh. “Mine as well shoot her a fuckin’ text and hope she can still read when Gyu’s done with her!”

For a second, Wonwoo didn’t believe him. Not at all. He thought it was a joke—staring at his friend, waiting for his face to break like sundried clay, not caring whatsoever that the girl tucked against his side was clearly annoyed at their conversation and waiting for Wonwoo to leave. It was all a stupid joke and Wonwoo wanted to hear Vernon say it. And then, he would punch him for it.

“Funny,” he chuckled.

But Vernon merely shrugged, folding an ankle over his knee. “Hey, Glasses. Dunno what to tell ‘ya! S’all true. I saw it. So Did Seungcheol n’ Princess. Go down there! Listen for yourself!”

Wonwoo shook his head, beginning to laugh. “Go fuck yourself.”

“Jeez! I’m just tellin’ you the truth!”

“And you expect me to believe that?” Wonwoo shouted overtop the bass, smiling, even though he was feeling more and more enraged under the surface. “You’re high as a kite, too, yeah?”

“I saw it, man!”

“Yeah. Actually—go fuck yourself. Night.”

Vernon stretched out a hand, attempting to catch Wonwoo by the elbow as he brushed past him, yelling something that was drowned to the humid, loud atmosphere. Wonwoo still believed it was a joke—a very awful, incredibly distasteful joke that he would probably ignore Vernon over for at least a few days. Wonwoo knew he wasn’t your boyfriend. He knew you most likely didn’t reciprocate the all the same feelings with as much passion as him. But you wouldn’t do that. You wouldn’t discard him after he’d been so vulnerable.

He came to the corridor and gazed along the hallway.

Go down there. Listen for yourself.

Vernon’s words wriggled in a bold font to the forefront of his mind, even when he wanted to squeeze them out. But Wonwoo was exhausted, and now highly annoyed, and he knew the last thing he should do is excavate a truth that would be better off buried.

The thing was—Wonwoo had to know.

It was excruciating to not know.

And so, he walked up to each door, lightly attempting the handle or pressing his ear to the wood. He found nothing, and the relief that opened up and flowed throughout his body was equivalent to the freshest breath of air. Wonwoo was about to text Vernon that his stupid stunt had failed when he heard it—that suspicious, croaked sound which prompted his fingers to stop dead in their typing tracks.

He stared into the door, focusing hard.

No, it was the music. It had been playing all night, anyway.

But then there was a thump. Once, twice, three times.

Wonwoo shoved his ear back against the crack in the threshold, one hand coming to rest ever so softly on the brass handle.

Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump.

Muting even his breath in case it interfered with or somehow warped the noise, he listened longer, his stomach twisting in knots.

“Fuck! Mingyu!”

There was ice in his veins. All the blood froze so quickly. It was cold enough to turn his skin to frost but Wonwoo kept listening.

“If I fuck you any harder, I’ll break this fuckin’ bed, sweetheart. Is that what you want, huh? Tell me, baby. Are you that much of a slut for me? Hm? Are you that much of a whiny slut?”

“Y-Yes, Gyu! M’n-nothing—ff-fuck—!”

“Answer me or I’ll stop!”

“No—nonono—m’such a slut for you! Such a whiny l-little... Fuck! Mmm—c-can’t take it, Gyu! S’too much!”

“Move your fuckin’ hand! Take it, just like you asked for. If you’re gonna act like such a slut then fuckin’ take what I give you!”

Wonwoo couldn’t bear to hear a second longer. He knew it was your voice, your skin, your breath, your pleasure. It was entirely you at the rigid and exploitative hands of Mingyu. And Wonwoo felt sick. Something acidic surged up his throat in a stinging burn. With a hand latched over his mouth, Wonwoo raced toward the washroom, immediately locking himself inside before collapsing at the toilet and upheaving all the contents in his stomach. The nausea had never hit him so quickly before. His insides filled with even more dread.

But he wasn’t actually sick.

It was merely the horrible, haunting anxiety that came with opening up—its effects reaping toxically into his flesh because it had all been thrown back in his face like a sloppy high school lunch tray. It was hearing the girl he positively loved moan and writhe and beg for another man who didn’t care for her interests or thoughts or soul.

He’d cut himself open for you, but it didn’t seem to be enough.

—JUNE 16TH.

By the time Wonwoo woke up, it was five in the evening. His face was practically plastered—no, moulded, into the pillow—with a dried trace of drool streaked down his cheek. Wonwoo had never drooled before. The groan he released upon rolling from his stomach to his back was groggy and brittle, with his hand slapping cluelessly against the bedside table until he managed to grab hold of his black-framed glasses. He slid them on, and then wiggled further up the bed.

Before his irritable hunger, or the twisting of his full bladder, or the headache pulsing behind temples, Wonwoo felt a very gorged wound scissored into his heart. It was stinging raw, like sea salt from the ocean touching at an unbeknownst cut hidden somewhere sensitive on the body. Except, Wonwoo knew exactly where the cut was and how deep it ran and how much he was struggling to even breathe. He stumbled into the washroom, switched on the faucet, but Wonwoo couldn’t even bring himself to stare into the mirror.

Instead, he crouched down to his haunches, hands shakily gripping at the edges of the stone-cold porcelain for stability while the water gushed above him. With his eyes pinched shut, Wonwoo focused hard on every breath he took, so hard that white smudges began blossoming against the pitch blackness of his eyelids. His mouth suddenly jutted open, and he inhaled the biggest breath he could manage, but it cracked somewhere in the middle and Wonwoo knew he was going to start sobbing.

Unable to hold the sink any longer, Wonwoo let go of its sharp edges and curled up tight on the floor, the tears sprouting unbridled and glossing to stain over the rouge of his cheeks. In his mind, it was the most pitiful sight. He thought he would have learned his lesson the first time about opening up and trusting another, yet, somehow, he was back in the same fucking place. He thought he was being cautious. Not cautious enough. He thought he was taking his time. Not enough time. Wonwoo never judged anything right.

—JUNE 17TH.

[ Vernon | 8:08 am ]: hey glasses

[ Vernon | 8:08 am ]: haven’t heard from u since Friday

[ Vernon | 8:08 am ]: pls tell me u made it home alright

…

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 11:30 am ]: Hey Wonwoo! It’s Seungcheol (got ur number from Seokmin btw)

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 11:31 am ]: Really nice to meet you and glad you could make it out! Ur a super cool dude. Idk if you like pickup basketball but I always play on weekends at the uni B gym. If you ever want to come down or wtv let me know!

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 11:35 am ]: Princess says ur awesome

…

[ Seokmin | 12:57 pm ]: Hey Won

[ Seokmin | 12:57 pm ]: Make it home alright?

[ Seokmin | 12:57 pm ]: It was nice to see you!!

—JUNE 18TH.

[ Vernon | 10:01 am ]: Seokmin and I r going mini-putting at that glow in the dark place I got fired from lol u in or nah?

[ Vernon | 10:25 am ]: helloooooooo? u there beautiful?

…

[ Vernon | 3:45 pm ]: glasses are you fucking alive dude?

[ Seokmin | 3:50 pm ]: Everything okay? Did u get sick?

—JUNE 19TH.

[ Vernon | 7:13 am ]: okay haha it’s not funny anymore

[ Vernon | 7:13 am ]: wonwoo I swear if you don’t fucking text me back in the next 12 hours I’m breaking ur door down cuz wtf man im fuckin pissing my pants over here

…

[ Her | 9:00 am ]: hey!!

[ Her | 9:00 am ]: I hope you made it home okay :) sorry I didn’t text you. I’ve been sick as a dog omg but I feel better today

[ Her | 9:02 am ]: I’m so glad u came even if it was a little tense or overwhelming at times lol. I loved seeing u there. don’t quite rmbr everything that happened but I’m sure it was fun

[ Her | 9:03 am ]: miss you a lot alrd

[ Her | 9:10 am ]: we still good to work on the book tmo?

Since he slept well into the afternoon, Wonwoo didn’t notice any of the morning texts until much later, when he finally sat down at the dining table to slowly nibble a piece of strawberry jam toast. It wasn’t that he was ignoring Vernon or Seokmin’s texts, more so the fact he had been trying to stay off his phone altogether. It was just too much and he couldn’t afford to worry about anyone else but himself, though, he supposed it might be time to answer poor Vernon.

Wonwoo had disregarded your texts—didn’t glance at them for longer than a millisecond or absorb one written word. At the moment, he didn’t know where he stood with you. Saturday had been brutal, Sunday was stupendously worse, on Monday he’d called in sick because the thought of stepping one foot outside his apartment made him ghostly ill, and Tuesday, today, he was quite mopey, lethargic, and hardly contained enough energy to even feed himself.

But he still took another bite from his toast.

It was better than completely and utterly rotting.

[ Wonwoo | 1:42 pm ]: Sorry.

[ Wonwoo | 1:42 pm ]: Wasn’t feeling the greatest.

[ Wonwoo | 1:42 pm ]: I promise I’m alive.

He set the phone down beside his plate, continuing to tear at small sections of the toast to make it easier to eat. Wonwoo didn’t bother replying to anyone else. If they were truly that concerned as to why he hadn’t answered—which he knew they weren’t—then Vernon could disseminate whatever information he pleased.

Poking his glasses up with a pinky finger, Wonwoo saw his phone screen illuminate with a text from Vernon.

[ Vernon | 1:44 pm ]: jesus christ wonwoo

[ Vernon | 1:44 pm ]: don’t scare me like that I legit thought something happened to u

[ Vernon | 1:44 pm ]: man check ur fucking texts lol

Wonwoo pushed the dish aside and picked up his phone.

[ Wonwoo | 1:45 pm ]: My bad.

[ Vernon | 1:45 pm ]: it’s ok

[ Vernon | 1:45 pm]: soz u got sick

[ Vernon | 1:46 pm ]: u feel any better?

No—Wonwoo had almost audibly laughed. He felt pulverised, like a piece of trembling jelly hardly able to walk. If he was lucky, he might be able to keep the toast down without his grief getting in the way and tormenting the nutrients back out of him. But it wasn’t like his friend could do anything about it or make his nightmares end.

[ Wonwoo | 1:47 pm ]: Yeah, I’m okay now.

You were right—Wonwoo really was a liar.

[ Vernon | 1:47 pm ]: good!

[ Vernon | 1:48 pm ]: yeah got pretty sick myself tbh

[ Vernon | 1:48 pm ]: next day was ass

[ Vernon | 1:48 pm ]: well uh if theres anything u need lemme kno im gonna b out today I could prob stop by whenever

After thumbing up the message, Wonwoo grabbed his plate, walked over to the sink, and tossed it in, hearing it crash into the stainless-steel emptiness. He didn’t know what else he would do today. Probably nothing at all except lay in his bed and sleep.

[ Her | 7:00 pm ]: hey pls check ur messages <3

…

[ Her | 8:09 pm ]: hey can u fucking check ur msgs

…

[ Her | 10:15 pm ]: wonwoo this is embarrassing for me PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD CHECK UR MESSAGES!!

Hearing his phone ding for the third time that night, Wonwoo at last rolled over to drag the device aglow from the bedside table. As he lazily fixed the glasses over his face to squint across the fine print, his stomach dropped faster than the incline on a roller coaster. You were getting blatantly impatient with his lack of response.

The thing was, he always answered you. Even if he was in the middle of working, or blazed from his head to his toes, or half-asleep and hardly conscious—Wonwoo would always make time to text you back because there was nothing more important in his life.

It wasn’t that he was void of all desire to talk to you—it was that his body physically couldn’t allow it. His fingers suddenly felt so stiff, like they were wooden, and his mind flashed blank with not a single word to spare. He was still devastated with you, and that was putting it fucking mildly. Breathing out all the conjured despair and pain through his nose, Wonwoo left the phone on his nightstand, rolling back over to his side in another attempt to sleep.

—JUNE 20TH.

[ Her | 8:02 am ]: wonwoo why aren’t you answering me?

[ Her | 8:02 am ]: I was going to get rly mad at u and send a long nagging text or a voicemail but I feel like somethings wrong

[ Her | 8:10 am ]: we’re supposed to write today :(

[ Her | 8:35 am ]: I’m starting to get worried ugh

—JUNE 21ST.

[ Her | 11:20 am ]: wonwoo can you please send me something so I know you’re okay? even just a thumbs up?

[ Her | 11:25 am ]: please

—JUNE 23RD.

[ Her | 9:30 pm ]: okay it’s basically been a week since the party and idk what to do. I’m so fucking pissed off at you bc why can’t you just answer me? Ik I’m not blocked which leads me to think you’re not pissed at me? otherwise u would block me

[ Her | 9:31 pm ]: you’re reading my texts ik u are

[ Her | 9:34 pm ]: just why are you doing this I don’t understand I feel like crying bc I don’t know what I did or why you’re ignoring me?? if I did something can you please tell me I just hate this fucking guessing game and I hate you for putting me thru it

[ Her | 9:35 pm ]: fuck you honestly

[ Her | 10:36 pm ]: but I still miss you so much

[ New voice mail from Her | 10:58 pm ]

—JUNE 26TH.

Wonwoo felt the phone continuously buzz in his pocket for the third time that afternoon—he was getting another call while at the pharmacy and at that point even his boss was beginning to take note. He hardly ever worked morning to afternoon shifts, but another staff member was sick and so Wonwoo was unfortunately hailed upon to take their place, though, he had realized it might be a good idea for him to experience the fresh, softer air against his face, which chiefly prompted him to accept. Even if he had thrown up his breakfast in the washroom just before his shift started, at least he’d tried to eat something—thawed out blueberry waffles with butter were still too much for his stomach. He should probably stick to toast.

As he stood behind the counter, marking down another bundle of vitamin bottles and their expiry dates from the clipboard, his boss was handing out prescriptions. Wonwoo was in the midst of a long, impossible-to-hide yawn when his phone started vibrating again, that stupid Sencha ringtone practically grating his ears.

“Wonwoo,” his boss said, “I think you better answer that.”

“No, it’s nothing. I’ll shut my phone off.”

Her reading glasses were poised at the tip of her nose as she typed some information into the computer, each click from the chunky keyboard notably slower than the last.

“Well,” she huffed, clearing her throat, “whoever it is, that was their fourth time calling you… I do believe that warrants some attention. Now, if you’re sure it’s nothing at all, then I’d rather you keep that phone in your locker, alright?”

He paused, staring down at the clipboard in his hands.

“… Can I take just five minutes?”

Glancing over the shoulder of her pristine white lab coat, his boss nodded, and Wonwoo left the clipboard sitting alongside the vitamin bottles. He slipped into the employee break room and out the heavy backdoor, stepping behind the building for the utmost privacy.

Wriggling out the phone from his pants pocket, Wonwoo stared at the four separate notifications, all spread out within the past hour. Vernon had been attempting to reach Wonwoo for whatever reason, though he didn’t know what could possibly be so goddamn pressing that a text message wouldn’t suffice. He didn’t want to find out, either. But Wonwoo had already excused himself, and he didn’t want to waste the precious five minutes he’d been anointed.

He dialed his friend back. The call was picked up instantly.

“Vernon, what the f—”

“Glasses! It’s about fuckin’ time you answered your stupid phone! Where the hell are you, anyway? Mars?!” His voice boomed through the staticky line like a boxer’s jab and Wonwoo immediately moved the device from his ear, taking a second to orient himself.

“I’m at work, dumbass. Use your fucking head.”

“Work?! Oh, give me a break. Work! That’s your excuse?!”

Letting his temple prop against the uncomfortable brick wall, Wonwoo rubbed at his nose, his eyes squeezing out the sunlight.

“Just tell me why you’re blowing up my phone…”

“How about ‘cause I almost got mugged! That’s why!”

“Wha—mugged? Vernon, what? By who?”

“Your girlfriend, that’s fuckin’ who!”

Wonwoo pushed off the wall using his shoulder, taking a few steps across the cigarette butt-littered walkway. He absolutely hated it beyond comprehension whenever Vernon referred to you as his girlfriend—even more so now—though he was plagued by the thickest confusion and he needed Vernon to calm down in order to explain everything succinctly.

Taking a thorough breath, he stopped pacing.

“Okay, chill out, for just a second. And then talk to me. Because I don’t have a clue what you’re yelling about. I told my boss I’d be five minutes and I’m wasting out the clock.”

“Fuck—okay. So, I was gettin’ gas, alright? Mindin’ my own business when I see Her come outside the store. I thought, oh, hey, I know we’re probably not on the greatest terms yet but I’ll say hi.” He heard the boy cut himself off, and then laugh a bit, as though he were still reeling from the incident. “Dude, the second she sees me, I think I’m gonna die. She practically corners me at my Camry, like, askin’ me all this stuff: what happened to Wonwoo? Where’s Wonwoo? Do you know what’s goin’ on? Why isn’t he talkin’ to me?”

At that point, Wonwoo had squatted down in the middle of the walkway, rubbing a hand dreadfully against his cheek. He didn’t have a cigarette on him, but if he did, he’d be smoking it down to the pathetic nub. Vernon coughed and then started up his story again.

“I try to tell the chick—hey, I’ve got no fuckin’ clue! He told me he wasn’t feelin’ well, we haven’t spoken much—like, fuck if I know all the details to your goddamn life! She doesn’t believe I’m givin’ the full truth. I tell her again: look, he’s real private, he doesn’t talk about much. If he is goin’ through somethin’, just give him space and time—blah, blah. She tells me I’m a bad friend! Like—what the fuck, first of all! A bad friend?! She’s—okay, anyway—"

Wonwoo began to pull at some green sprigs of grass pushing up from between cracks in the cement, just to give his nervous, trembly fingers something to do. His heartbeat was climbing higher in his throat.

“She thinks you hate her, o-or I don’t know what she fuckin’ thinks, actually. What I do know is that she hates me ten times more than she did before, n’ that you need to get off your fuckin’ ass and talk to her! Do y’know scary it is to have Her yellin’ at you?! I thought she was gonna light my hair on fire with the gas pump or some shit! Fuck. My heart’s like, still racin’. And not to terrify you but she might stop by your place later today—”

“Wait, wait, wait,” he interrupted Vernon while shooting back to his feet, beginning to anxiously pace all over again, “you think she’ll stop by my apartment? No, that can’t—” Wonwoo stumbled on a rock, then reared his foot to punt it hard across the cement, “I-I don’t want to talk to her. I fucking can’t. It’s too much.”

“I don’t know what to do about that…” Vernon sighed, followed by the distinctive spark of a lighter crackling in the background. “Didn’t even know you were ignorin’ her… what happened, anyway? I mean, this shit seems real serious.”

The silence was so thinned but still unbearably long, and as Wonwoo listened to his friend ignite a blunt in order to mellow out, he felt that unmistakable pain twist at the pliable centre of his chest, like he was being carved into with a whittling tool.

Put simply, Wonwoo wasn’t ready to see you, let alone have a civil conversation that could be separate from his bitter, hurt emotion. There was too much he needed to decide alone, and as the hot, stinging summer air around him became concerningly harder to breathe, Wonwoo had no other choice but to hang up on his friend and burst back into the employee washroom. Eventually, his boss had stopped by to knock on the door, to which Wonwoo answered with the most reluctant, pained, hoarse voice he could muster.

“S-Sorry—be out soon…”

“… I’ll give you a few more minutes,” she answered after a momentary pause, most likely realizing something was very wrong.

But he couldn’t hide it any better than that.

Wonwoo stepped inside the pottery shop, the bells overhead tinkling, and the attention of his landlord now piqued as she glanced up from the earth-coloured vase being washed by her paintbrush.

“Back from work?” She asked.

“Yeah…” he sighed, making his way toward the staircase, already reaching for the handrail, “can hardly stand. I’m exhausted.”

Sweeping some dried pieces of clay off her messy, weathered apron, she lent Wonwoo a sympathetic smile. “Well, rest up.”

He nodded at her.

Coming up to his apartment, Wonwoo was inexplicably relieved he hadn’t run into you at any point. He clicked his lock shut with another sigh, a more distant one that arose from somewhere so dusty and cold inside his chest. Maybe Vernon was right, Wonwoo thought while kicking off his shoes. Maybe it would be best to get such an excruciating, uncomfortable conversation out of the way rather than ruminate over how awful it was bound to be.

He scrubbed his hands clean at the sink, then trudged into his bedroom to change from his pharmacy appropriate clothes.

But as he came to sit at the edge of his bed, thinking back to that night—all the touches and tender glances and how foolishly he presumed it would be okay to open those clandestine, personal pages he always struggled to share—Wonwoo knew it was still too premature. If he were to speak with you now, nothing productive or relatively good would come from it. He leaned forward into his hands and raked them distraughtly through his hair, tugging against the black fronds until he worried about legitimately pulling them out.

You were obviously concerned and worried—he knew that, and part of him ached because it was due to his own ignorance.

It just couldn’t happen yet.

Wonwoo was mad at you. He felt betrayed, disrespected, used. There was sadness, heavier than his body weight. So much emotion was blistering and alive inside of him with nowhere to go.

Collapsing backward, arms tossed beside his head, Wonwoo closed his eyes and hoped he might fall asleep deep enough in order to never wake up. That way, he would never have to face reality—he would never have to stand in front of you and cough up some half-baked explanation that only served to protect himself.

Through the haze and mist of his bizarre dreams that whipped by akin to reels from old age movies, Wonwoo saw someone he didn’t think would ever reappear in his subconscious again—Jeanie.

He had no idea where he was, or what those disembodied figures were that shifted in the blurred distance. She was the only detail he could pinpoint. Wonwoo walked toward her, pushing through something invisible but notably thick, like molasses. He tried inconceivably hard to absorb the intricacies of her face, but when he stared for too long, her features would start moving, almost melting off her as though she was a wax figure in a sweltering auditorium.

Yet, he could hear something.

There were voices becoming louder in his ears, and the more intently he listened for them, the clearer Jeanie’s face became.

The girl’s hair was chin length, dark. Dark like timbre. Or very fine-grated flint. It looked soft to one’s touch, if, in fact, one could possibly touch her without her shattering. I remember thinking that. The girl will shatter if I bump her, even if it’s an accidental thing—a gentle scraping sort of contact that wouldn’t even disrupt a feather.

I remember her eyes, too. My brother owned a box of marbles when he was twelve years old. When I looked into the girl’s eyes, it was like I was eight again, staring over the discarded sewing tin that held my brother’s smooth, large, galactic marbles he told me to never play with. I hated him for it. I think a part of me still does. But I don’t feel that resentment when I look into her eyes. Rather I feel the mystery and curiosity I believed was permanently erased alongside my youth.

Then there were her lips, which were small but plump. They seemed almost stained. I thought an artist took a stroke of watery, blood red paint to her mouth. It’s even hard to hear her when she speaks. I have to lean in so closely that my chest shrinks in on itself with coyness. I love it too much but I can’t let the beautiful, quiet girl know.

Wonwoo knew every word—he could recite them endlessly, without a sweat or a hiccup. It was his own writing after all, from the book he’d attempted to write for her during their relationship. Finally, he could see Jeanie standing in front of him, at the edge of clarity. Close enough to embrace and kiss and beg so pathetically for forgiveness.

But Wonwoo was never given the chance.

The voices scattered in a mere instant, whisking away into the baby blue nothingness that engulfed him like a handful of sand grains on a windy beach. Instead, he heard knocking. It rattled his brain.

Knock, knock, knock, knock!

The atmosphere started to crumble. He was caught in that peculiar stretch of being half-asleep and half-awake, when it’s impossible to decipher reality from the reverie that doesn’t quite want to let go just yet. Everything shuddered and swayed like a house on stilts.

“Wonwoo! Open the fucking door! For fuck’s sake!”

And then, he was shooting up in bed, fast enough to prompt the dizziness that whorled the entire room into a confusing mélange of shapes and evening clementine colours. His heart was barraging against his chest, and Wonwoo had to settle a hand overtop the pulse to confirm with himself that the organ was still inside his body. As he wiped off the sweat that glistened by his temples, trying to mentally grasp the fading fragments from his dream, Wonwoo heard the knocking sound again. Louder. As though his door would cave in.

He knew it was you. You weren’t going to leave, either, not unless someone had to drag you out the building by the ankles, or until you spoke to Wonwoo about his impromptu ghosting.

The thing was, Wonwoo was fucking pissed.

He was pissed that such a bittersweet dream had been ripped away from him like everything else in his life—most often love and trust—and he was pissed that he never got any closure.

Wonwoo was just boiling over, tired of everything.

Knockknockknock!

Stumbling into the living room, Wonwoo approached the door that was currently receiving the abuse of a lifetime. His hand grazed the knob, though it was nothing akin to the first time he’d let you inside his apartment, so nervous, flustered, doubting himself. When he opened the door, Wonwoo opened it with an unwavering abruptness that presented you at the threshold, your closed fist left still in the air like you were a marionette frozen by your orchestrator.

With your mouth agape and soundless, Wonwoo wondered if you would even speak. The shock was slowly spreading throughout your face, adorned as usual with that picture perfect makeup.

But he’d assumed too quickly.

“Jesus fucking Christ! So, you are alive!”

He stepped aside while you stormed into the apartment, and then he let the door swing shut, capturing the two of you in privacy.

You spun around to glare Wonwoo down.

“What the actual fuck is your problem?! Did you forget how to read?! Write?! Answer your fucking phone?! I mean, would it kill you, Wonwoo, to text me back? Even just one word? Or, is that too fucking difficult?! It’s not like I’m asking for a goddamn scripture!”

Since March, Wonwoo had known you. It was nearly July.

Never had he seen you like this before. Sure, there were times you had gotten angry and that short fuse inside would burst. It was always jarring, but you tended to regain composure within the next minute or so, shaking off the confining chrysalis of your rage.

This didn’t seem so easy to shake off.

You were furious. Wonwoo watched you begin to pace the living room, your hands gesturing about wildly. There was practically a radiation that glowed from around you, red like singed charcoals.

“I can’t believe the rollercoaster you have put me through this past week, you asshole! I mean, seriously! I've never been this baffled! At first, I just assumed you were sick! Because—who wasn’t sick after that night? But we had to write the next day, and you always get back to me, so when you didn’t, my stomach started twisting up! I thought, something has to be wrong—Wonwoo doesn’t do this! He never stands me up! But I didn’t want to pry, because you fucking hate when I pry, so I left it alone! I left it and then I still get nothing!”

A Rubik’s cube was sitting on the coffee table. For some reason, you snatched it up and started jamming at the panels while continuing to pace the living room. Your hands were fizzling firecrackers, surging with ample energy, needing a task to direct all that accumulated anger so the fingers wouldn’t fly off your joints.

“But I see Vernon getting gas! And, wow, everything is just so peachy for him! Life is so sweet and sugary for the local drug dealer who just milked hundreds of dollars out of some stupid rich kids and their latent drug addictions! And you know what I had to do? I had to back him up like a feral fucking cat just to wrangle some information about you! Because I thought maybe you were dead, or kidnapped, or you just suddenly hate me! I looked like such a psychopath!”

You slammed the unsolved Rubik’s cube back onto the coffee table hard enough to dislodge a few pieces. They spotted his carpet like blood spatters. A tattered, deep breath was sucked up your nose.

“So, here I fucking am, screaming my head off because I am so pissed at you, Wonwoo! I want an answer even if it kills me!”

The air was dead silent, and Wonwoo wanted to let the room breathe for just a minute at most. Every single word you had spewed was compressed into the spaces of his apartment and if he didn’t give the atmosphere enough time to settle then his walls would undoubtedly burst. You refused to stare anywhere else but him. There was so much need and pain and agony behind those glassy eyes.

Wonwoo glanced down at his socked feet, swallowed hard, and then back at you. He had to speak. Nothing else would suffice.

“… Honestly… there’s no answer I can give you that won’t hurt, or make you any less upset… I don’t want to drag this out, either.” A subtle breath entered his mouth. “Her, we shouldn’t do this anymore—the book. I don’t want to help. You can finish it yourself.”

It was sharp, so meticulously sharp—a clean, smooth cut.

Though he was calm water on the outside, he felt a trembling behind his ribs. His heart was groveling with him to not be so cruel.

You laughed, titled your head. “What?”

“I can’t continue to help you write.”

Again, the room was silent.

“… You… you’re… you what?”

Something wasn’t connecting inside your brain. For some reason, you could not comprehend what Wonwoo was insisting. His patience was translucent and the longer he stood across from you in the living room, thinking about his interrupted dream and the vulnerability you stepped all over and the time he wasted—he could only get angrier. His fingernail scraped over his thumb like a tooth.

You wiped something off your face and started to laugh again.

“God—okay. There’s—I’m sorry but there’s absolutely no way you just said that to me… I come here, sick to my fucking stomach, worried about you. Yes, I’m mad but—I-I still care. And you—you’re going to—fuck.” A hand then clasped over your mouth as you pointed your gaze to the shag carpet, and for a moment, Wonwoo couldn’t decide if you were masking a laugh or a sob. “You’re going to tell me that we should just… stop, in your words. Or, you’ll stop, and I can keep trudging on. Am I hearing that right? Is that what you said?”

Wonwoo nodded.

He hadn’t realized it, but he’d just detonated a bomb.

At first, there was not a single crease or wrinkle that ruptured your disturbingly placid face. But, surely enough, he was beginning to observe the slow, inevitable fracturing that started with a twitch in your upper lip, and then a wicked furrow pulling down your brow, and that irritable blinking of your eyes as though someone had just blown a cloud of dust into them. Wonwoo knew it was coming.

“Fuck you.”

It was so spiteful, almost demonic.

“You should go,” Wonwoo said, sighing.

Instead, your head rung back and forth.

“No, actually—” you stepped toward him, fingers pinching at the thick, almost palpable air while your eyes fumed with every malevolent thought that burned inside you, “—fuck you, Wonwoo.”

He stared back at you, somehow unfaltering.

“Listen, if you don’t—”

“If I don’t what?!” You screamed, your palms slamming against his chest and prompting him to stumble backward. “If I don’t leave, then fucking what?!” Even though it was just you shouting, it sounded like there were hundreds of anguished women behind each word.

Wonwoo felt the pin drop into his gut.

“Y’know what I think, Wonwoo?! I think this is just like that time at SRX, when you told me the same fucking thing! You just picked up all your shit and left! No explanation, no prelude, no nothing! Is that what gets you off? Huh? Treating everyone like they’re pieces of scrap metal with no fucking emotion?! You can just do whatever you want! Doesn’t matter! Who gives a fuck about whose feelings I’m totally disregarding, whose time I’m wasting. I’m Wonwoo! I get to pull the plug on everybody because who cares!”

Your voice had employed a fake, mocking tone.

And while Wonwoo knew the better choice was to maintain his quiet, mature composure, it was much easier to disregard the guise altogether—chuck it straight out the window like a browned banana peel because as much as he’d like to believe he was refined, evolved, and in control, Wonwoo hadn’t ever been anything of the sort.

He shook his head at you.

“I disregard people’s feelings? People’s time? Me?”

“Yes, you!”

“That is such bullshit.”

“Oh, come the fuck on, Wonwoo! Don’t be so damn deluded!”

“Do you even hear yourself? A single word that you’re fucking saying? I disregard people’s feelings? Well, what about you, then? You—and, sorry if this puts a nick in the perfect, angelic image you have of yourself—but you just use people. And I don’t want to be used anymore. There’s my fucking answer that you want so badly.”

You gagged at him, slack-mouthed down to the floor.

“I use people? Wonwoo, are you fucking insane?!”

“No more than you.”

“How?! Tell me how I’ve used you!”

He laughed at the demand, rubbing a hand across his scalp. “Oh, come on—don’t make me spell it out for you, Her.”

“No, please do! Please spell out in that scholar-kissed, prestigious vocabulary of yours how I’ve used you!”

Wonwoo paced over to the fireplace mantel, this light-headed, tingly sensation beginning to merge with his blood and flow to every crack and crevice of his body. He couldn’t believe this was happening, but now that you two were shredding into each other, Wonwoo saw no point in sugar coating a damn thing. If you wanted the truth, then he would give you exactly that—it mattered no less to him.

“The book. How is that not obvious? I mean, for the last few months, that’s all I’ve done. Is help you. You didn’t even care about who I was before. You just wanted someone who could make your life easier and bend to all your whims at the drop of a hat. I’m the one who has to put up with your obsessions and gripes and your crazy fucking mood swings—I mean, do you even know how draining that shit is? You don’t, because you care about you. You care about writing this masterpiece for Mingyu—who, I should mention—doesn’t give a fuck about you. But you know that, right? You’re a smart girl, aren’t you?

You know it when he treats you like a dumb object, belittles you in front of your friends, puts down and shows no support in your interests—like, really, Her? That’s who you’re in love with? That’s the man you want to spend the rest of your life with? Or do you just like him for his status? Is it because he pays for your coke and your clothes and your entire fucking life? And what about Seokmin? Your little puppy dog. Always so eager to do whatever you ask of him. He just does all the shit that’s not worth your breath. So, instead of wasting your time, you waste his instead.

Bells and Clara? Why the fuck do you even keep them around? You treat them like they're insufferable. But you know they make you look better—so much smarter, more organized, goal-driven—they’re just the two annoying drunk girls that tag along because as much as you despise them you just can’t deny how good they make you look. But that’s what you do! You use everyone around you and no one ever says a fucking thing because you’re such a tyrant!”

Wonwoo was fully cognizant of how sadistic it all was—that’s what he intended. If every word was not going to lacerate or bite or sink so painfully deep into your tissue that it felt like a bony dagger, then there was no point in saying anything at all. You were across from him, vibrating like an excited atom, your fists clenched while every possible hue of rage spilt down the length of your hollow face.

Simple enough—you’d asked him to spell it out, and that’s what he’d done. If could make it any clearer, he would. You then gulped, and there sounded a quiver to your voice that Wonwoo had never heard before. He stood tensely, awaiting your response.

“H-Hm, so… that’s what you think of me?” The end of your question sharply pitched off. “That’s your conclusion?”

“It is,” Wonwoo answered, pressing up his glasses.

Rolling your shoulders and clearing your throat, you nodded, meanwhile you stared down at your hands which began to slowly unfurl. Wonwoo realized that your fingers were trembling like dry, autumn leaves in a soaring wind. He’d never seen that before, ever.

“So, actually, what I think—” you coughed, placing an elbow overtop your mouth to catch the spit, “—I think that…”

For a moment, Wonwoo thought it was over. Your voice was so quiet, hushed, with hardly an ounce of tenacity or grit. But he should have known better than to suspect you of being so spineless.

“What I think, Wonwoo, is that you love to write, and read, because the only person you can communicate with is yourself. You… you are so emotionally stunted that it should be fucking studied. That was the most I’ve ever heard you speak, and you used all of it to basically call me fake, manipulative, and shallow.”

“Because you asked.”

“God. You are so empty, Wonwoo. You’re just a shell. You would rather exist inside your literary delusions than reality because there is nothing for you here. No real relationships, no real aspirations, nothing. And you know why that happened? You can’t fucking talk about anything. Instead, you just hold it all inside—you hold it and hold it until it starts seeping out and poisoning everyone around you. It’s your own fucking fault, Wonwoo. You're gonna drive everyone away. And then have the audacity to somehow point the finger, like they’re the one with the fucking problem. But it’s you.”

He could almost hear the clatter of the metal against the hardwood as you dragged out the metaphorical dagger. There was even a physical pain throbbing at his lower back, though, Wonwoo quickly began to accept the pain was aflame everywhere on his body.

Your lips were pressed together in a strict, firm line. If you opted to speak just one word more, then maybe the dam would break, and his apartment would transform into a sodden, soaked mess.

He watched your head begin to shake, and then you were swallowing down a gigantic, stinging lump. Of course, even at your most barren, emotionally exhausted self, you would get the last word.

“So you can go fuck yourself.”

And Wonwoo was willing to let you have it.

He closed his door at the sound of your wrenched sob in the corridor. There wasn’t much else for him to do other than click the lock shut, pick up the broken pieces from his Rubik’s cube, and walk back into his bedroom. Wonwoo whipped the curtains shut, crawled underneath the cold, thin covers that he stretched over his head.

In the isolating darkness, he slept.

Alone again.

—JULY 21ST.

It was some time in the evening.

A soft, nearly unsettling quietness engulfed the train station.

There was nothing even relatively stimulating that Wonwoo could do apart from aimless surfing through his phone, sparing the occasional glance toward the directory desk with its few uniformed clerks. A navy-blue suitcase was at his side, stuffed full of folded clothes and charging cables. As organized earlier in the year, Wonwoo had spent the week at his uncle’s house—even his older brother managed to stop by for a few days to celebrate Wonwoo’s birthday.

For the most part, Wonwoo enjoyed his time there. The house was more like a cottage, situated on a fresh, small lake shaded over by the summer canopies of sycamore and evergreen trees. While he didn’t dabble in any swimming, Wonwoo had liked stretching out on the webbed hammock down by the firepit, rocking himself back and forth using a long leg that he kept strewn over the edge.

He missed that peaceful feeling engendered by the lakeside wind and the rustling leaves—how rejuvenating it all was to escape the monotonous hell that was his life back in the grey, stiff city.

Wonwoo clicked on his phone to check the time.

5:50 pm.

He would need to board his train soon.

Unfortunately, whether he liked it or not, Wonwoo had to go back and he had to pick up where he’d so painfully left off. No more pieces of refrigerated chocolate cake straight from the box or sitting outside on the maplewood patio to jingle a fake mouse at the paws of his uncle’s cat. No more packed joints beside the ebbing shoreline at midnight, or waking up to the most ethereal, golden light warming through the curtains as though the skies were made with honey.

Wonwoo sighed, plugging in the earbuds left dangling at his shirt collar. He scrolled through his music looking for a song to play.

Above all, it had nearly been a month since he last spoke to you.

Spoke wasn’t even the right word. That day, Wonwoo had set out to ruin you, because he could not bring himself to steep in all that misery and vitriol alone, bearing its weight like he was made from pressurized diamond when in truth—he was flaky and feeble.

The weeks that passed afterword were all blurred together. He talked to no one. Seldom saw anybody. Wonwoo had hardly existed.

A voicemail was still sitting in his inbox. You had sent it to him during a late night in June after the crazed party at Seungcheol’s family mansion, though Wonwoo never bothered listening to it because it was one of his biggest weaknesses—your voice—the most beautiful sound in the world as you had once phrased to him back at the café Wonwoo used to frequent. Then, he’d laughed it off, believing you were beyond full of yourself. Gradually, however, it became truth.

To hear you talk was to feel so in love that it physically ached.

“Train to Lees Station will be arriving within the next five minutes. Please make your way to platform C for boarding.”

The announcement finished with a ding.

Wonwoo got to his feet and grabbed the suitcase handle, beginning to pull it behind him while following the small, silent crowd toward the elevator. It was finally time to go home. Although home didn't seem like much to him anymore, if not just an aimless place in a bleak city that had lost all its warmth.

10:48 pm.

Wonwoo couldn’t sleep, or even take a nap.

When he would rest his head against the window, his eyes could only stay shut for no longer than a measly, frustrating minute. He’d completely exhausted his playlists. By midnight, the train would stop at his station, anyway. There was nothing left for him to listen to… except that voicemail. It was an awful fucking idea, but Wonwoo hadn’t been able to shake the temptation since it first crept into his memory all those hours ago.

Wonwoo didn’t want to think about you—not until he’d stepped off that goddamn train and had fully left all remnants of his short summer vacation behind. When he was back amongst the ignorant city people, and those towering glass infrastructures, and the constant honking, beeping, and roaring of motorized vehicles, would he even probe the thought. But—then again—so much time had passed. So much time to regret, anguish, and loathe his actions.

“… So, um—I-I just want to say first and foremost how much you suck for doing this to me, actually. You… god—fuck, if I have to blow my nose one more time… you suck, Wonwoo! You just—you fucking suck so much! You and your stupid privacy! I-I’m not trying to invade your life o-or get—or pry into something I shouldn’t be—I just want an answer, I want clarity, I want you to—I want—I need you to be a fucking person and just talk to me so I don’t hate myself! Because right now I feel like this is all my fucking fault!

… And it sucks because I don’t even know who I can talk to about this. I want to talk to you. But I can’t a-and… oh my god… we were supposed to write a couple days ago. At the park. I knew you weren’t going to show up but I went there anyway. I tried so hard to put down a sentence. But I hated all of it. I looked back at everything I’d written so far and I wanted to erase every single fucking word and blame you for it… f-fuck… I’m running out of stupid fucking tissues… oh… where’s the extra box?... I’m such a wreck.

�� And, um, oh my gosh. Yesterday, at the mall, I went shopping, and I saw this really cute shirt. It was so pretty. Um… dammit! Sorry, I just hit my elbow… that hurt, Jesus Christ… uh—right, so, I saw this shirt and it was so cute with little buttons on it. It was white and blue. A little bit of frills. I know you don’t like frills but I promise it was just the right amount. A-And I have the perfect skirt to go with it. So, um, I put it on, and it fit really nice. I took a picture in the fitting room and I wanted to send it to you but you’re not talking to me right now. But, uh, I did buy it.

I was wearing it today. But then, like, the worst th-thing ever happened… um, it ripped. I ripped it. I don’t even know how, I was just going through my closet and it caught on a broken hanger or something and then all I heard was a b-big rip… it’s totally ruined now. I don’t know but I burst into tears. I was crying so hard and you were the first person I wanted to call but you’re not talking to me, a-and—fuck, I don’t know what I’m saying anymore… I just—I’m mad at you, I’m so fucking mad but I still care and—please, I miss you. I really, really miss you, Wonwoo. It hurts inside.

I’m sorry this is so long… I think m’gonna stop talking because my sinuses are closing up and my throat is burning. Um, I’ll go n-now. Just—fuck you. Please text me or call be back. Please.”

The message blipped off.

For a moment, he was frozen solid, staring back at his reflection through the dark window at his shoulder. I’m so fucking mad but I still care. Then, in an instant, Wonwoo had wished he never listened to the voicemail. He tore out his earbuds and bundled them up, shoving them into his pocket alongside his phone.

He was on the precipice of a horrifying change, but he didn’t know exactly what—just that he was looking at something so smooth and grey and warmed up from the blistered sun.

He was looking at the rock.

—JULY 22ND.

By the time Wonwoo had returned to his apartment last night, he was dead tired—a zombie, practically—scuffing his feet against the wooden flooring with his suitcase rolling behind. Face-planting upon the bed that hadn’t felt the dip from his body weight in a week, he thought he would rest his drooping eyes and give himself a moment to settle. Except it wasn’t just a moment, it was hours and hours of sleep that felt like a single second. When he woke up, his arm was completely numbed from being tucked under his cheek.

It had actually scared him. Wonwoo immediately shot up, staring down at the lifeless limb which he couldn’t move an inch.

“Fuck…” he mumbled to himself hoarsely, squinting against the sunlight which blinded the bedroom. “How long was I out…”

Digging the latter hand into his pants pocket, he let the blood slowly tingle back into his other arm while checking the time on his phone. However, the device was dead. For all he knew, it was the year three-thousand and there would be flying cars and Blade Runner infomercials gleaming in the city smog. Once he was able to move his arm, Wonwoo slid off the bed and laid down his suitcase, beginning to zip open the compartment.

His charger was packed perfectly on top.

Letting his phone recharge on the bedside table, he returned to unpacking. His laptop, toothbrush, books, socks, pairs of underwear and oversized shirts—he stored everything back in its appropriate place, tossing the occasional article into his laundry hamper, until the suitcase was nearly emptied. The only item which remained inside was a small plastic bottle, translucent orange, baring a white prescription label with a few pills remaining side.

His venlafaxine.

Wonwoo had started taking the medication again, roughly a week after his fight with you. Upon completely losing his ability to sleep or eat or survive an entire day without crippling in on himself like the world was a sinkhole waiting for him to slip, Wonwoo came to the realization that—what the fuck—he didn’t have to plainly suffer, and that all the time he spent ignoring the drug because he couldn’t even value his life enough to swallow one tiny pill was a useless, cruel disregard for the body that tried so fucking hard to protect him.

Even when it didn’t feel like it.

By the time Wonwoo ate breakfast—a simple piece of toast with peanut butter—his phone was halfway charged.

1:01 pm.

He’d slept for thirteen hours straight.

“Get over it, Wonwoo. Don’t overreact... c’mon, c’mon, don’t give me that sad little face… it was funny!”

“Leave me alone.”

“No.”

“Leave me alone, please.”

“No.”

“Bohyuk! Stop!”

“Stop what?!”

“You’re poking me! Bastard…”

“Oh, you just said a curse word. Mom is gonna be so mad. Kids your age aren’t supposed to start swearing yet.”

“Tell her. I don’t care.”

“You don’t?”

“No.”

“Well, what if she takes away your books? I bet you’ll get upset then, won’t you? Or those weird little playing cards you have. What if she’s so mad, she burns them! You’ll cry yourself to sleep like a little baby.”

“I said stop touching me!”

“Or what? What? Nothing to say?”

“No.”

“Figures.”

“… I told you I want to be alone.”

“I know you do. And I let you sit here sulking. But now I’m just trying to get you to talk instead of mope. When you’re in a bad mood, it puts mom in a bad mood, and then I have to suffer with both of you being all brooding and cranky. Talking is an important skill, you know? Especially when you’re all pissed off. ”

“Mom is always cranky.”

“And you double it.”

“Shut up.”

“I really don’t understand why I’m the piece of shit, here. We always play Lifeguard at the water park. Now you want to throw a tantrum because, what? It was funny!”

“You left me there, Bohyuk! Alone!”

“Okay, so what? Did you die, Wonwoo? Did you get banned from the park? Did you ruin your entire life?”

“No…”

“Exactly. It was uncomfortable, and you didn’t like the situation. I get that. But you put yourself in that position, alright? Stupid shit always happens when we play that game. You know the consequences. We’ve been over this before. Remember when you threw that life preserver on my head and almost gave me a concussion? I was pissed at you. But you’re a kid, and you weren’t really thinking, and I should’ve known. That’s why I didn’t curse you out. Let’s say we both learned a lesson from this and call it a day, huh? C'mon, the bucket is filling up. Let's catch it before we leave.”

—JULY 28th.

Wonwoo was sitting in a wicker-back chair downstairs in the pottery shop, his laptop placed on the corner of a table that had been covered with a white, plasticky sheet. The white was hardly visible through all the smears and stains attributed to month-old dried paint and clay. His landlord had asked him if he would oblige to waiting for the mugs her last class had just sculpted to finish drying in the kiln while she ran to the bank. An egg timer was placed on the desk in her office, and Wonwoo could hear it ticking away in the background.

The door to the shop had been propped open using a mandala decorated rock, and while Wonwoo browsed along an online book on his laptop, he partly listened to the miscellaneous bits and pieces of conversation pushed indoors by the midday summer wind.

Initially, he’d dreaded coming back to the city after the week-long repose at his uncle’s, but in truth, Wonwoo was adjusting better than anticipated. Maybe because he was attempting to look after himself more than usual—he was actually taking his medication and he’d weened himself from frequent, almost daily smoking to once every few days, though Wonwoo did realize his bud was getting low and the only person he knew to inquire for more was Vernon. He hadn’t seen his friend in person since the party, and their texting had admittedly dwindled ever since Wonwoo fought with you.

That was just over a month ago now.

Wonwoo had gone an entire month without texting you, talking to you, seeing you. He was doing better, feeling lighter.

But there remained one core part of him that was still very incomplete and damaged. Suddenly, Wonwoo was shivering in his seat. The warm sun was brightening up the shop and reflecting its light off the stained glass windchimes dangling from the ceiling, though he chose to blame the chill on the breeze trickling indoors.

Deep down, however, Wonwoo knew he’d done something wrong. So, very, very wrong. He’d hurt you like a bullet through bone.

“Okay, this is it, right?”

“Yeah.”

Wonwoo glanced up from his laptop, where he’d been staring into the screen with a glazed over and distant expression. Instead, he saw a young woman, about his age, walk into the pottery shop hand-in-hand with a little girl who couldn’t have been older than twelve. For a moment, Wonwoo didn’t recognize the woman’s features—chin length, wavy hair, coarse and russet brown, tanned skin and a face polka dotted with freckles. Piece by piece, the memory rebuilt itself in his mind and he felt somewhat stupid.

“Oh—jeez, Wonwoo! What the heck—you’re like, the last person I would expect to run into here. Wow, it’s been a while!”

“Uh, yeah. Since the party, I guess.”

Sierra, the girl who’d fashioned together his drink.

“Yeah. That feels like forever ago... what’re you doing here?”

He pushed down on the laptop lid and sat up straighter in the wicker chair, accidentally looking into the eyes of the girl who was shyly clinging to Sierra’s side. She immediately glanced elsewhere.

“I live here, actually.”

“Oh! That’s cool,” Sierra smiled. “Your family owns it, or?”

“No. The lady who runs the pottery shop also has ownership of the units upstairs. She rents them out. I live up there.” He pointed his finger toward the ceiling as to emphasis his point.

“Okay, okay, that make a lot more sense. Still really cool.”

“What’re you doing here?” He asked, adjusting his glasses.

“Oh—yeah. So, this is my younger sister, Cora,” Sierra explained, grabbing onto the petite girl’s shoulder. “She was supposed to have her first class today, but she was feeling, um—well, you know how kids are. She’s just a bit shy. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“No, of course not,” Wonwoo concurred, noting the resemblance between the two. “I was deathly shy when I was little.”

“Right? We were just gonna stop by to meet to the teacher ahead of her next class. I thought it might make everything easier.”

Wonwoo frowned. “She left, actually.”

“Shoot, really?”

“Yeah, said she had to run to the bank. I’m sitting down here because I’m waiting for the pottery to finish drying in the kiln. I would give you an ETA, but I have no idea when she’s coming back.”

Glancing down at her sister, Sierra ruffled the girl’s hair.

“That sucks, huh?”

But she said nothing, just clung tightly to the back of Sierra’s yellow shirt, deciding to nod her head in response. Sierra shrugged.

“Is she usually here around this time?”

“Yeah,” Wonwoo confirmed, “you could try again tomorrow.”

“Okay, wicked. I would wait but I’ve got a list of errands for today and I’m not even halfway through. And I’m sure Cora wouldn’t want to sit around, anyway. We just got a pool put in at the house.”

“Sounds fun.”

“Do you swim?”

“No, not at all. The most I do is dip my feet in.”

“Aw, boo,” she said with dismay, shoulders sagging. “Well, it was nice running into you, Wonwoo. And—um, it might not be your thing, but I work at the Honeymoon almost every night—like, six to midnight. So, if you’re ever in Centertown, you should stop by.”

“Oh, good to know.”

“M’kay, later!”

Wonwoo waved. “Bye, guys.”

Once they left the pottery shop, Wonwoo set his elbows onto the plastic-sheeted table and leaned into his cold hands, sighing heavily as the egg timer continued ticking. Sierra was polite. She seemed warm like the sunshine and beautifully sincere. Wonwoo could read from her tender brown eyes that she desired more out of him—a friendship, a relationship, maybe something blissful, blurred, and in between. Though, it was nothing Wonwoo could give her.

He thought about the comment she made in regards to their pool—if he ever swam. Wonwoo didn’t swim, not since that horrible incident of Lifeguard all those years ago, back at the waterpark he used to attend alongside his older brother. Still, it got him thinking.

Reverting to his desktop, he looked for a folder.

writing.footage

It contained all the video clips he’d taken of you with the camcorder throughout your writing journey. He had every single one, from the grassy running ring at the high school to the footage he’d taken of the evening sky the day you two visited the beach.

His mouse hovered over a clip.

Fuck—he really shouldn’t do that. Every moment would sting like a red hot, peeling sunburn. The mouse moved away from the video clip and Wonwoo sat back in his chair, rubbing a hand against his face at the near torment. But… it had been so long. He missed you.

“Whatever…” he sighed to himself, clicking the video.

It took a moment to start up.

“Okay! So, this is Mooney’s Bay. It encompasses chapter three, and—Wonwoo, you have to film my intro! Why are you filming the sand?”

“Sorry, the lighting’s not good.”

“Oh.”

“Stand this way.”

“Those people will get in the shot.”

“Who cares? They’re far away.”

“I’ll stand in front of them… okay, are you zoomed in?”

“You told me not to zoom in.”

“No, I didn’t!”

“Remember when I zoomed in and you said I shouldn’t do that because it doesn’t capture the scenery properly?”

“Well, I said that because you were zooming in on me when you were supposed to be getting the ambiance shots! That’s why I said don’t zoom in. You can zoom in for the intro. Is the light better?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Does my hair look good? Actually, do you think it’s too windy? I’m worried about it being too windy, and then I can’t hear my introduction. I have to be able to hear my introduction. I’m really nervous. Wait—let me take off my flip flops. There’s so much sand in them and I hate it. Okay. Am I covering the people?”

“Yes.”

“Should I start now?”

“Go ahead.”

“Okay. So, this is Mooney’s Bay, and… and… wait—oh no! I forget my lines. What was I supposed to say, again?”

“I’m not sure, it’s your script. Something about chapter three.”

“Oh, I remember now! Okay, again from the top. Cut this out!”

He remembered that warm day as clear as the bay’s shiny water—specifically, the plethora of takes he had to film because you kept fudging up the script typed out on your phone. Wonwoo surfed through the rest of the clips pertaining to the beach, smiling to himself whenever you would fumble the words for the umpteenth time and groan in sheer frustration. Eventually, the backdrop turned from blue skies to an evening sunset. You two had spent hours there, and the filming had ended with tangy lemonade and watermelon.

He moved to a different assortment of clips.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, introduce the flavour. Like show and tell.”

“Oh, like a vlog?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. This is my flavour: it’s strawberry cheesecake. The red bits are the strawberries and those chunks are the cheesecake. I picked it because this is the flavour I got when I went on my first date with Mingyu. I love strawberries the most. Cheesecake is my favourite cake. Um… I don’t really know what else to say…”

“Where’d you get it from?”

“Oh—from The Big Chill!”

“What would you rate it?”

“Like, seven out of ten.”

“Not perfect even though it’s your favourite things?”

“Well—because the ice cream is too hard. I like soft ice cream. If I waited like, ten minutes, then ate some, it would be higher.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“Okay! You’re not supposed to be inserting your personal comments! You’re just supposed to say prompts and stuff. Don’t make me revoke your camera privileges.”

“You know anybody else with my camera operating skills?”

“Seokmin.”

“He couldn’t film his way out of a paper bag.”

“I’ll be sure to tell him that.”

“It’s nothing I haven’t already said.”

The abrupt end to the video made Wonwoo sink down in his chair with a dumb, wide smile. You did in fact, wait the entire ten minutes for your ice cream to significantly melt in the cup, then forcing Wonwoo to watch with unfiltered judgement as you stirred it up like a smoothie. You said it helped with your sensitive teeth.

He could understand that.

Knowing he wouldn’t be able to watch much more, he chose one final clip to open—the most recent one he’d taken. It was from the day you raced home in the rain after exploring the nature museum, right before Princess had swung by to pick you up. He had been fooling around with the camcorder while you two sat on the couch.

“… Um, so… do you care if I keep this shirt? It’s a good bedtime shirt, and I don’t really have any. I mean, only if you say it’s okay.”

“Uh, sure. I hardly wear it anymore, to be honest.”

“Oh. What’s it from?”

“A math competition thing. If you straighten that part out… that’s Euler’s number… this other one is your classic integral.”

“Hm, yeah. That’s such a great conversation starter. Have you guys ever heard about the integral symbol? Such a classic!”

“You jest but it got me quite a bit of recognition.”

“Like you want recognition.”

“Yeah, that’s why I stopped wearing it.”

“Ah, okay. So if I wear it out, will I get random geeks coming up to me on the street asking about it?”

“Probably.”

“Mm, okay. I’ll keep it.”

“You want that, huh?”

“Yes, so when they come up to me, I can say I have a really smart, talented, loser friend who owns it. So I can brag about you.”

“That’s… nice, I suppose. Can you drop the loser part?”

“No. It’s to keep you humble.”

“Seriously? Life has already humbled me enough, I think.”

The clip ended, and Wonwoo was staring back at himself in the screen’s black reflection. He could recall that oddly hollow feeling which situated uncomfortably large in the pit of his stomach when he realized how much he missed you.

But how could he not yearn for you? When you were so captivating, and infinitely brilliant, and stubbornly hard-headed in a tantalizing way that made him feel completely alive and invigorated.

I fucked up—it was all he could think as he pushed his laptop away and buried his head into his arms—I fucked up, I fucked up, I fucked up and I pushed away the most amazing girl I’ve ever known.

Suddenly, the small egg timer that had been sitting on the landlord’s desk a room away erupted. It started rattling and clanging and while Wonwoo should have shot up from his seat to turn it off and check the sculpted mugs cooking in the kiln, he stayed in his seat.

He felt glued to it.

All he could think about was how badly he needed to talk to you, hear your voice, see your face, smell your scent. Maybe he didn’t deserve it—Wonwoo knew he didn’t—but he loved you too much.

He couldn’t let you fade into a deep, dark memory.

—JULY 30th.

Wonwoo hadn’t been to his favourite café on Sunnyside Avenue for almost two months. He was therefore quite surprised at their new interior upon giving into a last-minute whim—visiting for a quick coffee. They had finally swapped their metal chairs for more cushiony seats, and the circle tabletops for square, wooden ones. The style of chalk writing on the overhead menu boards had changed, too.

He didn’t even recognize the baristas.

Usually, Wonwoo only stopped at the café to work on his writing and indulge in a raspberry lemon scone that was supposed to be a treat for having been productive, though he always ate it before a single word would ever grace the paper. Since he began helping you with your book back in March, he frequented the café less and less. It brought a smile to his face, recalling the incident of you slapping your hand against the window and jarring him half to death.

He used to be so afraid of you. Never would he imagine the comfort you’d end up bestowing him—and the fact he’d lose it all.

“I can help whoever’s next!”

Turning his attention from the corner where his old table used to sit—now occupied by two girls sharing a latte and giggling as they perused their phones—Wonwoo approached the barista he failed to recognize, waiting to take his order. Realizing he’d lost his metaphorical loyalty badge and that he could no longer just coolly toss out, ‘the usual’, Wonwoo had to remember what it was he even liked.

“Just an iced coffee,” he said, “and, uh… do you still have those scones with the raspberry and lemon filling?”

As the barista pressed something into the tablet screen, he shook his head. “Unfortunately they’re not made here anymore.”

“Oh, damn.”

“We do have a new strawberry scone, though, for summer. It’s got a confectionary sugar drizzle. It’s pretty popular.”

“Uh, don’t worry about it, I’ll just take the coffee.”

“No problem, man. Total is three ninety-nine.”

“Card, thanks.”

It might have been stupid, but Wonwoo couldn’t think about strawberries without thinking of you, because you always smelled like a sweet, ripe, and vibrantly red strawberry—it was the scent of your skin, which he so pathetically missed feeling warm and velvet against his. He bet one-hundred percent you would have ordered that scone.

After tapping his phone against the card reader, Wonwoo stepped aside and waited for his coffee. It was a Sunday. He had work tomorrow. There wasn’t much happening in his life.

“Iced coffee, right here.”

The barista slid the cardboard cup across the counter. Wonwoo grabbed it with a polite thank you, and then settled an inspecting glance around the café for a place to sit. He shouldn’t have come in the afternoon—it was always their busiest hours apart from early morning—and it seemed the redesign had promptly boosted their relevance, because Wonwoo couldn’t remember a time when the tables had ever been so filled. He stepped further into the seating area, though, someone familiar had just caught his eye.

Princess.

She was sat at a table close to some beautifully potted ferns and palm leaves, typing on a laptop while a plate with a half-finished sandwich and a plastic cup of matcha remained by her elbow. At the exact moment that Wonwoo saw her, Princess had also looked up, and as though by magic, their gazes caught without hesitation.

At first, Wonwoo panicked. The breath dropped out of his chest and he pondered waving to her, turning tail, and fleeing. There was not a single doubt in his mind that she was aware of the fight between you and him—she was your best friend—and Wonwoo knew from the manner in which her lips apprehensively curled into a numb smile that Princess already knew everything. Still, she waved at him.

Wonwoo gulped, waving back.

Maybe it was an indescribably stupid decision, but Wonwoo opted to swallow the fear and dread and anxiety in his throat. If she didn’t want him to sit with her, then he trusted that Princess would make such a boundary extremely clear—but Wonwoo had to try. He had to make some sort of initiative, some form of amends, and above all, he wanted to know about you, even if the answer hurt terribly.

“Uh, hey… how are you?”

Princess’ tattooed hands stilled on the keyboard. She flitted her round, deep brown eyes up at him, and he felt frustrated that he could extract little to nothing from their depths. Again, she smiled.

“I’m alright. Just working on some forms for work.”

Wonwoo nodded. “Do you, uh… do you care if I sit?”

She didn’t speak, but continued to stare at him with a lip worried between her teeth, and it was then Wonwoo could realize the conflict swimming through her gaze. The panic started to build again, and the regret surged into his stomach like a tsunami.

“Really, I don’t mean to make things awkward,” Wonwoo was urged to clarify, the cold cup feeling increasingly slippery in his clammy hand, “I can go. I don’t want to cause any problems."

“No, no—” Princess shook her head, meanwhile her tone remained strained and uncertain, “—it’s okay. Uh, yeah. Sure. Take a seat. I mean, it’s plenty full in here. I’m not that busy.”

“Are you sure? Because—”

“Yeah, I’m sure. You can sit, Wonwoo.”

He exhaled softly, proceeding to pull out the chair. It felt quite nice sitting against a cushion rather than the hard metal he remembered.

Princess reached for her matcha, placing the straw between her lips and taking a long, heavy sip as though to prepare herself for the awkward nature of their incoming conversation. Wonwoo did the same. He didn’t even know where to start. Was it better to burn off his nerves through small talk or jump straight into the heat?

She moved the long braids off her shoulder, heaved in a breath.

“Well, let’s just get the bulk of this talk out of the way. I know what happened. I know you’re not friends with Her anymore. I know the way it ended was super ugly. I know that she spent, like, three days at my apartment, miserable, in tears over you, Wonwoo. So, I do feel a certain way toward you. I hope you can understand that.” She closed the lid of her laptop and sighed. “But, we’re adults. And I guess I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t curious about… some things.”

“No, I—I get that.”

Already, he wanted to throw up. Despite all his repressing, he could still hear that choked, vulnerable, completely broken sob you croaked out the day you left his apartment—how mercilessly it had haunted him for the entire week—made him believe he was a monster, a masochist, the lowest form of human being. Wonwoo felt there was no excusing it. He would always hate himself for it.

“What are you curious about?” Wonwoo asked quietly.

Princess glanced down for a second, staring at the smooth, black surface of her laptop. She then clicked her nails together.

“I-I just… how could it… how could it go so wrong?” The girl wondered aloud, leaning back into her chair, seeming despaired at the aftermath. “From the second I saw her get defensive of you at Spring Street, I knew how much she cared. I knew that you meant something to her and for whatever reason, she wasn’t going to let anyone screw it up. And she became so much lighter. Everything wasn’t an attack. Everything she did wasn’t so agonizing anymore.”

Wonwoo’s knee wouldn’t stop bouncing underneath the table, the nervous energy accumulating rather than draining away. He wished he had the perfect answer, but he couldn’t yet find one.

Her head tilted, shoulders shrugging. “I don’t know… I thought you could be so good for Her. She doesn’t have anyone in her life that’s like you. But—I mean—fuck, we’re here, now, aren’t we?”

“Mmhm,” Wonwoo mumbled, staring straight into the girl’s shiny, unwavering eyes that held so much sentiments of angst and betrayal, like she herself was carrying your rage. “Princess… I… I want, so fucking bad, to give you a good answer for why everything blew up. I do. But—just—every time I try to look inward, every time I try to understand it at its core, I feel like it’s all shrouded. I know I fucked up. I know it. She made—makes—me happy, too. But I’m not there yet.”

“You’re not where?” She asked, pressing forward. “At a place where you can understand what you did? Why you did it?”

Fiddling with his cup atop its cork coaster, Wonwoo nodded.

He then chewed into his bottom lip, feeling the skin break.

“Can I ask… what did you think of me? When she told you what happened? If you have to be brutally uncouth, I don’t care.”

Princess abruptly laughed at the request, head tumbling forward into her gold-ringed hands. He wasn’t sure if she would oblige, as the laugh sounded nervous yet tinged with disbelief, which led Wonwoo to believe she had thought some very unpleasant things.

“Um… let’s see...” she chuckled hesitantly, smoothing antsy hands along her dark skin, “I was definitely gagged, let’s start there.”

He furrowed his brow. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know—I just—I didn’t believe that you would be capable of being such a fucking asshole. I mean—” she collapsed back into the chair, throwing up her arms, “—can you blame me? You’re quiet, well-mannered, intelligent. Everyone loved you at the party. I think the fact you could turn around and be so… s-so cruel, so hostile, like you were—I don’t know—trying to gut her, just seemed impossible. But Her doesn’t lie. She has no reason to make it up. I wasn’t able to think much at all because I went comfort mode. I just wanted to focus on getting her mind off you.”

“And… afterward?”

“Well, I wanted to destroy you, obviously.”

“… Fair.”

“So, can I ask you something?”

Instantly, his stomach dropped to his feet, and Wonwoo was certain his face had paled like a washed-out t-shirt. Princess’ gaze settled upon him with intense focus. Wonwoo scratched at his thumb.

“Okay.”

“… Do you love her?”

He didn’t answer. Even if he wanted to, the words erased from his mind in a mere snap of one’s fingers. Instead, Wonwoo stared at the girl while she politely waited for a sign, knowing his very loud, lacking response was an answer enough in itself if his eyes weren’t already panicked and practically writing the narrative for him. To admit his true heart to another person was the most horrifying predicament Wonwoo could articulate. He was far from capable.

Princess raised her brow. “I’ll take that as a—”

“You can’t tell Her. Please, please, please, whatever you do, whatever you think of me—just, please don’t tell Her,” Wonwoo blurted, the perspiration drenching the palms that sunk into his knees. “I-I don’t know what I’ll do if she finds out. Really, I—”

“Wonwoo.” Princess reached under the table, and he felt her cool, soft hand settle overtop his. “I’m not going to say anything to anyone, okay? Just breathe. You look like you’re going to have—"

“Don’t say it,” he exhaled shakily, “I-I know…”

He proceeded to close his eyes, draw in a long, deep, thorough breath, while his knee continued jittering and his chest felt so tight and twisted with fear. He closed his eyes and recalled the washroom belonging to his aunt’s house in rural Changwon, with the bright blue shower curtain and its pattern of yellow rubber ducks.

Wonwoo counted all the rubber ducks on that childhood curtain, the number having been scorched into his mind like a scar, until he felt the world fall back into tune. The steadiness of Princess’ hand over top his was a gentle reminder that he was indeed alive and not a puddle of mistakes melted to the café floor. Pushing up the glasses that had slipped down his nose, he reopened his eyes to see the girl’s the sympathetic, earnest face. Wonwoo cleared his throat.

“Um, yeah—I’m okay… just—uh, th-thank you.”

She pulled her hand away, smiling, “no problem.”

The two proceeded to sit in silence as Wonwoo further collected his bearings. He glanced around the café, recognizing no one else amongst the crowd, and spotting more and more modifications that had appeared since his last visit—the light fixtures overhead were different, the decorative wall art had been replaced, and the baristas were all wearing hats with a new, improved logo. So much had developed in his absence. So much had to change.

He looked at his iced coffee, which he took a sip from, and realized that he didn’t prefer the taste quite like he used to.

Wonwoo sighed, pushing the drink away from him.

“Princess?”

“Yeah?”

“I know I don’t deserve this. I know that me even asking this might seem so unprecedentedly stupid. Her probably doesn’t want you talking to me, which I get, and I know you feel conflicted about me being here… but… fuck… Princess, I have to know something about Her. Anything. I don’t care if it’s the smallest, most insignificant detail you could think of. Just one thing… that’s all.”

The delivery was undoubtedly begging, perhaps pathetic, but he could not find it within himself to care. He missed you too fucking much, to the point it was becoming insufferable, unliveable.

Folding one leg over the other, Princess leaned back and grabbed onto her matcha, spinning it slightly. She was no longer meeting his eyeline, and that drowned his hopes in a watery grave.

He settled his elbows onto the table, his finger gripping at the air with every pleading word that he could somehow conjure.

“I know you don’t want to; I-I know it. I know she fucking hates me, detests me, wishes we never met. But this is the most regretful I’ve ever been, a-about anything in my life. And—I know that I’m pushing you—I’m sorry—I’m so fucking sorry—if I can just know one thing, I’ll leave you alone. I-I mean, is she… did she get a new shirt, after that one ripped, on the hanger? Does she still go to the SSA meetings? Or—I don’t fucking know—is she writing? Is she doing something new? Have you seen her smile at all? Or heard her laugh? Genuinely laugh. The one where she can’t even breathe and she grips onto you and buries her head into your neck? Is she still just as quippy? Constantly rambling over herself? I miss that so much… I miss all of it… everything about her… there’s nothing I don’t miss.”

Princess was biting her lip, refusing to say a word.

Wonwoo hadn’t intended to barrage her. Nonetheless, he couldn’t leave the café without wholeheartedly trying.

“Fuck…” he exhaled, placing his forehead against the black wood of the table, breathing back the bitterness, the frustration, the tears. Princess was a boulder, it seemed. He’d lost, picking his head back up after a moment of composure, and pushed out his chair.

“You’re leaving?” She asked, her gaze heavy with sadness.

He nodded. “I just—I… yeah.”

“Okay… later.”

“Bye, Princess,” he answered, his throat irritably tight.

“… Well—o-okay, actually…”

As her voice picked up amongst the cluttering dishes and drawls of conversation, Wonwoo turned around to see the girl’s remorseful expression and the hands shoved tightly under her arms. Princess paused, staring at the coffee mug he’d abandoned at the table.

“… She needs you.”

Wonwoo stiffened, then nearly scoffed in disagreement.

“She hates me. What do you mean?”

But Princess shook her head, making a twisting motion at her lips like she was fastening the lock to a chest. It was her one thing.

And Wonwoo had no idea what to make of it.

It had been far too long since Wonwoo last texted, spoke to, or saw Vernon. When he left for an entire week to stay at his uncle’s cottage in the midst of July, he hadn’t even shot the boy a message that he was leaving. As cold or uncompassionate as it may have sounded, Wonwoo never really considered Vernon to be that important or necessary to his life until he sat back and thought about their relationship: a studious loner with an unperturbed drug dealer who somehow formed a bond that hadn’t predictably eroded.

Sure, it helped that Vernon became his plug and there was technically a reason for their symbiosis, but what Wonwoo hadn’t taken note of was their closeness over the months.

Perhaps it was guilt, or the sting of losing you and having experienced Princess treat him like an ugly secret, or the simplistic, innate need for human contact, that Wonwoo finally decided to reach out and invite the boy over for a smoke. Vernon agreed, though it wasn’t until the near cusp of midnight that he stopped by. Together they sat on the complex rooftop, two perfectly packed blunts between them, lit by their sparking lighters. The conversation drifted from topic to topic like a passive leaf being tugged through a breeze.

Wonwoo was able to realize how desperately he needed a moment like that—no guards, no anxiety, no hyper-analyzing every little goddamn comment or action—just friendship.

And Vernon made it easy.

“Not to mention the fact that Seokmin—he fuckin’ sucks at mini-puttin’ by the way. Jesus Christ, man. There was a twelve-year-old girl a hole behind us who was makin’ shots like Tiger Woods, and then here we are, waitin’ for Seokmin to make a shot that is damn near impossible to—like, okay—tell me why he’s got one leg on the fuckin’ rock and the other stretched halfway across the laneway like he's droppin’ into the splits? Why does it need t’be that hard!”

Shaking his head, Wonwoo half-laughed, half-coughed into his elbow, the smoke instantly rushing back out his mouth.

“Holy fuck. I wish I’d seen that in person.”

“No,” Vernon deadpanned, rolling up his sleeves, “you don’t. At that point, just pick up the ball and move it into the hole, man. That twelve-year-old’s got places to be and we’re over here climbin’ on rocks and crawlin’ under bridges like it’s a fuckin’ jungle gym.”

“I’m surprised they even let you in.”

“Oh—me too,” he chuckled. “Fuck someone once in the storage closet at glow-in-the-dark mini-put and suddenly you’re ‘a detriment to the company.’ Like, get the fuck outta my face.”

“You live, you learn.”

“Well, she’s still there. Somehow.”

“Ruby?”

“Yeah—just sold her like two-hundred bucks of ecstasy.”

Wonwoo threw his head back and cackled.

“You still talk to her?!”

“No, no—Ruby’s chill! Always came to work stoned half the time, though. Dude, no. It was the other girl that fuckin’ ratted on us.”

“Damn… so, is Ruby the one?” Wonwoo teased.

As Vernon removed the joint from his lips, a swift trail of smoke ejected into the nighttime air. He huffed in disagreement.

“Nah. She’s a good friend you can screw on the low. Know you guys won’t catch feelings. Makes it easy. That’s what I’m about.”

“Yeah. Simple enough.”

Scraping his thumb against the rough spark wheel of his favourite Bic, Wonwoo lit the small, dancing flame, bringing it close to his blunt and crisping the paper more heavily. He proceeded to draw in a long, smooth breath. The atmosphere was almost silent if not for the distant murmur of midnight traffic. Wonwoo watched the abundant smoke as it slowly streamed out his nose. It eventually dissipated against the blackness, existing just long enough for Wonwoo to appreciate that weightless sensation it gave him.

Vernon swept a hand through his hair, smiled at Wonwoo.

“Okay, so, feel free to tell me to fuck off—” the boy began with notable caution, taking a quick hit before removing the blunt from his lips “—but, uh, what exactly… did happen… between you and Her?”

For a moment, the vigilantly placed question hovered in the cool summer air as Wonwoo breathed out another cloud. However, he didn’t let the smoke disappear on its own, rather he blew into it harshly and forced the flurry to melt. One way or another, he knew this topic would surface. And Vernon was right—he completely had the right to tell his friend to fuck off—because no matter how much time had passed since, Wonwoo still felt the wound with all the freshness and intensity of that night. He remained stiff, thinking.

Sensing the reluctancy, Vernon abandoned his request.

“Y’know, it doesn’t matter. We’re havin’ fun, anyway.”

Wonwoo was going to agree—yeah, let’s skip it—but at the last second, he burned the reliable safety of his choice. The thing was, he hadn’t really discussed the fight with anybody. Sitting down and talking to Princess didn’t bestow the alleviation or closure that Wonwoo thought it would, especially considering her loyalty to you and the fact she hadn’t desired that conversation more than she desired a hole in the head. He was able to relieve some tension upon visiting his uncle’s, but, ultimately, Wonwoo was doing the exact thing you had accused him of—letting things sit and fester.

Shutting everyone out.

Poisoning himself, and those around him.

After tugging at the edge of his thick beanie, Wonwoo rubbed a knuckle against his forehead and decided to bite the bullet.

“Uh, no—all good. You’re curious, I get it.”

Vernon’s eyes widened underneath the moonlight and the warm, glowing radiance that crept over the building precipice. He nearly choked on the smoke.

“Wait—dude. Really?”

“Yeah.” Wonwoo angled his face toward him, nodding.

“Okay, uh… wow. Wasn’t expectin’ to get this far.”

“Need a moment to catch your breath, yeah?”

“Psh—shut the fuck up, Glasses… actually—no, yeah. Let me take a hit first. I feel like this is gonna be a deep-dish pizza, y’know?”

“Somewhat, I suppose,” Wonwoo agreed.

He copied his friend, crisping the blunt one last time before pressing his lips around the paper and drawing in a big breath.

Right before the prickling could desiccate his throat, Wonwoo exhaled everything into the abrupt breeze—not just the smoke, but his fears, his worries—whatever might stunt or thwart him from understanding that it wasn’t so terrifying to be candour.

Vernon shook out his shoulders.

“Okay, player. You’ve got my attention.”

Wonwoo swallowed.

How the fuck does one go about saying this?

“So, uh…”

Where does he even start?

“I guess the important part is…”

What’s going to happen if he chokes on all his words?

“Okay, so, we basically… um…”

Wonwoo, you have spent practically your entire life writing and crafting sentences and the most adolescent, tormented prose imaginable—how is it that you cannot configure one thought?

“I’m… I’m kind of in love with her.”

He thought about glancing at Vernon to gauge his reaction, especially when his friend didn’t offer one word in response, not even a pointed hmph, or a sniffle, or something satirical to suggest that all his teasing had some actual truth and substance.

But Wonwoo didn’t look.

Vernon was giving him the floor to keep going.

“And… that night, at the party, we had this really sincere moment… I mean, maybe it wasn’t that sincere—she’d just done a line of coke and had been sipping alcohol and smoking all night. But that’s how it felt when it was happening. After the bullshit with Bells, I took her to a spare bedroom to calm down. She asked me to lay with her.”

Wonwoo paused to collect his breathing. Even just the memory of your body pressed against his was enough to rake up those buried emotions from his insides like old, autumn leaves. The memories of your heat, and the giggling into his neck, and the way your fingers would occasionally trace shapes on his chest as you listened to him talk—nothing had ever felt so cosmically right.

“Um… yeah. I don’t know why I agreed. I didn’t care about if it was wrong or right. If Mingyu came barging in, or someone else, or—fuck, if the goddamn roof caved in—I didn’t care. I just wanted to be with her so fucking bad. We didn’t kiss or anything. We just laid there together, like, intertwined, you know? I told her some stuff. We were just talking… I think, in my mind, I just wanted to have this moment where I was something to her, more than a friend. And I just—I put this stupid fucking notion in my head that it was true.”

Eyes squeezed shut, blunt poised between his fingers, Wonwoo rode the high of another hit, ignoring the deep, sensitive pain cutting his bone marrow. He kept excavating despite the hurt.

“But—I-I mean, a girl like that?” He laughed, head bending down between his propped knees. “A girl like that, you know? She is so—sh-she’s—I shouldn’t want her at all. I should want nothing to do with her. But—I don’t know—she has drive, and things she’s passionate about, and she can be so unrelenting and fucking bossy, but then so soft, and calm, and I just get drawn into her like a moth to a flame. I think everything’s okay, you know? I don’t get that… that dread—that feeling like I’m constantly failing, and useless, and like everything is out to get me.”

Wonwoo hadn’t glanced at Vernon once. He didn’t want to.

That way, it felt like he was alone, talking to himself, maybe talking to the moon. It erased the veil of pressure and eased his typically constrained, rigid muscles. Feeling his glasses begin to slip, Wonwoo lifted his head, pushing the circled frames back up his nose.

“I don’t know why it’s like that. I don’t know why it’s her, specifically. Sometimes I wish it wasn’t. She has Mingyu to love. And it just—it fucking frustrates me so much—" Wonwoo breathed out the irritation, licking his lips, “—because we’re having this sweet moment, and it’s so perfect, and right. But then all of a sudden, he’s just—he—she's letting him fuck her. Like that moment we had was nothing, like I didn’t just be the most open I’ve ever been with her. And—I know, I know—she’s high as fuck and not thinking straight. So, what do I chalk us up to, then? A bad trip? A blur in time? A moment you live once and then just forget? What the fuck do I make of that?”

Something crackled inside him, akin to match being lit, palpable enough that it motivated the boy to his feet because this cramped, knees-to-chest position wouldn’t suffice in channeling the energy he felt. Wonwoo moved the blunt to his lips, attempting to speak while it hung at the corner of his mouth, though he only left it there for a few seconds in his urgence for another hit. He started pacing.

“That was such a dogshit moment, you know? Going down there, wanting it to be a lie, almost believing it, but then—I hear it. I-I hear the way she’s getting fucked and I hear her moans and her whimpers and I hear the way he’s using her.” Wonwoo kicked a stone off the edge of the building, one hand shoved into his sweats pocket while the other fed him a brief inhalation from the blunt. “I’ve never felt that before. Awful. Like, indescribable devastation. I ran to the washroom to throw up because my body just couldn’t handle it. It felt like such a kick in the fucking teeth. And I was mad at her—like, fuck you for throwing back all that trust into my face, you know?”

He shook his head, then balancing at the rim of the complex like a fall from that height wouldn’t leave him broken.

“I was so fucking pissed at her…” Wonwoo muttered, staring down at the shadowed streets, “every time I thought about it, I just felt sick… but, obviously, we have to hash it out. That’s why she jumped you, or whatever—I wasn’t texting her back because I knew nothing good would come from it. Like I said, though… she’s unrelenting. Shows up at my door, banging on it like there’s a murderer outside. I was in a terrible headspace. I… I kind of…”

The words jammed on his tongue.

Wonwoo had to walk away from the ledge as a foggy sensation muddled his senses. Hands, beginning to tremble, pulled in torment down the back of his black beanie, the blunt caught between his fingers as he remembered the inexcusable maliciousness to his ranting. It echoed through his head like a gong.

He squatted down, rubbing at his wrinkled, aching brow.

“I… I basically—j-just—I tore her to fucking shreds.”

There was so much emotion clogging his throat. Every word was a struggle to enunciate, and each one burned and stung more tangibly than the last, as though he’d swallowed knives.

“It didn’t even feel good, you know? It wasn’t cathartic, or victorious. I felt like… do I even deserve anything? She went into the hall and… that sob. Oh my god… bawling her eyes out because of my stupidity. Because of my inability to be a fucking person as she mentioned.”

Wonwoo stared at the grit covering the roof.

He reached out his hand, letting the small bits of rubble stick to his fingertips, thinking, about everything, how he destroyed it. You were just a panicked river, trying to heal and soothe, but the message was lost under the current. Wonwoo had been a scalding fire, one that charred everything the instant it touched his vengeful heat.

There were only ashes. He didn’t know how to rebuild a relationship from something so fragile and ruined at his beckon.

The frustration was boiling in Wonwoo’s gut. All his shortcomings, the ignorance to the flaws he buried, how he treated you—it was all bubbling together like some sort of poisonous, infectious brew and if he didn’t somehow release pressure then he would crack like ceramics. Wonwoo maneuvered the thick blunt from his fingers into his palm where he crushed it, hard.

“Uh, Wonwoo? It’s… it’s okay, man. You—”

“Fuck!”

The tattered piece of crisped tobacco paper and grinded weed flew into the air, the breeze pulling the remnants somewhere unimportant. Vernon immediately smothered his words. He could only stare, frozen, as Wonwoo tore off his glasses, rubbing a sweater sleeve against the beginning pricks of tears that bulbed up from his eyes. He sucked in a long, shuddering, ragged breath.

“I fucking hate this, Vernon. I-I’m everything she said I was. I do it to myself. I always do it to myself. I want to change so badly but it never feels like it’s happening fast enough, a-an-and—and—and—”

“Glasses, relax, okay?”

Vernon was on his feet in an instant, quickly brushing his hands off against the fabric of his jeans, the blunt now tucked behind his ear. Wonwoo continued rubbing into his eyes. His friend’s face appearing before him was nothing but watery smudging, almost like a ruined oil painting. Wonwoo hiccupped.

“No—Vernon—y-you don’t understand, you—I-I fucked up, alright? I fucked up so bad! I—” he could hardly breathe, his glasses dropped somewhere on the roof, “—I just wrecked everything and—”

“Wonwoo! Jeon Wonwoo!” Vernon gripped his shoulders and shook them sternly. “Shut up! You’re takin’ all the fuckin’ air!”

The abruptness snapped a wire in Wonwoo’s brain. It was so unexpected that he almost wasn’t sure if it happened. However, his torrent of seemingly endless anxious thought began to falter, with a very slow but gradual concentration toward the softness rosying his friend’s blurred face. Vernon rubbed against Wonwoo’s trembling arm, and with a gentle tug, urged him to sit down.

“C’mon, get on your ass… there ‘ya go. Awesome. Now… where’s your—oh, shit—they’re right here. Lucky you, huh?”

Vernon crouched down in front of him.

As Wonwoo busied himself with carving those scratches against his thumb, Vernon extended a hand to his friend’s cheek.

“Let me rid get of these tears… so you… can actually… see…”

With a grunt, Vernon fell back onto his butt.

“Let’s put these on, yeah? Are you okay with that?”

Vernon seemed to accept the quietness as him not quite being ready, and so the boy settled for resting a tattooed hand on Wonwoo’s knee, familiarizing him with a grounding touch. In due time, Wonwoo was relaxed enough to properly swallow.

Vernon smiled at him.

“So, does Glasses need his glasses now?”

Wonwoo sniffled, imitating a rumbling sound to clear his brittle throat, meanwhile there was a breeze ghosting along his exposed nape. It was just as comforting as Vernon’s touch.

“Y-Yes… thank you.”

“Hey, no problem. I’m just glad they didn’t get crushed.”

When his friend’s calm face clarified in the silver moonlight, with his unjudgmental eyes, and his compassionate smile, Wonwoo began to realize that… perhaps, being trusting and vulnerable and honest was not the worst thing in the world. There was merit and relief. There was a friend waiting on the other side with an open hand.

“Vernon… I, um… I’m—”

“Listen, Glasses. If you’re gonna apologize to me, then shove it right back up your ass. Seriously. There’s no need.”

“Well, I mean…” Wonwoo wiped his runny nose, “I kind of unloaded on you, and, I didn’t intend for that. I really didn’t.”

“I asked you a loaded question in the first place, didn’t I? I ordered a deep-dish pizza and that’s what I fuckin’ got.”

“Well… I-I… I’m glad you can look at it that way.”

“God, Wonwoo. You’re actin’ like this was a total blindside. I know you, y’know? Maybe not to a tee, but I know you.” Vernon kept his hand against Wonwoo’s knee, dusting some grit from it. “And I know you’re gonna feel regretful about all this, but you shouldn’t, alright? ‘Cause, look—you did somethin’ that most people—they go their entire lives without doin’. You dug deep and acknowledged your flaws. And not just the pansy shit, like—oh, I’m bad at time management, I forget to put the dishes away, I don’t fill up the ice cube tray, I never reply to texts—I mean the real stuff.

The really dark, uncomfortable stuff that we know is there but it’s so much easier to ignore. The stuff that gets in the way of our happiness, or success, or connections—bein’ the sin-sincerest versions of ourselves—it’s so much easier to pack all that bad stuff down. It’s there but at least it’s not out here. But then, like, maybe one day it is out here. And it’s hurtin’ everything around you. And some people will still let it slide because there’s always somethin’ else to blame. What is that bullshit—acceptance is always the hardest part? I don’t fuckin’ know. Anyway, you should give yourself some credit, Glasses. Seriously. I’m proud.”

“Proud?” Wonwoo chuckled weakly, returning the warmth of his friend’s honeyed eyes. “That's such a mom thing to say.”

Vernon’s hand shifted to whacking Wonwoo’s arm. “Don't get smart.”

“No, uh—I’m joking. Thank you, Vernon… really.”

“Hey, I know I’m your drug dealer, but I consider us friends, y’know? And not every friend’s gotta be your support beam. But I think you’re someone worth supportin’… hey—that sounded pretty smart and eloquent, right? I’m basically you, now.”

Wonwoo smiled. “You're missing the glasses.”

“I’ll just take yours,” Vernon chided, giving his friend’s chest a light push, “what’re you gonna do, anyway? Four-eyes.”

“I think if you wore these for more than five minutes… you’d get a migraine,” Wonwoo supposed, watching Vernon nod his head.

“Damn. You’re probably right. Not worth it.”

“Mmhm…”

“… But, um… y’know what I do think is worth it?”

Wonwoo raised his eyebrow.

Vernon paused, as though to contemplate his response, but when the words left his mouth, there was pure firmness behind them.

“Man, you need to talk to Her.”

Pressing his lips together, Wonwoo stared off into the corner.

Vernon nudged his arm, attempting to engage him.

“I’m serious! You know she’s perfect for you, right? A bossy girl who’s about her shit but can soften up for you is exactly what you need. Girls like that—they care so fuckin’ much, y’know? And she’s majorly into you. I saw how she hugged you at the party. How she got all smiley and sweet. I mean, she was gonna punch Bells in the fuckin’ face to stop her from makin’ a move on you. She’s got a man, I know. And I’m not sayin’ be a fuckin’ homewrecker. But, like, I don’t know… Mingyu’s all image and no substance. A fuckin’ airhead.”

Wonwoo massaged along his forehead, chuckling.

“I thought you liked him.”

“Yeah, well, I liked him a lot more when he was handin’ me two-hundred ‘a Seungcheol’s bands. I know he just invited me to that party ‘cause I can get him n’ his rich friends high. I’m not stupid. Keep your enemies close, and your friends—wait, fuck—keep your—”

“Friends close and enemies closer?”

Vernon grinned, wide and gummy. “Bingo.”

“Good advice.”

“You’re insane if you don’t do it.”

“If I don’t talk to Her?”

“Yes! Don’t let her go! Are you crazy, Glasses?!”

“What am I supposed to say? I-I was such a cunt.”

“I don’t fuckin’ know, man—offer to lick hers. Bet she’ll forgive you right there on the spot. Damn. That’s how I’d do it.”

“No, you wouldn’t. Idiot.”

“Eh, whatever. You’ll figure it out. I know you will.”

Wonwoo exhaled a large, solacing breath, glancing toward the moonlight that beautifully shimmered down in its pearlescent webs, bathing the rooftop akin to the blue mirages at the nature museum.

Vernon was right.

He couldn’t let this be the end of your story.

—END OF PART FOUR.

#seventeen scenarios #wonwoo scenarios #seventeen imagines #seventeen x reader #wonwoo x reader #svt fanfic #wonwoo fanfic #jeon wonwoo #svt scenarios #seventeen angst #seventeen fanfic #seventeen fluff #seventeen smut

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cameronspecial · 8 months ago

Note

I saw you were looking for some angst ideas lmao

So rafe and reader are together. Loves her more than life but his addiction gets in the way of that. One night they have a fuming argument and she doesn’t talk to him for a few days. He then makes a plan for them to talk about it somewhere private at nighttime, but when she shows up he’s not there. She waits for him for a while then she gets attacked by the rafes dealers because he owes them money and she was the next bet. Rafe finds her and he’s freaking out but she won’t let him near her and she blames him. You can choose how this ending goes or if you even want to write this but this has been on my mind

You Deserve Better

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x Reader

Warnings: Drug Use, Swearing, Stabbing, Blood, and Death

Pronouns: She/Her

Word Count: 2.1K

Masterlist

The centre of Rafe’s life wasn’t always the white powder that tumbled around the little Ziploc bag that lined his pockets. His centre is supposed to snort or wheeze a little whenever she laughs, refusing to use her inhaler because she doesn’t want to embarrass him. It will stay up past her bedtime because she is in a flow with her work. His sun crosses her eyeballs whenever he presses a kiss on her nose because she knows it would make him chuckle. Y/N Y/L/N used to be his rock and now, all because of an accident, she isn’t anymore. That is something not a lot of people know. They assume his addiction started because he was a bored rich kid who had the money to spare. However, in reality, it began with a torn ACL. One wrong shift of his leg and his football career was over. At first, the oxycodone was only to manage the pain from the ACL surgery. He had the hope that he could recover the way he needed to get back on the field, but then the news came that he wasn’t progressing the way his doctor wanted… That was when the problem started, suddenly the drug he was taking to help ease his physical pain became the one to take away his mental pain too. The pain of not being able to play football. The pain of missing out. The pain of not knowing where his life was going.

Don’t get him wrong, Y/N was by his side the whole time, except a person can’t be everything to someone else and he needed a therapist. He just wasn’t ready to admit that. It was only when he stopped being prescribed oxycodone that he turned to cocaine to fill the mental hole the prescription used to be for.

———

Rafe’s blown pupils are hidden by his eyelids as he lies back on the couch. Y/N is still out with her friends, so he isn’t sleeping. Not when she is not at home. The front door opening and closing makes him jerk forward. His eyelids are just a sliver because the light from the ceiling is too bright for him. Her footsteps approach the living room and the large sigh she lets out makes her arrival known. “You didn’t do the dishes,” she states, her hand resting on her jut-out hip. “And the hole in the hallway is still there.” Yesterday, Rafe, in a high state, accidentally made a hole in the wall when trying to put up a picture frame for her. He promised her before she left for work this morning that he would get what he needed to fix it this morning and in the afternoon, he would fix it. However, before he could get himself to the store, he saw a post from one of his old football teammates, who went pro and he spiralled.

He doesn’t mean to roll his eyes, yet it happens and this causes her to let out another huff. “I didn’t get a chance to go to the store,” he grumbles like he didn’t care. He really did though. He wanted to be able to do something that simple for the girl who meant everything to him, except his mind seemed to disagree with his heart. It is easier to pretend it doesn’t bother him. Her eyes narrow in on the residue of powder on their coffee table, “Let me guess, you got your nose caught up in some business. Rafe, you promised me you wouldn’t do that shit at home.” He can’t keep looking at the way tears start to appear because he knows how worried she gets when he does drugs, always scared he might overdose. He looks anywhere but at her. “Don’t get on my ass about this again Y/N. You don’t know what I am dealing with,” he argues.

“I don’t and that’s the problem. You need to talk to someone about how you are feeling because you are going to put yourself in an early grave if you keep doing what you are doing now.”

“Seriously, we are going to argue about this again because I didn’t do the dishes or fix a little hole in the wall.”

“No, we are going to argue about it because you aren’t the man I fell in love with anymore and I don’t think if I can do this anymore. I want to be by your side to help you get better but if you don’t want to, then I don’t know if I can be here forever.”

Her words hit his ears at the same intensity as they would if he were sitting next to an airplane engine. They had arguments about his sobriety so many times before, yet those fights always had the underlying understanding that she would be there to help him. She never once mentioned the possibility of her leaving him because she truly did want to help him find his sobriety. His mouth falls open to talk. No words come out. How can he possibly swear that he wants to get better when he isn’t at the self-realization point in his journey? She takes the silence as an admittance that getting clean isn’t on his mind. “I need some time apart. I’m going to sleep at Deliah’s place tonight,” she informs, turning to leave. He doesn’t stop her; he wants to give her the space she needs in hopes that she realizes she can hold on for a little bit longer. The only word he can respond with is “Okay”, right before she closes the door behind her.

———

She hasn’t answered any of his texts and calls. Her night of taking some space turned into a week and it is driving him crazy. Her non-existence return may have to do with his unwillingness to agree to go to a therapist. After the thousandth attempt at calling her, she finally answers the call. “Normally, when a person doesn’t pick up the call, it means they don’t want to talk to you.” He lets out an internal sigh, “I know, I just need to talk to you. Please, can we meet at our spot, Sunshine?” She could never resist the usage of his nickname for her. “Okay, meet me there in an hour,” she agrees. The call drops right after her response and he gives himself a small smile. Not only does he get to see her again, he gets to try to get her back.

———

By the time she realizes she is being followed, she is alone under the bleachers, where she and Rafe used to spend their time in high school. It was where they found themselves when they didn’t feel like going to class or they needed to get away from the chaos after his team won a game. It was the place she fell in love with him in because even before they were dating when they were just friends, it was their spot. She spins around at the sound of grass being pressed down by a set of feet, ready to scold him for being late. It isn’t Rafe as she expected; instead, an average-height man with a dangerous air that scares her. The gleam behind his eyes tells her the bald man is up to no good, which is confirmed when he pulls out the hunting knife from his hoodie pocket. She steps back in an attempt to get away from him, but her back hits against a metal beam. The man rushes toward her and presses the sharp edge against the soft skin of her neck. “Your boy owes me money and since he is taking too long to get it back to me, I thought I would hold onto something precious to him until I get what I want,” the man explains with a wicked grin. She refuses to show him fear and looks him dead in the eyes, “Rafe’s dealer is Barry so I have no idea what you are talking about.” “He stopped going to Barry because Barry started getting on his case about how much he is using,” the male growled, not enjoying the bite to her bark. She chuckles like a maniac, “When Rafe comes, he is going to beat your ass.” “Shut up, Bitch.” Angered by his words, her knees find their target between his legs.

He lets out a howl and doubles over in pain. She uses this as her opportunity to attempt an escape, trying to run past him. Unfortunately, he reaches out to stop her and this results in the blade driving into her abdomen. A gasp passes her lips, causing the dealer to look in her direction. “Shit.” His eyes bloom open and immediately begins to pull it out. “No. Don’t pu-,” she warns, except it is too late. The weapon is already out and he is running toward the exit. She hunches forward and stumbles back against the beam, pressing her hand to her stomach to keep from bleeding out, feeling as though she has been punched. Calling 911 seems to be the logical answer; however, when she goes for her phone, she finds it broken on the floor. She thinks about going to her car and is stopped by the feeling of even more blood gushing out of the wound as she tries to push off the beam. It doesn’t hurt as much as she thought it would.

“Sunshine,” rings through her ears. Her dizziness makes it difficult to focus on the speaker, yet she knows who it is based on the nickname. She slides down the beam because her legs lose all their strength. Rafe rushes to her side and kneels beside her. “Shit, Sunshine. It’s going to be okay. Everything is going to be okay. I’m going to call the police. They are going to fix everything,” his voice breaks as his hand joins hers to stop the flow of his blood. She can hear him relaying the information to the dispatcher, but her body is telling her something Rafe isn’t going to be ready to hear. He places his phone on the floor so both of his hands can press on her abdomen. “They’re coming, Sunshine, just hold on. I promise. I’ll be here the whole time.” Her handshakes as she raises to his cheek, staining it with her blood. Her tears water at the edge of her bottom eyelid, “I don’t think I’m going to make it.” His head shakes vigorously. “Don’t say tha-.” She cuts him off, “Can you please just listen to me?” He nods to let her continue. “It was your dealer. I’m not telling you this to make you feel bad. Just to make sure he gets arrested. But I need you to know that you are more than just your addiction and football. I know you don’t think so, but you are and if you just realize that, then you will see the man that I fell in love with.” “I don’t deserve that though. Look at all the shit I put you through. You deserve more than a druggie as a boyfriend,” he cries, holding her hand against his skin.

She smiles up at him, “You deserve more too. You deserve to be truly happy. You deserve to try to find a new purpose in life. I want that for you.” “How can I find all of that if you are gone?” he questions. Her breathing begins to become laboured, “You’ll find yourself and once you grieve, you’ll find someone who can help heal your broken heart. That’s how.”

“I don’t want anyone else. I just want you. Please, don’t go. Will you please stay if I promise to get sober?”

“I will be with you every step of the way.”

The words tear his heart in two. He knows what it means. She truly doesn’t think she is coming out of this alive. “I want you to see me get better though. Please. Just hang on a little longer.” His tears cloud his vision. When he doesn’t hear a response, he wipes his eyes to get a closer look at her. The world goes dark at the sight of her glassy eyes only reflecting back his face with no recognition or life behind them. The rise and fall of her chest have stopped. The universe decides to answer his calls for help at a cruel moment as he hears the siren finally approach. There is no use in their hurry if the person who needs saving is the one to do it because Rafe isn’t going to let her last words die with her. He is going to get better, not only for her but for him too. He deserves more than a life of chasing his pain away with drugs and he is determined to achieve that.

Taglist: @winterrrnight @loves0phelia @thelomlisrafecameron @wickedlovely121 @thepatriarchykeychain @drewsmusee @starkowswife @maybankslover @forstarkey @loving-and-dreaming @magicalyoura

#rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #outer banks #rafe cameron imagine #outer banks fanfiction #outer banks imagine #outer banks x reader #rafe #rafe outer banks #rafe x reader #rafe obx #rafe imagine #rafe x you #rafe cameron outer banks #outerbanks #obx #obx fic #obx fanfic #obx imagine

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drewsprincessy · 2 months ago

Text

loving you was hard.

warnings: angst, heartbreak, anger, crying, mentions of sex, lmk if i missed any!

summary: rafe and reader are in love, but rafe struggles to accept it, he doesnt believe in love.

rafe cameron x female reader

part two.

it had been weeks since the incident at the party you and rafe argued at. you finally stopped thinking about him, but he definitely never stopped thinking about you. he sent you countless dms, even texted you off 7 different numbers that he created just to try and contact you.

he was a complete mess. he hadn't showered in days, he was snorting cocaine like there was no tomorrow, and he was drinking like he never wanted to wake up. he didnt care though, he had one thing on his mind. that was you.

he cried for days and nights, crying himself to sleep. and some nights he wouldn't even sleep.

he was beyond guilty. guilty for upsetting you, making you cry, he felt like he was going to die if he didnt get you back. he loved you, and with this time being away from you, he sees that. he didnt deserve you, he took your kindness for granted, and he wishes he would have been a better man for you. he wishes he really would've commited to you, because he sees now that these chicks do nothing for him. he doesnt even get turned on by the thought of anyone but you.

you'd be sitting in your room, brushing your hair at your organized vanity, and you hear your phone buzz. you pick it up, and see a no caller id. you pick up, curiously. you click the button to put it on speaker

"hello?" you speak into the phone

"y/n. its me, please let me come over. okay? i know you've seen the dms ive been sending you, baby please. let me come over and explain."

you go quiet for a moment, contemplating whether or not you should let him. after a moment of thought, you speak. "um yeah come over."

without another word, rafe hangs up and runs out the house. having to run back in to grab his keys. he comes back out his house and brings his motorcycle's engine to life. he then speeds off into the night, following the route to your house.

he gets there and knocks 3 times, and paces around impatiently.

you open the door with ur hairbrush still in hand, you stand there awkwardly waiting on him to say something.

he scratches the back of his neck, and stutters over his words "uh, can i- um come in?"

you sigh softly "um yeah sure" you step out of the way to let rafe in, you watch as he immediately makes his way through the doorway.

you make your way down the hallway, and open the door to your bedroom. he steps in first, and you follow.

you're the first to break the silence "so, what did u wanna talk about?" you say as you set your hairbrush down on your vanity.

"Uh, I wanted to say that I'm sorry... for a lot of things, well one because um I haven't been the best person to you. and I know your angry because I can't commit to a relationship, and you have every right to be... but for you I want to try. I wanna try to be in a relationship y/n. for you. like none of that hooking up with other girls shit or nuthin.. I want you. just you"

"rafe..i dont want u to just try. if the same thing happens again i dont know if my hearts gonna be able to take it.."

"i know princess, im not gonna do that shit again. a'ight? cmere let me hold you."

as you step closer to him, you can't help but wonder if hes really going to change this time..

a/n: this part is sooo rushed sorry in advance :(

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neoplatinum · 9 months ago

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VTMNTSCOAT - destroy lonely | ning 'ningning' yizhou

summary: ning's not herself; hasn't been for a long time. you're left wondering where she really has gone.

pairing: gf!ningning x gf!reader

themes: drug abuse, alcohol, cigarettes, lots and lots of swearing, angst, arguing, ning is very unstable, kinda toxic relationship, rest of aespa!

wc: 2.2k

link to pt2: keep it up - chase atlantic

she's irritated, and you're irritated by her being irritated. her eyes are already glazed over from all the cocaine lines she snorted with your rolled-up benjamin. needless to say, it won't take long before a fight breaks out in this club if she doesn't sit down soon.

a giant swarm of bodies is how you describe kwangya avenue tonight, bright LEDs shining overhead, and a cacophony of voices all drumming into your ear. it's all a bit much for you, but you weather through it rather than to see yizhou upset at you.

she's landed herself into one of the vips booths, the wrong vip booth it seems. since you don't recognize a single face there. the women are watching in disdain as yizhou collects herself while you try to move her out of the way. the men are trying to get a better view of her face (and her body). you sneer at them and grab her arm to hold her back up.

she's a devastating beauty with her leather jacket and wispy long jet black hair. she's weaving through the crowd as if trying to swim through water, stumbling and holding onto walls. you finally managed to see the booth of people at aeri's party.

"fuck me." you groan to yourself when you see the many lines of cocaine and girls swapping acid tabs with each other. it's a recipe for disaster, and with how yizhou has been pre-gaming, the last thing she needs is more fuel for the fire that is her muddled brain.

"gigi! my baby!" yizhou shouts as she damn near throws herself over aeri when she sees her.

you try and sit far away from the unknown girls who are making out with each other while being egged on by some weird dudes. the last thing you need is attention. you just hope this night ends quickly enough for you to enjoy your show wrapped up in your warm bed.

"hi sweetheart, missed me?" aeri speaks gently to yizhou, she smooths out yizhou's wild hair. aeri is nice. you've met her a couple times. she's calmer than yizhou, that's for sure. but she's often an enabler, she is just better at self-control than yizhou. there's been more than a few occasions that yizhou has went over to aeri's and come back on another universe, with aeri telling you that she needs to settle.

you can see the care that aeri has for yizhou, like her little sister, that she finds out of control. you're grateful that aeri is able to bring yizhou back to reality whenever she spirals.

aeri finally spots you with a tired yizhou lying on her chest, "hi, she doing okay?" she points at yizhou in her arms. you nod and get closer to aeri.

"yeah, got high off lines early; you know how she likes to pregame." you explain and yizhou is laughing with her eyes closed and rubbing aeri's back languidly.

she laughs at the fact, "yeah that's ning for sure." aeri passes yizhou back to you, and in an instant you're back to worrying about just fucked up she is right now. aeri is off being a good host, talking to other people while you have a high yizhou tucked into your neck like a koala bear.

you check her eyes, they're blown for sure. it's still safe but definitely a little worrisome. you continue to sigh as she grumbles about you messing with her eyes. you start explaining why, but she's already tuned you out. grabbing a cup of whiskey off the table and downing it before the owner can see it.

minjeong and jimin show up after a couple minutes, both enthusiastically wishing aeri a happy birthday and upon seeing yizhou's state, they come over to talk to her. yizhou seems a little more coherent, joyfully speaking about how happy she is that it's aeri's birthday and that she wishes nothing but the best.

minjeong is happily chatting it up with yizhou and being an active listener, but jimin's worried. she shoots you glances and whispers questions about yizhou's well-being. you give her the same spiel you gave aeri earlier. jimin is nice enough to bring over glasses of water to help sober up yizhou, even if it'll only do a little.

aeri returns with a bright smile after greeting her other guests, and seeing how yizhou is so happy, she pulls yizhou to the dance floor.

"omg, yay! let's all dance!" yizhou exclaims happily she tugs both minjeong and jimin's hands and pulls them to the dancefloor. you sigh when you notice you've been left behind. aeri waits for you, though, "are you okay?"

"no, give me a minute." you rub at your temples and set off for the bar, needing a drink to get the nerves out of your body, so you order just a water cup and try to calm yourself down.

feeling the anxiety of being yizhou's caretaker when she's beyond comprehension is taking a toll on you. it doesn't help that it seems to be a recurring event.

you turn around and get ready to face the dance floor when you notice your girl dancing on some guy. the rage flares up in your body, and you practically run towards the dancefloor where yizhou is happily dancing.

"ning, what the actual fuck!" you grab her off of the random dude, to which he drunkenly walks away. yizhou is still confused with what's going on until her eyes refocus on you.

"what?" she questions as she grabs onto your jacket.

"you were dancing up on some guy!" you're angry and hurt, feeling the anger bubbling up from your gut. minjeong and jimin both eye you two warily. the people around you are moving further away.

"no, i wasn't, i was dancing up on you!" she laughs at you and tries pulling you closer to her.

"you weren't! you were too high out of your fucking mind to realize that dude wasn't even me!" you shout, and by now, yizhou is sobering up a bit. eyes still unfocused, but she's trying to recenter herself.

"no, i'm not!" she shouts and gets away from you, feeling insecure. she's rubbing her arms up and down her jacket and watching everyone's eyes on her. she turns back and pushes you.

"stop it!, i didn't do anything wrong!" she shouts, and by now, more people are gathering, watching you two quarrel.

"anything wrong? ning! you're so beyond here that you can't even differentiate between me and some random dude, of course there's something wrong!" jimin is pulling at your arms and minjeong is trying to console a very upset yizhou.

"calm down. it's okay, you know she doesn't know what's going on." jimin tries getting you to take deep breaths. you nod your head, but the hurt is still spreading deep within your chest.

"you are the one that has a problem with me, my own girlfriend, and it is so damn suffocating to be around you!" yizhou shouts and runs off the dancefloor to what is presumably the women's bathroom. hot tears running down her face as she curses you.

now you're aggravated, and people are awed at the spectacle before them. aeri's busy trying to diffuse the situation and asking the dj to turn up the music louder so everyone will go back to dancing. and it mostly works, you calm your breathing a bit, both minjeong and jimin guiding you through your breathing.

"fuck jimin, i don't know what to do with her." you let out a strangled cry at the frustration, trying so hard to hold yourself together tonight, only to find yourself crying not even halfway through the event.

"listen, i know you're upset right now, but you really should go talk to her; you know how inconsolable she gets when she's high and sad." jimin pats your back, and with a sad heart you walk towards the women's bathroom.

you aren't ready to deal with whatever yizhou throws at you.

"excuse me, excuse me." you weave past the line of women outside the bathrooms and finally find the stall that yizhou has put herself in. she's crying into her hands and rocking herself back and forth.

you crouch down and try and tap her knees, she looks up and scowls at you. already reaching for a cigarette in her pocket. you try to take it away from her but she's being fussy about it. yanking it back and grabbing on to her lips.

she waits until you grab the lighter from your back pocket, smiling at you when you help her light up the cigarette and hold it to her mouth. she inhales deeply before leaning back against the bathroom wall.

"ning baby, let's talk outside." you try to gently pull her up.

she seems out of it, dried teary mascara all over her cheeks and smudged makeup on her hands. she stares at you before grabbing you by the collar and smashing her lips against yours.

you mold your lips against hers and forget just how fucked up this all is. how yizhou never wants to talk to you unless she's on something, how it's always her way or the highway. even now, you know this is fueled by the mix of everything that's in her system. so you cry quietly against her lips. grabbing the back of her head to pull her closer.

you miss when yizhou's eyes would light up when they saw you; now you think in her eyes all she sees is just a blob of a figure. her affection runs hot and cold, just like her temper. and you hang onto this moment, wishing she always wants to kiss you, even if she needs something in her system to do so.

upon feeling the wet tears on her cheeks, she pulls back and stares at you. really takes a look at the person she calls her girlfriend, and she hugs you tightly. sobbing into your arms, and you finally are able to hold her to walk out of the dirty club bathroom. she's crying, you're crying; you can't even tell why you're crying anymore. for yourself or for her, you really don't know.

"i'm sorry for treating you like shit." she mumbles into your chest, but you can hear it no matter how quiet she is. "i just don't feel like myself anymore. whenever I'm sober, it's like...I'm just always sad." she continues when you open the backdoor of the club, walking out in the cool air and away from everyone.

"ning baby, you need to lay off the drugs; it's what's fucking up your mood. you're so dependent on it, it's fucking with how you're actually supposed to feel." she cries harder into you, and you set her down; she immediately crouches into herself and sobs. you just sit with her, taking the cigarette from her and taking a few long draws.

"i hate myself for how i treat you." she cries out. the guilty part of yizhou is resurfacing, the intense guilt for how she can't break out of this cycle, needing lines of cocaine to even attend her best friend's party. she's crying less, but now she has the hiccups, and you would tell her it's cute if not for the heavy mood currently.

"you can still get better ning, nothing is stopping you."

"i'm scared that if i do quit the drugs, that i won't be able to love you anymore." she explains and finally it all clicks, how dependent she is on the drugs to uplift her own mood and make you happy. she's so lost in her wallowing that you're also crying. you look at her and see someone crying out for help.

"i don't think that's possible. i think it would make you able to love a lot better. you can feel the full extent of your emotions when you're sober. these are all just quick and cheap thrills to fake happiness." you explain, and she nods, still clutching onto herself for stability.

you reach into your pocket and bring out some napkins, and start wiping down her face, removing the smudged eyeliner and makeup as best as you can, she closes her eyes and just lets you.

it feels like home again, when you used to help her remove her makeup whenever she felt too tired from a long day out.

behind these tired and dull eyes is still your girlfriend; her warmth and love for you are still there, and at least you would like to believe so. you also wipe down her hands and rub them to stop them from shaking.

"ning, let's go home, okay? tonight's been a lot. i'll text aeri about it."

she nods, and you hold her hand and walk to your bike parked next to the club. grabbing the helmet and kissing her forehead before placing it on and clipping it to her head. you turn around and get ready to speed off in the night, with yizhou's arms wrapped tightly around your torso. you send aeri a quick text that you and ning are leaving early, receiving a thumbs up emoji and you look back at yizhou.

"we'll be okay." you say to yourself and take off.

a/n: ning is such an opium girlie (giselle too), and you know it. sorry for such an angsty one, was really feeling it with this ningning pic. stay safe and stay healthy everyone!

#ningning x reader #aespa ningning #ning yizhou #kim minjeong #yoo jimin #aeri uchinaga #aespa x reader #aespa x you #aespa #neoplatinum

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brummiereader · 1 year ago

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She Loves Me, She Loves Me Not (ONE SHOT/ DARK!TOMMY & YANDERE! ARTHUR)

Summary: Enter the mad paranoia of Tommy and his brother Arthur as they try to prove to themselves that you and Bunny's loyalty belongs with them after their discovery of your planned escape.

Warnings: Language, violence, angst, mentions of blood, mentions of murder, psychological mind games, psychological manipulation, psychological abuse, controlling behaviour, Dark!Tommy & Yandere!Arthur (This is a dark fic, please read the warnings before continuing)

Authors Note: This story is a merge of two worlds, Dark!Tommy & Y/N from "Killing Me Softly" and Yandere!Arthur & Bunny from "Hey Bunny", written by my incredibly talented friend and mutual @call-sign-shark. I can't recommend enough to go and check out her fantastic series!

" Look at 'em Tom" Arthur said quietly to his brother as he turned his back to you and Bunny from across the room sitting at the large mahogany table next to eachother. " They think we don't know what they're up to" he grinned darkly as his younger brother smirked in agreement, watching you pull up the strap of your emerald dress. Little did you know yours and Bunny's plan to escape the shackles of torment the two Shelby brothers had been relentlessly inflicting on you both would soon be eclipsed by another plan, one the siblings had concocted a fortnight ago after finding out your intentions to flee. "Why would they do that ay, scheming behind our backs like that? Don't they fucking love us? " Arthur said through gritted teeth, his mood quickly changing from anticipation of playing out their sadistic game to a temper rapidly rising within him. Volatile, unhinged and quick to snap. If Tommy wanted the night to go as planned he needed to calm his brothers erratic emotions and keep control of the situation.

" Here" Tommy said pulling out a small blue bottle of cocaine from his suit pocket which Arthur snatched out of his hand like a starved animal, snorting its contents within a few seconds. " After tonight we'll... Ey! Arthur, Listen!" Tommy said tapping the side of his brothers cheek in attempts to hold his attention as Arthur wiped the remnants of the white powder from his nose. " After tonight we'll know. We'll no where their loyalties stand" Tommy said with his hand firmly placed on his older brothers shoulder as Arthur nodded his head glancing over at Bunny.

"I can't lose my Bunny Tommy" Arthur said, his eyes wide, his body suddenly jittery with panic as he looked back to his brother.

" Fuck sake..." Tommy mumbled under his breath. Clearly the sweet release of his brothers preferred drug of choice hadn't warranted the affect he had hoped for or at least, not yet. " Arthur will you calm the fuck down, you're starting to creep me out" he replied cocking a brow as he returned to looking at you. His eyes roaming over your body as he bit his bottom lip imagining you naked as he pinned you...

" Tom, Tom..." Arthur said nudging his brothers arm with his elbow, breaking him out of his fantasy or rather, the plans he had for you at the end of the evening.

"She nearly escaped a few weeks ago" Arthur said quietly as he looked over to Bunny staring aimlessly into her glass, watching the amber liquid glisten from the warm light of the chandeliers as the soft music from the gramophone played out.

" And I told you. You gotta double lock. They're sneaky Arthur, they'll try and find a way out" Tommy replied as Arthur's eyes cast down to the wooden floorboards, mentally scolding himself for forgetting his brothers wise words of wisdom. After all, Tommy had become an expert in this field of debauchery. "Chin up, ey?"

" Yeh Tom, yeh..." Arthur replied as he pinched his bottom lip together, sniffing back his worries. " Right, fuck" he said clapping his hands together shaking of the last remnants of his wandering paranoia.

" That's it brother. Come on, let's have some fun" he said patting his back as they strode over to you both, the evenings festivities minutes away from starting. "Bunny" Tommy said with a smirk etched on his face as Arthur stood beside him, biting his inner cheek as he tried to hold back his excited amusement. " Sweetheart" he said sending you a wink as he looked at you from head to toe, his eyes glazing over with a smoky hue of lust as he got lost in his thoughts once again. "You two have been busy, haven't you?" Tommy said as he lit a cigarette looking between you both as Arthur wagged his index finger back and forth.

"Con..cocting something" Arthur added, his jaw tightening at the mere thought of deception as Bunny's hand squeezed yours under the table, her pulse beating so fast you could feel it vibrating against your skin.

"Arthur" Tommy said nodding to his brother who reached under the table, pulling out both of your suitcases. " Tut tut tut, going on a holiday without us, huh ladies?" Tommy said with a smirk glaring at you as your eyes widened in disbelief. You had both been so careful, so diligent in your plans. It was a miracle you managed to get as far as you had with the few times Arthur had brought Bunny over to Arrow house. "Your clothes, the children's clothes. Did you not pack anything of mine for this little getaway?" Tommy said as Arthur slammed the suitcases onto the table in front of you, pouring out both of their contents.

" Yeh, didn't see my swimming trunks in there Bunny" Arthur spat as he stared her down, the vein in his neck protruding from his escalating fury.

" A..Arthur, I...I" Bunny sobbed, stumbling her words out as Arthur loomed over the table, his fists clenched so tight they turned a ghostly shade of white. He was keeping her safe, keeping her from the dangers this city held for every woman that dared to venture out alone, why didn't she see that? Who knows what crazed person she could have run into, it's a good thing he was there to stop her from making that mistake. Arthur thought to himself as he stood up straight, rolling his shoulders of the tension that had been building up.

" Now you've both been very naughty. And we don't like naughty girls do we brother?" Tommy said picking up one of your lace knickers from within the pile by the end of his finger, cocking a brow as he put it in his suit jacket.

" No we don't. We like respectable, honest, loyal...obedient girls" Arthur said sniffing back the remnants of the cocaine he had snorted.

"That's right. You see, me and Arthur are starting to feel like your loyalty doesn't belong with, like you don't... love us"

" We feel betrayed, unappreciated"

" Those are strong word's brother. But betrayed and used we are, and after everything we have done for you" Tommy said furrowing his brow, an expression of hurt spread across his face, believable if it wasn't for the smirk playing mischievously on the corner of his mouth. "So, seeing how you two like to play games we have each come up with a way you can prove your loyalty to us and put our poor tired minds at ease. Right Arthur..."

" Tommy... darling, wait..." You panicked, tears welling in your eyes as Bunny quietly whimpered beside you, her hand now gripping yours even tighter.

" Not now sweetheart. The games about to start" Tommy said as he stood up from the edge of the table. "Arthur, if you don't mind" he said taking a drag of his cigarette as he leaned against the back of the sofa behind him.

" Eeny, meeny, miny, moe..." Arthur started to sing as his finger moved from you to Bunny. "Catch a spider by.."

" Tiger Arthur, it's fucking tiger" Tommy sighed, rubbing his brow with his thumb.

" Same bloody thing" Arthur replied snapping his head back to his brother about to finish the rhyme when Tommy interjected again.

"Tell me eh, when was the last time you saw a spider with toes Arthur?" Tommy huffed as he and Arthur started get into an argument over the words to the nursery rhyme whilst bunny squeezed your hand, her eyes darting to the door then back to you to which you furiously shook your head at. There was no way you would both make it out, no matter how intense their ridiculous argument was getting. Whatever punishment was heading your way would be far worse if you tired to take your chances and make a run for it. " Alright! Alright! Just get on with it" Tommy said giving up, as Arthur's face lit up with a satisfied grin.

" It's toe, if it wiggles..." He said stopping his finger at bunny, wagging his finger from side to side with a unhinged grin on his face. " I'm gonna come over there and make you wiggle" Arthur giggled climbing over the table to Bunny when Tommy kicked the bottom of his boot.

" Arthur, behave " Tommy chuckled, they were enjoying this, their twisted little game no doubt the highlight of their week.

"Let it go, eeny, meeny, miny, moe" Arthur finished his finger pointing at you." You're up Y/N" Arthur announced as Tommy stood up grinning from ear to ear. " Y/N get up" Arthur said with his arms on his hips huffing as he looked back to Tommy. He wanted his turn and you were holding up the nights festivities with your reluctance to move. " She ain't budging Tom"

" Tommy please I'm sorry. I got scared, we got scared we panicked. Tommy our children..." You said tears streaming down your face as your eyes darted from Bunny to your husband .

" It's true Arthur, we just..." Bunny started to say as she swallowed back her tears.

" See this is the kind of shit you shouldn't fool for. Crocodile tears that's all that is. Arthur, please..." Tommy said cutting Bunny off as he motioned to the table, which Arthur flipped over in one quick motion.

" Aw would you look at that Tom. They're holding hands" Arthur pointed out to his brother at you and Bunny still clinging onto eachother for dear life, a film of sweat the only thing separating you.

" Adorable" Tommy said as he blew a cloud of smoke through the smirk on the corner of his mouth.

" Sister in law's supporting eachother, it's gonna make me cry." Arthur taunted as Bunny's eyes snapped to him, her face suddenly going a deathly shade of white at the thought of being shackled to this crazed man for life. " Yehh that's right Bunny, gonna make a Shelby out of you one day. Put a Shelby in that belly too. Maybe we'll skip the wedding part first, ay? He grinned as his tongue pressed on the roof of his mouth, his rabid eyes roaming over her body.

" Come on Arthur your scaring her" Tommy chuckled darkly as he flicked the ash of the end of his cigarette onto the floor.

"Yeh well, you're already on your third I gotta catch up" Arthur replied in annoyance that his baby brother was ahead of him in anything.

"What can I say I have strong swimmers" Tommy smirked winking to you. The only reason why Tommy was now a father of three was he never gave your body a moment's rest before he would climb on top of you again and have his way after each birth of your children, you were a laying hen, not a wife. "Come on darling, up you get" Tommy said walking over to you as he grabbed you by your arm, pulling you away from Bunny whose hand was still desperately holding onto yours, both of you now crying uncontrollably, every sob every whimper laced in terror. Breaking you apart, Arthur grabbed hold of Bunny as she scrambled forward to you.

" Now now Bunny, we have to take turns " Arthur said as his hand came down to her waist his fingers lacing between the soft fabric of her white flowing dress, one he had brought especially for her. She looked so innocent so pure. But Why was she crying, tonight was supposed to be fun? He thought to himself as he tried to catch her eye, her refusal to do so twisting his stomach into a knot of anger that he quickly digested before he lost his temper and spoiled the evenings games. "Come on Bunny" he said guiding her over to the sofa as you and Tommy were now sat opposite eachother at a small table in the corner of the room.

" Do you love me Y/N?" Tommy asked as he pulled a revolver from his holster.

"Of...of course..." You replied sniffing back your tears as he placed it on the table in front of you both, your eyes widening further as he pulled out one single bullet. You were used to Tommy's mind games, but they never involved lethal weapons like the one sitting in front of you. He had already warned you to never attempt to run again, and this time you had been so brazen about your plan you had made it clear with the contents of your suitcase you intended to take his children too.

" And do you trust me?" He asked sitting back as he spun the bullet on the table in a circle.

" Tommy... what's happening, what are you going to do? You replied, your voice shaking as you looked at the bullet spin around one last time, the curved edge now pointing at you.

" I'm the one asking question, now do you trust me?"

"Tommy..."

"Answer the fucking question Y/N!" Tommy snapped slamming his fist onto the table as Arthur giggled at his brothers outburst of anger. " You're making me angry love, and you know what happens when I get angry"

" I trust you Tommy" you quickly reassured him as Tommy glared at you, playing with the bullet between his fingers.

" Good" he said taking the gun, his hand hovering over the chamber as you closed your eyes, blinking the tears away from your blurry vision." We're going to play a little game" he said snapping it shut, spinning the cylinder before placing it back between you both. " Russian Roulette. Learnt it from some batshit crazy Russian years ago. Didn't want to play with her, but I do with you" Tommy smirked as he looked at the confusion on your face having never heard of the game." You won't have to worry your pretty little head with the rules. It's simple" he said, taking every opportunity he could to belittle you. " One bullet, 6 chambers. We take turns firing the gun..." he paused watching your eyes widen " Right here" he finished pointing to the side of his temple, when you abruptly stood up, pushing your chair back as Tommy reached over the table grabbing your arm.

" Tommy no, you're sick! You're fucking insane. I won't do this, I fucking won't!" You shouted to him trying to pull away from his vice-like grip circling your wrist.

" Yes love I know, I'm such a bad man" Tommy said sarcastically having heard you already insult him plenty of times before. " But you will play or else I'll send one of the girls away. And you'll never see them again. Do you understand me?"

" No! You can't do that, Tommy..." You pleaded as he pulled you down back into your chair. Three daughters, you had given him three beautiful girls in the short time you had been married, but that wasn't enough. Tommy wanted a son, an army of sons. And with his lack of a paternal bond with his daughters you knew he wasn't bluffing.

" I can and I will. It's not like we can't have another. He smirked, pushing the gun towards you. " Ladies first"

"Tommy .." you pleaded one last time as you looked at the gun in front of you.

" You're testing my patience sweetheart. If you really want to do this, then fine" Tommy said as he leaned back in his chair looking over his shoulder to the door." Frances, bring me the baby" Tommy called out his eyes darting back to see the fear rising within you as he waited for a response, waited for you to play along. Within seconds you picked up the gun, sobbing as tears streamed down your face. "Never mind" he called out as he nodded his head to the gun in your hand. Lifting the revolver to your temple you squeezed your eyes shut, the coolness from the metal pressing against your skin sending a shiver down your spine. You would die for your children if it meant keeping them safe, if it meant keeping them from their father's torment. With your finger resting above the trigger you closed your eyes, hoping for a way out, from this life, from him. The gun pressed against your head didn't feel so damming after all...click. The chamber was empty, no bullet spent. You was still here, you was still alive. Gasping for air you threw the gun on the table which Tommy picked up, instantly putting it to his head and pulling the trigger without a second thought. Another click. No shot fired. The second turn mirrored the first. Through sobbing tears and thoughts of your children you pulled the trigger again, while Tommy's calm demeanor stayed exactly that, calm. Only two chambers left, one empty one with a bullet that would end either one of your lives.

" Tommy please, I love you, I trust you. We don't need to do this, we dont need to prove anything." You cried as Tommy took the gun putting it in your hand and placing it to your head.

" Pull it Y/N" Tommy said pushing your finger over the trigger.

" Tommy!" You wept uncontrollably, as a rush of fear overtook you, the sudden thought of your children being motherless the only thing holding you back from the years of torment you wanted to escape.

" Fucking pull it! he yelled at you as you wailed holding onto his arm, begging him to stop."Pull it!" He shouted again as you closed your eyes, the image of your daughter's playing within the grounds of Arrow House flashing before you...click. Dropping the gun on the table your hand flew to you mouth, you felt sick physically sick. But with no time to reflect on what had just happened Tommy had the gun already pointed to the side of his head...click. The gun was empty, it had been fucking empty all this time.

" See Tommy lad, she does trust you!" Arthur cheered as you abruptly stood up from your chair, your hands out behind you as you stumbled back away from Tommy's piercing stare, away from the smirk and enjoyment spread across his face.

"You tricked me! " you screamed as Tommy stood up and marched towards you, pinning you between the wall as his body.

" What, you think I want the mother of my children dead or fatherless? Oh darling, I never play by the rules, you should know that by now" he said as his hand cupped your cheek his eyes centimeters from yours. " I told you to trust me and you did, there's no doubt where your loyalty stands where your love stands" he said quietly in your ear, a slow exhale of hot air from his lips sending a wave of goosebumps down you neck.

" Look how your getting me" he smiled against your delicate flesh as he grabbed your hand cupping it around the growing bulge under his suit trousers, his aroused state throbbing under your hand as you turned your head away in disgust at his sadistic kink. " I'm gonna fuck you so hard tonight, I'll put a fourth in you. A fucking son." Tommy seethed in your ear whilst an untimely hint of a smirk graced your lips, unable to hold back the satisfaction that Tommy, the man who gets what he wants whenever he wants didn't have control over mother nature. You should have known better than to let it slip, for everything you did that displeased Tommy was worthy of punishment, and that small smirk hadn't gone unnoticed.

" Don't look Bunny" Arthur laughed with his arm wrapped around her shoulders. " My baby brothers pretty sick, he gets off from that kind of thing. Don't worry though sweetheart, I'm not like that" Arthur said with a smirk, his legs widening, pushing hers further to the edge of the sofa as he glared at her heaving chest.

"Your turn Arthur" Tommy said grabbing your hands, putting them behind your back as he walked you over to the sofa opposite them.

" Y/N..." Bunny cried wanting to reach out to you and she watched you slump into the sofa, the colour drained from your body. You were a broken woman. And as Tommy placed his arm around you, pulling you into his side, his lips ghosting over your neck, she suddenly felt like she was watching her own future. Beaten, broken and tired. Would this be her fate too?

" Bring in the contestants" Arthur jumped up as he walked over to the door snapping Bunny out of the haunting image of herself chained to a life of misery and abuse.

" Come on, fucking move" Arthur said behind the door as he walked in with two young men bound and gagged his gun pointing to their backs. "Kneel" Arthur spat, pushing the two men in front of Bunny as they struggled to keep themselves from falling over at her feet.

"Arthur, what's going on?" she said shifting forward in her seat, her eyes darting in a panic from Arthur to the two men in front of her as your own eyes widened in horror at the realisation of who they were. A chauffeur Tommy had hired only a few weeks ago, a sweet boy who's sole focus was the job in hand. And then...Harry. The stable boy who had been working on the grounds of Arrow House since he was a child. Both innocent young men, but not in the eyes of Arthur. For Arthur they had overstepped the line and he was seeking justice.

"Both of them were ogling you when we visited three weeks ago, so pick" he said matter of fact, without any further detail.

"Pick, what .."

" Pick one" Arthur replied handing her the gun as he sat beside her, his arm back securely draped over her shoulders as she watched the whimpers and cries of both the men, or rather boys hunched over eyes cast down. " So bunny, who's the lucky fella?" Arthur said turning to her staring blankly between both men. "Bunny?"

" Arthur no, nobody looked at me and even if they did I... I only have eyes for you I only want you. " Bunny pleaded knowing the very words he wanted to hear. Smiling, Arthur brushed his thumb down her cheek wiping the lone tear from her soft skin.

"Sorry darling but you're gonna have to pick. Both of these dirty fucks were looking at you, and I can't have that Bunny. But since I'm a forgiving man, a gentleman..." He said his moustache twitching at his high regard for himself. "...you only have to pick one" Arthur said as Bunny started to cry at the realisation she couldn't escape Arthur's sadistic game as much as you couldn't escape yours.

" Arthur, will you get your girl to fucking hurry up" Tommy said moving his lips from your neck for the briefest of seconds, his hand firmly grasped on your hip to stop you from moving.

"I know this is a big decision but you're making my brother upset Bunny " He said kicking the chauffeur, his muffled whimpers irritating him. "He wants to fuck his wife you see, and since we're guests in his house it's only polite we don't make him wait. Tick tock, tick tock" he smiled looking at the gun in her lap then back to her quivering bottom lip. " Fuck sake " he said standing up taking the gun from her realising her unwillingness to play along. Arthur was precariously on the edge of loosing his temper, his thirst for revenge was strong and he wouldn't end this game before one or both men were six feet under. " Which one bunny, the stable boy or the chauffeur" he smiled unnervingly as he pointed the gun at the back of each of the men's head.

"Arthur no! Stop, please..." Bunny pleaded endlessly, her strained efforts going unheard. You can't reason with a mad man, a man not only consumed by his own paranoia but also his obsession and love for the woman he had be holding captive.

" Pick bunny now! Arthur shouted putting the gun down on a small table beside him as he took a pair of black gloves from his back pocket as the muffled sobs of the two men intensified, the suffocating atmosphere in the room only increasing when Arthur picked up the gun again.

" Arthur we...we just greeted one another...it was innocent, don't make me do this dont do this, please..."

" Bunny I ain't repeating myself. Now pick!" He yelled as he pushed both his hands onto his forehead, pushing back the escalating fury within him, trying with all his might to not...snap. "Fucking pick, pick, pick!

"Arthur stop it, stop!" Bunny screamed closing her eyes when a loud gun shot boomed within the four walls and a heavy thud of a body hit the wooden floorboards below them. " Arthur..." Bunny said as she opened her eyes, her bottom lip wobbling in terror as she looked down in front of her to see the young chauffeur laying on the floor, a pool of blood surrounding his lifeless body.

" Picked for ya bunny" Arthur said his chest heaving up and down, hair disheveled, his eyes crazed as he smiled manically at her.

" Fucking hell Arthur, you got blood all over my walls!" Tommy said gesturing with his hand, more bothered about his immaculate home now splattered with blood than the dead body a few feet away from him.

" Sorry 'bout that brother" Arthur said smoothing his hair back away from his face as he looked down at his work, his grin turning into a satisfied smirk.

" Right we all done for tonight?" Tommy said standing up pulling you up with him, his hand snaking along your back down between your thighs as you squirmed under his touch.

" In the big guest room tonight yeh? With the big bed?" Arthur asked grabbing bunny by the arm pulling her trembling body over the lifeless man below her, dismissive of her horrified state, the tears cascading down her cheeks.

" Enjoy" Tommy winked nodding his head to his brother as he pushed you forward out the room. " Light a fire " Tommy said to one of his men standing by the entrance, gesturing back to the room where a night of carnage and terror had just played out, where Harry was still knelt beside the young man whose life had been so brutally taken. With Tommy's hand firmly on the curve of your back you slowly walked up the stairs, your body still trembling from the nights events.

" Arthur your Bunny's hoping away, keep control of it or put it back in its cage " Tommy said as you came to a stop in front of your room, watching Bunny frantically run down the corridor.

" It's alright, we're just playing" Arthur replied with a crazed giggle as he chased after her. Closing the master bedroom door behind him Tommy watched as you stumbled back to the edge of the bed a devilish grin gracing his lips as he stalked forward undoing his belt.

"Now about that smirk..."

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