#so i kinda just use other people's things of them

[tallest-marij-reblog]

Yeah, agreed: don't mock newbie fans! But can the Florpus Smeets, as I lovingly call them, also not be dicks to us oldbie fans? 'Cause that'd rock.

We weren't TRYING to be cringe or whatever. We were struggling with shit, it was an escape, it appealed to people in a way we'd never seen, and we didn't know ZaDR was problematic, other than the fact Jhonen didn't support it... And that whole supposed age gap thing wasn't even revealed until waaaay after the ships were well-established in the fandom. Kinda felt like Jhoben was just trolling again (he's a huuuuuge troll and always has been, by the way; don't take his "lore" seriously - unless it's confirmed in the series, it's not real... and even THEN, how many times did someone 'die' only to be fine the very next episode?? Skoodge and Zim even have a shout-out about it in the episode 'Hobo 13'!).

And those ships actually still mean a lot to us. IZ and shipping, including ZaDR, helped make life feel just a little less sucktastic.

So, please, be gentle and considerate of those of us who still are ZaDR fans. We're not trying to be creeps. Let us be and just scroll on past when it does come up. ^^

With “Invader Zim” coming back, please remember not to be a dick to kids who will inevitably be going through a “Zim phase.” Don’t single out kids online to mock, don’t put their art on “cringe” blogs, just. Don’t be a dick to kids ffs

[bucketbueckers]

TEAM BUECKERS

pairing: paige bueckers x fem!reader

content: language, kinda silly, kinda rushed

wc: 5.9k

synopsis: For you and Paige, the line between “friends” and “something more” wasn’t always this blurry. You weren’t quite sure how you got here, and if you were being completely honest, you didn’t know if you were brave enough to ever cross that line fully. It’s not until Paige ropes you into a Valentine’s Day couples contest you realize, with the two of you, that line never really existed at all.

notes: happy (late) valentines day 😋 yes i'm posting this after midnight on february 15 and yes i tried my best to get this out on the 14th when it was, you know, actually valentines day, but i fumbled majorly and im like 50% sorry. not proofread bc im sleepy. i lowkey don't know how to feel about this but i think the end makes up for it but i had an idea for this and it honestly derailed. i still don't know how taglists work (if you've asked and you're not on here, i'm sorry i will just throw up and die if i tag someone who doesn't actually want to be tagged in all of my works i hope u understand, pls be super specific my brain doesn't function like it used to) uhhh so yeah lmk what we think & happy vday 🫶

tags: @jnkbueckers

You and Paige weren’t always like this. There used to be a clear boundary in your friendship, a strictly platonic one where her embrace didn’t make your heart race and where her mischievous smile didn’t fill you with an exasperation that bordered on endearment. You didn’t always wear her jersey at games, didn’t always keep her favorite ice cream stocked in your apartment for nights she came over to binge watch the same show the both of you have probably seen a combined thousand times, didn’t always confuse where you begin or where she ends. There used to be a time where the two of you weren’t so inexplicably intertwined in the fabric of each other’s lives. 

If anyone asked, you wouldn’t be able to identify when everything shifted – when your feelings transformed into what they are now. It just happened. The realization was as easy as waking up next to her on the couch, your legs tangled under a blanket far too small for the both of you, her arm tight around your waist to prevent you from falling off of the cushions entirely. It was as easy as the spare toothbrush you keep in your bathroom because she sleeps over so often, as easy as the drawer you have in her room because sometimes her dorm is just closer than your apartment.

So maybe it was kind of inevitable that ‘you and Paige’ turned into a ‘You & Paige.’ The two of you have a simple understanding. You keep her grounded, she encourages you to dream a little bigger. You talk, she listens. You round each other out in so many ways that you’re not the least bit surprised by how many people think that you and Paige are dating. If anything, they’re more surprised when you correct them, saying, “She’s just my best friend.”

You’re content to take your feelings for her to the grave. Maybe you would get over her eventually. She’s Paige Bueckers. She has a national championship and the upcoming draft to focus on and you have your senior thesis due at the end of the semester. The both of you have a lot on your plates – you care for her too much to complicate things for her, even if that means putting your own feelings on the back-burner.

You’re sitting on your couch, twelve pages into your paper, sifting through the twenty-eight (yes, twenty-eight) tabs you have open for your research when you hear your door knob jiggle. You don’t think too much of it, trying to stay focused on the task in front of you before you give up and start scrolling through social media again. However, your discipline doesn’t last for too long because the familiar rhythm of footsteps could only belong to one person. You look up to find Paige making her way into your living room like she owns the place (which she may as well, considering how often she’s around), depositing her duffle bag on the armchair. You greet her, returning to your work, but you feel the couch dip under her weight as she takes a seat next to you.

And then she sighs. Loudly. Dramatically, like she’s begging for your attention. Like you’re not busy. You glance at her from the corner of your eye, finding her staring straight at you, but she says nothing. A few beats pass. You add a new sentence to your paper, pausing to go back and find the reference page. She sighs again, more purpose and intent behind it this time, and your lips quirk slightly. Still, she says nothing, and the silence stretches on for so long that you’re sure she’s given up on trying to annoy you.

You write one more sentence before she leans over, sprawling out across your body, chin pressing into your keyboard. Your eye twitches as a long string of ‘M’s takes over your Word document. Paige sighs again, sounding forlorn, like a kicked puppy, and you know you’re not going to get anything done unless you entertain her.

“Okay,” you say, pulling your computer out from under her head, making sure to save your paper before you close the lid. “What’s wrong?”

Her face brightens almost immediately. “I am so glad you asked,” she states. “So, I’m walkin’ through campus today, right?”

“As one does.”

She hums. “And there’s a shit ton of tabling outside the student union. Frats, clubs, some vegan guy giving out pamphlets –”

“Paige,” you interrupt, raising a brow. “The point?”

“Oh.” She nods, collecting her thoughts. “So there was this club – forgot who they were, lowkey, there was a lot of letters – but on Friday, they’re hostin’ a Valentine’s Day contest and the first place prize is insane. I’m talking gift cards, cookie decorating kits, I think there was even a coupon in there for a fucking spa trip, or some shit, but you get the point, yeah? I wanted to sign us up for it.”

You had to admit – you were a little intrigued by it. Between your class work and Paige and her teammates giving you an aneurysm every week, you were in dire need of a spa trip and a little bit of relaxation. But more than anything else in the world, you knew Paige. You recognized that gleam in her expression – it was a feigned nonchalance, like she was being slick and trying to hide it. “What’s the catch?” you ask bluntly.

She laughs, the sound more surprised than amused, and her head shifts in your lap to gaze up at you. You try to ignore the way it sets off a swarm of butterflies in your belly. “What makes you think there’s a catch?” she asks.

“You’re Paige Bueckers,” you state. “There’s always a catch. Like I knew there was a catch when you asked me if I would hide fourteen blonde wigs in my apartment.”

“They were for CD!” she argues. You narrow your eyes at her and she huffs a little, amused, her lips quirking into a radiant smile. “A’ight. I guess you got a point.” You hum, because of course you do. Her expression turns serious as she sighs, for real this time. “It’s a couple’s contest,” she admits. “But hear me out, okay?”

“I don’t think I have much of a choice,” you grumble, but your mind is racing.

“There’s a couple rounds,” she explains. “Like, the first round is trivia. How well do you know your partner, type shit. They score you, then they eliminate the people who don’t know shit about their partners. Second round is teamwork. They’ll give you a couple of puzzles and the most points will go to the teams who work well together and solve the puzzle quickly. More eliminations, then the partners are separated and they’re asked questions about each other – about what, I’on know. That should be the final round of eliminations and then the remaining couples are ranked based on points and prizes are given. Light work.”

“Light work?” you echo, a little self-deprecating. “Paige, we aren’t a couple.”

“Well, not exactly,” she concedes. “But we know each other pretty well. And can you really say no to the spa coupon?”

You bite your lip, sighing as you truly contemplate it. She’s got you there. The prize itself is worth the heartache that will come with pretending like you and Paige are actually dating. “You sure we can handle it?” you ask.

She pats your side, almost ignorant of the way it sends electricity coursing down your spine. “Duh,” she says like it’s obvious, her lips growing into a confident, assured smile. “We’re a dream team, baby. We got this.”

You could only hope so.

You nervously adjust your dress as you and Paige stand outside of the large room that the Valentine’s Day contest was taking place in. You spent the entire week leading up to Valentine’s Day an anxious wreck – part of you was worried that you would slip up and say something that you would come to regret, maybe say something a little too real. You had to keep reminding yourself that you and Paige were playing a part and once that gift basket was in your hands, then things could go back to normal. 

The two of you dedicated the better part of the week to perfecting your cover story. How you met, where you met, how long you’ve been together, all of the cheesy romance milestone moments that you were certain you’d be asked about. You mutually decided to not get too creative as maintaining the lie would become even more difficult, but you were confident in your ability to sell a story.

“You ready?” Paige asks you, drawing you from your racing thoughts as she squeezes your hand gently. You didn’t even realize her hand had slipped into yours. Now that you’re aware of it, it’s all you can think of. Her hand is strong, enveloping yours completely, and it brings you a calming peace you weren’t even aware that you’d been seeking out. Feeling yourself relax, you meet her eyes and nod, trying not to smile too hard when she beams at you.

As she leads the two of you inside the auditorium, you do your best to not stare too much at her. She’s dressed simply yet elegantly; donning a fitting suit that’s a light pink in color in honor of the occasion, the fluorescent lights overhead reflecting off of her stunning chains and the rings adorning her fingers. Her hair is tied back in her formal slick-back, the diamonds in her ears sparkling, and you really have to drag your eyes off of her. You’d already spent so much of the drive over staring at her and you’re sure she’d caught you a few times but was too nice to say anything to you.

The event had a decent turn out. You count fourteen couples at most, fifteen including you and Paige, although you couldn’t really tell if that was good or bad. Beating fourteen other real, actual, dedicated, in-love couples was totally manageable. So what if you and Paige weren’t actually together, but you were the most convincing pair of best friends the world had ever seen? She said you could do it, and damn it if you weren’t going to get that spa treatment.

The auditorium, however, was decorated to the nines. Lights and streamers were strewn about, various complementing shades of pinks and lilacs matching the Valentine’s Day themes. The tables were covered in pink tablecloths with gorgeous centerpieces. Honestly, you had to give props where they were due – this club has gone all out for this Valentine’s Day event, although you’re sure they probably splurged their semesterly budget on all of the amenities.

Before you or Paige have the chance to say anything to each other, you’re approached by a young woman wearing a pink polo shirt with the club's name and logo emblazoned on the chest. UConn, UMatter. You glance quickly at Paige, trying not to let the amusement show on your face as you remember her words – ‘There was a lot of letters.’ She was so full of shit. “Hi guys!” the young woman greets enthusiastically. “Thanks so much for signing up. What’s the last name?”

“Bueckers.”

The girl nods, scanning her clipboard before finding Paige’s name. “Okay, perfect. Let me show you guys to your table.” She leads you diligently through the room, craning her head over her shoulder to explain. “Madelyn’s gonna be around soon to walk you guys through the trivia section once we start, alright? She’ll let you guys know everything you need.”

You and Paige thank the club member and she offers you two one last smile as the two of you sit down next to each other. Paige’s hand finds your knee, almost subconsciously, and you try to find your dignity. It’s then that you notice the placecard in front of you – elegant script reading TEAM BUECKERS. With a quiet laugh, you nudge Paige’s elbow, drawing her attention to the paper. “‘Team Bueckers,’ huh?” you ask her teasingly. “You forget about me?”

“Never,” she swears. “I think they assign the names based on who registered. Trust me, I had a name lined up and everything. We were gonna be PB & Slay.”

You snort. “I’m Slay?”

“No,” she deadpans. “You’re PB. Keep up, please.”

“Of course,” you say obviously, like it’s definitely your fault. “I’ll do better next time.” She squeezes your knee under the table, smiling wryly at you.

Once everyone filters in, the girl who’d greeted you at the door makes her way to the front of the room, adjusting the microphone. She introduces herself as the president of the UConn, UMatter club, explaining some of their objectives and goals for the spring semester – you tune out a lot of it, which you’ll probably feel bad for later, but you weren’t here for the club recruitment. You were here for the pedicure that was calling your name this weekend. She makes it through the rest of her opening remarks, officially announcing the beginning of the first challenge: trivia. Several club members make their way to designated tables and a short, brunette girl takes a seat in front of you and Paige.

“Hey, guys,” she says, grinning widely and handing the both of you dry erase boards and a marker each. “I’m Madelyn. I’m gonna walk the two of you through today’s challenges. We’ll go back and forth – you answer one, then the other, so on and so forth. If your answers are the same, then you’ll get a point. Ready?” You and Paige hum affirmatively. “Alright. Question for Paige – when is your partner’s birthday?”

Paige huffs, her lips quirking into a smile as she uncaps her marker. “Light work,” she murmurs as she writes her answer down. “It’s a national holiday.” You roll your eyes as Madelyn laughs. Paige flips the dry erase board around, showcasing it to you and Madelyn, and you nod as Madelyn awards you both one point.

“Same question for you,” Madelyn says to you. “When is Paige’s birthday?”

You uncap your marker and write down your answer. October 20, 2001. “The world hasn’t known peace since,” you murmur under your breath, drawing laughter from Paige. You flip your board around and Paige nods smugly.

“Two for two,” Madelyn states. “Next question for Paige. What trait of yours is your partner’s favorite?”

You and Paige exchange a glance, her brow raising teasingly. She writes down her answer and you do the same, eventually flipping your boards over for the reveal. The two of you hadn’t exactly prepared well to answer this one, so you were hoping that you and Paige were on the same wavelength. You lean forward, glancing at her whiteboard, and smiling with relief when you see her answer: she likes my energy. Paige’s smile is smug, but there’s an underlying softness in her eyes. “Don’t laugh at me,” you huff, trying to explain. “You just — you have this way about you, like you’re kind, warm, you make people smile, and you always support them. You’re just genuinely good and, I don’t know, I really like that about you.”

Paige’s smile isn’t any less confident, although she seems a little bashful now, her cheeks tinging pink. “Three for three.” she says.

Madelyn tries to stifle her grin, but it’s clearly not working. “Next question is for you. When Paige is having a rough time, how do you help her relax?”

“With great difficulty,” you gripe, making Paige and Madelyn snort as you write your actual answer. By forcing her to chill the fuck out. You and Paige flip your boards, hers reading a much politer She makes me do nothing all day. Madelyn nods, awarding you the point, but you hardly pay her any mind as you meet Paige’s eyes. “You do too much,” you say, which makes her groan. “You overwork yourself and you microdose a burnout and I have to make you sit down and remember that you’re human.”

“You’re worse than me!” she points out.

You sniff. “This is about you,” you declare, “not me.” Paige rolls her eyes fondly, but she can’t help her laughter. 

“Next question,” Madelyn says, grinning. “Paige, what did you guys do on your first date?”

This was a question that the two of you had prepared for. You both decided that a little bit of the truth went a long way and the truth was that you and Paige had no shortage of quasi-dates that you could easily draw from. You tried not to think too hard about that as the two of you write down your answers. You turn your boards, revealing similar responses of ‘we went to her dorm and made dinner together after one of her games.’

You glance at Paige and she sighs. “Don’t start,” she pleads. 

“I’m actually a little invested now,” Madelyn chirps, which makes you grin and makes Paige bury her head in her hands. 

“All I’ll say is that Paige shouldn’t be in the kitchen without supervision but I really admire her, um, willingness to get creative,” you say kindly. Your best friend pinches your thigh under the table and you jerk back, laughing. Not wanting to embarrass her in front of a stranger, you leave it at that, although you smile at Paige like you’re the only two at the table. “I had a good time, though. She made it memorable.” She smiles back at you, something tender that has your heart constricting. 

The both of you knew the truth, though. Paige was not a good cook. She doesn’t make terrible food — dinner was delicious, but Paige is chaotic and an actual hazard. Watching her chop an onion hurt something deep inside you although she’d seemed so proud of herself. You didn’t have the heart to make fun of her. 

“Five for five,” Madelyn says, drawing your attention back to her. “Next question for you. Who confessed to who?”

You and Paige lock eyes again, a silent conversation passing between the two of you, and you write down her name. You turn your boards, Paige’s name written on the both of them and you smile to yourself. “She was pretty oblivious,” Paige says, referring to you, and your smile falls as your jaw hits the ground. “I dropped so many hints and she just didn’t pick up on them. I eventually got tired—”

“Desperate,” you cut in. 

“Tired,” she emphasizes, smirking at you, “so I planned out this huge romantic thing and at the end, she still didn’t understand so I told her straight up.”

You roll your eyes. “Maybe you’re just not as slick as you think,” you tell her. 

“Nah,” Paige says. “I’m super romantical.”

“Sure,” you concede. 

Madelyn stifles her smile. “Alright. Two more questions for both of you. Paige, what is your partner’s pet peeve?”

“If you get this wrong,” you grumble, hearing Paige snicker as the two of you write down your answers. After you flip your boards, she grins proudly when your answers line up. 

“She hates not being taken seriously,” Paige recites. “She’s an English major. People always think it’s just easy or unimportant shit, like reading and writing papers, but she actually does a lot of interesting analysis and stuff that I never even considered. I’ll admit I was a little ignorant but she set me straight.”

“Wait, I didn’t know you thought that,” you say, honestly confused. 

She shrugs, a little bashful. “I talk a lot but I listen. Sometimes when you leave the room, I’ll read your paper just so I can ask better questions. You get all… glowy. And… I’on know. I like seeing you happy.”

You blink once at her, genuinely touched, and if you weren’t head over heels for Paige before then you definitely are now. She squeezes your knee again, her smile crooked yet tender. Damn it. You are hopeless. 

“That’s so sweet.” You’re a little shocked by Madelyn’s voice, but you clear your throat, refocusing. “Next one for you. What’s Paige’s least favorite season?”

“That’s easy,” you say, writing your answer down. Paige does the same. When you flip your boards, you glance at Paige’s, smiling wryly. “Paige hates spring. She has really bad allergies and all of the pollen is honestly a death sentence, so she’ll get all congested and sneezy and will spend a good two weeks bitching about it and how it makes her Jeep dirty.”

You glance at Paige, waiting for her to say something, but she just shrugs with a smug expression. “Last question for Paige,” Madelyn says. “What is something your partner does to show her love for you?”

Neither of you say anything, but Paige stares at you thoughtfully, another silent conversation passing between you. You don’t need to think about your answer as you write it down. On cue, you both flip your boards, Paige’s reading simply, She takes care of me. You can’t help the way your heart swells, a fond smile overtaking your face. “Before you, I wasn’t really the… you know, the receiver, I guess. Always in control, always expected to lead. You make me feel like I can just be me, which is really hard sometimes.” Paige laughs off the vulnerability, but you see right through it – the painful honesty.

“We’re equals,” you remind her, nudging her leg with your knee. “We take care of each other.”

“Yeah,” she agrees, her voice soft as she gazes at you. “I’m glad that we do.”

You spot Madelyn out of the corner of your eye, which sobers you up quickly. She smiles. “You guys are so cute,” she gushes. “Final question for you and we’re done with this round. What is Paige’s love language?”

You feel Paige’s stare on you as you write, but you don’t glance back at her. You can hear the scribble of her marker, her capping it. When you’re finished, you finally look at her, taking in the soft expression on her face, and despite yourself, a smile grows on your face too. Together, you turn your boards, your answers being the exact same once more — quality time and physical touch. “Ten for ten, baby,” you croon, raising your hand for her to smack her palm against.

“Great job!” Madelyn says. “Let me just go submit these scores and I’ll be back to walk you guys through the puzzle round after eliminations. Sit tight.” She offers the two of you a quick grin before she’s walking off.

“Ten for ten,” Paige repeats, nudging you a little. “We’re like that?”

“I guess we’re actually kinda good at this friends thing,” you retort, although part of you wishes you were anything but.

Paige’s subsequent grin is far too knowing, like she has a trick up her sleeve. “Maybe a little.”

You laugh a little under your breath, adjusting your dress and leaning back in your chair to get comfortable. Before you know it, the scores are officially in. You and Paige had a perfect one, so you weren’t all too worried about getting eliminated in the first round, but five unlucky couples ended up leaving. The two of you watched from afar, trying not to stare too hard at the retreating couples, although they made it hard. One girl walked out crying, gesturing wildly as her partner trailed behind her, a desperate expression on her face. Another one was pure anger, slamming the door behind her. You didn’t think that this club contest would get people so riled up, but you considered that it was probably the realization that your partner truly didn’t know anything about you. You just lucked out with Paige – she understood you.

Madelyn returns quickly and cuts straight to the point. She instructs you and Paige to stand up, handing the both of you a towel, and adjusts your arms until you’re holding the towels perpendicular to each other, almost intertwined. “The goal here is to separate from each other, but it can be tricky because the towels will tangle you up. We’re looking to see how fast you can solve this puzzle and how well the two of you work together. Are you guys ready?” You and Paige nod and Madelyn grins again. “Alright. You can start.”

Instantly, the room around you two is sheer pandemonium. The couples around you are moving quickly, trying to untangle themselves, but it’s clear that the panic is settling in. You and Paige exchange a glance, laughing to each other softly. “Game plan?” she asks you.

“We need to get these like…not perpendicular,” you offer helpfully, and Paige nods, adjusting her arms. The angle change makes your towels bunch up and twist at their centers.

“Spin around,” she instructs. You do as so, the towels untwisting around the middle. You pause to analyze your situation, trying to plan out the moves in your head as Paige does the same.

“Okay, bring your towel over my head and let me step through it.” After that move, the both of you glance down, taking in your situation.

Paige hums. “The rest is easy,” she says. You nod in agreement, a silent understanding passing between the two of you and you move in tandem, twisting and shifting and stepping up until you’re both finally separating from each other in record time, having completed the puzzle. “We’re like that?” she asks you again, her expression smug and satisfied in a way that’s only comparable to when she’s on the court and her lips are curling after sinking a contested three point shot.

“Dream team,” you remind her, letting the victory wash over you, clapping your hand against hers, although she doesn’t immediately release you, squeezing your hand with a proud smile.

“I don’t think I’ve actually seen anyone solve it that quickly,” Madelyn admits. “Or that calmly.” As soon as she says it, a commotion from the other side of the room draws your attention. There’s one couple that are twisted so unnaturally that it looks like they’re playing Twister, but it seems that the girl gets tired of the shenanigans because she drops her towel and storms out with a frustrated yell. “Case in point.”

You laugh and Madelyn walks away again to tally the points and make their final eliminations. Once everything is set, five couples remain out of the initial fifteen. After the last challenge, two couples will be eliminated once more and the remaining three will be given prizes in order of points. You and Paige were determined to finish strong – if the first two challenges were any indicator, you two had this in the bag. True to Paige’s word, the couples were being split up for the last challenge, and she offers you a competitive smile as Madelyn whisks her away.

You pass the time on your phone although Paige isn’t gone for long. However, what does shock you is the sudden bashfulness that’s clear as day on her features, like the last challenge had made her confess something important or she had to be vulnerable. You can’t help the sudden worry that seizes your body, but Paige rests a hand on your hip, squeezing you once with a confident smile. It couldn’t be that bad.

Madelyn leads you into an adjacent room where the president of the club is sitting at a table waiting for you. She smiles when you enter, motioning to the seat across from her, and it feels strangely like entering the principal’s office in elementary school, like you’re in trouble for something. The club president doesn’t spare any time for pleasantries and instead cuts right to the chase, something that you’re grateful for.

“I’m not gonna take up anymore of your time, but after seeing you and your partner perform so well in this contest, I only have two questions for you,” she explains. “This is our second year running this contest and no one has scored as high as you two have, which is kind of insane because the third round scores haven’t been added yet.” You smile politely, honestly unsure of what to say, but the club president continues. “How long have the two of you been together?���

“Going on three months,” you respond, thinking back to the timeline you and Paige had agreed on, hoping your voice doesn’t shake. You are a little surprised by how real your next words feel. “We were best friends for a really long time before then – we still are. Paige is just…that kind of person that makes you feel like you’ve spent forever with her, you know?”

The club president hums, agreeing. She pauses before glancing up at you, studying your features. “What’s something that you haven’t told your girlfriend, but you would want her to know?”

You hardly need the time to think about your answer, responding, “That I love her.” The club president’s expression softens, a smile growing on her face. “We haven’t, um, gotten there yet, but I mean it. I wanna make it perfect for her. She’s given so much to me in the short time we’ve been together and in the time we were friends. And she just…she means everything to me.”

She smiles. “I think you guys are perfect for each other.”

Despite yourself, you smile, a blush spreading across your cheeks. “I think so, too.”

After your solo questioning wraps up, you meet Paige at your table and you offer her a bashful grin, similar to the one she’d offered you when she returned. You don’t have the chance to say anything else to her as the final round of eliminations are being announced. You and Paige are spared, which doesn’t surprise you, and the two eliminated couples take their loss with dignity as they exit. Paige links her hand with yours – final three. In third place, Team Parker. In second…Team Hayes, which means that first place can only be –

“Team Bueckers.”

You and Paige relax immediately, high fiving each other in celebration. What you’re not fully expecting is the tight hug that Paige pulls you into, whispering a fond good job into your ear, although you can’t help the way you soften, sinking into her embrace. She leads you to the center of the room to collect your goodie basket. The various club members send you off with their congratulations, too, and you pretend to not notice the slick wink that Madelyn shoots you as you and Paige walk out.

The night air is cool, making you shiver slightly, and Paige doesn’t hesitate before she’s sliding off her blazer and settling it over your shoulders. You smile gently at her. “You won’t be cold?” you murmur.

“Nah,” she promises, nudging you. “I can handle it. You, though? I’on know.”

“That’s no way to treat someone who just won you these spa coupons,” you say, reaching into the gift basket to wave said coupons in the air. “C’mon, I clutched up, you can’t lie. And to think you wouldn’t have even had a partner for this if you didn’t rope me into it. I think we played our parts pretty well.”

Paige laughs gently, a tinkling sound that carries over the drag of the wind. “You still don’t get it, do you?” she asks, but there’s no true offense behind her words.

You stare at her in confusion. “Get what?” you respond.

“Do you remember that question Madelyn asked you earlier?” Paige says, her steps slowing, tilting her head down to look at you. The street lights reflect off of her face so beautifully, the blue of her eyes illuminated by the soft light. You can’t help the way your heart constricts at the sight. “‘Who confessed to who?’” You hum, urging her to go on. “You remember what I said? That you were oblivious and I dropped a lot of hints you didn’t pick up on?”

The gears in your brain spin for a few revolutions before everything clicks into place. “Oh my God,” you breathe out. “Are you–”

“Confessing?” she says, her lips quirking into a smile. “Yeah.”

“You dropped hints before?”

“So many,” she confirms.

“Oh my God,” you say again. You stop in your tracks, prompting her to do the same. The expression on her face is endlessly amused. “You planned a huge romantic thing – this?”

She shrugs. “The contest was the club’s shit, but yeah. I planned on asking you to come with me to this. I didn’t actually care about the prize, but the coupons are pretty sweet, right?”

You shake your head, ignoring her rambling. “You planned a huge romantic thing, but I still didn’t get it at the end, so you told me straight up,” you finish, partly in disbelief. “You think you’re so fucking slick, don’t you?” you accuse, which just makes her break out into laughter. “You literally sat next to me and told me exactly how you were going to ask me out and I didn’t know? And not only did you do that, but you were right about it?”

“I know you,” Paige says a little smugly. “And I told you that I could be romantical.”

“You are such a pain in my ass,” you whisper, but her arm is slinking around your waist, pulling you into her body as she grins insufferably, and you let yourself be pulled, your hands resting on her chest. “You are literally so annoying.”

Her nose brushes yours as she inches a little closer. “You know what they asked me in the final round?” she says, her voice loud enough for only you to hear. You nod. “They said, ‘What’s something you haven’t told your partner, but you’d like to?’”

“Funny,” you say. “They asked me the same thing.”

She smiles at you. “I told them I’d tell you that I love you,” she confesses.

Your cheeks burn as you register her words. “Funny,” you say again. “I told them the same thing.”

Her expression shifts, something like relief flashing in her eyes, something tender in her gaze. “Did you?”

“Well, I told them that’s what I would tell my girlfriend,” you trail off intentionally. “Seeing as I don’t currently have one of those…”

“Don’t play,” Paige murmurs, squeezing your hip gently, drawing a laugh from you. “Be mine?”

“You gonna share those coupons?”

Her eyes are bright when she responds. “I’on even care about them. Just want you.”

“You’ve got me.”

That promise is all she needs. She smiles at you, happiness in her features, and she doesn’t waste any time before she’s leaning in fully, her lips finding yours. You’re eagerly responding, melting into her as her arm tightens around your waist. You loop yours around her neck, standing on the tips of the toes for better leverage. Before you know it, her grin grows too wide and the two of you are laughing against each other’s lips, the sound of your love and giddiness the perfect way to end a perfect night. If you had Paige Bueckers and her annoyingly charming antics to look forward to, then one thing is for certain – you couldn’t wait to see what she had in store for Valentine’s Day next year.

[cripplecharacters]

Is there any list of stuff you wanted to see more in autistic representation? I'm autistic and I'm quite "stereotype material": white savant male good at STEM and who's not aroace but don't want a partner, and it bugs me that it's always like that, so I wanted to know what other people would like to see when I try writing autistic people.

Hi!

Honestly, I just want more autistic characters in general. There are hardly any!

Here are some things that I have never seen represented:

characters with mid-high support needs, both related and unrelated to autism

characters who use AAC [link to post about high/low/no tech aac] and who struggle to communicate

characters with cerebral palsy, tourette's, intellectual disability, or any other common comorbid condition that's not ADHD

characters who don't live with their parents

characters who don't infodump or know a lot of facts about their special interests, just that their interests are the things they engage with

characters whose special interests aren't "useful" to their life

characters with "unusual" sensory needs (for example i always see characters who hate loud noises and bright lights, but i know many autistic people in real life who are not bothered by those or actively seek them out)

characters misdiagnosed in childhood with ODD or another common misdiagnosis, or neglected as a "difficult kid" even if they have higher support needs

characters who use gait trainers, adaptive strollers, or manual tilt in space chairs

characters who have a supportive community or know multiple other autistic people

adult characters in day programs

queer characters, especially ones whose sexuality or gender is difficult to separate from their autism

characters who have harmful stims and not only when they're upset

characters who are not big. (this might seem weird but there are a surprising number of tall/large/imposing autistic characters, especially those with higher support needs; that's not what every autistic person looks like!)

So Many More!! If every autistic writer made a character who was just like them, each one would have at least one autistic trait that has not been represented before.

Mod Rock

Hello!

To be honest, just characters that don't generalize autism. On one hand you have "representation" that's all "all autistics are boys, 12 or under, who like trains and barely speak" and on the other you have "hi, I'm a very low/no support needs autistic who is very socially acceptable and lol like imagine liking trains instead of having Real and Cool special interests like me" (sometimes it's overdone to the point the character quite literally doesn't have any autistic traits). Too much autistic representation made to combat a specific stereotype just ends up shitting on the people who do in fact exist. Some people say that "ahh all autistic rep is those damn boys with they trains!!" but I don't think anyone would say that this kind of representation is actually good or thoughtful - not because of the train or the boy, but because these characters are barely treated as humans most of the time.

We need more complex representation of all parts of the spectrum, from successful savants in STEM to "obviously disabled" autistics who are intellectually disabled, have huge mobility delays, and stim at all times, to "everyday" people who just have their special interest, don't get social cues, and are kinda awkward.

I'll take a "stereotypical" character that's actually explored and developed properly over a cardboard that's there to be a "subversion of autistic stereotypes" any day.

mod Sasza

Hi,

I largely agree with the mods above. Mostly I want autistic characters treated like people and not plot devices.

But I wanted to say specifically: I want autistic characters of color. I am basically begging to see more autistic characters who are not just white people. We exist too, and really I barely see characters who have autism and aren't white.

Also, I want to see autistic characters with romantic and/or sexual partners. I feel like autistic characters are often desexualized or infantilized in a way that has them only rarely having a partner.

And I also want to see autistic characters whose special interest[s] isn't "useful" to their life, it's just there. Just part of their life. Like, it isn't their job. I feel like that's often a default.

Like Sasza said, we really need more complex and thoughtful representation of the spectrum. I don't need 'subversion' of autistic stereotypes, not particularly.

The subversion itself would be an autistic character being more than a plot device and portrayed with thought and care to the things that make their life difficult, the ways their autism affects the way they interact with others and the world, the things that make the person unique and themselves, and not just focusing on one of those aspects and ignoring everything else.

Hope this helps,

mod sparrow

[zeropro]

So I’ve seen you draw and tag a couple of different ships, just wondering which are your favorite???

Love your art btw :D

Thank you!

I don’t have a specific ship i'm particularly loyal to, so I guess I’ll rate them and also provide my own headcanons:

(disclaimer i dont know ship names so imma just try my best)

Trine-shipping: yes, put the three of them together, I don’t care. familial, sexual, romantic, platonic, its all good. I go crazy seeing them stand next to each other in the cartoon what do you want from me.

thunderwarp: I see this one a lot and I quite like it. these two being mates with starscream doing his own thing kinda makes sense considering starscream has a bunch of other ships. also makes it fun when something happens to one of them and starscream is left in the awkward position of having to deal with that.

thunderstar: been thinking about this one more lately. they’re like foils to each other. thundercracker’s a good boy to starscream’s bad boy, and he does such a concern about all the morally dubious stuff starscream gets up to. but at the same time, he admires starscream’s ambition and rizz and starscream the kinda bot that would pull you so high if you followed him. I think out of anyone, starscream is the closest to actually trusting thundercracker. 

starwarp: i had this thought one time of what if skywarp is like the horniest asexual and starscream is the most traumatized aromantic, and how would that even work XD nothing solid in the works just an idea that I had. ive seen these two less often outside of trine shipping but it can be pretty hot. I like when they are being protective of each other. I always see skywarp as more emotionally open than his trinemates and starscream can use some of that open and honest emotional love and care. someone to forcfully make him accept being loved. someone who will actually push back when he’s being stupid. and with skywarp being loyal to megatron, so much angst potential for both of them.

starbee: im a sucker for the whole ghost bee starscream dynamic. I already made a post about these two, and after all this time I still really enjoy this ship. I think characters that don’t actually like each other at first but grow into a mutual respect is so tasty. I think some people don’t like the ship because they headcanon bee as too young? well, starscream is actually younger in my fic lmao, but also they’re like 6 million years old and are born with full adult processing capabilities, I don’t think age matters here :P its less about intimacy for me anyway. I like them together because of how much it takes to get there. 

starwavewave: okay this one is 100% fueled by tfone but guyssss guysss theyre married and megatron is their son and im just aaaagh dont seperate them! such a kookie dynamic, the cool headed soundwave, the emotionally volatile shockwave, the arrogant yet cowardly starscream, all being fail dads to their little scamp leader. hahaha. high command polycule 

megastar: gasp, rated above skystar. yes, I just find this dynamic more interesting. I like an abusive ship sometimes for the angst but I also enjoy seeing megatron when he isnt abusive? kinda catharsis maybe. I read a fic once where the war is over and starscream invites megatron to one of optimus’ high profile parties and is appalled at megatron showing up in robot equivalent of underdressed, meanwhile megatron the working class miner is like “I washed, what else was I supposed to do” XD and I just love that haha. theres just so many ways to take it. I wont be doing any megastar in my au, I just tag anything that has megatron and starscream interacting with megastar cuz thats the dynamic to me

skystar/jetstar: iddkkkkk i know this is the most popular ship but it’s just!! idk! its not as interesting to me haha. I love this as a past ship, they were roommates in college, starscream opened himself to someone, chose to become close and then was hurt by it. just another wound on starscream’s spark before he ever even meets megatron. I don’t think theyd get back together after the ice. idk how well I can write this so I’ll just explain how it happens in my au here: skyfire died and starscream created this version of skyfire in his mind that was perfect, he memorialised him because he was dead! you just cant live up to how someone remembers you. I think that was part of the reason why starscream reacts so badly when skyfire “betrayed” him. unlike thundercracker, skyfire knows how to set healthy boundaries. not to mention he’d been on ice for four million years, lost his entire life, everyone he knows, and his entire civilisation, planet, and culture to a war he had no part in. bot’s gonna be upset. pissed off even. skyfire shouldnt have to be some soft sparked punching bag for starscream, he’s kind and a pacifist but he’s also going to get upset and have feelings. I think starscream’s betrayal would hit pretty hard, he’d gonna be upset about how much starscream’s changed, how much damage starscream helped cause during the war, and also starscream shooting him in the back for wanting to protect the native wildlife! when they properly talk to each other again it’s going to be heated on both sides, and I think after some hard work from both sides they could end up in a place where they are willing to be friends again, but I don’t think they’d conjunx. skystar isnt end game to me, but it is canon and an important part of the story

starop: I think ive read one fic where I really liked this ship. it’s just such a random pairing. my initial reaction is just noooo optimus prime?? but that guy’s everyone’s dad! Ive been told a big part of it is they’re both megatron’s ex’s and that’s pretty funny. not for me sadly haha (opxmegatronoldmanyaoiotpfrfr)

starjack…wheelstar? whatever the starscream and wheeljack one is. I’m not into this one. I see where people are coming from with it, but wheeljack isnt an interesting character to me. they can be science bros tho

starscream and windblade: ive seen this like once or twice. not for me. windblade is like, starscream’s daughter or something idk XD 

soundstar: uuuh i dont see it. sorry! i legit have no thoughts on soundstar. theyre coworkers XD. ive seen fics where the seekers are really young and soundwave moms them, and that’s really cute. okay, I like soundwave as a caretaker if the seekers are young, but yeah I don’t think I understand this one. 

shockstar: nooooooo. tho ironically theres more canon content there to fuel this one than soundstar (is this emotion?) but still no XD I don’t even hate shockwave! let him be sunstorm’s dad, that’s cute. but no, shockewave too creepy. no ship. they are also coworkers

what other ship is there even? oh yeah

starprowl: this is apparently a really popular ship?! I guess in a way prowl is sort of like the autobot’s starscream, undermining his leader, arrogant, willing to do the dubious play. they’re both ruthless. I like this one better than starjacked, but its still an odd pairing to me.

oh! knockout and starscream, i can kinda see it? like, as a rebound after breakdown? I like knock out and breakdown, so I’d only see these two as like friends or if something happened to breakdown. they’re a LOT of fun when they interact tho heh heh, perfectly clashing personalities

on the topic of tfp, I guess starscream and arcee is a ship? I can see this similar to my enjoyment of starbee, they’d have to work reeaally hard for this one to work but they have had potentially positive interactions in the show (before starscream screws it up) so its possible in a better world where starscream doesnt suck they could become friends. him killing cliffjumper is gonna be a huge hurdle tho! 

dont talk to me about airachnid

do people ship starscream and ratchet? I don’t ship it, but I do really like interactions between them. starscream is so terrible but he also gets hurt a lot. ratchet is grumpy and prejudice but he’s the best doctor and he’ll fix him up! I like when something terrible happens to starscream and ratchet cant help but feel bad for the guy. that’s the good stuff.

lastly i have been asked a few times on trinebee. im assuming this is bumblebee and the trine. i hadnt thought about it but it makes sense! if youre a starbee shipper, but you also support trine propaganda, then it only makes sense to bring bee into the trine. also bee and thundercracker are friends! the only ones who havent really had any interaction is bee and warp, and honestly idk if I see those two getting along but bumblebee is everybody’s friend so XD I’m sure it’ll work out!

and i think those are all the thoughts i have on the ships! 

no hate on anyone who ships any of these!!! you all do what you do, these are just my opinions, and honestly I’m just not a huge shipper to begin with haha. I am…unsure if there will be any shipping content in my au, I write my scenarios very much “canon but to the left” and so it comes out very sex-less because romance and intimacy is just not the type of content I’m in the business of writing. but, idk, i think about it sometimes. sometimes I think about the end of chapter one of thundercracker’s origin, the night starscream took thundercracker out on a not-date. i think, who knows, in some version of the story maybe they shared a kiss? maybe they went back to the apartment and things went further? maybe. but of course, in every version of the story, starscream is gone the next morning. 

happy valentrine’s day!

[writingsfromhome]

Unspoken Signals

A/N: reaaaallly tried to get this out for v-day. It’s been a while, I’m a bit rusty, but this is a quick fic w Harry and you as coworkers and a casual something else. Hope you enjoy 🫶🏼

—————————————————————-

“Well this is different,” I comment.

Before me sits a dozen children and they’re all very quiet. It’s music to my ears after the last hour.

“I didn’t know kids could even do yoga.”

“You didn’t know kids could stretch?” I raise a brow.

“The meditating part,” Harry clarifies. “I didn’t know they could quiet their minds and their demon mouths.”

I laugh softly and turn back to the kids. A couple are starting to get restless, peeking one eye open or scratching their noses—picking them more like. But it’s nice for the few minutes.

Both Harry and I worked at an art museum that had recently lost some of its funding and had decided to open up revenue streams by introducing “kids fun weekends”. So despite having zero training in early education, staff at the museum found ourselves having to look after children and host workshops from time to time.

So far we’d been volun-told to help with a crafts day, a movie night, wellness day, and an upcoming museum sleepover.

And I was so not being paid enough to deal with hyperactive children.

“Why do kids even need a wellness workshop?” Harry continues to whisper back to me. “They’ve got stressful jobs or something? Bloody put me on one and let me go home.”

“Anyone can experience stress Har,” I roll my eyes. Harry was one of those people who didn’t care about being politically correct when he spoke. Which led to a lot of bickering between us that most of our coworkers had gotten used to.

“The stress of any of these kids does not bloody compare to the stress of an adult.”

“Don’t be such an ageist,” I reply.

“Ageist? What the fuck,” he swears. “Do you just put a word in front of -ist and create a new prejudice?”

I gasp and hold his shoulder, “prejudice? Where did you learn such a large word?”

“Now you’re just being a word-ist,” Harry says smugly.

I snort despite myself, “And you’ve always been a prick.”

“Piss off,” Harry whispers. “This is unfair.”

We stand in silence, forced to do our job of keeping watch over the kids. But as they grow more agitated and so does Harry, I realize I really didn’t want to be here either.

“Well have you seen the new fake-Monet collection?” I ask.

It wasn’t actually fake-Monet. It was a local artist we were hosting in our community gallery that showcased…local artists. The first piece we ever saw hung up looked like a Monet so we took to calling him that.

“No. Not after that first forgery.”

“Wanna ditch this and check it out?”

“Fuck yes.” Harry’s eyes finally draw some life to them.

We leave our two other coworkers to deal with freshly-meditated children and sneak away.

The art museum wasn’t a large building; the ground floor was taken up by the open lobby, offices, the gift shop, and some of the more permanent exhibits. The second floor had revolving galleries and the community gallery sat on the third floor.

“D’you think anyone’s actually going to buy the guy’s fakes?” Harry asks.

“Probably,” I jam the button for the lift. “I saw a couple more pieces and they were beautiful.”

“You find any piece of art beautiful.”

“Well they are! It’s easy to find beauty in a lot of things if you’re not a prick.”

The lift arrives and the doors open; the reflection inside show a tall curly-haired annoyed bloke. Walking in with him is a shorter girl, rolling her eyes.

“I’m not a prick.” He looks down at me. “I just have standards.”

Suddenly in the enclosed space of the lift we’re gravitating towards each other like we tended to do. I smile up at him sweetly and he tsks and pushes me away by my chin; a conversation taking place with just our eyes.

The thing with Harry and me—because it was just a thing we didn’t label, was simple: we liked being around each other (despite being able to get on each other’s nerves).

We kinda just orbited each other and we were comfortable with it; some days he would follow me home and we’d hang out, get dinner, sleep together, and other nights I’d show up at his and we’d fold right into one another.

It was fun, and it felt cool not to label it. It felt very adult, like Harry and I were mature enough to appreciate the other in every aspect without being possessive enough to need to label it. Like somehow we were proving just how secure we were by doing it like this.

“You just like being judgemental,” I say and as the doors open onto the third floor I turn to walk out. “Because you’re an idiot.”

Outside stand at older couple who’ve definitely heard the last bit. I apologize and pray they don’t complain to anyone about the staff.

“Very unprofessional,” Harry goads as he laughs. “Do you harass all the elderly at the museum.”

“Shut up!” I shove him against the wall and he stumbles down.

“Oi!” He calls out as I walk away. “Oi! Help me up!”

“Help yourself!” I finally turn. He’s sprawled on the ground like this was his bedroom—because I’d seen the inside of his bedroom I would know. But he stays for so long I hurry back, not wanting anyone to walk past and get us in trouble for laying in the middle of the hall.

“I knew you’d come,” he smiles sweetly, his large hand in the air ready for me to grip.

“C’mon—“

I see it coming too late and he’s already trapped me in. He pulls me forward and I stumble into him, nearly catching myself on the wall. Nearly. I tumble into him instead.

“Grow up!” I scramble off of him as quick as I could. Because the one unspoken rule in this thing between us was staying nothing but platonic coworkers at work.

And that was the other thing about us—this unlabelled situation we were in. That as casual as we appeared there was a lot of orchestrating going on behind the scenes in order to be this nonchalant.

For example, only touching outside of work, not asking about dates the other went out on the weekend before, like saying you’re funny and where’ve you been when it’s been a while so as not to say I really like you and I want to be around you more and when you’re not around I miss you more than an unlabelled half should. Like getting drunk when I spot him at a club with another girl so I can continue to convince myself I really didn’t care all that much.

It was just Harry. At most we were just friends.

“This is me grown up,” Harry catches up to me. He can sense I’m annoyed and maybe he’s crossed a line so he lingers slightly behind.

I ignore him as I push the glass door into the gallery. This was one of my favourite spaces because of the large windows and views of the garden below planted by friends of the museum.

But mostly I loved it because it was a revolving door of local artists and it reminded me that everyone had a story to tell. And every story was beautiful.

“Don’t cry this time,” Harry whispers to me as he walks down the gallery to the far end.

“It was one time,” I mumble. That I actually cried. Usually I just teared up.

I couldn’t help it though, there was so much meaning and time put into these pieces. So much love and grief and every emotions on the spectrum. And I felt it all.

I decide I’d stop calling the artist fake-Monet because with a few more paintings I began to recognize his own signature style. He paints about personal community and finding it in public spaces—pockets around London.

“Hey look at this one,” Harry says when I’m a few pieces away. I walk over.

It’s unmistakably Hampstead Heath, the park a half hour walk from here and 15 from Harry’s place. It’s where we spent a lazy summer day a month or so ago. We were both free on the Saturday, our calendars opening up. I met Harry at his and we’d trekked through the hazy city to feel the cool breeze of the sturdy trees and the splash of the water. Despite the stickiness, we’d tucked into each other and pretended the shade was enough to keep us cool—enough to be so close. We read our book, took a summer nap, ate our picnic, and chatted about the rest of our lives. Passerbys would see two friends, or maybe two something-mores.

It’s only when the sun slinked down towards the horizon did we pack up. We walked back to his flat, took a shower together. We had dinner with his friends. It had been such a beautiful day I had ached with it because I knew how temporary it was.

But how perfect it had been. It had felt bigger than us.

Harry pointing it out toes that line again; he remembered it too, as something to reference. As something to compare to the beautiful richness of the tapestry before us—lavenders and lilacs, pinks and blues, sage, and dusty hues.

“Beautiful,” I murmur. We’re standing shoulder to shoulder now, I can’t tell who’s leaning on who.

“It…actually is.” Harry says in a hushed voice back. “I’m sorry fake-Monet that I doubted you.”

I look up at him in surprise, Harry rarely changed his mind. “Actually?”

“Yeah.” He looks down at me. “I think I get it.”

The expression in his eyes as he says this, as they fill with meaning, I have to look away. But the painting doesn’t help. It’s too full of my own meaning. Our meaning.

But there was no our.

“Wow.” I straighten up and move closer. “Look at that blending. And the details those are actually people.”

“They’ve all got their own shadow too.” Harry moves closer towards me again. He points it out.

“I’m gonna go look for shadows in the others.” I chirp just so I can get away. So I can keep denying.

A few hours later, the day is giving to nightfall. I badge out with Harry and we walk down the steps towards the iron gates.

“See you tomorrow?” I ask.

“I’m not in tomorrow.” He reminds me.

“Oh yeah your parents are in town?”

“Yep,” he fidgets with his phone and we stand in silence for a beat.

“Well I should-“ I say just as he asks, “Would you want to-“

We pause, awkward laugh. We were never awkward.

“You first,” I urge, wanting to know what he was going to ask.

“No it’s nothing. I should go. Got to clean my flat before my parents see how I live.”

“Don’t forget to hide the rolling papers from your bedside,” I tease. “And the magazines under the bed.”

“Oi I haven’t got magazines under the bed,” he smiles. His dimples make a handsome appearance. “They’re loud and proud on the coffee table now.”

“Except you haven’t got a coffee table.”

“If you know so much about my flat how about you come home with me and help me clean it? You can stay over.”

Come home with me. Casual, so casual.

But I know how calculated it had to be. I’d been there. Somehow I knew this is what he’d been trying to ask in the first place.

“What time are your parents getting in?” I ask.

“They’re early birds. Probably after 8.”

“8? Holy hell.” I swear.

“They want to do breakfast and then take me to visit my grandparents.”

“Right. Yeah well, imagine I’m still not out by the time they show up. That’d be so awkward. And there’s no way in hell I’m getting up before 8.”

His cheeks take on a slight blush. “They’ve…it wouldn’t be the first time they came over to a girl in my bed YN. I’m not 16.”

“I know. But…still awkward.”

“So?”

“I…don’t want them to get the wrong idea. We’ll see each other the day after. You’re working then right?”

My heart squeezes a bit at his crushed look before it’s swapped for happy, for easygoing. “Yep. Can’t get rid of me that quick.”

We part ways, I go mine with a heavy heart.

***

“So,” I check in with Harry at lunch the day he’s back. It had been a hectic day yesterday with a new group of kids and a new workshop to facilitate. Plus someone was quitting after being yelled at and Harry had missed it all so I wanted to update him. “How was your day off.”

“Shite,” he says. We walk a few streets over to a Pret. “Mum and dad wouldn’t stop whinging about my future and about settling down like I’m a fucking balding man in my 50s losing all prospects. I’m only 25!”

“Yeah total bummer having a day off for that,” I comment even though I have a hard time getting my next breath in. I can’t imagine my own parents caring that much about my life to spend a whole day with me talking about it. And what if I had stayed the night and accidentally bumped into them—would they have approved?

Should I even care?

“Then my nan basically told them to piss off but they started filling her head with it and then she’s asking me about any girls I’ve taken on dates lately. Started giving me relationship advice!”

“What was that?” I tease. “Take her on a walk and buy her some flowers? Go star gazing? Movie for 2 quid?”

Harry glances at me and his seriousness throws me off balance a little.

“What?”

He opens his mouth, then shrugs and closes it. “Nothing.”

“Sorry did I offend you?” I try to think of why he might be reacting this way.

“No, she actually did say some pretty old-fashioned shite. But I can take it from her. It’s my parents that drive me nuts.”

“Well I wish you were at work. Want to hear what happened?”

So I change the subject and we talk about what he missed. He’s more subdued today and I don’t read into it. He wasn’t mine to read into, I have to remind myself.

We talk about the gallery sleepover in two weeks, whether we were actually going to come in our PJs. When we get back to work we’re on different floors and I try not to miss him again.

***

“I actually brought mine—the appropriate pair.” My coworker jokes. We’re in the staff kitchen making an afternoon tea. Tonight was the gallery sleepover and I was not looking forward to it. But because I was working it I had the day off tomorrow and at least that was something to look forward to.

“I just brought a ratty tee. I don’t think I’m sleeping anyway.” I say.

“I hate that we got picked for this,” she continues. “I actually don’t even like kids. Why do you think I have none?”

“Well tonight will just be birth-control.”

“Trust me I don’t need it.” She cackles and walks away. My phone buzzes with a text.

Harry: Might be late tonight. cover for me if anyone asks?

Y: ur not even working the day how are u gonna be late?

Harry: got a thing. Just cover pls?

Y: obv

I wonder what was going on with him.

We hadn’t had a lot of opportunities to hang out the last week and work had been too busy to properly catch up. Plus our manager had been putting us on conflicting projects so I really had been missing Harry.

Even though Harry and I were friends there was something about distance and fondness that was proving true lately. And I hated it. So I’d gone on a string of dates this week. Hence my busyness.

I’d gone out on a date a week ago and even though I ended up going back to his place all I wanted to do was text Harry. Ask him if he was up, what he was doing. I’d forced myself to shut my phone so I wouldn’t be tempted.

After we close the doors to the public that evening we begin setting up for the kids’ sleepover. It’s so hectic nobody notices Harry’s late but he slides right in helping me string the lights in our biggest gallery. We work on the projectors next, I yap to him for 10 minutes straight and he barely replies. He’d been quiet since he got here.

And for the next few hours Harry and I entertain and help children have fun, we put on a fancy puppet show loosely based on famous artists—art projections included.

We sneak away to the kitchen after we take our bow for a tea break.

“Wouldn’t happen to have a flask on ya?” Harry sighs as he strains his tea bag.

“God I wish,” I stare into the dark abyss of my earl gray. That performance had really taken it out of me. “Who d’you think’s most likely to have something stashed away?”

“Well,” Harry yawns like he hadn’t slept all week and points to an upper cabinet. “Behind the cleaning stuff.”

“What?!” I gasp. “Seriously?”

“Well last time I saw it was last Christmas. Probably got some alcoholics here. I dunno if the stash is still there.”

“Well this is naughty,” I find a couple travel-sized liquor bottles like the kind you get on planes. I take one so that somebody else can have the delight of the other.

Harry sticks his mug out and I empty half the bottle, doing the same to mine.

“Make sure it’s covered,” he advises when I throw it in the bin. I shake it around until I can’t see it.

“Much better,” I cheers my mug to his. He catches my eye and it feels like we’re co-conspirators again. I pass a smile that’s only half-returned. “So what’s the deal with you?”

“Hm?” He doesn’t look up from his drink.

“I’ve barely seen you all week. And you’re late tonight. And you look haggard as hell.”

He shrugs, “I’ve been helping one of my mates out with moving out of his girlfriend’s. They broke up. He’s a mess so…”

“Oh.” I wasn’t expecting that. “That’s kind of you.”

“You sound surprised.”

“Do I?” I widen my eyes.

“Piss off.”

He cracks with a smile—a full Harry smile and I feel my heart beaming just to soak it in.

“Are you doing anything tomorrow?” I ask tentatively. I knew he had the day off too.

“Uhm,” cagey Harry returns. “Maybe. I’m not too sure right now.”

“Ah okay.”

We sip in silence that threatens to smother us. I get up as quickly as I can without wasting my precious drink.

“I’m gonna head back out.”

“Alright.”

I head back to the star-lit room where sleeping bags are laid out like mismatched brick throughout the floor. Some kids are cozied within, others sit on top. They’re all engrossed in the “bedtime story” being told by a local author.

It’s sweet, I think. This would become a core memory for a lot of these kids, drinking in the whole night through all their senses. I wish I had more memories like this. Maybe then I wouldn’t be so fragile all the time.

Adults staying overnight got their own gallery blankets and I drag one over to the far end, enough for any kid who needed assistance could find me but far away that I could be on my phone and not distract them.

Some time later another body joins me with his own blanket.

“Sorry,” Harry says as he sits.

“For what?” I play pretend. Just like these kids were doing tonight. What could you possibly be saying sorry for? What could I possibly feel entitled to you for? We’re just friends.

“For being weird earlier. I…well I have to tell you something and I’m being weird instead.”

My heart begins to thump in my chest.

“Tell me what?”

“So I’ve um…I’ve got a-“ Harry clears his throat. I glance up at him and he’s looking out towards the ceiling. “I have a girlfriend. I know we…we’re not…”

“Jeez Har,” even though ever atom inside of me is keeling over with something I can’t exactly examine yet, I play the joker. The friend. “If this is you telling me you’re getting serious with someone that’s all you have to say.”

“Really?” He turns to me and on the shiny hardwood floor so does half his body. I ignore how his knees feel pressing into mine. “You’re…okay?”

His voice is anything but casual.

“Yeah! It’s not like we’re a thing.”

Even still, I can’t say it. I die a little more.

“Yeah well I wasn’t expecting it. She’s the daughter of someone my dad knows? Pretty sure they orchestrated it but we went on a couple dates and then she asked…well she wanted to be exclusive I…”

“Well that’s good. For you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yep.”

“Thank god,” the air whooshes out of his lungs.

“I feel like I should be offended. You thought I was going to be mad or something?”

“No not mad…” he trails off. I look at his reaction and find him looking at me already. Even though it’s dark I can still see his eyes and they feel like they’re reading everything on my face. In a hushed tone he repeats himself, “not mad.”

I shrug, biting my lip hard to feel something other than the emotions threatening to overwhelm me. Emotions I never thought would surface this strongly.

“I’m good. Actually I’m not good. I think that bottle we found was rubbish I’ve got to go toilet—“ I use his knee to pull myself up. “Save my spot.”

I walk away without sparing a glance back because my act is crumbling. I’m crumbling. And I don’t understand it.

If you asked me two weeks ago I would have gone on how fun it was to be with Harry but how the idea of being with him seriously would be weird. Would throw off our balance. But now I want to puke my guts in the toilet at the idea of having to let him go. Because he’s the one who moved on.

And as hard as I try tears still escape my lashline and make trails down my cheeks as I study myself in the brightly lit mirror. How could I be mad when we were just casual? How could I hate him if all he did was look for something serious. Someone serious.

Suddenly what had felt fun and mature feels childish and disposable.

I was disposable fun.

“Get it the fuck together,” I tell myself. “You’ve got nothing to cry over. You could get yourself a boyfriend too. He’s not your soulmate or something jeez.”

I blow my nose and give myself another pep talk before exiting the toilets back to where Harry waits for me.

“You alright?” He asks. A loaded question.

“Yeah. Regret doing this for the whole night though.”

“You could sleep. I’ll take first shift.”

“I’ll get in trouble.”

“Who gives a shit,” Harry tugs me so that I fall against his shoulder and it’s the worst thing in the world.

I don’t curl my arm through his like I might’ve before. Or cozy into his chest. I stay there like a stiff robot until sleep takes me. Even then it’s not long enough.

—1 month later—

I’m heading home after an uneventful day, ready to sink into bed and turn my brain off. These days my brain talked too much and I really wish there was an on/off switch for it.

“Um hiya?” A soft voice says as I exit the turnstile in the lobby. I turn towards the voice and it belongs to a sweet looking girl about my age with harsh features softened by a layered bob. On me it would look ridiculous but she looks like she was born to rock the style she was in.

“Hi,” the rule of thumb was even though you were clocked out if you exited from the lobby in work clothes and somebody stopped you, you had to help them. I’d forgotten to tuck my badge away today damnit.

“I’m waiting for someone? He hasn’t been answering his texts I was just wondering if-“

“You could ask reception?” I point to the desk behind her. “They can page who you need.”

“They weren’t really helpful,” she shrugs. “I’m assuming you work with him? Harry?”

It’s the last name I’m expecting from her lips. I nearly stumble back trying to take her in again with the new knowledge of who she might be.

“H-Harry?”

I’d heard her the first time. I’m just trying to grasp at a second to collect myself.

This must be his girlfriend. The one who wanted to be exclusive. And I hated that I’d liked her in our two minute interaction.

He hadn’t spoken much about her since he told me a month ago but since half of our relationship before her was being intimate, we barely talked and when we did it was mostly just work and the relationship felt really fragile and rough.

I could see what Harry saw in her—she was attractive. And not pushy; she let Joey at reception push her around which was hard to do. And she was meeting Harry here, at work. It must be getting serious.

All these thoughts race through my mind in a millisecond.

“Oh! Harry yeah,” I nod when she confirms. “Of course I know him. I think he was in a meeting might be why…I can go back in and check if you-“

“Oh no! Sorry I’m not trying to be a bother. You’re probably going home I just wanted to make sure he was still in?”

“Yeah! Yeah he’s in. I’ll tell Joey—reception, to page him if he’s out. He’s nicer than he seems.”

“That’d be perf,” she beams. I die a little more, unsure why I was helping her this much. Unsure why it bothered me this much.

Ever since Harry had ended the thing we didn’t have, my life had felt haunted. The ghosts of every emotion I killed in the moments we’d been together began to surface and they were torture. Biggest of all was regret and shame. Regret over what could have been if I’d just admitted how deeply I felt months ago. Shame because I wasn’t supposed to feel this way for Harry. Because he obviously didn’t feel the same way, he never would, and it would be embarrassing to ever admit it.

Our actual relationship had gone like this after that night—avoidance -> awkward small talk -> light bantering -> finally, being able to talk semi-normally again.

We stopped hanging out outside of work however, so every day I got to see him was a day I was excited to go into work. My friends told me I had to do something about it—confess and see what he says, or move on.

And I’d tried to move on. But every guy I tried to date didn’t hold a candle to the flame that warmed my heart; to the idiot I had the misfortune of falling for after we ended things.

Or maybe I was just the idiot.

And here I was self-sabotaging by helping his girlfriend. There was definitely something wrong with me.

“Elsie!”

Both our heads turn to the voice.

“There he is,” I say but she’s already squeezing my arm and walking towards him. Harry doesn’t realize I’m standing there and I watch him smile at her in a way that sends a spike to my heart. Then he notices me.

“Oh YN,” his eyelids flutter a few times too many. “Uh-“

“YN god sorry I didn’t even get your name,” Elsie turns back to me. “YN was helping me.”

“Yeah? Thanks,” Harry looks visibly relieved and flashes me a grin. I raise my brows and smile back.

Home. I had to get home.

“Well I figured Har already had a hard time finding a girlfriend, I didn’t want him to lose her so quickly. This isn’t even a very big place.”

Harry’s expression is unreadable but Elsie laughs.

“Very funny,” Harry responds.

“I know.” I gear myself up to say bye. “Well I’ll see you tomorrow, let you get to wherever you’re going. It was nice-“

“Well we’re just hanging out with some friends,” Elsie says.

“YN knows a few of them,” Harry says. I watch his eyes bug a little as he realizes he’s stepped onto a minefield and watch him back away smoothly. “Some of the younger crew go out for drinks sometimes.”

“Ah,” Elsie says as Harry wraps his arm around her shoulder from behind. He was laying it on thick but I don’t think Elsie noticed his hiccup. “Well why doesn’t she come!? YN you should join us! One more friend!”

“Oh I don’t think she wants to-“

“I was honestly just gonna go ho-“

I stop talking the same time Harry does.

“No you should!” Elsie says. “Don’t listen to Harry.”

I catch his eye and they’re saying please don’t.

Don’t tell me what to do, mine say.

Don’t be stubborn.

Challenge accepted.

“Ok! Maybe one drink.” I say as Harry huffs. It felt dangerous, having a non-verbal conversation in front of his girlfriend.

I was an idiot, I confirm. An idiot making bad decisions.

“Yay! Let’s go.” Elsie takes Harry’s hand and drags him to the front door. I nearly laugh at his face as he’s dragged past me—he was mad.

And it comes out a couple hours later. By then I’d had more than a single drink, have befriended most of the people I don’t know at the table and have caught up with those I do know. Harry had been mostly attached by the hip to Elsie and I tried not to stare daggers at it.

They’re an interesting couple, you can tell Harry is distracted most of the night and she tries to accommodate by being around and talking to him. He leaves a hand on her at all times but she doesn’t wrap herself around him the way I used to. Maybe she wasn’t touchy.

Maybe I was being obsessive.

So I distract myself with everyone, with drink, with a particularly cute boy who introduced himself as Elsie’s uni friend. Who happened to be brother’s with Harry’s old flatmate. Small worlds.

“YN,” Harry tugs my sleeve as Grant and I talk—if you can call heavy flirting just talking.

“What?!” I snap after the tugging gets aggressive.

“I need to talk,” He points to himself and then me, “to you.”

I could see he was well past tipsy. It wasn’t often Harry drank to this point so I follow him to find out what was going on.

I follow him to a patio table that had just been vacated, empty glasses littering the surface. An untouched shot sits in the middle. The tableau tells a story—art was everywhere.

“What?” I ask.

“What’re you doing?”

“What am I?” I laugh. “What are you doing? I think you’ve had a few drinks too many mate.”

“You’ve got drinks,” he replies.

“Yeah…” I look back at the half finished drink I left at the bar. “I did have more than I thought. I feel like I drink a lot more when there’s a lot of people around? Otherwise I’m just nursing my drink-“

“Why did you decide to come out tonight? When you’ve met my girlfriend.”

Girlfriend.

“When I’ve…what?! Your girlfriend invited me no thanks to you.”

“Yeah but you never come out anymore. And suddenly you want to come out when Elsie asks?”

“What d’you mean I never come out anymore?”

Harry sighs. “You stopped hanging out.”

“Yeah because you got a girlfriend? You stopped inviting me out!”

“No what? No! You’re always…it’s an open invitation I don’t need to specifically invite you out I-“

“So why did you invite me specifically before?” I call him out, feeling more sober than I was a few minutes ago. “You stopped inviting me. We stopped hanging out. And so I stopped inviting you when I went out cuz I thought you had a girl and I didn’t want to make it complicated I-“

My voice catches on an unfiltered emotion and I want to die. I feel heat creep up my cheeks as I try to swallow it down and hope Harry doesn’t notice. Fuck!

“Anyway your girlfriend invited me so I came! It’s not a big deal.”

“I didn’t…” Harry scratches his nose and looks uncomfortable. “I didn’t mean to stop. I…it was complicated and I-“

“It’s fine. Whatever Har.”

“It’s not,” his brows come together. “Obviously s’not. I’m sorry? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel…”

I almost laugh at what he’s said and how it sounds: I didn’t mean to make you feel. Well, neither did I.

“Yeah whatever. I’m not mad about it.”

“Sorry.” He says instead.

“Thanks,” I clear my throat for good measure, not wanting to be too emotional. I want to tell him I missed him but I don’t think it would be appropriate.

“I thought-“ he breaks off with a laugh. “Nevermind.”

“What?” I push him lightly. “You know I hate when people don’t finish their thought. It’s going to drive me crazy—what?”

“No this one you won’t like. Nevermind.”

“Tell meee,” I poke his shoulder until he slaps my hand away.

“Stop that! I hate when you do that!”

“I know.” I say smugly. “So?”

“It’s stupid. I thought you came here to annoy me or something. And then you’re practically sitting in Grant’s lap…”

He’s right. I wouldn’t like it.

“Hold on,” I bring my hand down on the table. “You thought I was flirting with Grant to annoy you? Why would I-what!?”

“Like I said,” he doesn’t make eye contact. “It was stupid. Nevermind!”

“No it’s not nevermind. You don’t drive what decisions I make in my love life.” Lie. “Got that?”

“Jeez you can’t get angry after forcing me to say!”

“I can!”

“Can you quit bitching I don’t have time for this.”

“I’ll be as big of a bitch as I want to be.” I cross my arms.

“Unfortunately, I know.”

“That’s a completely stupid thought to have-“

“Surely not all your thoughts are winners. That’s why you don’t say all of them.” Harry says, then laughs. “Actually you do. And I always have the displeasure of hearing all of them.”

My jaw drops. “It’s like you’re purposely saying the stupidest shit right now. Like you want to be a prick.”

“C’mon you little shite,” Harry tugs my arm until they uncross. “I’m joking, remember jokes?”

I want to say something snippy, tell him off, but as my arms fall away his hand slides down until the tips of our fingers brush. It makes me feel touch-starved, like I’d been isolated in the woods for the last two months growing crazy for human touch.

Harry senses the shift and his smile dies down, his throat bobbing up and down.

How was it that Harry, out of every man I’ve ever met and continue to meet, has this effect on me? How can one touch quiet my mind so completely while pushing my heart into overdrive.

Why, I want to ask the universe. Why was it this man in front of me that made me feel so intensely?

“YN,” he says.

I should pull away. I should because his fingers creep further now pressing into my palm. I want them to slide higher until they’re tangled in my hair, pulling me closer. I wanted him closer.

“I missed you,” it comes stumbling out. And the shock of it pulls me out of whatever trance I just found myself in.

I pull my hand away and Harry straightens up, his gaze clearing too.

“Sorry.” My heart is in my throat now. “Sorry. I didn’t—that was inappropriate. I’m gonna go back now…”

“Wait,” he calls out as I head back to Grant knowing my heart wasn’t in it anymore. That I was going home.

“Hm?” I try to blink away the shame as I turn back towards him.

“D-do you…regret anything?”

I raise a brow and he flushes. I was making this torture for both of us but I wanted him to ask.

Stupidly, I wanted him to know.

“Between us. I know we never…we’re just friends. But did you ever regret…us?”

I shake my head. “No. No. Never. It was some of the best times.”

It’s like I’ve said the wrong thing. His face falls and I decide I had to go. Had to. I was afraid what else might be spilled out between us.

I don’t even remember what I tell Grant, just that I grab any of my belongings that I can spot, ask him to throw his number into my phone, and hightail it out. And I nearly make it to the tube when a warm hand grips my arm.

“Get off—oh!” I nearly whack Harry with my purse but he ducks anyway. “What the fuck Har!?”

“Sorry. Sorry sorry!” He lets me go and I miss his warmth. “I didn’t realize!”

“Yeah! You can’t just grab a woman at night like that!”

“Obviously! I wasn’t thinking! I was just trying to get to you-“

“Why?”

“Bloody hell you know why YN!”

I stare at him. His face doesn’t hide a single thought, a single emotion. It’s vulnerable, and terrifying.

“Don’t take the piss.” He grabs my arms and gives me a shake. “You know. You know.”

“I-don’t do this. Har, you have a girlfriend. I don’t want to be that girl ok?”

“Why?”

“Why? Because that’s awful and-“

“No! Why didn’t you say anything when we were together? Any time we were together? When I told you I had a girlfriend? Why were you always so…cool?”

“Me? Cool?” I laugh. “There’s nothing cool about me Har.”

“Well you’re hard to fucking read then! I dunno! I was always leaving hints and signals that I actually liked you. And you always ignored them!”

“Hints? Signals?” I gape. “When the—what the hell do you call hints?!”

“I…I wanted you to meet my fucking parents for god’s sake. Did you really never-“

“If I’m hard to read so are you mate,” I lean against the closest thing—a mailbox. My legs are jelly. “Was that when you vaguely suggested I wake up in your bed while your parents were down?!”

“Fine well I bought you chocolates that one time, I’ve even got some of your tees in my room! I-I tried to plan romantic dates for us—Hampstead! I tried to tell you-“

“What?” I’m not asking him anything. I’m just questioning everything; everything I avoided and played off had meaning. Of course it did. Everything had meaning, but I’d just thrown our dictionary out the window so it would mean nothing. Because I was afraid.

“Really?!” Harry sighs. He crouches down and runs his hands through his hair. “Am I that bad? I thought I was making it so clear but you always brushed it off. I felt like an idiot for falling for you when it was just s’pose to be casual. I thought I was being a bloody simp.”

I inch down to where he crouches.

“You fell for me?” I whisper.

When he looks at me it’s with eyes that look like broken seaglass. With a mouth curved down so low that I want to kiss into a smile. Into a laugh.

He cups my face, his thumb brushing my cheek. I give in to the sigh and his lips lift ever so slightly.

“How could I not?”

“I thought I drove you crazy?” I grasp his hand. “I thought I was just a fun distraction I-“

“I never said the second part.” He interrupts.

“You sure?”

“You were reading the wrong hints.”

I laugh and so does he. It almost turns into tears.

He stands and extends a hand that I take, his warm palm covering mine.

“Now’s when you return the confession,” he says without letting go. “So?”

“What? I’m not hiding any confessions!”

“Liar,” he tugs me close. “Your heart’s racing.”

“That’s from getting up so quickly.”

“You’re full of shite.”

We’re smiling so hard I’m sure we look like crazy people on the street.

But he had a girlfriend. Oh god. A sweet girl I’d just met today.

His expression grows confused as mine must turn to worry. I untangle myself.

“Harry…”

“I know.” He finally clues in.

“We can’t-“

“I know.”

We stare at each other for a heartbeat.

“I’m gonna go. Or else…”

“Just like that?” He asks.

“How else is it supposed to be?” I demand. “We can’t do this Har. And please…if you like her…respect her at all—don’t break up with her just to be with me. I wouldn’t be able to stomach it.”

“Then I’m just lying to her.”

“I…” I shrug. “I dunno. I just don’t want to be the reason for her heartbreak okay?”

“You’re being a sensitive snowflake. Breaking up with her is the right thi-“

“You can’t call people snowflakes-

“I can if that’s what they’re being-“

“I’m going home.” I tell him. It’s the last thing I want to do.

He opens his mouth with whatever quick retort he always had. But he must think twice about it. His face draws into a frown.

“Sort yourself out.” I instruct him. “Just sort it out. And then one day soon we can see…y’know.”

I half turn away, but can’t bear to leave without touching him one last time. Who knows when the next time will be. I flit to him so I can press my lips against the warmth of his cheek, so intoxicating. Like an addict only sniffing the alcohol in their cup. And when I feel his body loosening, about to hold my own, I flit away and rush into the tube without a glance back.

I don’t register anything on the ride home. I’m too shocked to even cry about it.

I wash the day away, the scent of him and the look on his face when he realizes we each had been trying to hold out own glaring neon signs to each other.

It’s late when there’s a knock on my door. I figure it’s my roommate forgetting her keys, and since I’d been laying on my bed in my towel after my shower too numb to sort myself out I end up opening the door basically naked.

It’s Harry.

His eyes roam over my terryclothed figure with a smile.

“What—what are you doing here!?” I grab the edge of my towel to keep it in place.

“Were you expecting someone else?” He asks.

“No-stop!” I push my hand into his chest as he crosses through the doorway. “Why are you here?”

His eyebrows draw together, hurt. “I…I didn’t think I was that drunk—we did just admit our feelings to each other a few hours ago right?”

“Yes but!” I put my hand down because his heart is beating fast under my hand and I don’t want to feel it a second longer. “You were also supposed to sort yourself out and-“

“Can you just let me in?”

I stare at him.

He stares back.

“Fine!” I give up and move aside. He closes the door behind him. That’s when I notice his hands. “What’s that?”

“For you.” He holds a bouquet up. “I know they’re shitty. I couldn’t find much at this time of night-“

“No hold on, I don’t understand.”

“We’ve wasted enough time throwing out shitty hints that apparently neither of us could read. We should never be detectives.”

I stay still, waiting for an explanation. Any bloody explanation as to why he’s here and not with his girlfriend!

“I went back to Elise. She knew something was wrong right away. I tried to deny it. She asked if something was going on between us-“

“God seriously Har! I said not to-“

“Did you want me to go back and pretend to be in love with her when I just had a fucking bomb go off in my life!? I know you don’t want to be that girl YN but I don’t want to be that shitty guy who stays with someone because he feels bad! What does that make me?”

I can picture Elise’s face in my mind. Oh god.

“She wasn’t mad-“

“You wish.” I snort.

“No she wasn’t. Well she was at first because she thought I was with you and her at the same time. I explained. I apologized. She got it. She…turns out she was still hung up over her ex. That she really liked me but she was mostly doing it to get her parents off her back. Because they never like who she dates. Which wasn’t a great thing to hear but…I’m pretty sure I saw her catching a cab as I was leaving. Maybe she went back to her ex.”

I’m dumbfounded with his retelling of what happened after I’d left.

“She’s okay. Are we?” He asks when I don’t reply.

The bouquet looks rough, like it was maybe clutched too hard and the flowers are nearing the end of their life. I imagine Harry rifling through a flower stand to find something for me. Coming here because he couldn’t wait.

I was kidding myself. I couldn’t wait either.

“Okay.”

“Okay??” He asks but he’s closing the distance because he’s reading me. He already knows me.

“Fine.” I say as he loops his arms around my waist. I stretch my arms up around his shoulders, clasping them at his neck. Something throbs deep in my chest. I missed him.

“I missed you,” he says. Always reading my mind.

“I didn’t know I could.” I say to him. His eyes are filled with a raw emotion that mirrors whatever’s aching in my chest.

“You’re like something from the gallery,” he cups my face. “Beautiful and original, breathtaking and you pass by it every opportunity you get just to get another glimpse. It makes you realize what you’ve been missing your whole life.”

“Aw Har,” my voice wobbles. If this was Harry when he was direct and not giving shitty hints I don’t know how I was going to survive us.

“What?” He whispers.

“You’ve got a soft side. You’re not actually a prick.”

His dimples make an appearance as he smiles. “I told you. I’ve just got standards don’t I.”

I wanted all of him—god how did I fool myself this whole time. I wanted all of him. He was just so lovely. “I think you’re going to ruin me,” I whisper back. His grin disappears and he tugs me ever closer.

“You’ve already ruined me.” He says. “I can’t look at any piece of art without thinking of you. I can’t go a day without wondering about you.”

“Is that healthy?” I murmur. My heart drums.

“Who the fuck cares about healthy?” He laughs.

We gaze at each other, the blood rushes through my body at high speeds.

“Mutual ruin?” I ask.

He responds with a kiss so passionate that I forget how to breath. I’m sure my towel was being held up by our bodies at this point.

“Mutual ruin. Or you can just ruin me.” His lips brush against my ear, feather down my neck. “I’m madly in love with you YN. There’s nobody but you.”

I don’t know whether to laugh from giddiness or cry from how my heart overflows.

“Har, I think I get the hint.” I say instead. He laughs.

“Fucking finally.”

💟💟💟💟

[cloversplace]

“Pony was being dramatic!” “Darry only hit him once!” “You’re telling me Darry never hit him before?” “Johnny gets hit everyday at home and doesn’t complain!”

Shush. Just, stop for a minute. I personally think that Pony’s reaction to getting slapped was justified, and it angers me a little sometimes when people chalk it down to just him being a brat. Ponyboy already thinks Darry doesn’t want him around, Darry’s constantly on Pony for every little thing, being hard on him to keep him from getting taken away. Hitting him is one thing that would get Pony taken away faster than anything else, in doing this, Darry’s accidentally sending Ponyboy a message: He doesn’t just not want him around, he wants to get rid of him as quickly as possible. 

“Oh but Darry probably hit him a lot when they were kids!” EXACTLY. When. They. Were. KIDS. Darry 100% slugged Pony a couple times bc he was being a little shit, but Darry’s stuck halfway between being a father and a brother. He’s not just Pony’s brother anymore, he’s his guardian. Pony explicitly says that no one in his family hit each other, including their parents. Pony says Darry looks exactly like their dad, in that moment, Pony can’t imagine his father hitting him. If his parents had still been alive and his father had hit him instead of Darry, Pony would’ve had the same reaction. Pony’s in shock, when someone is hurt they go into fight or flight, Pony is a track star, and also kinda scrawny. (no offense Pony) He’s gonna choose to run instead of try to fight back. Because in his mind, if Darry hit him once, who’s to say he isn’t gonna do it again?

Now onto Johnny, yes Johnny has it way, way worse at home than Pony does. But he’s also used to it, it’s sad, but true. Johnny’s used to being hit by his parents, Pony isn’t. The first hits are always the worst. We see that in Tex and The Outsiders. There’s no doubt in my mind that Johnny acted like Pony did when he was younger, when he wasn’t so used to his parents hitting him. If Darry continued to hit Pony, Pony would eventually start to act like Johnny. Learn to take it. I also don’t think that Johnny was mad/annoyed with Pony for acting like he did. Maybe Johnny was a little jealous when Pony used to complain that Darry hated him. But that was before Darry hit him, Johnny’s probably a little mad at Darry too, being honest. Darry’s supposed to be the one holding them together. The one refuge most greasers on the East side have. Johnny probably knew deep down that Darry was scared and most likely felt bad and won’t do it again. But you still don’t hit people when you’re scared. Johnny has never been hit out of fear, every time his parents beat on him it’s out of anger. You hit out of anger, you fight back out of fear. 

So no, Pony didn’t deserve to be slapped. He wasn’t asking for it. They lost their parents less than a year ago. Darry is 20 years old for fuck’s sake! I bet some of you reading this right now are either older than that or only a year or two younger. 20 is arguably still a kid, and 20 should not be the age to take on two jobs, maintaining a house, and taking care of two teenagers, plus 4 other teens and oh, I don’t know, almost everyone in eastern Tulsa? That’s too much to ask of anyone. Even if Pony was being a little shit (which he usually is, but in the argument that night I would say Darry kind of instigated it more, at least in the book/movie) that still doesn’t mean he deserved the hit, or shove, in the movie’s case. 

Thank you for coming to my ted talk, I really needed to just put that out there. I’m seeing so many people ratting on Pony for the way he acted, especially comparing him to the way Johnny is treated at home. Which isn’t fair in my opinion. Thank u for listening! 💜

@natur3sf1rstgr33n @magefelixir @staygoldspiiderrah @marciavalance @sonnysimagination@polishravagingasexual @dairyfairyy @curtis-brothers-hug @penguinstuff @colequette@therealtwobit67 @far-away-from-tulsa @strxwberry-julius @fawning4leif @im14andivebeen14foramonth @chipperdipperr @stayruby @averagefandomist @johnnycademyschmookie @maxiebearz @totoroboiii

[dolche-tejada]

"So you agree that if they're alive then they're still going to be put on sentences."

The villains ? Yeah that's kinda my point actually... They constantly suffer from consequences of what they did and even from undeserved shit (both before and after becoming criminals) when the heroes hardly ever does.

"Deku: LOSING OFA but become still a hero."

Firstly, yeah so he didn't really sacrifice anything if he can still be a hero through his super-suit granting him similar abilities to his previous set of quirks.

Secondly since Deku haven't even tried to talk with Shigaraki, it was either renouncing to OFA or dying alongside every other hero and overall the entirety of Japan so "sacrifice" is already arguable.

"significant personal sacrifice, altering his future as a hero. This isn't just about physical healing but about a life-changing choice, which does have consequences."

Lmao what ? It only happened because Deku is fucking lazy and didn't bother training to still be a hero (or even a policeman or firefighter) after losing his quirk. We saw through Aizawa, Shinso, Knuckleduster, Mandalay, Stein or even Nighteye that you can clearly be a hero through training. Yet Deku needed to wait 8 years for Bakugo and Mei to provide him some high-tech suit on a silver plate to keep playing heroes with his buddies instead of doing so by pulling his fingers out of his ass by working out.

"Hawks can no longer fly or use his feathers for combat, reconnaissance, or rescue operations."

I've already answered to that in my initial post, have you even bothered reading it ?

"He retired from become a hero. He lose his identity as a hero"

You mean almost as if it was treated as a good thing for him and not a sacrifice since he was groomed by the HPSC into becoming a child soldier super-hero ? His wings were even symbolically framed as his own cage, because it's through them that he was exploited his whole life. You can hardly do less subtle than that. Losing his quirk isn't a consequence, it's basically a reward from Horikoshi.

Besides, the argument I've made about Deku works here too. Hawks wasn't forced to give up being a hero after losing his quirk. Mirio didn't need a quirk to give Overhaul a ride for his money. Nighteye, Aizawa and Shinso are basically quirkless in a fight and are still able to work as functional heroes. A middle-aged man out of his prime like Knuckleduster can beat the shit out of powerful quirk users, Hawks has no excuses.

"and why can't he be forgiven too ?"

When did Hawks sought forgiveness to begin with ? He was confronted to his crime only twice : The first time he justified it in front of journalists and the second time, he just admitted he was wrong to a clone of Toga before she vanished.

"If the villain is redeemed in your eyes?"

When did I said that ?

"He's been a hero that saves countless lives."

A hero who didn't suffer from any personal consequences for murdering a villain running away.

"Endeavor: Loss of Arm: Endeavor indeed loses his right arm during his battle with All For One (AFO)."

And aside from that, Enji suffered no backlash for abusing the shit out of his family for years and still has his money + Hawks, Shoto, Fuyumi, Rei and his partners at his side.

"His fate was not revealed on chapter 431 but it seems like dubious."

So as I said in my initial post, the difficulties he will apparently have to endure are offscreened (assuming they really happened). From what we can actually see, he's fine despite being now disabled.

"You point out that while heroes suffer seemingly lesser consequences? Do you read manga and think mmm this people continue their lives and careers with little to no real change or punishment."

Because that's the case. The "consequences" you mentioned are either superficial or not even real ones since Hawks and Deku could have continue their hero career if they truly intended to.

"Contrastingly, you imply that the villains do not receive similar leniency or redemption, suggesting an imbalance in how the story handles character outcomes"

I'm not suggesting, I'm stating. Heroes like Hawks, Enji or Mirko can get scott free with the shit they did, meanwhile villains have to assume the consequences of each one of their crimes.

And if you want to talk about the more "physical" consequences, from the heroes' side, once again Gran Torino survived having his ribcage destroyed by Shigaraki, Bakugo his heart blown to bits and Enji to being ragdolled against buildings. From the villains' side, Toga died from a mere blood loss and Kurogiri from a random explosion of Bakugo...

Yes heroes do get a special treatment from Horikoshi, it's just ridiculous to deny it at that point.

"In mha the context might differ, where the societal structure, the nature of Quirks, and the scale of destruction might call for different resolutions."

Except at the exception of All For One, nearly all the time heroes have non-lethal options to neutralize criminals.

"However, the point stands that NOT ALL heroes need to resort to killing to be seen as just or effective."

Which evidence furthermore that Hawks allegedly needing to murder Twice in order to stop him is bullshit.

"Anyway. Twice and his involvement in villainous activities inherently puts innocent lives at risk."

Which still don't justify to murder him when :

Twice was running away.

Hawks could have subdue him at any moment without trying.

It's his fucking job to capture criminals putting innocent lives at risk without killing them. Again if he can't do that, then he's an incompetent.

He had prep time to plan his arrest and even the perfect quirk to counter Double.

"You're correct that modern justice systems aim for rehabilitation over retribution in many cases."

I didn't say that though, just that most modern societies aren't based on a childish principle like "an eye for an eye". Putting criminals in prison is still a form of retribution for their crimes and in most countries, rehabilitation isn't that much of a priority.

"However, within mha the discussion isn't just about justice."

Uh yes, it quite literally is. You can't write a story about super-heroes without treating notions like justice. Also this story has for prominent themes how unfairly treated some categories of people are, racism or government corruption, how can you read this manga and pretend that justice isn't the point ?

"The "eye for an eye" argument here not about endorsing that philosophy but discussing how stories sometimes use it to resolve conflicts."

In your first reply, you argued that the League dying was only karma, that they don't deserve a happy ending and that it doesn't matter if they were "pitiful before". As far as I can see, you were pretty determined to endorse this philosophy.

"Your point about wanting the League of Villains (LoV) to live might want characters to survive for more story or development"

It's not a matter of content or development, it's a question of consistency and good writing. As I've said before : If you promised something during your whole story, that everything you developed goes that way but that you suddenly chicken out at the last second by making a 180°, then your story is ass since your conclusion makes all these themes and development pointless.

There is no point in following Shoto and his family trying to save Toya because he will die in excruciating pain not even 8 years afterwards.

There is no point in following Deku trying to be "the greatest hero" by understanding villains and saving them because each time he got the opportunity to do that, he just resorted to violence at the first difficulty.

There is no point in trying to see Uraraka understand Toga and reaching her heart because Toga killed herself at the end.

There is no point in following this story overall since nothing really changed at the end despite what Horikoshi pretend.

And when some things did changed, it happened magically offscreen (like the heteromorph racism) so no point in following the story here again since we don't get to see how this issue was adressed.

"but within the story's logic, their death might serve a greater narrative purpose."

Except their death served zero purpose except maintaining a status quo repeatedly shown across the story to be blatantly unfair and creating more problems than it solves. And even on a more symbolic or thematic aspect, what does Toga killing herself actually brings ? Or Toya slowly dying after being reduced to a piece of charcoal ? Or Deku punching Shigaraki out of existence after a life of suffering ?

In addition to that, I could point out there's not much value in adding something to your story anyway if by doing so, you contradict everything you've been telling up to that point and convey fucked up messages as if they were good moral lessons.

You know, I think this ending would have been slightly less of a fucking disappointment if the heroes hadn't been so unfairly favored by Horikoshi compared to the villains. I mean, seriously

Deku destroys every bone in his body multiple times throughout the story and is warned that if he continues, he'll permanently lose the use of his limbs ? Everything's fine, his body's just got used to being reduced to a bloody pulp somehow so there's no consequences for him. In fact even when he literally loses his arms to Shigaraki, he gets them back two minutes later thanks to Eri because guess what ? Her horn still works even when cut off from her body. How convenient.

Gran Torino gets his ribcage obliterated by Shigaraki ? Don't worry guys, he'll survive that despite his old age and injuries, and this to have no particular role in the plot afterwards.

Bakugo dies heroically trying to buy time before Deku arrives ? Lmao, did you really believe it ?? No of course not, Edgeshot just uses his last-minute Deus Ex Machina to save his life at the cost of his own and- Oops nope he's fine too, my bad !

Hawks murders a criminal fleeing for his life in cold-blood ? The best Hori has to offer is him completely free and in charge of the HSPC.

And no, losing his quirk isn't a real consequence for him because not only it literally played a major part in saving the world with Vestige!Hawks raising an insurrection among AFO's quirks, but also because his quirk has always been the element through which people exploited him.

Endeavor abused his family for years and completely destroyed his eldest son ? No jail time and no media backlash for that, the only blame he received was due to the heroes' failure to stop the League during the Raid Arc.

And don't even get me started on this bs about facing hell or whatever for what he's done : He's literally free and wealthy ; he has Rei, Fuyumi, Shoto, his sidekicks and Hawks on his side ; and all the difficulties he's apparently going to suffer are off-screened.

Deku had to sacrifice OFA and his future hero career to save the world ? Guess what, Bakugo invested all his time and money to make him an Iron-Man suit and now he can still be a hero with everyone else.

There are plenty more examples of this but I think you get the idea. Now let's take a look at the villains' ending :

Toya is now a piece of charcoal kept artificially alive for the few years he has left, unable to move a finger, and whose few minutes a day during which he can stay awake will be spent talking to his father who abused him as a child.

Toga, a literal teenager, killed herself to save Ochako and because she knew it's still better than rotting at Tartarus her whole life.

And not only did she die but she did by bleding to death. Let me repeat for those who have trouble grasping what I've just said : In a manga where the heroes can survive having their heart blown to bits, being impaled Kakyoin-style or smashed against buildings like a fly on a windshield, one of the main antagonists died of a fucking hemorrhage…

As for Shigaraki, after learning that his very birth and all the tragedies of his life have been orchestrated by AFO, after all this development and narrative promises about him being saved in the end... Deku just kills him.

Because despite all his speeches about saving him, it seems like the best our MC could do was beating him both physically and mentally until he crumbles to dust…

Compress on his side is apparently locked up for life and kept alive by machines too.

A begging Kurogiri tried in a desperate attempt to save Shigaraki, only to be unceremoniously blown up by Bakugo and dying off-screen without anyone giving a shit, including Aizawa and Mic.

And Spinner will now spend the rest of his life struggling with the extra quirks inside him that affect his body and mind, while having to cope with the thought that his boyfriend best friend and companions have either died alone or are locked away for life in horrifying circumstances.

Clearly not the same as with the heroes...

Now don't get me wrong, even if they suffered just as much from the consequences of their actions or the plot as the League, this ending would still be a disaster in terms of writing but AT LEAST it wouldn't reek that much of hypocrisy.

[kings-highway]

I’m kinda throwing up writing this because I’ve never done this before but I wanted to say I really really love reading your fics!! (>T~T)>❤️

I also wanted to ask: what are some of your headcannons when it comes to daichi’s home life? Personally I like to think his siblings are all wayyy younger than him, which makes him more of a third parent than an older brother. He laments the fact that he has to be the responsible reliable figure even at home, but he’d never hold it against those little rascals <3 His parents also do their best, but it’s hard splitting your attention 5 ways, and with him being so dependable, they tend to neglect him a little

Anyways, that’s all!! Hope this isn’t too weird or anything haha ;-;

Aaaaaaaa no worries no worries at all <3 I love receiving asks and I love talking about these characters so never feel bad for popping up being so kind :)

and I have a lot of headcanons for the Sawamura family! As a disclaimer, I tend to write whatever is needed for any given storyline, so dont hold me accountable in the future if I dont 100% hold to these lmao

I fully agree with his siblings being substantially younger than him. But personally I also love the idea of making Daichi an unplanned teenage pregnancy, making the parentification of him less a facet of "bad" parenting and more a result of kids who were just not ready for a baby. it also makes his very mature disposition a very nice contrast to the idea that he was a result of teenage mistakes. In this way, his younger siblings were his parents "chosen" kids, the kids they had once they were older and ready for it, and I think they were very good parents. unfortunately they were very good parents after Daichi had already grown up. in this you can push his age from his siblings anywhere from 8-15 years older than them. ((when I write, I try to maintain canon family dynamics unless it'll play a roll in the story, so I often give the age gap at 6 years for realism, because we know he has 4 siblings by 18 and you can only squeeze out so many 9 month pregnancies in so many years lmao.)

so daichi functions as a third parent by default because his parents never really saw him as part of the white-picket-fence planning process, those are the kids that came later. it doesnt mean they dont love him, but a lot of his foundational years, 0-8, were in the care of literally children. (Assuming a teenage pregnancy of like 17) And they just... Couldnt really handle raising a kid and it required him to create a lot of independence and self-soothing skills.

it also doesnt help that I think he takes pride in this. In the future, as an adult, he might have resentment towards his parents but in the timeline of him being in high school I imagine he sees his own role as a point of pride. he is being "mature" and "responsible" and "useful" and so clearly he's being a good person so he likes the roll he has in his family. he doesnt want them to treat him like a kid because kids are work and require effort and energy and cause problems and he is Better Than That. he's got a bit of a martyr complex in that way where he thinks its a good thing he acts and behaves this way.

i also believe 100% in any interpretation that his siblings absolutely, disgustingly, adore him. he might be the third parent but he's definitely their favourite parent. for all the resentment and anger that his parentification will cause in his adult years, for the inevitable divide growing between him and his parents, the emotional neglect, all of it, he is the person that his siblings will idolize as their greatest support. And even if he stops coming around as often and tries to rebuild a life that centres himself rather than other people, they will always think of him as their hero, and want to make him proud and seek his approval far more than they do their real parents.

theres like a million other little headcanons that contradict these ones - Im also especially fond (as anyone who reads my work knows) of the narrative that Daichi's absolutely a daddy's boy in his idolization of his father, and the father-son dynamic is one of my favourite to explore with him. the influence of family dynamics, bloodlines and obligations (real or imagined) is like... My #1 trope for him. i love giving him a larger than life bloodline and instead of everything I just described, making his martyr complex one born of a desperate desire to fill unreasonable large shoes left behind from whatever reason. in equal measure to the emotionally neglectful parents I love me a good "how am I supposed to live up to this?" story.

i could keep talking. im so fond of this stupid fucking man. But I will stop yapping and leave it as that. Thank you so much for the opportunity to ramble on about my main bitch 🤍🤍🤍

[sapphiresaphics]

You’re right. It is polite to do that. But it’s also… I dunno… kinda boring? And it often doesn’t push the story forward.

Let’s look at it this way: We know that initially they planned on several additional seasons and ultimately were only given 2. We don’t know when that cut back was dictated to them from up on high, but it’s very easy to assume it happened sometime between season 1 and 2’s production. Very likely after most of season 1’s setup had already been finished and animated.

And, given how little time they had available to them for season 2, they opted instead to focus on ways to communicate this stuff non-verbally most of the time and to trust that we, as smart intelligent viewers, can piece together stuff ourselves.

They have a grand total of 18 episodes in total for this entire show. There are other shows that have double that number for just one season. Time is of the essence and every frame costs hundreds of dollars. So if it’s not really relevant it goes on the cutting room floor. Arcane is nothing if not EFFICIENT with its storytelling. And that’s a stylistic choice the creators have made.

And let’s not forget this doesn’t just exist around Caitlyn. Vi never apologizes for punching Powder as a kid. She apologizes for leaving and calling her a Jinx, but never for punching her. Vi also punches Isha. It’s an accident, but she still never apologizes for that either. Ekko never apologizes for kidnapping Vi and Caitlyn. Jinx never apologizes for killing Ekko’s friends. Jayce never apologizes for killing a child. Ambessa never apologizes for slapping Mel. Heimerdinger never apologizes for letting the undercity’s problems fester for so long. Mel never really apologizes for using Jayce and Viktor as investments. The list goes on. So WHY is it ONLY on Caitlyn in these critiques about the show?

A couple more little quibbles and distinctions:

Vi was never forced to become an enforcer. When Caitlyn asks her to become an enforcer, Vi turns her down. It’s not until after Caitlyn almost dies during the memorial attack does Vi reconsider the offer. And she doesn’t do it because she was pressured into it, she does it because she wants to keep Caitlyn safe. The only thing Vi trusts are her fists. If she’s there, she can take care of Jinx while also protecting the woman she loves. Even if it means putting on the Enforcer uniform.

Also, Vi doesn’t care about Zaun all that much. She never fought for the city. In fact, she has been actively hostile towards Zaun since Season 1. Let’s not forget that she went in performing vigilante Justice and got a kid killed in the process. Her goal has always been to protect her family, and that means people like Jinx and Caitlyn.

As for the “I’m sorry I was wrong?” Caitlyn DOES that. It’s just non-verbally. See, when Caitlyn has Jinx locked up she doesn’t know what to do with her. She has seen first hand that Jinx can be trusted. She is not the maniacal raving lunatic that killed her mother anymore. She has changed. She tries to talk to Jinx, but that doesn’t help her make a decision.

So she lets Vi choose. She intentionally leaves the prison empty of guards and allows Vi to steal the keys to free her sister. She has no guarantee that she will ever see Vi again, and she suspects that Vi and Jinx will just run away together. That’s why when she goes down there and finds Vi locked in the cell instead of Jinx, she knows what happened. And when Vi is at her lowest, thinking she betrayed Caitlyn by going behind her back to free Jinx against her wishes, Caitlyn tells her “no, I let you do this. Because I give up on hating your sister. You are more important to me than my hatred of Jinx and you should be free to make your own decisions about who you get to love.”

That’s WHY Vi jumps on Caitlyn in the prison cell. Caitlyn just told her that she was giving up stoking the flames of the fire that tore them apart. This is akin to a loved one giving up alcohol or smoking or going to therapy or basically tossing aside their abusive habits because their love for their partner is more important to them than their vices. That was like the BIGGEST apology Caitlyn could ever give Vi. No amount of “I’m sorry” does THAT justice.

I get it, you wanted her to SAY the words. But the show doesn’t do that. The show is a VISUAL show and ACTIONS speak louder than words ever could. So Arcane does Caitlyn’s apology through her actions. To assume the worst in Caitlyn after such a grand gesture is kinda silly IMO.

No disrespect, I just find a lot of this stuff to be kinda nitpicky. The show is a visual show. It tells its narrative visually. It always has. It always will. Demanding Caitlyn say “sorry” when no one else ever does and ignoring that she performs one of the greatest acts of love you could give a partner is frustrating to say the least.

“Caitlyn never apologizes for her actions so how do we know she’s remorseful of them?”

Well you see… when Caitlyn gets asked if she likes men or women by Vi, we never get an answer from Caitlyn there either. But then later in the episode we SEE her behaving differently and flirting with a woman. So that answers our question for us. We don’t need to hear her say “I’m a lesbian” or “I like girls” because the show SHOWS us that she likes girls.

Often times if you have a concern like this, it IS addressed in the show. Just not in blatantly obvious and vocal ways. You actually need to pay attention.

So like… yea, we don’t really hear Caitlyn say outright “I feel remorse for my actions” but there’s like a MOUNTAIN of evidence (Kirammountains worth haha) that show she feels this way. From her confrontational arguments with Ambessa, to her pointing a gun at singe, to her sneaking around tracking singe, to her betraying Ambessa, to her shouting “I know!” when confronted by Vi, to her saying to Jinx “hating you I’ve hated myself,” to her ultimately letting Vi free her sister thus proving to Vi that she’s letting her hatred for Jinx go, to her sad “are you still in this fight, Violet?” at the end of the show… using the context clues the characters provide through facial acting and body language we can TELL that she’s remorseful.

Imagine that!

[nameless-jamie]

Hiii, if you're not to busy would you write PA'S first day or so working for Jamie? I loved reading the interview and I'd love to see them getting to know each other, PA meeting the team and their first impression of her etc.

Thankssss ☺️

First Day

Masterlist

Jamie Tartt x fem! PA reader

A/N: Hi! Very good idea, here's a little view into Y/n's first day working with Jamie, time-wise it happens directly after The Interview.

TW: cursing

Y/N had worked for lots of difficult people before—divas, athletes, celebrities who thought the world revolved around them. But nothing quite prepared her for Jamie Tartt.

Not that he was difficult, necessarily. Just… a lot.

From the moment she stepped into Nelson Road for her first official day, Jamie was already waiting for her outside the locker room, arms crossed, looking far too pleased with himself.

“Oi, there she is. Thought you might change your mind, maybe chicken out,” he teased, falling into step beside her.

Y/N shot him a look. “Why? Because you’re so impossible to work with?”

“Nah.” Jamie grinned. “’Cause you’d be too busy thinkin’ about me, to get any work done, love.”

She let out a sharp laugh. “Right. Because that’s exactly what I was doing last night—thinking about my job.”

Jamie smirked, nudging her shoulder. “Don’t worry, love. You’ll get used to it.”

The locker room was loud—boots thudding against the benches, voices overlapping in easy banter. The second Y/N stepped inside, the energy shifted. It was her first day as Jamie's assistant and she knew nobody.

Dani Rojas was the first to react, practically bounding over. “New friend!”

Before she could respond, she was wrapped in a very enthusiastic hug.

“Dani, mate, let the girl breathe,” Isaac chuckled, pulling him off. He turned to Y/N with a grin. “Welcome to Richmond. You Jamie’s new babysitter?”

“Assistant, actually.” Y/N corrected.

“Same thing,” Colin muttered under his breath.

Jamie scoffed, draping an arm over her shoulder like they’d known each other forever. “She ain’t just anyone's assistant. She’s my personal assistant.”

“Poor thing,” Sam said with a sympathetic smile. “Do you need help escaping? Blink twice.”

Y/N smirked. “Don't worry, I signed up for this.”

Jamie turned to her, looking mock-offended. “You sayin’ workin’ for me’s a punishment?”

“I’m saying I’ll probably have my hands full,” she replied, arching a brow. “Which reminds me—you have a physio session in twenty minutes, followed by a media meeting.”

Jamie made a face. “Borin', let's not do that, huh?”

Y/N patted his chest with a saccharine smile. “Too bad, Jamie. You'll definitely do it.”

The locker room erupted with laughter.

“I like her,” Isaac said.

“She’s gonna put him in his place,” Colin added.

Jamie rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide his smirk. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. Just jealous that you don't have an assistant. You bought a shite car you can't even drive, instead!"

If Jamie was testing her patience, he was doing a great job.

By noon, she’d already dealt with his half-mumbled excuses for skipping meetings, misplaced gym bag “I swear I left it right there, Y/N”, and at least three attempts to distract her with compliments.

“You know,” he mused as she checked his schedule on her tablet, “it’s kinda nice, havin’ someone look after me.”

She didn’t look up. “So nice that you’re actually listening to me now?”

Jamie grinned. “Don’t push it, babe.”

She glanced at him, unimpressed. “Jamie.”

“Y/N.”

“Physio. Now.”

He huffed but stood up, stretching exaggeratedly. “Alright, alright. But only ‘cause you asked so nicely.”

Y/N shook her head as he strolled off, smirking like he’d won something.

Yeah. This job was gonna be interesting.

By the time Y/N managed to physically usher Jamie into the physio room—because apparently, telling him wasn’t enough—she was already reconsidering all her life choices.

“I don’t get why I gotta do this every day,” Jamie whined, plopping down onto the treatment table like a sulking child.

Y/N crossed her arms. “Because you’re a professional athlete, and keeping your body in top condition is kind of your job.”

Jamie smirked, stretching out in an unnecessarily dramatic way. “You checkin’ out my body, love?”

Y/N exhaled slowly. “You exhaust me.”

“I grow on people,” he replied, grinning. “Like mold.”

Before she could fire back, a gruff voice interrupted.

“The fuck is goin’ on in here? Tartt, you're not allowed to bring girls in here remember?”

Roy Kent stood in the doorway, arms crossed, looking deeply unimpressed. His sharp gaze flickered from Jamie to Y/N.

Jamie perked up. “Oi, Coach, this is Y/N—me new personal assistant.”

Roy grunted. “Christ. Higgins really got you a fuckin’ babysitter?”

“Assistant,” Y/N corrected, offering her hand. “Nice to meet you, Coach Kent.”

Roy eyed her, then her outstretched hand, before finally shaking it. “Yeah, you’ll quit in about a week.”

“Come on, Give me at least two,” she deadpanned.

Jamie cackled. “See? She’s funny.”

Roy muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like fuckin’ hell before jerking a thumb toward Jamie. “Make sure this prick doesn’t fuck up his knee again.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Y/N said, sending Jamie a pointed look. “I’ve got him under control.”

Jamie just wiggled his eyebrows at her.

After dealing with Jamie’s endless complaints about stretching and Roy’s ever-present scowl, Y/N finally managed to get a moment to herself—only for approximately three seconds before she heard:

“Oi, love!”

Y/N turned to see Jamie jogging toward her, still sweaty from training, grinning like he had nothing better to do than annoy her.

“You do know I have a name, right?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah, yeah, Y/N,” Jamie said, testing out the sound of it like he was deciding whether he liked it. Apparently, he did, because he nodded approvingly. “Just makin’ sure you weren’t bored without me.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” she said dryly. “Your to-do list is very entertaining.”

Jamie groaned. “You’re obsessed with that thing.”

“I have to be,” Y/N shot back. “Otherwise, you’d be wandering around like a lost puppy.”

Jamie grinned. “Ah, so you care about me.”

Before Y/N could argue, a voice interrupted.

“Well, well, well, if it ain’t the person tasked with keepin’ Jamie Tartt in line.”

Y/N turned to find Ted Lasso and Coach Beard standing nearby, both watching the interaction with interest.

Ted stuck out a hand, his usual sunny grin in place. “Ted Lasso. Pleasure to meet ya.”

“Y/N,” she said, shaking his hand. “And trust me, keeping Jamie in line is a full-time job.”

Ted chuckled. “Oh, I believe it.” He glanced at Jamie. “She givin’ you a hard time already, buddy?”

Jamie scoffed. “Nah, she loves bossin’ me around.”

Beard, who had been silently observing, finally spoke up. “Think she’s got her work cut out for her.”

Ted nodded. “Yep. You ever try to wrangle a raccoon on Red Bull? ‘Cause that’s about what you’re dealin’ with here.”

Y/N smirked. “Sounds about right.”

Jamie gasped, placing a hand over his chest. “I’m sittin’ right here, you lot.”

Ted patted his shoulder. “We know, buddy.”

After the team finished training, Y/N spent the afternoon reorganizing Jamie’s schedule, answering emails he had blatantly ignored for months, and figuring out how the hell she was supposed to manage someone who thrived on chaos.

She was typing up notes on her tablet when Jamie dropped into the seat next to her, stretching his legs out.

“Busy?” he asked, peeking over at her screen.

“Very.”

Jamie hummed, tilting his head. “You’re good at this, y’know.”

Y/N glanced at him, surprised. “At what?”

He gestured vaguely. “Bossin’ me around. Keepin’ up. Most people just get annoyed and then they quit.”

She smirked. “Oh, don’t worry. I’m very annoyed.”

Jamie grinned, nudging her knee with his. “Still here, though.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide her smile. “For now.”

Jamie winked. “You sure you'll last longer than a week?”

Y/N leaned in slightly. “I bet I’ll last longer than you think.”

Jamie’s smirk widened. “We’ll see, love.”

And with that, she realized something very important—

This job?

Yeah. It was gonna be interesting. Life-changing even.

[drdemonprince]

I sent you an ask months ago about this guy I met on a dating app who was doing ENM/poly (he wasn’t even sure which) really badly and things had gotten messy between us.

Things have gone batshit crazy since then. Like we settled into just a friendship given that he wasn’t sure what he was doing plus he told me that I know this other person. I live in a small town so I’ve been trying to think who it was. He gave me hints like they’re also ND and work in a similar field to me. Anyway things had finally settled then this other person broke it off with him.

He came to me and told me he was heartbroken and just a wreck. I asked him straight who this person was. My therapist had said it actually wasn’t ok that they both knew the deal with me and I didn’t know who she was so there was this weird imbalance of power. He finally cracked and told me. So yeah it’s a friend of mine. I did not suspect it was her because until recently she was living with her husband and was keeping this hush. Kinda mortifying as we discussed my initial dramas with this man, that we had sexted and gotten really intense before I decided for sure the whole ENM thing was not for me and he didn’t know what the fuck he was going. So she knew it Him and they were together when we had this conversation and just played dumb.

So now I know who it is and she knows about me but doesn’t know that I know.

Then one night she starts talking about this crazy ex she had been dating and calls him possessive and controlling etc. Turns out he had been dating other people with her full knowledge and blessing but when she started expressing interest in also dating others he flipped out and got jealous.

In the meantime he’s venting and projecting all his emotions and experience onto me and wanting support, even though he kinda fucked me over. Like sending me screenshots of messages between them and rants through the night. Plus the two of them had been discussing my dating life between them even though I told him stuff in confidence.

So she dropped a big hint in conversation that it was Him. And I was like oh no way is his name ____ and she’s like Yes! So we’re both like Oh no way, even though she already knew about it and I also knew about her. It was silly.

Then she messaged him to say for him not to hurt Me and now we all finally know that we all know.

Moral of the story, don’t fuck around with relationship structures you have no idea about. Especially if you’re coming out of straight hetero marriages and just kinda decide you want to have to fun but actually you fuck shit up for everyone involved and it all gets messy because you’re actually insecure as fuck and just looking for someone to fix you…

jesus christ anon put BOTH these people in the clown car, none of them can communicate and they're not showing you any respect. ewwww. like i get it's a small town and maybe you wanna forgive your friend for her part because she just didn't want to bring things up and make it awkward but it's definitely information to keep in mind when dealing with conflicts with her in the future id say. whattta mess

[mellifera38]

I think you kinda hit the nail on the head here. I think it's a big part of why a lot of people left the campaign feeling less attached to Bells Hells compared to the Mighty Nein.

You got a little of this flavor in the beginning as Bells Hells got to know one another and kind of tackled some of their background baggage, but as the campaign left the honeymoon period and headed into The Main Plot, you got less and less inter-character moments. Huge stretches between them that left you going 'so how are they feeling??? When are they going to get some downtime to process all this?' We kept being left waiting, sometimes for like three episodes. We as the viewers were used to having that after C2, its like the treat at the end of the stressful fight. All we got instead was Stress Stress Stress for like 70 straight episodes.

Once all hell had broken loose on the apogee solstice, the whole thing felt like a big rush to the finish line, and Character Time was mostly over. It's dnd and you can play it however you want, but I think not getting that time contributed to them not really knowing where they all stood at the end or what they should do, which then caused us frustration as viewers.

To expand just a bit, to me, it felt like we had a specific group of heroes who were very suddenly thrown into some other group's religious story narrative and forced to make a decision that very few of them had personal stakes in other than 'I hate Ludinus'. Their backstories were not religion focused other than FCG. They didn't really have the chance to form new beliefs until after they already had the weight of the world on their shoulders and every interaction with the gods made them feel they were just being used for survival. If a god had reached out previously to help them unbidden in a time of need (other than The Cleric), they would have had a completely different motivation to pick a side bc it would feel like the gods genuinely cared for their children. Even a storyline to pit them against the gods instead of just feeling like they were invisible to them could have been beneficial to their larger character arcs in relation to The Plot.

It was an interesting experiment to put these very neutral unbiased people in charge of that kind of situation, don't get me wrong, but then the vast majority of Character Moments we did get were the constant confused/angry circles of 'why do we care about Them?' and 'but what happens if we do nothing' and it got repetitive and tiresome and people got pissed off at different characters and none of them really even changed. They still didn't really understand one another. In the end, even after learning about the eidolons and the Dawnfather being a dick and talks with the Matron and the Arch Heart, the only thing that STILL tethered them personally to the story was 'Let's stop Ludinus because we hate him for getting Laudna/Oryms husband killed and at least we know he's bad and we'll figure it out this god shit when we get there.'

Not the most compelling but hey, it got them to that finish line.

I think at least some of these unsatisfying pitfalls could have been avoided if they'd had more chances for character/relationship exploration beyond like the first third of episodes and maybe with some more religious theme overtones. It was also kind of a shame that all that build up of the new setting at the start was completely left by the wayside. They Needed a Longer Honeymoon. The apocalypse just rolled around way too early.

I love the C3 characters a lot, but its not the same kind of way I love the M9, and I think its mainly because this campaign was a vehicle for the world's next historical era. There's nothing wrong with that, necessarily, but it is polarizing, and a huge shift from C2. With the M9 we had 140 episodes exploring these characters and who they really were as people and where they came from and how they helped each other heal. You can't get that in just 40 episodes leading into an apocalypse speedrun. They are just two completely different kinds of campaigns. It really is a matter of taste but I'm also quite certain that if Matt could go back and do it from scratch knowing what he now knows, he might have approached this very differently. I do think even the players were left floundering and trying to understand what the narrative wanted from them. This kind of Big Picture History Story needed characters at least a little bit built to theme, I think. This is why Brennan's EXU mini-series are so successful.

Sorry if I took your post a little off topic I just suddenly had a lot of thoughts and I haven't talked about any of this yet lol.

Whatever C4 ends up being and whenever it is, I really hope we see a return of the consistent "I go over to *insert character*" that was lacking this campaign. It's something so simple but so foundational to why I love CR. It used to be so consistent and made even the most mundane things like setting up camp, night guard duty and travel something to look forward to.

I can't tell you how many of these moments with characters just simply talking to each other about anything and everything became some of my favorite moments in all of CR. I remember so many episodes where I looked forward to these breaks more than even combat or some story elements because it immersed me so much in every aspect of the campaign.

To me this is when CR is at its best, it is the foundation that separates it from other AP's and is what pulls you in and hooks you so you're equally as invested to the story or action or honestly anything just like the characters and the cast.

[devils-little-sistaaa]

Something I think about often is Nico and Percy (and sometimes Annabeth and Thalia when they have time) staying at camp halfblood into their adult years to help Chiron look after and train all the new big three kids because there’s going to be so many of them too much for Chiron to handle he hasn’t had this many demigods in nearly 100 years that man needs help with those children.

I can totally see Percy and Nico (and Thalia when she visits) teaching them how to use their powers and weapon training. I just can’t see Nico and Percy working in mortal jobs it just don’t make sense to me. They will always be dedicating their lives to looking after other demigods especially younger generations. Grover does a lot of scouting for big three kids too he finds most of them and brings them to camp and sometimes teaches them wilderness training classes

(I’m not that big of a fan of Solangelo or Will but those of you that are : I find it fitting that Will being the best medic and only one with healing powers they’ve had in centuries would stick around to run the infirmary too and Solangelo could happen. I’m imagining a very slow burn where they kinda hate each other when they’re teenagers/young adults and have serious beef but well into their middle ages they each have a lot of personal development and slowly grow to not hate each other as much and eventually get together. Very slow burn rivals to lovers)

Maybe even Percy and Nico adopting or fostering or mentoring big three kids that have either unstable or dead mortal parents or get attacked by monsters too often with nowhere else to go and maybe don’t entirely fit in at camp like Nico used to. Those are the kids they keep an extra eye on.

I think Nico also does a bit of traveling too when things are quiet at camp. (Both before and after he gets with Will). He’s like the best most reliable communication between the Greek and Roman camps as well as the Magicians and the Underworld (he’s besties with Anubis and then by extension Walt and Sadie and Carter) (maybe Nico and Carter were together at some point before Will? When they were younger? Nico being Carters bi awakening? Yes. Love this idea.) (maybe he even sees a few people around Camp Jupiter and New Rome too) (at a different time than Carter and Will obvi he’s not a cheater). The underworld will always be a home to Nico and he stays well in contact with his father and other cthonic deities and family.

Percabeth stay together forever. Annabeth does her architect thing working for both camps and Olympus and maybe even the magicians too. She stays in contact with Magnus too but Odin has all of his architecture covered. She’s a second in communications next to Nico. Her biggest project and accomplishment is New Athens. An entire city built just for Greek adult demigods nestled in the foothills next to camp halfblood. Her and Percy and Nico and Will along with a bunch of their friends live out their retirement there in peace.

Percy and Nico become close friends over the years of working together and mentoring a lot of the same demigods. (I think Percicobeth is a possibility that could happen at some point as well) Percy is content with his life going between his home at camp and traveling with Annabeth and Nico and visiting Sally and Paul and who knew Paul turns out to be Poseidon in disguise and Estelle is a demigod. That was a little crazy for him to process at first but he eventually finds it funny and is at peace with it.

They all have their happy endings. They all have careers fitting for them. They all live full and rich lives. They all live happily ever after. Why does that lamp over there look so weird. *starts balling because I know this will never be reality*

[tacky-optic]

its that fanciful romanticistic day yet again so JIGZENI HEADCANONS be upon ye (in no particular order of importance or seriousness)💥💥💥

- zenigata is jig’s type. gotta get that outta the way first lmao

- favorite fic tropes: reluctant partners, wound dressing, cigarette lighting, slow burn, frenemies with benefits 

- and ok as much as id love this dark noir grizzled detective/hitman mobguy romance love/hate situationship whatever they're probably on the heathier end of the 10 possible lupin ships. they're both just too fucking honest and awkward about romantic sorta stuff yknow

- they both like really black coffee. like nasty "how tf can you drink this its literal tar" black

- zenigata runs hot, jigen runs cold-- obligatory "opposites attract" dynamic

- they both overthink things and small, awkward, semi-flirty situations haunt them for hours. they've brushed knuckles accidentally at a bar once i stg. worst day of their lives they still can't stop thinking about it

- really stand-offish around each other in public (virtually no pda outside of things people might not notice; nudging feet under a table, lighting each other's cigarettes (which is practically kissing for these people let's be real), hands brushing when theyre cuffed in the back of a prison van together, etc etc. normal guy shit)

- they feel obligated to not acknowledge each other, essentially. they're not SUPPOSED to acknowledge each other, it'd break the status quo, "why does that inspector that's always on the news suddenly care about his rival’s partner so much" -- people would get suspicious. best to simply not

- but when they're in private they NEED to be near each other at the very least. eyeshot/earshot. tbh this basically boils down to jigen lounging on top of zenigata. see temp boyfriends-- jigen uses that cop like a basking rock lmao

- facial hair... jig probably digs the five-o-clock shadow look but it usually means "bad mood" for zeni. real late nights, real big loss, real bad scolding from the higher-ups. lupin's dead for the third time this year and he's at the end of his rope about it. shit like that.

- lupin domesticated the shit outta jigen ok. he's the mother hen now. he knows what it looks like (and feels like) when someone's not taking care of themselves so he does the whole shebang-- cooking, cleaning, making sure everyone's hydrated n fed n not slowly rotting. he scolds lupin (plotting heists spiral) and goemon (training spiral) enough that they know to be more careful, but zenigata doesn't get that sorta constant attention since he's solo most of the time

- what im getting at is that jigen checks in after really rough shit ykno. things that might not hit their side very hard but he knows is devastating for zenigata. makes sure he isnt drinking himself into a gutter, makes sure he's sleeping, makes sure he isnt eating exclusively half-assed cup noodle, makes sure he gets cleaned up/shaved. then when zeni's tentatively grateful and Over It and threatening to arrest him again (in that order) he dips

- I FUCKING LOVE THE PATCHUP TROPE and i blame this fandom exclusively. there's this one jigzeni fic where zenigata admits to practically being the gang's third-pick medic and i really really like that idea. so yeah that mother hen shit goes both ways because thats just how zenigata is innately

- hes super cushy with jigen specifically cause jigen's kinda like when you try to clip a dog's nails when they do NOT want that to happen. theres always the looming threat that shit might get loud. and bitey. aaany moment now. but jigen sucks it up real quick when he sees how big this fuckin guy's hands are and how good he is with them winkwinkwink

- put these two alone together for too long and they'll blurt out shit that they BOTH need to hear but have always been too. idk. nervous? afraid? to say. probably afraid. they hate that it's so easy to talk about what's weighing on them

- mostly intrusive thoughts about lupin, but sometimes it's little stuff. i.e. "i actually don't like black coffee all that much but i can't bring myself to sweeten it up because i feel like i don't deserve it/it doesn't feel like i earned it."

- neither can bring themselves to tell the other that That Doesn't Make Sense and is In(s)ane. they both know it's nonsensical and neurotic but they both feel the same deep deep down, too. they get why. they hate it they HATE that they align on a intuitional level

- but once they break that initial barrier of extremely awkward silence where they just KNOW they're thinking the same thing, they can not and will not shut up about how they're feeling

- don't get me wrong. jigen totally vents to lupin (and to goemon and 10000% to fujiko too) but only zenigata can match that same level of angst he has and that's what makes said venting actually, genuinely, deeply relieving. because fuck, he gets it

- they're a tag team of worry. hype men of worry. there's this one mike birbiglia bit from "old man and the pool" -- can't even enjoy a comedy special without this pairing whacking me upside the head with a two-by-four, smh-- that is apparently jigzeni to me:

- "she's worried, and then because she's worried, i'm worried. we're like an anxious improv group. like... i initiate with a worry. she "yes and..."s the worry with some misgivings. i close out the scene with some neuroses, and then sometimes we have sex, and that's so fun."

- on that note, jigen's Worry is very much internal whereas zenigata's is very much not. this is borderline fascinating to them. "how're you so calm all the time" versus "how're you so hopped up on all this energy all the time". the answer is waiting till 2am to unpack by screaming into a pillow and/or drinking till they zonk out

- they tend to gravitate to certain places for what i guess you would call "noncommittal company"-- ambience, if anything-- and since they tend to be holed up in the same areas random bar encounters happen frequently

- they talk about drinking habits a lot. preferred drinks, cocktails, brands-- they're both big fans of whiskey

- jigen buys them both a bottle of real high-their top-shelf shit after particularly rough yet successful heists (the ones where they team up to take out nazis or whatever the hell) and zenigata (after a lot of convincing) never really turns jigen down when he offers him a glass

- okay so either these two happen slowly over many, many months (with the backdrop of many, many years behind them) or they happen IMMEDIATELY, no unpacking, no real deep thought from either of them. if they don't have that “ah, fuck it” moment then they've got a lot of silent pining to look forward to (which i rant about [here])

- damn i think thats it. im pretty shit at coming up with really cushy slice of life bits lmao, it always devolves into deranged character analysis

- some day i will comprehend the art of cozycomfy 'this is how they like their toast' stuff......some day

[wereprinxe]

I started doing this thing where I did fankids based on a random ship of redactedverse and now I have fun with it! So please, give me more of these, it was really fun so pls give more! :D

Preferably in reblogs! /nf

Excluding Caelum ofc

Allowing also trio and more! (and you can tell me if you want two or more, i will usually do one per ship!)

So far, I did: Asher/Geordi, Milo/Lasko, Huxley/David, Porter/Damien, Porter/Morgan, William/Cam

Asher/Geordi

I would like to call this blurbo Mikey! And he would be a wolf shifter, I can imagine him being either really short or really tall and people pick on him for that. He has a vitiligo like his dad, but on his mouth and then across his left side of his body to his hand and waist. Blue eyes, very cute and silly guy, but can get really awkward once he realizes he talked for too long and has a bit to hide under his shirt. ADHD combined boi, he/him but doesnt mind they/them, demiboy and questioning his sexuality and romantic attraction, but is probably very pan

William/Camelopardalis

This blurbo is one of a kind when they keep their eyes closed or you don't see them well. But when theyre opened, you know you fucked up MASSIVELY. I imagine to be VERY TALL, like its intimidating and their outfit is very black and red with a hint of white. Their color of their eyes is almost nonexistent, to be very bright white, but have pupils! (is it contacts? Who knows!) They like to wear jewelry and are very *very* call it is actually scary, but they dont do it on purpose. They will troll you tho LMAO. They have vampire vibes but are a seer! And they really like gargoyles. Name is Monique, they/them, nonbinary, bisexual!

Milo/Lasko

Marshall is quite a tall guy, somewhere between Lasko and Milo and is actually a sassy guy. Dont judge a book by its cover with him! He is a contra-air elemental, but will always try to shift or gain more air elemental control, but alas! I say no, fuck you! He is actually a very smart guy, but can really get carried away with being a menace around people he tries to befriend, he forgets to focus on whats important. And because of bad decisions he makes (influenced by others) he feels like a disappointment to his dads (he is not and Lasko is very reassuring if that, he just has trust issues). Uses he/him, transmasc non-binary and is on asexual spectrum

Huxley/David

This little guy is a contra-earth! Jude is sometimes mistakes for a bear shifter considering how genes worked so extremly to be considered very atteactive and wanted, sometimes when he walks around, people will sigh in hope he will notice them. He is a lot in his head and will not notice, can be considered an ignorant to his surroundings, but its the adhd-i in him NDNSJSKMS, he/it pronouns, gender neutral (doesnt really care) and is demisexual

Porter/Damien

Oh their daughter is a GIRLBOSS in CAPS. ICONIC GIRLIE I SAY. Yuko is a mysterious person and really likes that. Wears a facemask, black clothes and just loves using her eyeliner, takes a lot of inspiration from Porter. I mean, she is their dad's assassin princess, ofccccc <3 her powers are unknown, but she is very skilled in acrobatics. Sometimes, her persona breaks when she sees my melody (she loves to collect sanrio stuff, especially my melody) She/Her, cis fem, asexual sapphic

Porter/Morgan

Theyre a literally walking magazine cover for VOGUE, you have never seen such a beautiful person in your life, evil queen is JEALOUUUUSSSSSSS /j Brook is a quiet person, kinda intimidating but is really just shy and awkward around people, especially how they can act around a vampire royalty such as her. Loves tea parties with her closest, especially her dads and they love to dress up in any kind of fashion they hyperfixate on that moment, but stick to gothic and lolita. They/she, genderfluid transfem, bisexual

[biribarabiribbaem]

The "add something, If you'd like" stared at me for like 5 minutes while I tried to find the right words to comment this. You are absolutely amazing my Effie, like abso -  fucking - lutely amazing at this, you could write a book and I's be your first customer lining up for an autograph, just like they do in the movies.

This chapter was full of everything as always but the one recurring thing I felt was Minho finally accepting that people love him even if he was a bit rough and that love can actually erode your edges and he loves, he just need to vocalize it but we'll wait Minho, don't worry.

I'm glad we've all forgiven Sara, because at the end she's just a girl fighting for her life and being a girl in a man’s world it’s not easy.

And Minho finally smoothing his edges around the other boys (still kinda hate them tho) and being their manager chef !!! FIGHTING BOYS!!!!

and the posso farcela coming back :( yeah Minho, you can do it!!! You all. can do it.

Chris, we love you. Like really love you but we girls are stubborn and sometimes we follow something more daring but we love you. We really do. 

I am rambling about all and nothing because I am speechless about this chapter and it’s because the whole series started with a solid gold smut scene and then we had just a glimpse of it, the right amount of it - it was the whole story that was fantastic and kept all of us here.

I cheered at every smile they shared, at every little kisses, even the fights were engaging, If I had to talk in culinary terms the plot was a good serve of tender meat, medium rare, with salt grain on top of it and the smut was a side dish of grilled veggies and soft potatoes: everything is balanced there’s not too much of everything, this is definitely some of your works that I’m gonna read again and again just like I do with The Crowd series. 

I am in awe at everything you write my amore, I am so so grateful you are sharing this with us - with me. Never stop doing this because I will always be here supporting everything you'll write. <3

TASTE.

CHAPTER VII: DELECTABLE.

Lee Know x reader. (s,a)

TASTE MASTERLIST

Synopsis: When Minho is hired as the head chef of Farfalle, a prestigious Italian restaurant, expectations are high for him to elevate its reputation and bring it to new heights. However, no one anticipates the drastic changes he implements in the kitchen—including his strict rule that that there'll be no women and no romance in his kitchen. (17,5k words)

Author's note: Consider this as my Valentine's gift for you, cuties. I truly hope you enjoy this chapter and don't forget to share your thoughts on it ♡

Delectable. /dɪˈlek.tə.bəl/ (adj) looking or tasting extremely good, and giving great pleasure.

This is uncharted territory for Minho. Meeting your father feels like being handed a complex recipe without any instructions. In cooking, he can always rely on techniques, measurements, and experience. But here? There’s no guide on how to impress your dad. No step-by-step process to follow. Just instincts—and his instincts are telling him he’s in trouble.

Awkwardly, he leads the way through the restaurant, glancing back every few steps to make sure your dad is keeping up. He catches sight of you behind him, trailing anxiously, your hands clasped together like you’re holding yourself together.

Once they reach the kitchen, Minho turns to your dad and says politely, “If you take a seat in the hall, I’ll prepare a dish for you right away, sir.”

But your dad doesn’t sit. Instead, he fixes his gaze on Minho and says, “I didn’t come here to eat your food.” Then, he turns to you. “You make it.”

Minho sees the way your body stiffens. The sheer panic that paints your face as you stammer, “Why don’t you try something the chef makes? You don’t always get the chance.”

Minho steps in, offering himself up immediately. “What would you like, sir?”

But your dad waves him off. “No, I want her to bring me the dish she’s been working on lately.”

Minho hears you gasp, a mix of surprise and dread. But you obey without argument, walking to your station and preparing the grilled scallops you’ve been refining. He watches intently as you cook, noting the way your hands shake slightly. When you make a mistake, he silently winces but holds himself back from correcting you.

Next to him, your dad speaks. “I had to come and see for myself,” he says, his voice firm. “She’s never talked about a man she’s liked before.” He glances at Minho. “I hope you don’t mind.”

Minho shakes his head. “No, I don’t mind, sir.”

Your dad hums. “I liked the other guy I sent home earlier.”

Minho stiffens. Chris. Of course that annoying guy makes a better impression on your dad than him. But before Minho can respond, your dad adds, “Not that it matters. She never listens to me anyway.”

Minho almost smiles at that, but then he sees you approaching with your dish, setting it on the chef’s table. “Try this, dad,” you say, your voice carefully controlled.

Your dad doesn’t reach for it. Instead, he asks, “Why are you giving this to me?”

You blink in confusion. “What do you mean?”

Your dad’s expression remains unreadable. “Don’t you need your chef’s permission for your dish to go out to the hall?”

Silence stretches between you.

“Why do you think I’m eating your food instead of his?” your dad continues. “It’s not because I prefer yours.”

Minho understands then. Why scoldings and harsh words don’t seem to shake you. You’re used to it.

Your dad turns to Minho. “Go on. Taste it.”

Minho nods, picks up a fork, and cuts into the scallop. He dips it in the purée and sauce before bringing it to his mouth. He knows he has to be truthful, no matter what.

“Do it again.”

You freeze, shell-shocked. But then, you snap into motion, nodding quickly. “Yes, Chef.”

You turn back to your station and start over. When you present the second plate, Minho glances at your dad, who gestures for him to try it again. He hates to say it, but it’s still not right. “Do it again.”

This time, Minho sees the disappointment flicker across your face before you drag yourself back to your station. The third time, it’s still not right. With a quiet sigh, he repeats himself. “Do it again.”

Your dad looks away and scoffs. “We’re going to be here all night.”

Minho doesn’t miss the resentment in your eyes. Still, you offer, “I’ll do it again, Chef.”

But your dad snaps. “Is this how you work all day long?”

You shake your head quickly, but then your dad suddenly picks up the rejected dish and sets it down so hard that the spoon clatters against the plate.

He turns to Minho. “You must be giving her a hard time.” His voice is sharp. “Look at her. Does she look like someone who’s in love to you?”

Minho doesn’t know how to answer that. He can’t even decide if he should give himan honest answer or should he sugarcoat it for you.

Your dad exhales, shaking his head. “As soon as I heard she liked you, I couldn’t concentrate on my work.”

Minho bows his head slightly as he mutters an apology. “I’m sorry, sir.”

Your voice comes next, trembling. “Dad, I’m fine. I'm ashamed already. Can you stop now?”

Your dad snaps back, “You think you’re the only one ashamed? I feel the same way too.”

Minho stays quiet, unsure of how to navigate this. Heck, he doesn't even know which side to choose. After a pause, he tries, “Sir, what if we asked to do it one more—”

Your dad cuts him off with a scoff, then turns on his heel and walks out.

Minho hurriedly turns to you. “Go after him. Go! Follow him out.”

But you don’t move. Instead, you glare at him. “Did you really have to do that?”

Minho blinks. “What?”

You grit your teeth. “It wasn’t like I was cooking for customers. That was the first time my dad came here to try my food.” Your voice wavers as your eyes falter. “Did you have to show him that I get rejected all the time?”

Minho’s chest tightens after realizing how upset you are. He lowers his voice and mutters an apology. “I'm sorry, mmh?”

But you keep going, holding back tears. “Just because I don’t say anything and hold it all in doesn’t mean I don’t have feelings.”

Minho understands. He really does. He steps forward and gently places his hands on your shoulders, pulling you close. “I said I’m sorry.”

But you push him away, hard enough to make him staggering backward. Your tears finally spill over.

Frustration coils in Minho’s chest. “As long as I’m the chef, every dish that goes past my table is mine, even if I didn’t make it myself.” He exhales sharply, his voice quieter. “That was the first dish I made for your dad. I wanted to impress him.”

You shake your head, tears brimming in your eyes. “I don’t want to hear it. Even if you’re right, I’m sick of it. I can’t take it anymore.”

Minho clenches his jaw. His voice comes out sharper than he intends. “Then why didn’t you do it right the first time?”

Your breath hitches. More tears fall, and Minho’s frustration dissolves instantly. He doesn’t want to make you sad. He steps closer again, his voice softer.

“Stop crying, mmh?” His hands cup your face, wiping away your tears. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

This time, you don’t push him away. You bury your head in his chest and let him hold you. Minho kisses the top of your head while continuously murmuring quiet apologies, his hands gently rubbing your back. Then—

“Get away from her.”

Minho’s body tenses. He immediately steps back, turning to face your dad, who watches him with unreadable eyes from the doorway of the kitchen. Then, your dad says, “Come to my bakery sometime. I’d like to hear what you have to say about my cooking.”

Minho stares, still freezing in place and giving no response.

Your dad stares back at him and asks, “Aren’t you going to answer me?”

Minho scrambles to respond. “Of course, sir”

Your dad turns to you now and clicks his tongue seeing you cry. “Bring your chef. Or your boyfriend. Or whatever. Just come together.”

Your eyes widen in surprise. “Together?”

Your dad nods. “Of course. Were you going to send him alone?” Then, he turns and walks away.

You run after him, leaving Minho standing in the kitchen, dazed. He turns to face the chef’s table, staring down at all the rejected dishes. He picks up the fork and have another bite of it, he can tell that you're getting better at it.

“He left,” You announce when you return shortly after, standing next to him.

Minho exhales. He doesn’t know what to say first. The fact that he made you cry. The fact that your dad caught him holding you. Or should he address the whole situation with your dad.

But then, you suddenly turn to him and say, “I think my dad likes you.”

Minho frowns in confusion, “What?”

You smile—shy, small. “He told us to come together. I think that means he likes you.”

A grin tugs at Minho’s lips. His hands find your waist as he pulls you close. “That so?”

You giggle, nodding. You melt into his arm as he pulls you closer. Minho hugs you tight, and as your bodies calibrating into each other, you both bursts out laughing to shake out all the worries and concerns from earlier.

Minho exhales, letting relief wash over him. He has made an impression and it matters because it's your dad. For the first time, he feels like he did something right.

-

Choi Sara Admits to Cheating in Piazza dello Chef Contest—Sabotaged Rival's Dish.

Renowned chef Choi Sara, once celebrated as the only female chef in the city’s top Italian restaurants, has publicly admitted to cheating in the Piazza dello Chef Contest, a prestigious culinary competition that propelled her to fame. The shocking confession has resulted in her losing several high-profile positions, including her role as the star host of the cable food channel's "The Chef’s Table", her judging seat on the New Chef Culinary Challenge, and her position at Farfalle, the city’s most esteemed Italian restaurant.

Choi Sara confirmed the long-standing rumors of her misconduct, revealing that she sabotaged her rival’s chances of winning by tampering with his key ingredient. The contest’s challenge featured ginseng pasta, with wine serving as the essential element in neutralizing the ginseng’s bitterness. Choi admitted to oxidizing her rival’s wine by placing it in boiling water the night before the competition, rendering it ineffective and ultimately securing her victory.

The chef who was cheated out of his rightful win has now been identified as Lee Minho, currently the co-chef of Farfalle. His loss in the competition significantly altered the trajectory of his career, while Choi’s tainted victory opened doors that have now been abruptly closed.

The scandal has sent shockwaves through the culinary world, with many calling for Choi to be permanently banned from future competitions and culinary institutions. Neither Farfalle nor the New Chef Culinary Challenge has issued an official statement regarding the controversy.

As the culinary industry reacts to this bombshell revelation, Choi Sara's career now faces an uncertain future.

-

The moment you step into the restaurant, you barely have time to process the usual morning bustle before Taesoo comes charging toward you. His eyes are wide with urgency, his mouth opening as if to speak—but no words come out. Instead, he thrusts his phone toward you, his fingers trembling as he points at the screen.

Frowning, you take the phone from his hand, your gaze dropping to the glowing display. An article fills the screen, the headline alone enough to send a jolt through your chest. Your eyes dart across the text, skimming past the formalities, searching for the core of it.

"Choi Sara Admits to Cheating in Piazza dello Chef Contest—Sabotaged Rival's Dish."

The words slam into you, one after another, but nothing hits harder than the revelation buried in the details. The rival chef she cheated out of a rightful victory—the one whose career could have been different if not for her actions—was Minho.

A sharp gasp escapes you. The abrupt end of their relationship, the distance, the bitterness—it all makes sense now. But why confess everything now, and why to the press?

Your grip tightens around the phone before you shove it back into Taesoo’s hands, your feet already moving before you fully register what you’re doing. Your heart pounds as you sprint toward the stairs, taking them two at a time.

Chris’s office door looms ahead. You don’t bother knocking—you push it open with force, breathless from your rush. Chris is already on his feet, his expression unreadable but undoubtedly aware.

“Chris—” you manage between pants, but he’s already moving, reaching for his suit jacket as if he anticipated your arrival.

“I know,” he says simply, slipping the jacket over his shoulders as he walks toward you.

“You’re going to see her?” you ask, though you already know the answer.

He nods, adjusting the lapels of his jacket. “I’m heading out now.” Then, as he reaches you, his hand rests gently on your shoulder. His touch is steady, reassuring. “I’ll let you know when I get back. And I’ll tell Sara you’re worried about her.”

You nod, exhaling a quiet, “Thank you.” Your voice feels small, barely audible over the storm of thoughts in your head.

Chris offers a final nod before stepping past you, out the door.

You remain standing there, watching him go, unable to shake the weight settling in your chest. No matter where she is, you can only hope that Sara is alright.

-

You’ve expected Minho to keep his head down and work as if nothing happened, and he does exactly that. The tension in the air is almost suffocating—everyone in the kitchen knows about Sara’s confession, and Minho knows that they know. But as always, he moves through the lunch service with precision, barking out orders in his usual sharp tone, as if the weight of the news hasn’t touched him.

The last order of the lunch service prints through the machine, and Minho tears it off, scanning it quickly.

“Table 14. Two filet mignon course meals. Make them both rare,” he announces.

Sous-chef Seojun, who handles the steaks, pauses as he reaches for the meat. “Rare? Both of them?”

Before Minho can respond, a service staff member rushes into the kitchen, looking slightly panicked. Just as he opens his mouth, Minho beats him to it.

“Did the customers at table 14 really request them rare?”

The service staff nods quickly. “Chef… it’s them. The food critics—the same ones who complained about the lobster last time.”

A hush falls over the kitchen. Everyone still remembers the criticism Farfalle received, and now those same critics are back. You glance around, noticing how the team has subtly stiffened. Minho sees it too.

“Everyone! Pay attention to your frying pans,” His voice cuts through the tension like a knife. “Start the entrée line course, now.”

“Yes, Chef!” everyone answers in unison, snapping back into motion.

The next several minutes pass in focused silence. The steaks are cooked, plated, and sent out. The kitchen moves efficiently, but the underlying unease remains.

Then the service staff returns. “Chef, the food critics would like to speak with you.”

Minho barely reacts. He removes his apron and straightens his jacket. “Clean up,” he orders before stepping out of the kitchen.

But instead of following Minho’s instructions, everyone slowly gravitates toward the chef’s table. Hyunwoo is the first to break the silence.

“Do you think the restaurant’s reputation took a hit because of Chef Sara?” he asks, his voice low but curious. “Maybe they’re here to change our star rating.”

Seungwan hums in thought. “It could be. The new menu, the press conference—it all happened when Chef Sara was still here.”

Taesoo chimes in next. “Or maybe they just want to evaluate Chef Lee alone now that he’s the only head chef.”

Felix, leaning against the counter, shakes his head. “Chef doesn’t care about any of that.”

Taesoo raises an eyebrow. “Why not? A higher rating is always good. I hope we get something better than whatever rating Chef Sara got.”

Felix nods, glancing toward the dining area. “Ah... so that’s why they ordered the steaks rare.”

Taesoo frowns. “Wait… is there a reason why they ordered it rare?”

You finally speak up. “Because when meat is rare, they can evaluate its quality better. The freshness, how it was stored, how well it was prepared and cooked—it all shows.”

Taesoo gasps, as if the realization just hit him. Hyunwoo grins, nudging Seojun. “Good thing we have Sous-chef back there. You’ve got the Midas touch when it comes to the grill.”

Seungwan nods in agreement. “Yeah, when we think of steak, we think of Sous-chef Seojun.”

Seojun, clearly flustered, smiles shyly at the praise. They’re not wrong—if anyone could pull off the perfect steak, it’s him. But you’re not as reassured as they are. Your thoughts linger on the bigger issue.

If the critics are here for a reevaluation, that means trust in Farfalle’s kitchen might already be wavering. And trust, once lost, isn’t so easy to regain.

-

Minho moves through the dining hall with practiced ease, ignoring the curious glances from guests and staff alike. He knows everyone is watching—waiting to see how he’ll handle this. But he doesn’t falter, doesn’t let the weight of their expectations slow him down.

When he reaches table 14, he stops at a respectful distance, straightening his posture. He meets the eyes of the two food critics seated before him and offers a professional nod.

“Good afternoon,” he says smoothly. “I’m Lee Minho, head chef of Farfalle.”

One of the critics, a man in his late forties with sharp eyes, returns the greeting and slides a small card across the table. “Nice to meet you, Chef Lee Minho. We’re from Culinary Gazette.”

Minho picks up the card, glancing at it briefly before slipping it into his pocket. Straight to business.

The first critic leans back slightly, a small smile on his face. “The filet mignon was well executed. The composition of the course was balanced, and if it had been ordered medium, it would have made for a solid, traditional dish.”

Minho remains silent, waiting.

The other critic, a woman with neatly tied-back hair, tilts her head as she adds, “You used high-quality meat. That much is obvious. But it lacked a clean, light taste. Even when it’s barely cooked—still dripping with blood—the best kind of steak should have that purity in flavor.”

The first critic nods along, placing his utensils down with a soft clink. “A few years ago, this dish at Farfalle was excellent. But now… it’s falling behind.” His expression remains neutral, but his words carry weight. “We can’t give high marks to a kitchen that doesn’t keep up with the times.”

Minho takes it all in, keeping his expression unreadable. He isn’t foolish enough to dismiss their critiques outright. They have a point. But he also knows when someone is testing him.

He pauses for a moment before responding. “Eating rare meat—something even the most seasoned chefs in Italy shy away from—and having such a discerning palate for the flavor of an almost-raw steak…” His lips curl into the faintest of smirks. “I’ll take it as belligerence.”

There’s a beat of silence, then— The first critic lets out a low chuckle, nodding in approval. “You're good.”

The woman beside him smirks, impressed but not entirely won over.

Minho meets their gaze, his smirk never wavering. “A true professional should be able to solve that issue as well.”

The critics exchange glances before the man leans forward slightly. “We know Chef Choi Sara used to be a co-chef here.”

Minho’s smirk barely falters, but there’s a subtle shift in his posture. There it is. He doesn’t look away, keeping his voice even as he asks, “And what does that have to do with Farfalle’s star rating?”

The woman tilts her head, considering him before answering simply, “Can we trust the dishes from this kitchen now?”

Minho knew this was coming. He knew this was the real test. And this—this is what he’s feared the most. People losing trust in his kitchen.

-

Minho sits at his desk, fingers drumming idly against the wood as he waits for the team to gather. One by one, they filter into his office, standing in a semi-circle, some looking confused, others tense. He can tell they’re wondering why they’ve been called in. Good. He prefers getting straight to the point.

Seungwan is the first to speak up. “Chef, why did you call us?”

Minho shifts his gaze to Seojun. “It’s about you, Sous-chef.”

Seojun blinks, clearly caught off guard. “Me?”

Minho crosses his arms, his tone cool and precise. “I’m talking about the steak that went out earlier—rare.” His eyes sharpen. “There was a hint of odor from the fat that I didn’t taste when the meat was cooked medium or well done.”

Seojun tenses at that, his lips pressing into a thin line before he retorts, “Isn’t that exactly why they eat it rare? If they don’t like it, they should order it well done.” He pauses, his expression growing more defensive. “Wait—was this what the food critics told you?”

Before Minho can answer, Hyunwoo interjects, his voice rising in panic. “Did they lower our stars?”

Minho flicks his gaze to him, unimpressed. “Why are you talking about stars when I’m talking about the steak?”

Seojun huffs, clearly frustrated. “But why do they eat it rare? Because they can’t find a problem when it’s cooked medium or well done?” His jaw tightens. “I only hear this as them nitpicking.”

Minho exhales, calm but unwavering. “So you’re not grateful for them pointing out a flaw in your dish?”

Seojun stiffens at that.

Minho continues, voice even. “If we eliminate that odor—if we make the rare steak taste cleaner—then it’s only going to get better when it’s cooked medium or well done.”

But Seojun isn’t backing down. “Perfect taste, best taste—that’s all in the heads of critics.” He exhales sharply, frustration evident. “Why do we have to play along with these people?”

Minho smirks, tilting his head. “We can play along. And if we find a better way, we’ll benefit from it.” His voice is casual, but his eyes gleam with intent. “So let’s play along.”

Hyunwoo hesitates before asking, “Does that mean… you’re going to change the filet mignon recipe?”

Minho shakes his head. “No.”

As if on cue, Taesoo steps forward, handing over a cut of wrapped meat. Minho takes it, holding it up for everyone to see.

“This,” he says, “is meat tightly wrapped in cloth and plastic wrap. By compressing it like this, the blood is squeezed into the corners of the wrap.”

Seojun folds his arms, unimpressed. “That kind of odor can be taken care of with a sauce.”

Minho shakes his head. “That’s like covering up an unwashed, greasy face with makeup.” He lets the words hang in the air before adding, “The best steak doesn’t come from the sauce. It comes from the meat itself.”

Silence lingers—until you raise your hand.

Minho nods at you. “Go ahead.”

You glance at the wrapped meat. “What about the steak losing its juiciness?”

Minho picks up another cut of meat and turns it slightly in his hand. “That’s why we’ll tie it with strings.” He demonstrates, then continues, “We’re also not putting it directly on the grill anymore. First, we sear it on a pan. Then, we finish it in the oven.”

You tilt your head. “So it’s cooked twice?”

Seungwan’s eyes widen slightly. “You’re telling us to start doing all of this during a busy service?”

Minho glances at the team, watching their reactions carefully before announcing, “I want everyone to stay after work and start wrapping the filet like I showed.” His tone leaves no room for negotiation. “That’s your homework.”

A collective groan ripples through the group. Taesoo mutters something under his breath.

Before anyone can complain further, Minho points at you and Taesoo. “The two of you are excluded.”

Taesoo triumphantly grin but you raise your hand to offer yourself. “I can help—”

Minho interrupts smoothly, “This requires strong pressure on the meat. But if you want to help, be my guest.”

Hyunwoo’s face contorts in frustration. “Why do we have to do all this?”

Minho meets his gaze, unreadable. “Because you’re in charge of the filet mignon course.”

But there’s another reason—one Minho keeps to himself.

-

Minho stands at the coffee station, cradling the warm ceramic cup in his hand, relishing the quiet moment before the chaos of the kitchen pulls him back in. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee fills his senses as he takes a slow, deliberate sip. Then his phone rings.

He exhales sharply, already suspecting who it is. When he checks the caller ID, his irritation is confirmed—an unknown number. He answers with a clipped "Hello?"

"Chef Lee Minho, this is Reporter Shin from The Daily—"

Minho doesn’t even let the man finish. The moment he hears reporter, he hangs up. He knows exactly what they want. They want his thoughts on Sara’s public confession, on the scandal, on him.

He shoves his phone back into his pocket, but before he can even enjoy his coffee, it rings again—same number. Minho ignores it.

His fingers tighten slightly around the cup as he brings it back to his lips, focusing on the warmth, the taste, anything but the persistent buzzing in his pocket.

Across from him, Felix watches, his eyes lingering for a little too long. Minho doesn’t acknowledge it at first, but he knows Felix isn’t the type to keep his thoughts to himself.

Sure enough, Felix finally speaks. “Why don’t you just meet with the reporters and tell them the truth?” His voice is casual, but there’s an edge beneath it. “Tell them how she screwed you over—how you lost so many opportunities because of her.”

Minho takes another slow sip before setting his cup down, then levels a sharp glare at Felix. “If you ever blab about this to the press, I’m going to kill you.” His voice is even, controlled, but the weight behind his words is unmistakable.

Felix falters, but only for a split second before he recovers with a grin. “I just want to make sure you get the honor and recognition you deserve.”

Minho studies him, narrowing his eyes slightly. He doesn’t expect Felix to hold more of a grudge against Sara than he does.

He leans in slightly, his voice dropping to something lower, almost amused, but laced with warning. “You’d better stop before I fill your mouth with fillings and steam you in the oven like dumplings. Got it?”

Felix’s grin wavers, replaced by a wary smile. “Okay, okay—message received.”

Minho doesn’t linger. He gets off the stool, intending to head back into the kitchen, but his phone rings again. He nearly ignores it until a notification pops up on his screen.

A text. From Sara. Minho hesitates before unlocking his phone.

“I can finally breathe now. I loved you, Lee Minho. I lost, Lee Minho.”

Minho stops walking. He rereads the message, his grip on the phone tightening. Lost? That sounds like a goodbye. Like she’s accepting defeat.

That’s not the Sara he knows. The Sara he knew for years wouldn’t just—give in like this. Something unsettles in his chest, a frustration, an unease. This doesn’t feel like a win. Without a second thought, his fingers move over the keyboard, typing out a reply.

“What do you mean you lost? The real match begins now. Don't run away. Let's start over. Come back.”

Minho stares at the screen, his message hanging there, waiting, as if his words alone could pull Sara back. But deep down, he knows it’s not that simple.

She should have just accepted the truth and moved on—quietly, without dragging this mess into the public eye. Without making a spectacle out of it. What good did it do, confessing everything like that? It didn’t fix anything. It didn’t undo the damage.

Minho exhales sharply, locking his phone and shoving it into his pocket. If she thought this was over, she was wrong. Because this didn’t feel like a win.

-

Minho ordered the entrée line to gather in the kitchen after work, and now here you are, taking out slabs of meat from the freezer and setting them on the counter. The cold seeps through your fingertips, but what’s worse is the glares Hyunwoo and Seungwan are shooting your way.

You grab another piece of meat, and that’s when Hyunwoo scoffs. "Did Chef tell you to keep an eye on us?"

The accusation comes out sharp, like he’s already convinced of the answer. You frown and mutter, "You're impossible."

Seungwan clicks his tongue, shaking his head. "Chef acts so righteous all the time, but I guess he’s just another snob obsessed with the star rating."

You don’t take the bait. "Let’s just get this over with. The longer we stand here arguing, the longer this is going to take."

Hyunwoo groans, throwing his hands up. "Do we really have time for this? Everyone else is busy working on new dishes, but no—we’re here, squeezing blood out of perfectly fine meat."

He exhales sharply, muttering under his breath. "We better win first place at the New Chef Culinary Challenge, or—"

Seungwan slaps a hand over Hyunwoo’s mouth. They freeze. Seungwan’s jaw tightens, and Hyunwoo looks like he wants to sink into the floor.

But it’s too late. You already know. You cross your arms. "So you guys are preparing for the New Chef Culinary Challenge."

Silence. Then—

"Uh—no? I mean, yeah? Wait, no—" Hyunwoo stammers.

You turn to Seojun. Unlike the others, he doesn’t look surprised—just resigned. "Is it true, Sous-chef?"

His lips press into a thin line before he sighs. "Yeah. But since you've already been keeping it a secret, just keep pretending you haven't heard anything."

Your stomach twists uncomfortably. "You know you can't keep this from Chef forever. You're representing the restaurant. He should know."

Seojun exhales through his nose. "I just need you to keep quiet."

You take a step forward. "Why not just ask him?"

His expression hardens. "The Chef? We’d be grateful if he didn’t get in our way."

They don’t understand Minho like you do. "He wouldn't. You guys are wrong about him."

Hyunwoo lets out an exaggerated scoff. "Oh yeah? He thinks we’re wrong too. Apparently, even after all these years, Sous-chef doesn’t know how to grill meat."

You stare at them, pulse thrumming. "Then let me ask him for you."

"Hey! No way." Hyunwoo is quick to shut it down.

"Don’t even think about it," Seungwan adds, crossing his arms.

You look back at Seojun, hoping he’ll be reasonable, but his gaze is sharp as he says, "You should know when to stay out of things. This is not as simple as you think. Please do us a favor. Keep quiet."

Your jaw tightens, but you know when to step back. "Yes, Sous-chef."

Seojun nods, then turns to Hyunwoo and Seungwan. "Put the meat back in the freezer."

Your stomach churns. "Wait—shouldn’t we still do what Chef ordered?"

Seojun doesn’t hesitate. "I’ll take care of it. Just go home."

Before you can protest, Seungwan grabs your arm and pulls you out of the kitchen. He only lets go once you’re outside, turning to you with a finger pressed against his lips—an unspoken command to stay silent. Then, without another word, he disappears back inside.

You exhale, rubbing a hand down your face. This isn’t right. Minho is going to find out eventually. And when he does—

"Hey, why are you standing there?"

Your heart jumps. You turn around to find Minho standing there, already changed, backpack slung over one arm. His gaze flickers to the kitchen door behind you, then back to your face. Did he hear anything?

He raises an eyebrow. "Let’s go home."

For a second, you hesitate as the weight of secret tugging at your chest. But then, without a word, you fall into step beside him.

The car ride home is quiet. You keep your mouth shut, afraid that if you say too much, Minho will find out the truth—that the entrée line isn’t doing what he asked. That they’ve been using the kitchen to prepare for the New Chef Culinary Challenge instead.

You shift in your seat, staring out of the window. The streetlights blur past, casting fleeting shadows inside the car. The only sound is the soft hum of the engine—until Minho’s phone vibrates against the center console.

You glance at the screen out of reflex. No name. Just numbers. It rings once. Twice. Then stops. You ignore it at first, but curiosity gets the better of you. "Why aren’t you answering the calls, Chef?"

Minho keeps his eyes on the road. "Reporters have been calling all day."

You nod, looking away again. Silence lingers between you both, heavy and unspoken, until you can’t hold back anymore.

You turn toward him. "Chef, I know the meat is important, but you have to respect other chefs’ methods too."

Minho doesn’t react so you press on. "You can tell me what to do all you want, because I like you and I know you're trying to help, but—"

"That’s enough." Minho cuts you off, voice firm. He knows exactly where you’re going with this.

But you refuse to stop now. "They’ve been working for years, Chef. They’re experienced. You can’t treat them like they don’t know the basics."

One hand on the wheel, he answers easily, "They don’t know the basics."

You exhale, gripping your hands together. "They just want to improve and do better. That’s why they’re doing New—"

You freeze and feel like slapping your mouth for almost spoiling the secret.

Minho’s eyes flick toward you, sharp and narrow. "New what?"

You shake your head. "Nothing."

He doesn’t push, but you can feel his gaze linger before he focuses back on the road. You let out a quiet breath of relief, choosing your next words carefully.

With utmost caution, you sweetly ask, "Can you at least show them half the affection you show me?"

Minho doesn’t even hesitate. "No."

You blink. "What—why?"

"Why should I share my affection for you with those guys who don’t even listen to me?" He glances at you. "My affection is too valuable. I don’t want to share it."

When the two of you enter the elevator, he reaches for your hand, fingers curling around yours with ease. But before you can enjoy the warmth, your phone rings inside your bag.

With a sigh, you pull away and rummage through your things. Dad. You pick up. "Hello?"

Your dad skips the small talk. "Are you done with work?"

"Yes."

"How many times did the chef say 'do it again' today?" he asks. "Did the number go down?"

You sigh. "Actually, it’s been going up."

Instead of comforting you, he scolds you. "You should be doing a better job. Imagine what it’d be like for him if you keep messing up while dating in that kitchen."

Betrayal stings at your chest. You grumble, "Whose side are you on, dad?"

Your dad ignores the question entirely. "When are you going to bring him over?"

Annoyed, you snap, "I don’t know." Then, without waiting for a response, you hang up and shove your phone back into your bag.

Minho smirks. "So, your dad is taking my side, huh?"

Then—he laughs, a devilish little sound that only annoys you more.

You groan, leaning against the cold metal wall. "All the men in my life are so annoying."

Minho’s smirk grows—until you add, "Except Chris."

The smirk instantly vanishes, he shot you an icy glare. "What did you just say?"

Before you can answer, the elevator dings open. You step out and stop to look over your shoulder as you call back, "I said you’re annoying."

And with that, you turn toward your apartment, leaving him behind.

-

The first thing Minho does when he steps into the kitchen is check the meat. He doesn’t greet anyone. Doesn’t look anywhere else. He walks straight to the freezer, Taesoo trailing behind him like a shadow.

The moment Minho opens the freezer, his jaw tightens. The meat looks exactly the same as it did yesterday.

They didn’t do a single damn thing. Minho mutters under his breath, voice sharp with irritation. "So they made sauces instead of doing what I told them to do."

He slams the container shut. Crosses his arms. Exhales harshly through his nose. "I told them to tie it up," he bites out, his jaw clenched so tight it hurts. "They didn’t even do that either."

Taesoo opens his mouth, maybe to explain or make excuses, but Minho doesn’t let him. "Not a single thing I told them to do. Not one."

The anger simmers, but he keeps it under control. He turns to Taesoo, ready to unleash hell—but then he remembers. He told Taesoo not to do it.

At the start of lunch service, Minho stalks to the chef’s table and raises his voice. "Since we're not prepared, we’re not taking any steak orders today."

Murmurs ripple through the kitchen. Some chefs glance at each other, others stiffen, but Minho doesn’t give a damn. His eyes land on Seojun’s station, where containers of sauce sit lined up neatly. He points at them. "Stop wasting your time on useless things and just do as I tell you."

Seojun bristles but Minho’s gaze stays locked on him. "Did you put gold in that sauces? Hm? Why are you so obsessed with them?"

Seojun doesn’t answer. Instead, he glares. "Why don’t you stop picking on us?"

Before Minho can respond, Felix cuts in. "Why do you think he’s just picking on you, Sous-chef? Aren’t we supposed to follow the chef’s orders no matter what?"

Seojun ignores Felix, his anger still focused on Minho. His jaw clenches, eyes burning with frustration. "If your goal was to insult me, congratulations. You’ve succeeded. Do whatever you want, Chef. Take filet mignon off the menu if you want—it’s your kitchen, your rules."

Minho scoffs, stepping closer. "Do whatever I want?" He tilts his head. "So if I wanted to pull you guys out of the New Chef Culinary Challenge, I could? Or keep you in? Since, you know, I can do whatever I want?"

Silence. The entrée line stiffens. Their faces betray pure shock—like they never expected him to know. Their heads immediately turn to you. Their eyes accusing.

You shake your head fast, hands raised in defense. "I didn’t say anything, I swear."

Minho lets the tension settle, then continues, voice cold. "You can’t even follow your own chef’s orders. What makes you think you can satisfy the judges?"

His lips curl into a smirk. "You didn’t even bother preparing the meat. If you can’t do that, how the hell am I supposed to believe you can cook a decent steak?"

Silence again. Minho watches them squirm before delivering the final blow. "I know you’ve been practicing for the competition behind my back. But whether you enter or not, one thing’s for sure—you’re going to humiliate Farfalle."

Minho can’t take their defiance anymore and that’s when he makes his decision. He lifts his head, sweeping his gaze over the entire kitchen. His deep brown eyes hold authority, intensity, and absolute control.

"From now on, no one is allowed in this kitchen after business hours. The doors will be locked."

The words drop like a hammer. The tension is thick enough to cut with a knife, but before anyone can protest, the first order comes through the machine. The ticket prints out with a sharp, mechanical beep, cutting through the heavy silence.

Minho grabs it. Starts calling out the order when—

"How could you do this to us?" Hyunwoo’s voice cuts through the air like a crack of thunder.

Minho watches as Hyunwoo turns to you, his expression full of betrayal. He expects them to think that he knew about it from you just because the two of you are dating.

You shake your head, voice firm. "I didn’t tell him anything. I never told Chef."

Felix frowns, arms crossed. "I knew something was weird about you guys lately." He looks at Hyunwoo. "How long were you gonna keep this a secret? You didn't even tell your own Chef."

Hyunwoo’s fists clench. "Stay out of our business."

Felix doesn’t back down. "How is this just your business?" He looks at the entire entrée line. "If you're competing under Farfalle’s name, doesn’t this involve everyone?"

No one answers and then Felix shakes his head, disbelief in his eyes. "How could you keep this from us?"

Seungwan snaps. His body tenses, ready to lunge at Felix, but before he can move, Minho’s voice slices through the chaos. "ENOUGH!"

Everything stops and Minho glares at them all. "I’m going to read them again and if any of you cannot hear our customers orders, then you should leave this kitchen right now."

He reads the orders loud and clear. The weight of his words presses down on everyone. "Table number 8. One Sicilian eggplant dish, one vongole, one basil pesto."

When he finishes, no one answers. His patience snaps.

"Are you all deaf?" His voice rises, sharp and commanding. "Are you not going to answer me?"

Reluctantly, the kitchen echoes back. "Yes, Chef."

Minho exhales, shaking his head. He knew the entrée line was stubborn, but this? This is worse than he expected. They’re not just disobedient. They’re reckless. And Minho hates reckless chefs.

-

You finish your lunch quickly, not bothering to linger like the others in the dining hall. Minho isn’t here. In fact, you haven’t seen him since lunch service ended.

Something tells you to check his office first, but when you peek inside, the chair is empty. The tension from earlier still lingers in your mind, making you restless as you continue your search. The rooftop is your next stop, and when you push open the door, you sigh in relief at the sight of him. He stands by the railing, arms folded, gaze fixed on the city bathed in the warm afternoon sun.

You approach quietly, coming to a stop beside him. The breeze is soft against your skin, carrying the faint scents of the restaurant below. You lean against the concrete railing, mirroring his posture as you let the silence settle between you.

After a while, he turns his head slightly. His eyes meet yours, and you offer him a small, knowing smile.

“Have you had lunch yet, Chef?” you ask.

Instead of answering, Minho exhales a slow, heavy sigh and looks ahead again.

Curious, you tilt your head. “How did you know about the entrée line entering the New Chef Culinary Challenge?”

“I just found out by chance,” he says simply, as if it isn’t a big deal.

You study his face for a moment. “Then why did you give them such a hard time if you already knew?”

Minho turns toward you again, this time lifting his fingers in a familiar motion, gesturing for you to come closer. “Come here.”

You narrow your eyes. “No.”

He quirks an eyebrow, feigning innocence. “I won’t flick you.”

You don’t believe him. Your weight shifts back slightly as you take a small step away. “Then why do I have to come closer?” you ask, wary.

Minho doesn’t wait for your compliance. In one smooth movement, he closes the distance himself, looping an arm around you to keep you from slipping away. His head presses gently against yours, his warmth sinking into you as his voice drops to a quiet reprimand.

“How could you just stand there and say nothing while they were all ganging up on me?” he murmurs.

You blink. “Chef—”

“Now that you’re in the entrée line, have you decided to team up with them?” His voice is smooth, but his grip tightens ever so slightly. His eyes are mere inches away, sharp and searching, holding you captive beneath his gaze. “Am I not your priority anymore? Is that it?”

Your heart stumbles over itself. Overwhelmed, you answer in a small voice, “I only did that because I care about you.” You swallow, willing yourself to meet his gaze. “It wouldn’t have looked good if I took your side.”

Minho pulls away, exhaling in frustration. “You never admit when you’re wrong,” he mutters, shaking his head. His arm falls from around you as he turns back to the view.

For a second, you hesitate. Then you inch closer, determined to get back on his good side. You reach out, gently patting his shoulder.

“I trust you, Chef,” you tell him softly but full of conviction.

You pat his shoulder again—harder this time. “Posso farcela!” you exclaim.

A chuckle escapes him, low and amused. Those are the very words he used to encourage you once. Catching you off guard, he leans in, pressing his forehead against yours. His voice is quiet, but firm as he repeats the words back to you, his accent crisp—“Posso farcela.” Then, with a teasing smirk, he corrects, “That’s how you say it.”

You giggle as he pulls away, but your hand lingers on his back. Slowly, you rub gentle circles against it. “Cheer up, Chef,” you murmur, knowing he needs to hear it.

Minho smiles, softer this time, before repeating the words once more—“Posso farcela.”

But you know that, right now, he’s the one who needs to believe it.

-

You’ve just finished changing, slinging your bag over your shoulder as you step toward the door. Just as you’re about to exit the locker room, the door swings open with force.

Sous-chef Seojun barges in, his face tight with panic. Hyunwoo and Seungwan follow closely behind, looking equally unsettled.

“Where’s Chef right now?” Seojun demands, slightly out of breath.

You blink at him, caught off guard. “He left earlier. Why?”

Seojun presses a frustrated hand to his forehead. “He locked the doors to the kitchen. We can’t get in to practice for the contest.”

You stare at him, momentarily at a loss. He actually did it. When Minho said he would, you thought it was just another one of his threats—nothing serious. But he wasn’t bluffing.

Your hand instinctively moves to your bag. “I’ll call him.” You hurry to take out your phone, already dialing.

But Seojun stops you. “Don’t bother,” he says sharply. “If he was going to change his mind over a phone call, he wouldn’t have locked the doors in the first place.”

Hyunwoo exhales harshly, running a hand through his hair. “Then what do we do, Sous-chef?” he asks, voice laced with frustration.

Ignoring Seojun’s protest, you press the call button anyway. You start pacing back and forth in the dimly lit hallway of the empty dining hall, fingers tightening around your phone as the dial tone rings in your ear.

After a few rings, Minho picks up. He doesn’t waste time on greetings. “What?”

You don’t bother with formalities either. “Chef, please unlock the kitchen doors. Everyone’s here right now.”

“I told them I would lock the doors.” His voice is calm, unaffected.

You grit your teeth. “Are you really going to stop them from competing?” You press the phone harder against your ear. “This could be a chance to bring peace to the kitchen. It’s good for them, and it’s good for you. Isn't that what you want?”

You let out a slow, frustrated sigh before continuing. “But I don’t understand why you’re doing the opposite.”

Minho exhales, and you can hear the edge in his voice when he finally speaks. “Do you really think they’ll suddenly welcome me with open arms if I offer to help them now?”

You scoff, disbelief bubbling to the surface. “How can you only try to get in your own way?”

Silence stretches between you both. Your heart pounds. You try one last time. “Please, Chef. Just unlock the doors. The kitchen isn’t only for you.”

Flatly, he rejects you. “No.”

Anger flares inside you. Your grip tightens on your phone. “Fine,” you snap. “Then at least give them the key. I won’t ask for your help anymore.”

Silence.

You plead again. “If you're not really trying to interfere, just let them practice here.”

A pause. Then, Minho exhales sharply. “I’m hanging up.”

And then, nothing. The line goes dead.

You lower your phone, chest rising and falling with barely contained anger. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to steady yourself before turning around.

They’re all standing there—Seojun, Hyunwoo, Seungwan. Their expressions are tight with expectation, waiting for you to deliver an answer.

When you don’t say anything right away, their hope falters. You swallow hard, your voice barely above a whisper. “Sous-chef, I’m sorry.”

-

Minho exhales sharply, tossing his phone onto the passenger seat after ending the call. His fingers drum against the steering wheel, his gaze flicking downward. The kitchen keys sit inside the center console, glinting under the soft glow of the streetlights outside. His jaw tightens.

Is this really the right thing to do?

Keeping the kitchen to himself—locking them all out—does it actually make things better? Or is he just being stubborn?

He grips the keys, turning them over in his palm, his mind tangled in the same frustrating debate.

Then, his phone rings again. He doesn’t even check the screen. He already knows it’s you, calling to argue with him, to insist that he stop being difficult and return to the restaurant.

With a sigh, he pulls over to the side of the road before answering. “Yes, I’m coming back,” he snaps into the phone. “I’ll unlock the damn—”

A voice he doesn’t recognize cuts him off. “Hello, is this Chef Lee Minho?”

Minho’s expression hardens. He lowers his voice. “Who is this?”

“This is Reporter Shin. We spoke briefly the other day.” A pause. “I’m calling because Sara is here with me. I’d like to interview both of you for the article.”

Minho stares ahead, grip tightening on the keys. The restaurant will have to wait. He turns the car around, heading straight for the café at the address the reporter sends him.

The moment he steps inside, his eyes find Sara.

She’s slumped in her seat, hands clasped together on the table, looking as if she’d rather be anywhere but here. Across from her sits a man in his late thirties, dressed sharply, a notebook and recorder set neatly in front of him.

Minho strides toward the table. “Chef Lee Minho,” he introduces himself flatly.

The reporter stands, offering a polite smile and extending a business card. “Thank you for coming, Chef Lee. I appreciate your time.”

Minho takes the card without looking at it and slides into the seat beside Sara. He feels her eyes on him, but he doesn’t acknowledge her.

“I wanted to write this article after hearing both sides of the story,” the reporter begins. “It’s quite unusual, don’t you think? After everything that happened, you and Chef Sara still chose to work together in the same kitchen.”

Minho glances at Sara, who offers him a small, defeated smile. He looks back at the reporter. “Yes, everything written in the article is true,” he says evenly. “Sara did put my wine in boiling water. I did lose the contest because of it.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Sara sink further into her seat. “However,” Minho continues, turning his gaze back to the reporter, “what your article left out is the most important fact—”

He leans forward slightly. “I was going to lose that contest anyway.”

The reporter blinks. “What?”

“Wine or no wine,” Minho states plainly, “Sara’s dish was better than mine that day.”

The words hang heavy in the air. Sara’s head snaps toward him, her eyes wide and glossy.

Minho doesn’t waver. “The only mistake she made was that she didn’t believe in herself. But what’s even clearer is that she regretted what she did. She worked harder than anyone to prove herself. And now?” He exhales. “Now, she’s an even better chef than before.”

Sara presses her lips together, a sad smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

Minho shifts his gaze back to the reporter, his voice sharp. “What upsets me is that because of this, an excellent chef might not be able to cook again.” He meets the reporter’s eyes.

The reporter hesitates but then straightens in his seat. “That’s beside the point,” he says. “Chef Sara’s misconduct is evident—”

“I have forgiven her.” Minho cuts him off, his voice firm. “And I stand by what I said. She was an excellent chef then, and she’s an excellent chef now.”

The reporter remains silent but Minho pushes back his chair, rising to his feet. He looks at the man one last time. “That’s my confession.” His voice is quieter now, but no less resolute. “What more do you need?”

The reporter doesn’t answer so Minho turns to Sara. “Are we done here?”

Sara blinks rapidly, as if snapping herself out of a daze. She nods.

Minho extends a hand. “Let’s go.”

For a moment, Sara just stares at it. Then, she smiles—a real one this time—and takes his hand.

-

You pace near the entrance of the restaurant, your arms crossed tightly over your chest. Every few steps, you glance toward the street, expecting—hoping—to see Minho approaching with the kitchen keys in his hand. But no. He’s been keeping you on edge for nearly three hours now, feeding you nothing but false hope.

Behind you, Seojun sighs loudly, his impatience mirrored by Hyunwoo and Seungwan, who have been shifting their weight from one foot to the other for the past hour.

Seojun exhales sharply. “Are you sure Chef said he’d bring the keys?”

You hesitate. Truthfully, you’re not sure. Minho never actually promised, but you want to believe he’ll come through. You want him to prove you wrong, just this once.

“Can you wait a little longer, Sous-chef?” you plead, looking at Seojun desperately.

But Hyunwoo finally snaps. “A little longer?” he scoffs. “What time is it now? Chef could’ve gone to his house and come back twelve times already!”

That’s it. They’re done waiting. Without another word, Seojun turns on his heel, leading the other two toward the parking lot. Hyunwoo mutters under his breath as he picks up the bag of ingredients they brought, grumbling, “I swear, Lee Minho must’ve been my sworn enemy in a past life.”

Panic surges through you. You step forward, ready to stop them, to say something—

But Seungwan spins around, pointing an accusatory finger at you. “This is all because of you.”

You freeze. “What?”

“You told Chef about the New Chef Culinary Challenge.”

“No! I told you so many times,” You shake your head quickly, your voice rising with frustration. “I didn’t tell him anything!”

Seungwan doesn’t look convinced, but before you can argue further, Seojun turns to face you. There’s no anger in his expression—just quiet disappointment.

“Do we look that pathetic to you too?” he asks, his eyes sad and defeated.

You open your mouth but nothing comes out. Seojun shakes his head and gets into the car. You watch as they drive away, their frustration, their disappointment, all of it sinking into your chest like dead weight.

-

Instead of going home, you take a detour to the bar, sinking onto a stool with a weary sigh. The dim lighting and quiet hum of conversation offer a moment of escape, and you find yourself nursing a glass of alcohol, letting the bitterness settle on your tongue.

Your phone buzzes. A text from Minho.

Where are you?

You scoff, rolling your eyes as you stare at the screen. You don’t bother replying, choosing instead to grumble at your phone, “None of your business.”

Another buzz. Another text.

I’m sorry.

You let out a sharp, humorless laugh and mutter, “Whatever,” before taking another sip of your drink.

Then, another message pops up.

Look at the moon.

You huff at the absurdity of it—you're inside a bar. But curiosity wins, and you turn your head toward the window, eyes landing on the bright, glowing moon outside.

Before you can react, a warm presence settles beside you, and then—soft lips press against your cheek.

Your breath catches as you turn to find Minho grinning at you, his expression smug. You purse your lips, looking away with a pout, pretending his sudden appearance doesn’t affect you.

Minho slides onto the stool next to yours, resting his arm on the counter. “I can see the tower of complaints from a mile away,” he teases.

You take another sip of your drink, the warmth of alcohol making your words bolder. “What did they do that was so terrible, Chef?” you blurt out, the frustration you’ve been holding back spilling over.

Minho raises an eyebrow.

“The sous-chef, the cooks—they’re working hard every day to get better, isn’t that a good thing?” You lean in slightly. “Why do you think they had to hide it from you? Why couldn’t they just ask you to be their manager chef?”

Minho exhales sharply, reaching for your glass. He takes it from you and lifts it to his lips. “Are you their spokeswoman now?” he scoffs before taking a sip, his face twisting at the bitter aftertaste.

“No,” you say, shaking your head. “But if you weren’t the Chef, I’d be standing right beside them, feeling the same frustration.”

You meet his gaze, voice softening. “They’ve never been to Italy, never studied at a prestigious culinary school. And maybe you think that doesn’t matter, but it does—to them.” You pause, searching his face. “They don’t have the privileges you and I do, Chef. It’s discouraging.”

Minho stays quiet, his fingers resting against the glass. You take a breath and try again. “Chef...”

He looks at you, eyes guarded. “What?”

You hold his gaze. “Don’t lock up your feelings like you locked up the kitchen doors.” You lean in just a little closer, your voice gentle yet firm. “Can you open up your heart to them like you did to me?”

Minho studies you for a long moment, then exhales through his nose. “Fine,” he mutters, nudging your glass toward the bartender for a refill. “You can stop with the nagging now.”

A slow smile spreads across your face. You lean in further, eyes gleaming. “Do you really mean it?”

Minho sighs, but there’s a suppressed smile at the corners of his lips. “Yes.”

You watch as he gestures to the bartender before muttering, almost menacingly, “The entrée line is dead meat now that I’m going to be their manager chef.”

You laugh, the sound light and genuine. “Thank you, Chef.”

He turns to you, eyes narrowing slightly. “Why are you thanking me?”

You don’t answer—just smile. But then, out of nowhere, Minho frowns slightly. “But what if... What if they don’t want me to be their manager chef?”

You wave off his concern. “There’s no way.”

Still, he continues, almost pouting now. “It would’ve been better if they asked me first.” His voice lowers. “What if I offer, and they turn me down? I’ll die of humiliation.”

You blink, momentarily surprised. Even Minho has his insecurities and the thought endears you. You chuckle. “That will never happen.”

Minho leans in, tilting his head. “How can you be so sure?”

You smirk. “Because you’re Chef Lee Minho.”

Minho scoffs, mumbling, “You never know.”

“But you’re the best chef in the world,” you say simply.

He bursts out laughing, a delighted, almost bashful laugh that makes your heart swell. You notice the tips of his ears turning red, and it only makes your smile grow.

Propping your chin on your hand, you let out a dramatic sigh. “This isn’t good.”

Minho raises a brow. “What now?”

“I wanted you all to myself,” you pout.

Minho nearly chokes on his drink but manages to swallow before laughing again, shaking his head in disbelief.

You keep your eyes on him, the warmth in your chest turning into something softer.

Then, Minho leans in close, his voice low, teasing yet sincere. “Take me then,” he murmurs. “Take all of me. I’m yours anyway.”

There’s something different about him tonight—not just in the way he’s humoring you, but in the way he’s actually listening. You’ve seen it happening, little by little.

At first, Minho was nothing but sharp edges and closed doors. He ruled the kitchen like an untouchable king, and anyone who didn’t meet his impossible standards was cast aside without a second thought. But lately—lately, he’s been changing.

And now, here he is, actually considering what you’ve said instead of brushing it off with another snide remark. Your chest swells with something warm. Pride.

Without thinking, you grab the front of his jacket, pulling him in. Minho barely has time to react before you press your lips to his, the kiss stealing the last of the space between you.

For a second, he’s stunned—but then he melts into it, kissing you back. When you pull away, you look into his eyes and whisper with all of your heart, “Thank you.”

Something flickers in his eyes—surprise, maybe, or something deeper, something unspoken. He doesn’t respond right away, just stares at you as if trying to decipher whether you really mean it. And then, he smiles.

-

Minho feels lighter than he has in a long time as he steps out of the elevator, your hand still warm in his. He glances at you, and that same sweet smile lingers on your lips. It makes his fingers tighten around yours instinctively, an urge blooming in his chest—he wants to kiss that smile, claim it, keep it for himself forever. But then, you stop.

Minho halts beside you, following your gaze, and that light feeling instantly dissipates the moment he sees him. Chris.

Your hand slips from his grasp so quickly it almost stings. You step forward, greeting Chris with the same warmth you always have, and Minho clenches his jaw when Chris smiles back at you, his voice gentle as he notes, "You're home quite late."

Minho rolls his eyes. Why does he care what time you get home?

He doesn’t let the moment stretch, stepping into the interaction with a sneer. “You’re obviously not here to see me.”

To Minho’s surprise, Chris doesn’t immediately brush him off. Instead, he looks at him directly and says, “Actually, I am here to see you.”

Minho glances at you, confused, but you only nod, taking this as your cue to leave. You excuse yourself, voice softer now, telling them both goodnight before retreating into your apartment.

Minho watches the door close behind you before unlocking his own and pushing it open. “Well?” he says, keeping it ajar for Chris.

Chris steps inside, following Minho into the dining room. Minho gestures for him to sit before heading to the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of wine and two glasses. When he returns, Chris is already watching him, his expression unreadable.

“I heard everything from Sara,” Chris begins, voice steady. “Thank you.”

Minho sets a glass in front of him, pouring the wine smoothly. He doesn’t sit down just yet. “I don’t think that’s something for you to be thankful for.”

Chris swirls his glass, taking a slow sip before responding. “Whether you and Sara were in love or not, she’s someone important to me and is a good friend.”

Minho finally takes his seat, pouring himself a drink. “I didn’t do it to get thanks from you,” he mutters. “But how did you and Sara even become friends?”

Chris smiles faintly. “Thanks to you.”

Minho raises an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Chris leans back, fingers resting on his glass. “She told me that if you ever came back, she wouldn’t be able to love anyone else. That she still had feelings for you.”

Minho exhales sharply, gripping the stem of his glass.

Chris doesn’t give him time to dwell on it. “Now that she’s hit rock bottom, will you help her get back up?”

Minho’s eyes narrow. “How about you? I thought you were her friend.”

Chris shrugs, a hint of coyness in his expression. “You’d probably be more of a help to her than I would.”

Minho scoffs. “She should get back up on her own from now on.”

For a moment, silence lingers between them, only the faint sound of Chris tapping his fingers against his glass filling the air. But Minho has his own questions—one he’s been meaning to ask for a while.

He takes a sip of his wine before speaking. “I don’t get it.” His voice is casual, but his gaze is sharp. “Why didn’t you tell your feelings for her before I came? Why did you keep it a secret for three years?”

Chris looks caught off guard for a split second, probably not expecting that Minho would ask about you.

Minho smirks, leaning back in his chair. “You’re a step behind me,” he taunts. “It’s too late.”

Chris only grins, and something about his calmness is inexplicably annoying. “I’m not a step behind you,” he says smoothly. “No one knows until the goal gets in.”

Minho tilts his head, lifting his glass in the air as he muses, “If Sara is your friend, then what does that make her?” His eyes narrow slightly. “What is she to you?”

Chris doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t waver. “She’s my chef,” he says, voice steady. “A chef that I love.”

Minho bursts into laughter, the sheer audacity of it catching him off guard. He’s not sure if he should admire Chris for his boldness or pity him for his foolishness.

But as his laughter dies down, Chris’s expression doesn’t change. He remains calm, unwavering, as if he’s already decided—no matter what Minho says, no matter what happens, he’s not backing down. And that’s when it hits Minho.

Chris isn't just saying this to provoke him. He means it.

Minho grips his glass a little tighter. The realization settles uncomfortably in his chest—Chris isn’t planning to stop.

For the first time tonight, Minho feels something unexpected creep in. He should be worried.

-

You're about to step into your room when Sara’s door creaks open. She stands in the hallway, looking at you with an unreadable expression before casually asking how you’ve been—when it should be you asking her that question.

The two of you end up sitting in the living room, cups of tea in hand. Sara lets out a small, content sigh before she speaks. “It’s only been a couple of days, but this place feels so unfamiliar.”

You smile and tell her that everything is the same.

Sara returns the smile, though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “The place is the same,” she murmurs, “but maybe it’s because I came back a different person.”

She sets her cup down on the table, then looks at you directly. “Are you disappointed in me?”

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you tell her the truth. “I was worried about you.”

Something in Sara’s expression shifts, as if she wasn’t expecting that response.

“I admire you,” you continue earnestly. “I knew who you were and looked up to you long before you moved in. That’s why it felt like we’d been friends for years.”

Sara blinks in surprise, and then, to your relief, she looks happy—elated, even.

You go on. “All the female chefs dream of becoming like you. Even back in culinary school, we all did.” You lean in slightly, studying her face. “You’re going to shake this off and get back on your feet again, right? Like you always do?”

Sara hesitates. “I don’t know…” she admits. “Would I be able to do that?”

You shake your head immediately, refusing to accept that. “What do you mean you don't know. You’re Chef Choi Sara.”

Sara lets out a small laugh at that, but there’s something thoughtful in her gaze. Then, her expression turns serious. “I should’ve come forward and admitted my mistakes first. But I think… I changed the order around for my own convenience.” She sighs. “I guess I thought people would forgive me and understand my wrongdoing if I made a fresh start.”

She looks at you again, hesitation flickering across her face before she says, “Minho couldn’t come to you or the cooks because he was helping me.”

Your lips part slightly, surprised.

“He came to speak to the reporter I was with,” Sara explains. Then, as if recalling the moment in her mind, she smiles to herself. “I knew right then that Minho wasn’t the same Minho I used to know.”

You raise an eyebrow at that. “What do you mean?”

Sara looks at you, then smiles. “Minho is an even more wonderful man now. Because of you.”

Your face warms at her words. You don’t know how to respond, but before you can even try, Sara sighs and leans back. “You’re too strong of an opponent for me,” she says lightly. “So I’m going to drop out of the competition now.”

Flustered, an awkward laugh escapes you.

Sara watches you with amusement before her gaze softens. “I’m going to start over from the beginning.” Then, turning to you, she asks, “Will you help me?”

You don’t hesitate. “Yes, Chef.”

Sara frowns at that. “Don’t call me ‘Chef.’ I’m not qualified for that title anymore.”

You shake your head in disagreement. “That’s not true, Chef.”

Sara chuckles, a real, warm laugh this time. The weight of the past days lingers, but for the first time in a while, the night doesn’t feel cold.

-

Minho is startled to see you already waiting outside his apartment door. You’re grinning, your eyes bright as you greet him with a sweet, “Good morning, Chef.”

He suppresses a smile and hoists the strap of his backpack higher on his shoulder before walking past you toward the elevator. You follow closely behind, your steps light and eager.

As the two of you wait for the elevator, you turn to him. “What did you and Chris talk about last night?”

Minho doesn’t answer. Instead, he glances at you and asks, “How’s Sara?”

“She’s sleeping,” you reply, then add, “She must be really tired.”

Minho nods. “Good.”

The elevator chimes, and both of you step inside. As it descends, you turn to him again, curiosity evident in your voice. “So? What did you two talk about?”

Minho feigns innocence. “Who?”

You roll your eyes. “The two men who growl at each other every time they meet. What could you possibly have to say to each other?”

Minho glances at you, tilting his head. “What did you girls talk about?”

With a teasing smile, you answer, “We talked about you.”

Minho smirks. “We talked about you.”

You narrow your eyes and search his face, trying to get him to look at you. “What exactly did you talk about?”

Minho shrugs. “I don’t know.”

The elevator doors slide open, and before you can press further, he steps out, leaving you to follow.

On the car ride to work, Minho’s phone rings. He glances at the screen and sees Sous-chef Seojun calling. You see it too.

He picks up, skipping the formalities as usual. “What is it?”

There’s a pause on the other end before Seojun hesitantly mutters, “Chef…”

Minho cuts in before he can finish. “Yes, I’m your manager chef for the New Chef Culinary Challenge.”

You swat his arm and mutter under your breath, “Be gentle.”

Minho side-eyes you but keeps listening as Seojun stammers, “Are you… serious?”

“Yes.”

“But why—”

Minho’s tone turns teasing. “What? You don’t want me?”

“N-No! That’s not what I meant!” Seojun quickly corrects himself.

“Then?” Minho presses. “You do want me to be your manager chef?”

There’s a brief pause before Seojun confirms, “Yes, Chef.”

Minho smirks. “We’re going to start right away.”

This time, he hears the entrée line shouting in unison through the phone, their enthusiasm palpable. Minho leans back in his seat, enjoying the moment before casually warning, “Brace yourselves.”

“Yes, Chef!” they chorus back.

And then, just because he can, he adds menacingly, “You’re all dead meat now.” He hangs up, satisfied—only to yelp in pain when you hit his arm.

“Do you really have to say that?” you scold, glaring at him.

Minho rubs his arm dramatically. “It’s called motivation.”

You shake your head, but a second later, both of you burst into laughter, the sound filling the car as the morning sun casts golden light over the city streets.

-

The moment Minho steps into the restaurant, he heads straight for the kitchen. He expects chaos, hesitation—maybe even defiance. But to his surprise, the entrée line is already working on the meat exactly as he instructed.

He watches them in silence, moving through their stations one by one. His sharp eyes scan each movement, each technique.

When he reaches Hyunwoo’s station, he stops. “You’re not wrapping it properly,” Minho points out, his voice calm but firm. “The juice will seep inward.”

“Yes, Chef.” Hyunwoo doesn’t argue like he usually does. Instead, he immediately corrects his mistake, adjusting the wrap with careful precision.

Minho observes him for a moment, realizing something. The way he approaches the problem changes everything. He’s spent years pushing, demanding, forcing results—but he didn’t know there was an easier, better way until now. A small, satisfied smile tugs at his lips.

Turning away, he strides back to the chef’s table and leans against it. “Taesoo,” he calls out.

Taesoo looks up from his station. “Yes, Chef?”

“Gather everyone in my office before lunch service.”

“Yes, Chef,” Taesoo enthusiastically answers.

Minho watches them for a moment longer before heading toward his office, feeling something settle in his chest—something that feels a lot like pride.

Once everyone is crammed into his office, Minho wastes no time. He leans against his desk, arms crossed, and gets straight to the point.

"Farfalle has been invited to participate in the New Chef Culinary Challenge," he announces. "If we win first place, we'll be given the title of Best Italian Restaurant—and the winning chefs will get the opportunity to study in Italy."

A ripple of murmurs spreads through the room, excitement mixing with uncertainty. Minho lets it settle for a beat before he continues.

He turns his gaze to the entrée line, calling their names one by one. “Sous-chef, Park Hyunwoo and Choi Seungwan have been chosen to represent Farfalle in the competition.”

Felix, standing next to you, looks utterly bewildered. He blinks rapidly, his confusion clear. But Minho isn’t done.

“In addition to that, I’ll be their manager chef.”

Felix’s head snaps toward him, mouth slightly open. Minho ignores him.

“We’ll be represented in the contest by our locally trained chefs, but all of us will be preparing for this together,” he states. His tone leaves no room for argument. “I want everyone to stay after hours every day to prepare and practice.”

Felix points at himself, then at you. “Wait—does that include us?”

“Yes,” Minho confirms without looking at him. “Which also means everyone will have to partner up.”

Felix looks even more surprised. “Partner up as in—”

Minho hisses through his teeth, cutting him off. Felix immediately quiets down, mumbling an apology.

Minho exhales sharply. “You two already have three years of experience in Italy. You’ll share your skills with your partners, step by step, course by course. Got it?”

A chorus of groans rises from the entrée line, but only Seojun has the nerve to voice his complaints. “Chef, we don’t have time for this, and we don’t even get along. Are you doing this to us on purpose?”

Minho’s expression remains blank. “Yes.”

Seojun gapes at him then turns to Hyunwoo and Seungwan but they're just as bewildered.

“And to make it worse, I’m pairing you with the person you hate the most,” Minho adds casually.

The room erupts in protests. Minho tunes them out. Taesoo raises his hand and Minho gestures for him to speak.

“What about me, Chef?” Taesoo asks.

“You just keep doing what you’ve been doing,” Minho answers. “You don’t need to worry about the contest.”

“Yes, Chef,” Taesoo replies immediately.

Minho gives them all a sharp look before concluding, “That’s it. Get back to work.”

A collective, reluctant “Yes, Chef” murmurs through the room as everyone drags themselves toward the door.

Minho notices Felix hesitating, clearly about to protest, but before he can open his mouth, you grab his arm and pull him along, laughing. “Come on, it’s going to be fun.”

Felix groans dramatically, but Minho catches the small, amused smile he’s trying to hide.

-

After dinner service ends, everyone takes a one-hour break, but once the clock runs out, they gather back in the kitchen, ready for after-hours practice. Minho walks in, eyes sweeping over the group, noting their varying levels of exhaustion and determination. Good. They’ll need both.

He steps up to his chef’s table, resting his hands on the edge as he speaks. “There’s only one ingredient we can predict with some certainty,” he begins. “Beef. But we don’t know which cut it’ll be.” His eyes scan the room. “Could be tenderloin, could be sirloin—but one thing’s for sure: the main dish is beef.”

A few nods. No one dares to interrupt as Minho continues. “The hors d’oeuvre, soup, pasta—every course has to complement the main. Got it?”

“Yes, Chef,” they all respond in unison.

“For tonight’s practice, we’re working with tenderloin you guys have prepared. Each of you will come up with a full-course meal to go with it.”

Another unified, firmer, “Yes, Chef.”

Minho wastes no time assigning partners. “Felix, you’re with Seungwan. Hyunwoo, you’re with her.” He jerks his chin in your direction before turning to his own station. “I’ll partner with Sous-chef.”

With that, practice begins. Minho heads to Seojun’s station first. “Cook the meat rare, medium rare, medium, medium-well, and well-done. I want you to cook all five.”

“Yes, Chef,” Seojun answers without hesitation.

Minho lingers, watching as Seojun methodically seasons each cut with salt and pepper. There’s a rhythm to his movements, precise but almost too careful.

Minho studies him for a moment before casually asking, “Sous-chef, have you always been this brusque?”

Seojun glances at him and—unexpectedly—smiles. He doesn’t answer.

Minho slyly smiles and moves on. At Felix and Seungwan’s station, Felix is deep in conversation with himself. “We could do a tomato-based starter. Or maybe something lighter—citrus?”

Seungwan nods. “Sounds good.”

Felix hums. “Or we could go with mushrooms. What do you think?”

“Sounds good.”

Minho sighs. He strides up behind Seungwan and gives him a light smack on the back of the head. “Stop saying sounds good to everything,” he scolds. “Think before you answer.”

Seungwan swallows and nods quickly. “Yes, Chef.”

Minho turns to Felix. “And you—stop giving him multiple-choice. Make him answer your question.”

Felix straightens, nodding. “Yes, Chef.”

Satisfied, Minho moves on to your station, just as you return from the pantry with tagliatelle. He barely makes it two steps before you whip around and snap at Hyunwoo.

“Why did you put in the spaghetti?” you ask with your eyes widened.

Hyunwoo doesn’t even look up as he nonchalantly says, “Why does it matter?”

You exhale sharply, incredulous. “Because it’s a cream sauce pasta.”

Minho steps in before you bore a hole on Hyunwoo’s head with your laser glare. “Spaghetti is good with olive oil sauces,” he explains, crossing his arms. “For cream sauces or bolognese, use wide pasta—like tagliatelle.”

Hyunwoo nods, but you suddenly point at the pan and scolds, “At least, shake the pan. The pasta’s getting mushy.”

Hyunwoo startles and hurriedly shakes the frying pan to salvage it.

Minho exhales through his nose and walks back to his chef’s table, observing the kitchen as everyone continues working. It’s still rough. Not perfect. But at least it’s a start.

-

Minho lingers in the kitchen, arms crossed as he leans against the chef’s table, watching you and Taesoo clean up after practice. The kitchen is quieter now, save for the sound of running water and the occasional clang of metal against metal. It’s almost peaceful. Almost.

Then, the peace is disrupted as Chris walks into the kitchen.

Minho lifts a brow but doesn’t straighten up. “What brings you here?”

At the sound of Chris’s arrival, you and Taesoo pause mid-task, glancing over in curiosity.

Chris doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he pulls out a credit card, placing it on the chef’s table with a small but deliberate motion. “This is for the contest preparations,” he announces. “I don’t know how else to help, but I want to do something. And I figured this way, I can actively support both the harmony and quality of this kitchen—especially for the competition.”

Minho picks up the card, turning it between his fingers before giving Chris a flat look. “So, this is your way of pressuring us to take first place?”

Chris only smiles, coy and confident. “Weren’t you going to take first place anyway?”

Next to you, Taesoo grins, clasping his hands together in exaggerated admiration. “Wow, that was so cool. Giving Chef the credit card like that,” he gushes.

You lean forward on the counter, propping your chin on your hand. “Right? That's our manager.”

Minho glares at you. You, of course, are too busy swooning over Chris and his stupid credit card to care. Annoyed, Minho turns back to Chris. “If you were just going to give me this, you could’ve done it privately. Why make a big deal out of it?”

Before Chris can respond, Taesoo cuts in. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

You let out a soft sigh. “It is a big deal.”

Minho hisses at both of you, but you and Taesoo only grin in response.

Chris, ever composed, simply adds, “Since I did make a big fuss, I’ll say this too—let's not overwork everyone. I don’t want the contest interfering with regular kitchen duties.”

Minho nods and shifts his gaze to Taesoo. “As a matter of fact, Taesoo, you can go home now. From now on, just focus on your regular duties.”

Taesoo brightens immediately. “Seriously? Thanks, Chef!”

Minho turns back to Chris, exhaling through his nose. “How about you go home too, Mister Manager? Wouldn’t want this interfering with your regular duties.”

Chris slyly smiles, giving everyone a casual, “Goodnight,” before leaving the kitchen with Taesoo in tow.

Now, it’s just you and Minho in the kitchen. He looks down at the credit card, rolling it between his fingers again before glancing at you. “If we don’t win first place, Chris might tell me to reimburse him for all this.”

You laugh softly, tilting your head. “We’ll win first place.”

Minho raises a brow and leans in slightly. “How do you know?”

You playfully bump your shoulder against his, a small, easy gesture. “Because you’re managing the team.”

Minho hates how easily you can make him smile—but that’s exactly why he loves you. You stay when everyone else can’t stand him for long.

-

It’s early in the morning, and the restaurant is still empty. The silence stretches through the halls, interrupted only by the soft hum of a computer. As expected, Chris is already in his office, his brows slightly furrowed as he reads something on the screen.

You pop your head through the door, a bright smile tugging at your lips. “Good morning.”

The moment he looks up and sees you, his face lights up—like it always does. “Hey,” he greets, his voice warm. “Come in.”

You shake your head. “Actually, I want you come with me?”

Chris blinks, confused, but doesn’t hesitate to push his chair back and stand. As you lead him toward the kitchen, he falls into step beside you, eyeing you curiously. “You’ve been working late nights,” he comments. “Aren’t you tired?”

You glance at him and reply softly, “It’s not like I’m the only one tired. Everyone, including the chef, is working hard.”

When you arrive in the kitchen, you turn to him with a small grin before stepping aside to reveal a plate of mini spinach lasagna—the dish you know is his favorite.

Chris stares at it, momentarily stunned, before his lips stretch into an elated smile. “Wait—is this what I think it is?”

You nod, confirming, “Your favorite spinach lasagna.”

Grabbing a fork and a napkin, you place them beside the plate and gesture toward it. “Go ahead, have some.”

Chris narrows his eyes at you playfully. “What’s the occasion?”

You shrug, keeping your voice light. “No occasion. Just felt like making it.” You don’t tell him the real reason—that you made it as a quiet thank-you for everything he’s done.

Chris eyes you again like he doesn’t quite believe you, as if he’s about to tease you for it, but instead, he mutters a quiet, “Thank you,” before digging in.

You watch as he eats, a contented smile plastered on his face. The sight of him enjoying the food makes something warm settle in your chest. But as he nears the last few bites, curiosity tugs at you, and you finally break the silence.

“What did you and Minho talk about last time?”

Chris glances at you mid-chew so you continue. ��At his place, the other night,” you clarify. “Chef said you guys talked about me. Is that true?”

Chris spears the last piece of lasagna with his fork, shoving it into his mouth as a sly smile curves his lips. He chews slowly, deliberately dragging out the suspense. Then, finally, he answers. “It’s true. We talked about you.”

You tilt your head. “What did you say?”

Chris dabs his mouth with the napkin, casual as ever. Then, in that same effortless way, he says, “I told him that I love you.”

A laugh bursts from your lips before you can stop it. “Yeah, okay,” you chuckle, shaking your head, assuming he’s joking.

But then Chris meets your gaze—steady, unwavering. “I’m serious,” he says.

The smile slips from your face but he holds your stare, his voice gentle yet firm as he repeats, “I love you.” A beat passes before he continues, “I’ve always been in love with you. Since the moment I met you.”

Your breath catches as Chris exhales, almost like he’s relieved to finally say it aloud. “That’s why I offered you the job—because I wanted you close to me.”

You knew he liked you. But this—to say that he loves you—it’s something you never even dared to consider. And now, your heart aches in your chest because you know the answer he wants from you isn’t one you can give.

Chris watches you, his expression unreadable. When you fail to find the right words, he simply smiles again, softer this time. “Thanks for the food,” he says before turning and walking out of the kitchen.

You stand frozen, your mind spinning as a lump forms in your throat. The sadness settling inside you isn’t just sadness—it feels more like guilt. Guilt that you can’t return his feelings.

Before you can think twice, your feet move on their own, and you break into a run. “Chris!”

He stops in the hallway, his back still to you. Slowly, he turns, his eyes meeting yours. You search his face, desperate to say something, anything that will make this feel less heavy.

But in the end, all that comes out is, “I’m sorry.”

Chris smiles. Not in disappointment, not in pain—just a simple, understanding smile. He nods.

Your own lips curve into a faint, wobbly smile, even as tears prick at your eyes. This time, you say what you can say. “Thank you.”

Chris holds your gaze a moment longer before murmuring, “Just stay close to me. That’s enough for me.”

You nod, swallowing back the lump in your throat, and as you stare into his eyes, you let them say all the things you don’t have the words for.

-

Minho steps into the restaurant, the familiar scent of freshly brewed coffee filling the air. His eyes scan the room instinctively, pausing when he spots Chris sitting alone at the coffee station. With a quiet sigh, Minho makes his way over, grabbing the stool beside him without a word. He reaches for the pot, pouring himself a cup, the rich aroma curling in the air between them. Neither of them speaks at first. The silence lingers, comfortable in a way that only comes with familiarity.

Then, Chris calls him. “Chef.”

Minho barely glances at him. “What?” His tone is indifferent, automatic.

Chris sets his cup down, fingers loosely curled around it. “She told me that I’m not for her.”

Minho expected this. He knew it was coming. And yet, hearing it out loud still catches him off guard. He takes a slow sip of his coffee, letting the bitterness settle on his tongue before he says, “Let’s have a drink later.”

It’s not a suggestion, more of a casual invitation, the kind that doesn’t need much thought.

But to his surprise, Chris shakes his head. “I don’t want to.”

Chris doesn’t elaborate. He just sits there, sipping his coffee like he hasn’t just turned Minho down flat.

Minho scoffs, but there’s no real annoyance behind it. Chris is annoying but now that he’s used to it, Minho thinks he is not that bad.

-

The clock creeps past midnight, but the kitchen is still alive, filled with the rhythmic clatter of knives against cutting boards, the sizzle of pans, and the quiet murmur of focused conversation. Minho moves through the space, eyes sharp, hands tucked into the pockets of his apron as he surveys the progress of the night’s practice. He stops first at Seojun’s station, dipping a spoon into the sauce meant to accompany the steak. The rich aroma fills his senses as he tastes it. The balance is almost there, but—

“Add more brandy,” Minho says, licking the remnants off his lips. “The meat’s already tender, so I’m not sure about all this sweetness.”

Seojun hums in thought, nodding. “I agree. I’ll fix it, Chef.”

Minho moves on, his steps light but deliberate as he approaches Seungwan’s station. Felix is there, nodding approvingly as he tastes the cauliflower soup. “The sweetness is perfect,” Felix comments. “And the aroma’s nice.”

Minho watches for a moment, the satisfaction settling in his chest before he continues his rounds. At your station, he stops in front of the stove, lifting the pan of pasta he’s been working on and holding it out to you. “Here. Try it.”

You grab a fork, testing the pasta first before twirling a portion coated in sauce and popping it into your mouth. Minho watches as Hyunwoo waits, anticipation written all over his face. Then, your lips curve into a grin. “It’s a success.”

Hyunwoo grins back, holding up a fist. You bump it without hesitation.

Minho exhales through his nose, amusement flickering in his chest, before turning back to his chef’s table. He surveys the kitchen one last time, then announces, “Let’s finish up here. Clean up and get some rest. We have an important day tomorrow.”

The kitchen shifts—knives are set down, stations wiped clean. But before anyone disperses, there’s a quiet moment of camaraderie. Pats on the back, murmurs of “Good luck,” and tired but proud smiles exchanged between teammates.

Minho watches all of it. No matter what happens tomorrow, this—his kitchen—has done well. And he’s proud.

-

Minho doesn’t have to look to know that you’re asleep in the passenger seat. Your soft, steady breathing fills the quiet space, the faint rise and fall of your shoulders confirming just how exhausted you are. You don’t even stir when he shifts the gear into park.

He exhales, leaning back against his seat for a moment before deciding not to wake you. Instead, he unclips his own seatbelt, steps out into the night air, and rounds the car to your side. When he opens the door, the dim streetlights cast gentle shadows over your sleeping face.

Minho watches you for a beat longer than he should. There’s something about seeing you like this—unguarded, peaceful—that makes his chest feel tight in a way he can’t explain. The corner of his lips tugs upward as he reaches out, brushing a few strands of hair away from your face with careful fingers.

Then, he leans in, unbuckling your seatbelt with the same tenderness. He takes your bag first, slinging it over his shoulder, before positioning himself to carry you on his back. With practiced ease, he lifts you, adjusting his grip as he straightens up. The car door swings shut with a quiet thud behind him.

You stir, your arms tightening around his shoulders as you slowly wake. Your voice is groggy when you mumble, “You can put me down now. I can walk.”

Minho scoffs and tightens his hold on your legs. “Just stay still.”

You obey, resting your head against the crook of his neck, your breath warm against his skin. He starts walking, the cool night air contrasting the warmth of your body pressed against his back.

After a moment, he asks, “Do you know why it’s tough for women to become chefs?”

You hum in question, still half-asleep. “Why?”

Minho shifts your weight slightly before answering, “Because women aren’t stupid.”

There’s a pause before he continues, his voice softer now. “Only stupid people would dig for a well in a dry desert. And as a chef, it feels like you’re endlessly digging, never knowing if you’ll find water.” He slows his steps, turning his head slightly toward you. “You’re beautiful to me because you’re stupidly stubborn.”

You blink sleepily at him, but he doesn’t stop. “You turned down a rich guy. You take whatever impossible task I throw at you just so I can hold my head up as a chef. You helped me be a good chef.” Minho smiles to himself before adding, “I’m so grateful for you… because you’re stupidly stubborn.”

You look at him then, a quiet smile forming on your lips. Your eyes hold something deep—something that makes Minho’s pulse stutter for a second. He holds the gaze, but then you move first, leaning in just slightly—just enough for him to meet you halfway.

His lips capture yours in a slow, tender kiss. It lingers, warm and unspoken in its meaning, a silent gratitude that words could never quite hold.

When he pulls away, he finds you smiling at him. You place another soft peck on his lips before resting your head against his neck again, sighing in contentment.

Minho exhales, warmth overflowing in his chest. Without another word, he tightens his grip on you and keeps walking, the weight of you on his back feeling a little lighter than before.

-

The night is quiet, save for the faint rustling of the sheets and the soft cadence of your breaths. The world outside feels distant, insignificant, as if nothing exists beyond this room, beyond the warmth of Minho’s skin against yours.

He takes a moment to worship you, how your body is a vision against the white sheets, so perfect, so divine but at the same time, he feels the temptation to ruin you.

Minho aligns his cock with your entrance, he pushes just enough before withdraw it and then pushes it back inside, this time not stopping until he fully sheathed inside you.

His face hovers only a few inches above you as he murmurs, “How do you always feels so good?”

He thrusts slowly, deliberately, as though memorizing the way your body responds to him—the way your breath hitches when his fingers trace the curve of your spine, the way your lips part when he leans down to kiss you, deep and unhurried. His hands explore you with reverence, as if he’s searching for something he never realized he was missing until you.

Minho has never been like this before. Never taken his time like this, never felt the urge to savor each moment as if it’s something fleeting. But with you, it’s different. You make him want to stay in this moment, to drown in it, to lose himself in the warmth of your body and the way you whisper his name like it means something more.

“Minho...”

His forehead presses against yours as he moves, his breath warm against your lips. His hands cradle your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks like he’s trying to etch this feeling into his bones.

He’s had lovers before, but this—this is something else. This is intimacy in its purest form, a connection that seeps into him, filling the hollow spaces he didn’t even know existed.

When he looks into your eyes, half-lidded and full of something he’s almost afraid to name, Minho knows.

He’s never been this into someone before. And he doesn’t think he ever will be again.

The night wraps around you both, quiet and intimate, the world beyond these walls forgotten. The only thing that exists is the warmth of Minho’s body against yours, the slow rhythm of your breaths mingling in the still air. His movements are unhurried, each touch deliberate, like he’s memorizing the way you feel beneath him.

Then you look at him, eyes hazy, searching.

“What are you thinking, mmh?” you whisper, your voice barely more than a breath.

Minho stills. His grip on your waist tightens just slightly, like he’s anchoring himself. He could say it—could tell you that you make him feel things he never thought he would, that this is different from anything he’s ever known. But the words don’t come, not yet. He isn’t ready.

Instead, he answers with a kiss. Slow, deep, reverent. His lips move against yours as if trying to tell you everything he can’t say. His hands trace over your skin with purpose, lingering, savoring. He holds you close, pressing his forehead to yours as he stills completely, just staying like that, connected, feeling every bit of you against him.

Time stretches, the moment suspended in something weightless, something sacred.

Then, with a breathless murmur, he finally thrusts into you again, pouring every unspoken word into the way he touches you, into the way he loves you.

-

The competition hall buzzes with tension, the air thick with the quiet hum of anticipation. Minho surveys the crowded space, noting the presence of teams from some of the city’s most renowned restaurants.

The competition is stiff, but he isn’t here to lose. He glances at the trio seated next to him. Seojun, as always, maintains a calm exterior, but Minho knows him well enough to see the flicker of nerves behind his eyes. Hyunwoo and Seungwan, on the other hand, don’t bother masking their anxiety—it’s written all over their faces.

Beyond them, Minho catches sight of the small group of supporters from Farfalle. You’re nestled between Felix and Taesoo, talking quietly. Minji and Yura sit nearby, also here to cheer the team on.

The announcement comes: it’s time to unveil the secret ingredients.

Minho steps forward, his pulse steady as he rounds the table. His hands are sure as he lifts the lid off the box, revealing the ingredients inside. He hears the sharp intake of breath beside him as Seojun spots the meat—tenderloin. Good.

Minho digs further and pulls out a pack of fresh squid. The second Hyunwoo sees it, he sighs in frustration. "Squid! But this is the cheap kind," he mutters under his breath.

Minho doesn’t even look up as he replies, “It’s a contest. They want us to prove we can turn cheap ingredients into something worth serving.” His gaze flickers to the panel of judges, landing briefly on Chef Rossi. He has a feeling the challenge stems from him.

Turning back to his team, Minho straightens. “The judges are testing us,” he says, voice firm. “But this is where we show them our skills.”

He grabs the board and pen, holding them up for emphasis. “Listen, once we submit our course menu, we can’t change it. So think carefully. Look at the ingredients. What dishes work?”

He gives them a moment to think before turning to Seojun first. “Main course?”

“Tenderloin steak,” Seojun answers without hesitation.

Minho nods, writing it down before shifting his attention to Seungwan. “Hors d’oeuvre?”

Seungwan hesitates, rifling through the ingredients, his expression frustrated as he picks up the squid. “What am I supposed to make with this?” he sighs.

Minho clicks his tongue. “Don’t start that.” He levels Seungwan with a look. “You’re the most optimistic person in this damn kitchen. You always find the best in any dish. Do the same here. What’s the positive in these ingredients?”

Seungwan’s brows furrow. He looks back at the squid, fingers tapping against the packaging. A few seconds later, his expression shifts—realization dawning. “Squid carpaccio,” he says. “There’s a unique taste to squid when it’s fresh. I can work with that.”

Minho smirks. “Are you confident with it?”

Seungwan meets his eyes. “Yes, Chef.”

The four of them continue finalizing the menu, the tension in the air shifting into focus and determination. Once everything is set, Minho hands their submission to the panel, his mind already calculating the next steps.

They have little time before heading into the kitchen. He turns back to his team, gaze sharp as he looks at each of them.

“This is it,” he says. “Soon, there won’t be any chef to answer to. No one yelling at you to do it over. You’re on your own.” His voice lowers slightly, just enough to make them listen. “I hope this is the last time I’ll have to curse you out. Go out there and take first place. Got it?”

The three of them answer immediately. “Yes, Chef!”

Minho exhales. “From here on, it’s all up to you guys. I’ve done what I can to help.”

Another firm, unwavering reply: “Yes, Chef!”

Minho glances at each of them before nodding. “Come on, let’s do this properly.”

He extends his hand, and they all gather in, hands stacked together in a show of unity. He looks at them one last time before murmuring, “Good luck.”

With that, he watches them leave for the competition kitchen, a rare smile tugging at his lips. No matter what happens next, he’s proud.

-

The tension in the competition hall is almost suffocating. Minho watches as the chefs return with their finished dishes, the air thick with anticipation. From the sidelines, he sits with you beside him, your warmth grounding him amidst the pressure.

“The final round of the New Chef Culinary Challenge is about to begin.”

The words echo across the hall, and Minho exhales sharply. It’s time. He feels your fingers tighten around his hand, a reassuring squeeze before you lean in, your breath warm against his ear. "Posso farcela."

Minho glances at you, smirking at your whispered encouragement. Without another word, he stands and strides toward the table marked with Farfalle’s name.

Seojun, Seungwan, and Hyunwoo are already there, standing stiffly in a line. Minho claps each of them on the shoulder, his touch firm, steady. “Good work.” It’s all he says, but the weight behind it is clear.

The judges begin making their rounds, moving from table to table with slow, deliberate steps. Each contestant watches with bated breath as they meticulously sample every dish, jotting down scores with unreadable expressions.

Minho stands still, hands clasped behind his back, his eyes fixed on one judge in particular—Chef Rossi. The old man tastes each dish in front of him with careful consideration, his gaze revealing nothing. Minho has always respected his palate; in a room full of critics, his opinion is the only one that truly matters.

But when Chef Rossi finally sets down his fork, his expression remains cryptic—an almost imperceptible flicker of something in his eyes before he turns away, leaving Minho grasping at straws.

A slow, simmering frustration builds in Minho’s chest. What the hell was that? Approval? Disappointment? Amusement?

As soon as the judges move to the next table, Minho wastes no time. He grabs a fork, slicing into the tenderloin and lifting it to his mouth. The moment the flavor bursts onto his tongue, his mind is made up.

The judges would have to be idiots not to give them first place.

Minutes stretch into eternity as the judges tally their scores. The murmuring in the hall grows restless. Beside him, his team is standing stiff, their confidence wavering in the face of the unknown.

Finally, the host steps forward, microphone in hand. The murmurs die instantly. “It is now time to announce the winners of the New Chef Culinary Challenge.”

Minho’s fingers curl slightly against the table. He’s not the only one holding his breath. A pause. A beat too long.

“We will now announce the first place winner.”

Minho doesn’t blink. He already knows. But then—

A flicker of something in the host’s expression. A hesitation. A subtle shift in the air.

Minho’s heart kicks up—just slightly.

“The winner of the 8th New Chef Culinary Challenge is...”

-

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