#the gods have let me live another day and I’m about to make it everyone’s problem. ( DASH GAMES. ) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mochacoda · 5 months ago

Text

python | csc

Pairing: Choi Seungcheol x GN!Reader

Synopsis: When you broke up with your boyfriend to work in a different country, you didn't expect to see him ever again. But when you transfer to your company's Seoul branch four years later, the department head is your ex, and he’s made it his objective to make your life a living hell for leaving him all those years ago.

Content: Angst, Fluff, Comfort | Exes to Lovers | Office AU

Tags: emotions, miscommunication, heartache, workaholic!seungcheol, insecure reader, drinking, crying, begging, petnames (sweetheart, love), konglish w/ translations, no "y/n," this is for everyone who voted for cheol in the poll, loosely connected to too nice (joshua)

Word Count: 10.2K

“I hate him,” you seethe, your fists balled up, crumpling your rejected proposal. “God, I hate him.”

Your coworker, Joshua Hong, looks up from his cubicle with raised eyebrows. “Who?”

You breathe in deeply, willing your rage to dissipate at the sight of his confusion. Poor Joshua doesn’t deserve your anger. “No one,” you say, clenching your jaw.

Open-mouthed, Joshua blinks rapidly, eyes flitting over to glance at the office you had just walked out of. The door to the room is marked with a name plate that has 최승철 [Choi Seungcheol] in bold, gold letters.

“I’m fine,” you insist, hands uncrumpling the document you had just attacked.

“Uh, okay?” he says with a healthy dose of doubt, elongating the “o” in “okay.”

“I just—” you begin, then immediately shut your mouth. “Ugh, forget it.”

It’s one thing to crumple a proposal up, and another thing to start bad-mouthing your boss out in the open. You throw the tattered outline onto your desk, then plop yourself onto your chair. You rub your temples, and then mutter under your breath, “How did I get here?”

“Good question,” Joshua laughs. “Company synergy?”

You groan, “Don’t ever say that word again in my presence.”

“Mmh,” he says, walking over to your cubicle. “You won’t have to worry about my presence in a few months.”

“Don’t remind me,” you sigh, dropping your head in your hands.

Joshua would be leaving the Seoul branch and transferring to the New York branch in a few weeks.

Curse your company for its commitment to “workplace synergy,” swapping out a handful of employees across all departments in its international branches every few years. If it hadn’t been for this horrible program, you wouldn’t be here right now.

You want to rip out your own hair, at this point.

How did it even get to this? You shut your eyes, thinking back to older times.

When you first got a job offer at the New York branch of your dream company, your initial reaction was elation. Your second? Doubt. Leaving Seoul was almost unthinkable, not to mention the fact that you’d be leaving your boyfriend behind, too.

For the first few days after hearing back from the recruiter, you knew you’d accept, but kept the news to yourself. You’d heard of so many horror stories about long-distance dating, and after a long period of consideration, you wondered what the point was.

You knew your boyfriend—really knew him. You knew he’d make sacrifices for you at the expense of himself, and it was impossible for you to accept bogging him down with a 14 hour time difference. He’d stay up waiting for your calls, instead of getting much needed rest. He’d worry about you all the time, checking the weather in Manhattan instead of Seoul and calling you constantly instead of his family and friends. He’d wait on you for as long as you needed, in an almost obsessive way, thinking it could make up the difference in distance. But he deserved someone who could love him in person, all of the time.

It’d be better for Seungcheol if you just let him go, freeing him to focus on what mattered more to him. Like work.

He loved you too much to break things off with you himself, so it was better that you did it. For his own good.

That’s what you told him, at least.

────୨ৎ──── Four Years Ago

“Cheol,” you said, teary-eyed. “Cheol, look at me.”

Seungcheol stared blankly at the ground, face frozen.

“Please?” your voice cracked.

“Who are you to tell me what I can and can’t handle?” he suddenly choked out, eyes flashing with hurt. His hands clenched, like he was holding himself back from saying more.

You swallowed thickly, reaching for his arm. “Cheol, I—”

“Don’t call me that,” he said, snatching his hand away from you.

────୨ৎ────

But you had hidden the real reasons for the breakup.

Because, deep down, you had always suspected otherwise. Somehow, everything had just become so complicated. Loving Seungcheol—which had once been something as easy as breathing—had become a dull pain in your chest, clouding your every thought with insecurities.

Even from the start of the relationship, you’d loved him more, anyway. Back then, you didn’t mind it because you loved him so much, and he was always so, so sweet to you. But around the time of the job offer, paranoia had reared its ugly head, kicking your uncertain thoughts into overdrive.

It was obvious that he didn’t really love you anymore. While you were job seeking, he was distracted. Always checking his phone, not really listening to what you had to say. He made time for you, but he didn’t necessarily make you feel like he loved you as deeply as you did him—it didn’t feel like he was the same guy that you started dating.

Something about his actions just felt like he did them to claim that he loved you, rather than because he actually loved you. His actions were laced with a kind of surface level, superficial quality.

He’d take you out to a fancy dinner, open the door for you, pay for the meal, drive you home—all the gentlemanly things he did when you started dating, too. But on the car ride there and back, and while sitting down eating together, he wouldn’t remember the things you had said about the little things happening in your life—a major change, when compared to the start of your relationship.

And sure, he didn’t have an obligation to remember your next door neighbor's name. But shouldn’t he remember your favorite kind of pie, or your closest cousin’s name? Shouldn’t he just know not to check his phone every time it pings with a new email, or leave you to eat your stupid expensive pasta alone as he takes a call outside?

It was almost like Seungcheol had fallen out of love with you, but was staying with you out of some kind of obligation to continue what he had started? That was your only explanation for why he’d spend time with you, but wouldn’t pay close attention to the things you said. Every Thursday was movie night, and in hopes of trying to keep him away from work, you let him choose the movie every time. But what use was that, when he spent more time looking at his phone than the TV—and more importantly, you, for that matter?

You’d been dating a ghost of a man. While you loved him, he tolerated you.

If the two of you stayed together when you went abroad, he’d probably double down on texts, but he wouldn’t really remember anything you’d said if you mentioned details about them in calls.

You didn’t bring any of these fears up to him, because you knew that he would continue to deny it. In fact, you’d imagined it in your head so much that you could see it when closing your eyes to sleep. If you confronted him, he’d deny that he didn’t love you anymore. But he’d be staring at the ground instead of looking at you. He wouldn’t admit that he was only with you because he enjoyed the consistency of your affection, and because he somewhat pitied you—and most importantly to him, because he wanted to prove to himself that he chose correctly when he started dating you.

The pain of watching the love of your life push down his repulsion just to be with you was decidedly more horrifying than the pain of breaking up with him altogether.

Right before ending things, it had occurred to you that Seungcheol might not have ever loved you in the first place, and that just hammered in the idea that you were making the right decision. He’d get over the breakup fast. He’d probably be thankful for it in a few years, even. If you saw him again, you’d both probably laugh, and in his head, he’d realize that he was grateful that you ended things so that he could focus on his real love, his career.

If you were honest with yourself, you would admit that there was a bit of selfishness driving the breakup, as well. There was no way you could handle Seungcheol sacrificing things for you—if he lost sleep over you, if he worried about you, if he was distracted by you—because you knew he wouldn’t be doing it for love.

Because he only ever cared out of a superficial need to prove to himself that he made the right decision in asking you out all those years ago. Not because he really loved you.

Yes, he probably never loved you, and he would never know the real reason why you ended things.

────୨ৎ──── Four Years Ago

“You give up so easily,” he spat out. “Was I nothing to you?”

Tears were running down your face. “Don’t. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”

Seungcheol laughed, then buried his head in his hands. “God, to think I almost—”

He stopped, jaw tightening, then shook his head like he couldn’t believe it.

────୨ৎ────

A hand comes down sharply on your desk, jolting you awake.

“Sleeping while on duty?”

Wide-eyed, with tear-stained cheeks, you look up to face your ex-boyfriend. “부장님! [Department Head!]”

Upon seeing your red-rimmed eyes, Seungcheol falters.

Swiping at your under eyes quickly, you bow your head to him slightly. “I’m sorry, it won’t happen again.”

He swallows roughly, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. He opens his mouth, like he’s about to ask you why you were crying, and your heart drops.

You will crumble if you hear the tone of voice he had used when you broke up with him.

“Excuse me,” you blurt with choked words.

You don’t dare to look at his eyes. Instead, you get up from your seat, then immediately flee to the bathroom.

────୨ৎ──── Four Years Ago

“You can focus on work, now,” you squeaked out.

Seungcheol scoffed again, a cruel sound of disbelief. “What makes you think I give a damn about work right now?”

“Don’t you? Always?” you sniffled.

His eyes flashed with something you couldn’t quite describe. He seemed angry, but not just at you. At himself, too—his hands were balled into fists at his sides, fingernails digging sharply into his palms. His throat bobbed, and you could see the intense restraint he was forcing on himself. He opened his mouth with a sharp breath, then closed it again, as if he wanted to say something but stopped himself.

────୨ৎ────

You stare with glassy eyes at yourself in the mirror, trying to calm your racing heart down. It would be alright. You would be alright.

If you just focused on your work, it would be fine.

Leaving the bathroom, you square your shoulders. You’ll draft up a new proposal that suits his standards, and you’ll do it so excellently that he can’t possibly reject it.

Hours later, and you’re standing outside Seungcheol’s office again. Taking a deep breath, you walk in without knocking or announcing yourself.

The stack of papers trembles in your hands as you place them on Seungcheol’s desk. You keep your expression blank, steadying your breath, willing yourself not to let any emotion slip. “This is the revised proposal.”

Seungcheol doesn’t look up immediately. He takes his time flipping through the pages, his expression unreadable. The tension in the room is suffocating, thick with words left unsaid from years ago. You stand stiffly, waiting, watching the way his fingers drag across the paper. Finally, he exhales sharply and sets the proposal down.

The room is unbearably silent as the question of approval hangs in the air. Your heart pounds so loudly you swear he can hear it.

He should say no immediately. It would be the easiest answer. The logical one. The one you expect.

But he hesitates.

His fingers curl against the polished surface of his desk, and his gaze lingers on the documents in front of him for just a second too long. It’s subtle—anyone else might not notice—but you do. His mask falters. Just a flicker.

And for a split second, you let yourself hope.

Then, his jaw tightens. His hands retreat beneath the table, as if physically pulling himself back. When he finally speaks, his voice is steady, controlled, and restrained—nothing like the eager, puppy-like man you knew him as when you first started dating.

“We’ll have to decline,” he says, and it’s final. Unshakable. Like he hadn’t wavered at all.

You nod stiffly, as if you hadn’t just watched something slip through his fingers. As if it hadn’t slipped through yours, too.

��Decline?” you blurt.

His face remains impassive. “Yes.”

You blink at him, momentarily stunned. You had anticipated that he would be difficult, but this—it’s too fast, too dismissive.

You steel yourself. “Why?”

“It’s not good enough.”

Your fingers clench around the hem of your blazer. “Can’t you separate private and work life?”

He meets your gaze, eyes dark and cool. “I am.” His voice is devoid of any warmth. “I don’t care. Your proposal is bad.”

The words strike harder than they should, more than just a professional critique. A cruel, deliberate dismissal. You know it’s personal—for the past two weeks that you’ve been at the Seoul branch, it has always been personal when it comes to him. Your blood simmers.

“I see.” You force your voice to remain level. “Would you like to point out what’s wrong with it?”

His lips press into a thin line. “No.”

A sharp, bitter laugh escapes you. “Of course not.”

Seungcheol leans back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest. “Four years ago, you didn’t choose me. So why should I choose your useless proposal?”

The shift is abrupt, the air sucked out of the room in an instant. Your nails dig into your palms.

“I have never loved anyone more than I loved you.” The words leave your lips before you can stop them, the truth of them ringing through the silence.

He scoffs, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes, something raw. “You left me,” he says, voice edged with something dangerously close to hurt. “You. Left. Me.”

Your breath shudders. “You left me first.”

He leans forward, eyes searching yours, like he’s daring you to take it back. “How?” His voice is quieter now, but no less intense. “How did I leave you, when I was the one you abandoned in Seoul?”

Your vision blurs slightly. This. This is why it never worked between the two of you. He’s too bull-headed to even consider that he was in the wrong.

You shake your head. “Why didn’t you fight for us?”

His jaw tightens. “Why didn’t you?”

A bitter taste coats your tongue. “You gave up so easily.”

His eyes flash. “No,” he says sharply, “you’re the one who brought up work all the time.”

Your hands tremble. “Because if it wasn’t about work, you wouldn’t talk to me!”

That stuns him. His mouth opens slightly, but nothing comes out. His brows knit together, the first crack in his mask of indifference.

You exhale shakily, pressing forward. “Because if I talked about anything else, I knew you wouldn’t listen,” you whisper, voice breaking. “I knew I’d be talking to a man who loved the idea of me more than he actually loved me.”

Seungcheol flinches as if you had struck him. His throat bobs, hands clenched into fists on top of his desk. “That’s not true,” he grits out, but there’s something in his voice—something unsteady, like the words are slipping through his fingers before he can stop them.

“Isn’t it?” you press. His breathing turns uneven, his jaw tightening like he’s physically holding himself back.

“You made me feel like I was a burden,” you continue, the words tumbling out, years of buried pain unraveling in real time. “Like you had to tolerate me between meetings and emails. Like being with me was just another responsibility to check off your list.”

He exhales sharply, like the air’s been knocked out of his lungs. His fingers twitch, gripping the desk so tightly that his knuckles go white. “That’s not—” He stops, biting his tongue, like even he can’t bring himself to finish that sentence.

A bitter laugh escapes you. “You don’t even believe yourself, do you?”

Seungcheol stands abruptly, chair scraping against the floor, his composure unraveling before your eyes. “I worked so damn hard for us,” he says, voice raw.

Your voice is small. “I never asked you to.”

His lips part, and for the first time since you stepped into his office, his expression isn’t blank or cold—it’s vulnerable. And it terrifies you.

His expression cracks, pain flickering through his eyes. “I was trying to build a future for you,” he says, voice raw, desperate. “For us.”

“You were so busy planning a future that you forgot to love me in the present.”

A tense silence falls between you, the weight of the past pressing down on both of you like an unbearable force. His breaths are uneven, his knuckles white from how tightly he’s gripping the edge of his desk.

Finally, he exhales, a bitter, tired laugh leaving his lips. He looks down at the proposal—still sitting there, untouched, still rejected.

“This meeting is over,” he mutters, his voice hoarse.

Your heart clenches painfully, but you nod, blinking rapidly to push back the tears. Without another word, you turn on your heel and walk out, leaving behind the shattered remnants of everything you once were.

When you get back to the safe haven that is your apartment, you retrace everything he had said. Or, rather, the accusations he had thrown at you.

“You left me.”

“I was the one you abandoned in Seoul.”

“Why didn’t you fight for us?” “Why didn’t you?”

“I was trying to build a future for you. For us.”

Your heart strangely aches, remembering how shaken he looked when you called out his workaholic behavior. You had blamed him for the end of it all, but it takes two to end a relationship. Why didn’t you fight harder for him, back then?

────୨ৎ──── Four Years Ago

You’re alone now. It’s what you wanted. To be free from the self-doubt that loving Seungcheol had drilled into you.

Your chest constricted so tightly, you couldn’t breathe.

────୨ৎ────

Two days after the disastrous office meeting, you’ve somehow managed to have the misfortune of sitting in front of your ex-boyfriend at a steakhouse for work. The restaurant is dimly lit, the low hum of conversation and clinking glasses filling the space. Your body practically vibrates from the tension.

You can see Seungcheol’s gaze turn sharper every time he looks at you, and it makes it all the more insulting when he immediately brightens at Director Chun. You chug another glass of wine, hoping the buzz will numb the annoyance bubbling within you.

“Thank you, Director,” you say, reaching over the table to shake your superior’s hand. “It was a pleasure.”

“No, thank you, Team Leader,” he chuckles. “We’re lucky to have such competent, young people working for us. I’m sure the Brennans will be thrilled to see this project come to a close so quickly.”

Seungcheol laughs. “We’re lucky to have you, Director.”

It’s so fake, you’re itching to get rid of the stupid grin off his smug face.

“I’m sorry I have to leave so soon,” the director continues. “I’ll see you two back at the office?”

“Of course,” you say, standing up and bowing to him as he gets up from his seat.

When the director finally leaves, you can’t help but clench your fists. Wanting to relieve the tension in your poor tendons, you reach for the wine bottle, refilling your glass for the nth time tonight. The rest of the restaurant is loud, but it is far too quiet in your corner of the room.

Now you’re alone with Seungcheol.

The air crackles with an unspoken tension, thick and suffocating. Seungcheol, across from you, has his fingers curled tightly around the stem of his wine glass. His knuckles are practically white, the pressure of his grip betraying the storm raging inside him.

He hasn’t touched much of his food, and barely spoke beyond a few clipped replies to you. He had really only responded to Director Chun all night. But it’s nothing new. You have long learned to recognize this silence; it’s the same, bitter one that had stretched between you in the months before you left him.

You don’t know why you told Joshua you could handle going to this. Why, after everything, did you let Seungcheol pull you into a setting so painfully intimate, so reminiscent of the past? The last time the two of you were in a restaurant like this, he had left for 40 minutes to take a call outside.

Seungcheol swirls his drink absentmindedly, watching the ice shift in the glass before finally speaking. “You look well.”

You let out a breathy laugh, shaking your head. “Small talk? Really?”

His jaw tightens, and he sets his glass down with a quiet thud. “Would you rather we skip the pleasantries?”

“I’d rather we not pretend this is anything other than what it is.”

“And what is it?”

You lift your chin. “You tell me.”

Seungcheol exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. He looks at you—really looks at you—for the first time since you sat down, and it sends a shiver down your spine. It’s the same expression he made when you were in his arms, four years ago.

The one that made you feel like the only person in the world. The one that he used to assure you that he loved you.

And you hate yourself, because you can’t help but remember that he looked so good when he was yours. Worse, you can’t help but notice how he’s still devastatingly handsome.

Only now, his gaze is shadowed with something darker. Something unresolved.

“You know, when you told me you wanted to end things, I could’ve accepted it,” he says, voice steady, but his fingers twitch slightly against the edge of the table.

You swallow roughly.

“I could’ve accepted it if you said you just fell out of love with me,” he continues, “But then.” He takes a deep breath. “But then, you told me it was for my own good. That I wouldn’t be able to handle long distance.”

Your hands grip your wine glass. You want to say something, but you don’t know where to even start.

“You told me you loved me, and then…” he trails, before shakily saying, “abandoned me, because I couldn’t handle it?” He dips his head low, hands joining like he’s about to make a prayer.

“Cheol, I—”

“Don’t. Just don’t.”

Seungcheol stares intensely at his half-eaten steak, a strand of hair coming down from his forehead to poke at his eyes. Despite yourself, your hand instinctively lurches to tuck it behind his ears, before you quickly jolt it back. A cloud of shame begins to envelope your mind. It’s not fair. Why does your body remember him so well, even after he broke your heart?

He takes a shaky breath before speaking again. “And you know what? That…that wasn’t even the worst part.” Choked up, he takes a deep breath and clenches his hands into fists to ground himself before continuing. “What’s worse, was what you said at the end.”

You furrow your brows, thinking back to all those years ago, right after you told him that he could finally focus on his work, and right before you walked away from him.

────୨ৎ──── Four Years Ago

“I’m sorry for wasting your time,” you whispered. You didn’t dare to look at him. “I’m sorry I made you miss that convention for my birthday.” You sniffled, voice breaking. “You shouldn’t have had to do that. I’m sorry I made you watch those stupid movies, and that I made you go out when you didn’t want to. I should’ve been more considerate of your dreams, Cheol. I’m sorry, I’m sorry I only realized it now. I should’ve—”

You exhaled deeply, blinking your newest tears away. They fell down your cheeks in streams. “You won’t have to worry about that kind of useless stuff anymore, okay? You don’t need to deal with me anymore. I’m sorry you had to handle all of that for so long. I, I really lo…”

You bit down on your lower lip, blinking desperately to get rid of your blurry vision. “I hope you get into the accelerator, Cheol. I know how hard you’ve worked for it. If anyone can do it, it’s you.”

One last time, you smiled at him weakly, not meeting his eyes. “Goodbye, Cheol.”

And then you turned your back from him, walking away from the love of your life, partly because you really did wish him well on his startup journey, and mostly because you knew he was only with you out of obligation to himself—because he never loved you, anyway.

────୨ৎ────

“Oh,” you say, eyes feeling strangely prickly.

“I love—I loved you,” Seungcheol says, clutching his chest. He exhales roughly. “Did you not… see that?”

You blink rapidly.

His throat bobs as he swallows, eyes darting away for a brief moment. “I had plans for us,” he admits, voice quiet but strained.

At the sight of his clear pain, your stomach twists uncomfortably. “Plans?”

He nods slowly, still refusing to meet your eyes. The candlelight on the table flickers between you, casting shadows that dance across his face, highlighting the tension in his furrowed brow.

His mouth parts as if he’s about to say something—something important—but then he stops himself.

You reach across the table instinctively, your fingertips grazing his wrist. “Seungcheol. Don’t do this to me.”

He tenses beneath your touch but doesn’t pull away. Instead, he finally looks at you, and the sheer weight of emotion in his gaze nearly knocks the breath from your lungs. There is so much in his eyes—anger, regret, sadness, and a deep emotion you haven’t dared call love in years. All tangled together in a way that makes it impossible to separate one from the other.

“I was going to propose to you,” he confesses, his voice barely above a whisper.

Your breath hitches. For a second, the world tilts, the steady hum of the restaurant fading into white noise. You blink, your mind scrambling to process the weight of his words. “What?”

Seungcheol lets out a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head as if mocking himself. “I had the ring. I had everything planned out.” He exhales sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. “I was just… waiting for the right time.”

A sharp, painful lump forms in your throat. “Cheol—”

“But you left before I could,” he cuts in, his voice breaking at the edges. His eyes are glassy now, raw with unshed emotion. “You thought…you thought I didn’t love you enough. But I did. I loved you so much I—” He sucks in a shaky breath, his hands balling into fists on the table. “I was trying so hard to build a future for us. I wanted to give you everything.”

Tears burn behind your eyes, and your hands are still on his arm, but they’re shaking. “I didn’t need ‘everything,’” you whisper. “I just needed you.”

His face crumples for a split second before he forces his expression blank again. “I thought I was doing the right thing.”

Silence stretches between you, thick with everything you had never said to each other. The weight of missed moments, of love given but not received in the way it was needed, settles over the two of you like a monstrous thunderstorm.

You nearly choke on the sob threatening to break free from your throat. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

His voice is hoarse, like he has swallowed glass. “Would it have changed anything?”

You want to say yes. You want to believe that if he had just told you, things would have been different. But deep down, you aren’t sure. Because the truth was, you had already been slipping away from each other long before you had walked out the door.

You had told him you were leaving him so he could focus on his work. You had told yourself you were leaving him because he didn’t love you anymore. So, would you have really believed him if he had proposed to you? You’re not sure, but there’s no point in analyzing the hypothetical what-ifs, really.

Because now, looking at the man who had once been your world, you wonder if you had ever really left him at all.

────୨ৎ──── Three Years Ago

It was Seungcheol’s birthday. It hit you while you were at the grocery store, in the fresh produce section.

You saw cherries.

You cried.

Later that day, your finger twitched over his contact on your phone, before falling to your hips.

He was probably busy. He hadn’t texted or called you since the breakup, after all. He definitely wouldn’t want to hear from you even if he wasn’t busy, anyway.

“I’m sorry,” you said out loud, knowing that the person who needed to hear it most wasn’t there. “I miss you. Happy birthday.”

────୨ৎ────

You blink, and suddenly you’re outside. There’s a chilly wind blowing against you, making you shiver. When you try to take a step forward, you find your body is too sluggish to move much.

“You’ve had too much to drink,” Seungcheol says concernedly, his warm, strong hands finding an all too familiar spot against your waist.

“I’m fine,” you say, though your teetering body suggests otherwise.

Somewhere between watching Seungcheol laugh at Director Chun’s obviously not funny jokes and trying to give your hand something to do instead of ball into fists hearing his confession, you had drunk far too much of the expensive bottle of wine that the director had bought for the three of you.

Seungcheol says your name like it’s a warning, tone firm.

But you can’t help but laugh. You’re too close to him now. And oh, he’s so warm. Instinctively, your body presses against him, because it’s familiar and comforting and something you’ve subconsciously been craving for the past four years with every fiber of your body.

“I missed you,” you blurt.

Seungcheol swallows roughly.

“Fuck, don’t…” He can’t even bring himself to finish the sentence. “How did you get here? Taxi?”

You shake your head. “Too much money. Subway.”

“I’ll take you home, okay? Where are you staying now?” He squeezes your waist.

“Mmh.” Thinking, you close your eyes, fully leaning into his touch.

Three days ago, the company told you to move out of the original apartment they’d placed you in two weeks ago, and although you’d memorized how to get to your new place using the subway, you had yet to memorize the exact address. You’d always looked at your phone to double check, thinking that you’d be fine if you were stranded, since you’d always have your phone on you. Unfortunately, though, you hadn’t considered that you’d be lost if your phone died.

“That’s not an address, sweetheart.” He inhales sharply, realizing his mistake after it leaves his lips.

“I’m sorry,” you say with a frown, tears welling in your eyes. “Don’t remember.”

Here you were, wasting his time again. You’d left him four years ago because you were a hindrance to his career, and now you’re doing it again. Old habits die hard, don’t they?

You sniffle, “I’ll sober up soon, don’t worry. You can just leave me here. I’ll walk to the subway.”

Seungcheol’s throat bobs. “Hey, hey, don’t be sorry. I got you, okay? I’ll take you back to my place, if that’s okay?”

You nod, your voice small. “Okay.”

He breathes a sigh of relief.

Before you know it, Seungcheol has escorted you into the passenger seat of his car, and you’re on your way back to the house you had called your home only four years ago.

“Did you miss me?” you ask childishly, staring at the driver with sleepy eyes.

His Adam's apple bobs up and down.

For a moment, you don’t think he’ll answer. But then, he says softly, “I did.”

“Oh,” you say, and then you feel your eyelids get heavier. You let them close.

Right before you fall asleep, you catch him whispering something that sounds a lot like, “I missed you so much, sweetheart.”

────୨ৎ──── Six Months Ago

You blinked rapidly. “In the fall?”

“Yes,” Director Chun said. “I’ll be heading over to the Seoul branch as well, for a few months at the very least. I promise you’ll be under one of our best. Department Head Choi Seungcheol is known for being collaborative. I’m sure the synergy will be great between the two of you.”

You froze. Surely, not.

“Choi Seungcheol?” you asked breathily.

“Yes. Do you know each other?”

“No,” you said, far too quickly.

“Ah, I see. Perhaps he was impressed by the work you did with the Jeons,” the director said with a smile. “He requested you directly.”

Oh.

────୨ৎ────

Sleep is supposed to be relaxing, isn’t it? So why does it feel like your chest is going to cave in on itself, like a big boulder has plopped itself down on you?

You open your eyes quickly, only to be met with a mess of short, dark brown hair.

You try to blow on the hair, only to feel it enter your mouth. It’s horribly dry.

“Ack,” you spit.

And then it occurs to you that your hair has never tasted like this, or looked like this, for that matter.

You try moving one of your arms to get rid of the annoying strands, only to find that it has also been rendered immobile. You tense your core, trying to flop like a worm, but it’s of no use.

You furrow your brows, straining as hard as you can, but nothing happens.

For a moment, you wonder if you’re having a nightmare.

And then the boulder moves.

Your eyes widen into saucers. There’s only one explanation for this. You’ve only ever known one man who gives bear hugs in his sleep like this.

“Choi Seungcheol?”

“Fuck,” it groans. “Thought I told you not to call me that, sweetheart.”

You close your eyes, wondering if you’re still dreaming. But when you open them again, you see Seungcheol’s face.

Sleep lines are adorning his left cheek, and he blinks at you slowly. His pink lips are turned down in a slight pout, and the sight of him is so adorable, it makes you want to scream.

“Did you…” you pause, mind racking an explanation. “Fall asleep on top of me?”

“You said you were cold,” he says slowly, eyes half-closed, voice deep.

“Oh,” you say, then flush, feeling heat rush up the back of your neck and reach your ears. Trying to avoid eye contact with him, your eyes stray to your collarbone, and you see that you’re still wearing last night’s clothes. “Wait, did you let me into your bed with dirty clothes?”

“Mmph,” he says, rubbing his face into the crook of your neck.

“Wow,” is all you can manage. He never let you do that when you were dating.

“Go back to sleep, love,” Seungcheol mumbles.

“Can’t breathe, Cheol,” you groan, patting his back. “Too heavy, baby.”

He groans but shifts off of you, then cuddles up next to you, hands finding your waist immediately. “Five more minutes.”

“Mmh,” you sigh contentedly.

And as you close your eyes again, it occurs to you that Seungcheol is your ex, and that the two of you are definitely doing things that exes should not be doing.

────୨ৎ──── Two Weeks Ago

You folded your pride. You extended an arm out to him first.

“Department Head Choi Seungcheol, it’s a pleasure to work with you.”

You spat his first and last name out like venom, knowing all too well that he hated being called by his full name.

He stared at your outstretched hand, then scoffed.

Fuck.

────୨ৎ────

When you wake up again, you’re alone in Seungcheol’s bed. Out of habit, your arm moves to pat the other side of the bed.

For a moment, your mind flashes back to the lonely mornings you had with him four years ago. The days when the first thing you did after waking up was to check the other side of the bed, only for it to be cold. The hope of it all had fractured your heart slowly, but surely.

But today, for some reason, Seungcheol’s side is lukewarm.

Confused at the lingering warmth, you sit up in his bed, rolling back the covers.

Is it possible that he’s still here?

Then, you smell the distinct scent of ramen through the door to his room, which has been left slightly ajar. Planning on checking the kitchen, you move to get off the bed. But before your feet reach the ground, Seungcheol walks in.

He’s holding a tiny desk, the kind made for breakfast in bed. On it is a bowl of steaming ramen and a glass of water.

“Morning,” he says with a shy smile, and oh��oh, it’s so full of endearment and joy and hope, of all things.

God, something about it is just so, so pure and domestic, it makes your chest constrict. Seungcheol had never made you breakfast in bed when you had dated, because he had always been the first to leave in the morning.

But here he is, like he plans on making up for everything starting now.

And with how bright his smile is, your heart is aching to just let him.

“Is this… for me?” you ask in a small voice. Of course, it can’t possibly be for anyone but you, but something in you wants Seungcheol to admit it.

Seungcheol nods.

“Thank you,” you say.

“Ramen’s your favorite hangover meal, right?”

You nod slowly, and Seungcheol grins, like he’s proud of himself for getting it right. But something about it pokes a nerve. What use is there in remembering it now, when you’re not together anymore?

He watches you eat slowly, and you raise your eyebrows at the taste.

“It’s really good,” you say between bites, giving a thumbs up.

“Good,” he says, making intense eye contact with you.

He’s completely focused on you, phone and computer completely out of sight, and it makes you squirm. Now that his attention is on you without any distractions, it’s too easy to see how gorgeous he is.

You flush under his attention. “Stop looking at me,” you mumble.

“Don’t wanna,” he says dreamily, lying on his stomach on the bed, looking up at you with doe eyes.

You giggle, covering your face with your hands in embarrassment.

Seungcheol reaches out to swat your hands away from your face, taking the opportunity to hold your hands. When you look at him again, you’re taken aback by how serious he suddenly is.

Your laughter fades.

He takes a deep breath, and your heart sinks. You already know what he’s going to say.

“Can we… try ag—”

“Cheol,” you gently cut him off, withdrawing your hands from his familiar grasp. “Let’s not… we’re not…”

“Why not?” He looks at you innocently, with wide eyes.

You take a shaky breath. “I can’t do this again, Cheol. It’s not good for me, and it’s not good for you.”

At first, he just blinks at you, as if he misheard. But then, something in his expression hardens. “Who says you’re not good for me?”

“What?”

“Who says you’re not good for me?”

“Cheol,” you say with a sigh. “Let’s not do this again. It’s not gonna work.”

“Who says?” his voice breaks.

────୨ৎ──── One Week Ago

“Again,” he said dryly. “Redo the business model.”

You held back your anger. “Yes, Department Head Choi Seungcheol. Is there anything else you would like me to do?”

“Care more,” he said.

You frowned. “I have my full focus on this project, sir.”

“Care more,” he repeated.

────୨ৎ────

“I’ve changed,” he says frantically. “I can prove it to you, I promise.”

Your chest constricts.

“I won’t ever let you be lonely again, I promise. I won’t let it happen, I swear. I’m so, so sorry I hurt you back then, but I’m not the same man you left. I will never hurt you again.”

You swallow roughly, the ramen leaving a salty aftertaste in your mouth.

“Seungcheol…”

He shuts his eyes tightly, like you’ve wounded him.

“Please, call me Cheol again. Please, I can’t stand to hear you call me that.”

“It’s your name,” you tell him gently.

“No, it’s not. To you, I’m Cheol,” he insists stubbornly, crossing his arms. You have to remind yourself to breathe at the sight. Since when was his body so defined? You have to look away from his pronounced biceps to regain your will.

“Look at me,” he says with a frown. You obliged and he continues, “Sweetheart, please. I promise I will never hurt you again. Please, please, take me back.”

On the bed, he’s kneeling now, hands drawn together as if in deep prayer.

“I won’t let work get in the way of loving you. It was horrible and so stupid of me and I’m so, so sorry but it was only when I lost you that I realized I forgot what the point of working was. It was to provide for you, and I couldn’t do that if you were gone because I didn’t properly show you the love you deserved. I’m so, so sorry, my love. Please give me another chance?”

Seungcheol looks at you with so much sadness, but the history you had with his ghost makes you unsure about what to do.

“I don’t know, Cheol…”

He smiles weakly, resigned. “At least you’re back to calling me Cheol, though. Right?”

You nod slowly.

All of a sudden, Seungcheol lights up, like a last-minute godsend of an idea came to his mind. “If it’s too hard to say yes now, how about taking it slow?”

“What does that mean?” His definition of taking it slow probably isn’t like yours.

“I can take you out on some dates, and then you could decide?”

Your heart sinks. He’s so hopeful—eyebrows raised, eyes wide, mouth parted.

You don’t know if you have it in you to say no.

You press your lips together.

Seungcheol must have sensed danger in your face, because he immediately interjects with a rushed confession before you even open your mouth.

“I love you. So much. I loved you then, and I loved you after you left, and I love you now. There was no one after you, you know?” He looks a bit crazed, hands scrunching the blankets roughly.

Your heart jolts.

He continues, “You were everything to me—and still are. There wasn’t a single day that I didn’t think about you. But I couldn’t bring myself to reach out because I thought you hated me.”

He’s not exactly wrong. You did hate him. Then again, there’s a fine line between love and hate. Both are powerful emotions that require you to care about the person in question.

“I even quit the startup because I realized it had eaten up all my time, ‘cause it had taken you away from me.”

You gasp. This was the answer to why Choi Seungcheol, self-made entrepreneur who insisted on refusing to work for anyone but himself, had strangely become the department head of a company that he never had a hand in creating.

“I was,” he sighs self-deprecatingly, “unemployed for a while. Until I heard you were working here, and then I made it my mission to climb the ranks until I could ask for you to get transferred to Seoul. And when you accepted, I was so…”

Your heart breaks a little for him.

“I thought it was a sign.” Hesitantly, he clarifies, “That you might want to try again.”

You inhale sharply. There he goes, again. Talking so sweetly. Back then, that was all he ever did to show you that he loved you. It wasn’t enough then, so why would it be enough now?

At your silence, Seungcheol hangs his head, and your fingers twitch, wanting to reach out to him.

Except it’s different now, isn’t it? He’s finally doing all the things you once wished he would. Isn’t that what you wanted from him? You don’t trust him yet. But he’s trying, now, and every muscle in your body aches with an impossibly deep desire to pull him into your arms.

You exhale, and out with your breath goes your final worries.

Your lips part before you’ve fully decided what to say.

"Okay."

It’s barely a whisper, but it might as well be a strike of thunder with the way Seungcheol’s head snaps up. His eyes widen, mouth parting like he’s afraid he misheard you.

"Okay?" His voice trembles, cautious, like one wrong move could shatter whatever fragile thing is forming between you.

Your throat tightens. The weight of this—of him—presses down on you, but you nod anyway.

For a second, he doesn’t breathe. Then, his face crumples, and the sheer relief in his expression makes something in you splinter. His hands twitch where they rest on the blankets, like he wants to reach for you but doesn’t dare. He’s waiting—because this time, he knows he has to let you come to him.

And you do.

Slowly, hesitantly, you lean forward. His breath hitches, but he doesn’t move away. Your forehead brushes his, a soft press that feels like a heartbeat between you. You feel the warmth of his skin, the way his breath mingles with yours in the inches of space that remain.

Seungcheol exhales shakily, like he’s been holding it in for years. His hands hover near your waist, unsure, unsteady. He doesn’t pull you closer—he’s learned now—but he craves it.

Your eyes flutter shut, leaning into his touch, telling yourself it’d only be for a second. Just long enough to let yourself feel him, really feel him, without the weight of the past crushing you.

His voice is barely above a whisper, breath fanning across your lips. “Sweetheart…”

You could fall apart at the way he says it, so quiet, so reverent—like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he speaks too loud.

Your heart aches for more, but your mind reminds you of how he had left scars in your heart. For now, this form of affection would have to be enough.

After a few minutes in his arms, you reluctantly pull away to check the address of your new apartment on your finally-charged phone. Seungcheol drops you off, walking you to your door. You don’t invite him in, and he doesn’t ask. But something about the way he looked at you, right before you walked inside your apartment, lingers in your mind long after he leaves. He’d looked at you like you’d hung every glittering star in the sky.

Four years ago, you had decided that this gaze was something he’d manufactured while putting up with you. Maybe, you were wrong.

────୨ৎ────

Seungcheol keeps his promise of taking things slow. He’d arranged for you to meet him at a cafe the next day, and he’s already there when you get there. It’s a small, cozy place tucked into a quieter part of the city, the kind with warm lighting and the scent of freshly ground coffee drifting in the air.

You hesitate for a second when you see him through the window, seated at a booth near the back, fingers idly tapping against the ceramic cup in front of him. Then, before you can second-guess yourself, you push open the door.

His eyes meet yours instantly, and for a moment, he looks breathless—like he’s just as nervous as you are. But then he smiles. It’s a tiny, careful thing, but it makes your heart drum a little faster anyway. As you approach, he stands up, hand on his heart.

“Hey,” he says, voice soft, like he’s afraid to scare you away.

“Hey,” you reply, sliding into the seat across from him.

The booth is familiar. For a second, you’re struck by the memory of late-night conversations, of stolen kisses over half-finished drinks. You really were deep in love, back then.

You shake the thought away as Seungcheol gestures toward the counter.

“Still the same order?” he asks, the corner of his mouth lifting in something that isn’t quite a smirk but close enough that you recognize it as one of his signature expressions. You raise an eyebrow.

“You think I’d change it?”

“I don’t know,” he admits, tilting his head slightly. “A lot of time has passed.”

You exhale a small laugh. “Yeah, well. Some things stay the same.”

Something shifts in his gaze, a flicker of relief, of hope, before he nods. He waves down a barista and places the order without hesitation—exactly how you like it. When the cup is finally set in front of you, you find yourself staring at it for a beat too long, a strange warmth pooling in your chest.

“Thanks,” you murmur, wrapping your fingers around the cup.

Seungcheol watches you, his own drink forgotten, but he doesn’t push. Instead, he leans slightly forward, forearms resting on the table as he asks, “So, what’s new?”

You take a sip, letting the warmth settle in your stomach before answering. “Well, I have a wedding to go to next month.”

His eyebrows lift slightly, intrigued. “Oh?”

“Yeah. My coworker from the New York branch, Lee Chan, is getting married next month. I gotta fly out for it.” You swirl your drink absentmindedly, watching the steam curl into the air. “It’s kind of crazy. Feels like yesterday he was complaining about bad Tinder dates, and now he’s getting married.”

Seungcheol huffs a small laugh. “Guess he finally found the right person.”

“Yeah,” you say, a little softer. “Guess he did.”

There’s a pause, and you realize that for all the implications, for the way the topic is naturally leading to the idea of a plus one, you don’t bring it up. And, notably, neither does he. The question lingers, unspoken but present. Instead, Seungcheol shifts the conversation.

“You still baking?”

You groan, dragging a hand down your face. “If you can even call it that.”

He grins. “That bad?”

“Worse.” You sigh dramatically. “I was trying to perfect my chocolate chip cookies, right? Like, I found this recipe online, and it looked completely foolproof. But somehow, I nearly burned down my apartment.”

His amusement vanishes instantly. “What?”

“I mean, not literally,” you backtrack quickly, waving a hand. “But there was a lot of smoke. And my oven might hate me now.”

Seungcheol’s brows furrow in concern. “That apartment’s new, isn’t it?”

You nod. “Yeah, company orders. Still trying to get used to it.”

He exhales through his nose, tilting his head as he studies you. “Isn’t it hard? Being in such an unfamiliar place?”

You blink, caught off guard. “Oh, uh, I guess?”

His tone is casual—too casual—but you’re not oblivious. You see the way he watches you intently, the way he’s gauging your reaction. He thinks he’s being subtle, but it’s clear what he’s hinting at. Someday, maybe you won’t have to be in an unfamiliar place. Maybe you could come back home, to me.

You let out a small breath, looking down at your drink. “It’s fine,” you say after a moment. “It’s just an adjustment.”

Seungcheol doesn’t push, but his fingers tighten slightly around his cup. “If you ever need anything…”

“I know,” you say, and you mean it. Because for the first time in a long time, it feels like he actually means it, too.

The conversation shifts again, moving from baking disasters to random anecdotes about work, about old stories that slip out without either of you realizing. And throughout it all, you notice something: Seungcheol is listening.

Not just nodding along, not just waiting for his turn to speak. He’s really listening—leaning in, responding at the right moments, his gaze locked on yours with a kind of attentiveness that makes your stomach flip in a way you don’t want to acknowledge yet.

It’s different. He’s different.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s why this doesn’t feel like a mistake.

Fuck, do you love him, still?

────୨ৎ────

After the weekend cafe date with Seungcheol came the work week, much to your displeasure. Today has been an especially exhausting day. The kind that seeps into your bones, weighing down your limbs, making even the simple act of unlocking your apartment door feel like a chore. You barely manage to kick off your shoes before collapsing onto the couch, groaning into the cushions.

You didn’t even hear your phone buzzing at first. It takes a few rings before you muster enough energy to blindly fumble for it.

“Hello?” Your voice is muffled, with your face buried against the pillow.

“You sound dead,” comes Seungcheol’s voice, laced with amusement but tinged with concern.

“Feel like it too,” you groan. “Long day.”

There was a pause on the other end. Then, softly, “Have you eaten?”

“I had lunch,” you say.

Another pause. Then, decisively, “I’m coming over.”

“What? No, you don’t have to—”

“Too late. I’m already on my way.”

And just like that, the call ends. You blink owlishly at your screen, a bit too drained to call him back in protest.

Twenty minutes later, a knock comes from your door.

When you open it, Seungcheol stands there, hair still slightly tousled from the wind outside, carrying a takeout bag in one hand and a six-pack of your favorite drinks in the other.

“You used to drink these when you were stressed,” he says, holding up the pack as if that explains everything.

Your heart does something funny in your chest, but do your best to ignore it. Instead, you step aside, letting him in for the first time.

Seungcheol makes himself comfortable in your kitchen, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. He unpacks the food and searches for utensils without asking you for help. And before you know it, you’re sitting at your small dining table, warm food in front of you, while he nudges a drink toward your hand.

The silence is comfortable. You didn’t realize how much you needed this until now—until the tension in your shoulders starts to ease, until the simple act of eating next to someone who cares about you makes the world feel a little less heavy.

At some point, you sigh, rolling your neck to work out a kink. You hadn’t meant for it to be noticeable, but Seungcheol caught it immediately. Without a word, he shifts his chair closer and places a warm hand against your shoulder, thumb pressing gently into the tension there.

You freeze.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, voice softer now. “I got you. Just relax.”

And somehow, without even thinking, you do.

It isn’t grand, or dramatic, really. It’s just the quiet comfort of someone who knows you better than you thought he did. Who is all of a sudden remembering the little things, after all these years. He eases the weight of the world off your shoulders without even trying.

You don’t pull away.

And neither does he.

────୨ৎ────

A week later, and the workday is winding down. But the plans you’ve been looking forward to—a nice dinner that feels like a step forward, another stitch in the frayed edges between you and Seungcheol—suddenly teeter on the edge of collapse.

You’re gathering your things when Director Chun steps into the office, looking around before his gaze lands on Seungcheol.

"Department Head Choi Seungcheol," Chun calls, his voice even but firm. "I need you to stay back for a bit. The New York office just called me about a misalignment between Mr. Han’s vision and the work we submitted to their team. We need to smooth it over before tomorrow morning. I estimate it won’t take very long."

Your breath catches. Director Chun always sugarcoats things. It wouldn’t be just a couple more minutes, it’d be several hours of extra work.

It’s just a few words, a simple request by the director. But it’s enough to send you spiraling.

Because you've been here before.

You know how this story ends.

Your grip tightens around the strap of your bag as a million thoughts flood in, rapid and overwhelming. He’s going to say yes. Of course, he’s going to say yes.

Work will always come first. It always has, always will.

He’ll put you second again, and you’ll be left waiting, just like before.

The words you want to say—please don’t go, pick me, just this once—stick like molasses to the back of your throat.

You can’t stay here to hear him confirm it. You can’t bear to watch it happen all over again.

You walk away before Seungcheol answers the director, your feet carrying you toward the stairwell in a daze. The second the heavy door shuts behind you, a shaky breath escapes your lips. Your fingers press against your temples as you squeeze your eyes shut, willing away the sting that threatens to turn into tears.

Your chest constricts so harshly, you think you might be having a heart attack.

It shouldn't hurt this much.

But it does.

The past and present blur together in your mind—memories of cold dinners, of unanswered texts, of waiting and waiting and waiting. Until you stopped waiting altogether.

Why on earth did you think that things would be any different, now?

The door swings open with a rush of air.

"Sweetheart?"

Your stomach drops.

Seungcheol steps inside, eyes scanning the dimly lit stairwell before landing on you. His brows pull together in concern as he closes the distance between you.

"Hey," he murmurs, reaching out hesitantly. "What’s wrong?"

You shake your head, stepping back before his fingers can brush against your arm. "You don’t have to be here, Cheol."

He frowns. "What are you talking about?"

Defeated, you let out a humorless laugh, gesturing vaguely. "You don’t have to chase after me just to make me feel better about you choosing work over dinner. I get it. I know how this goes."

A pause. Then, softly, "Is that what you think happened?"

The sincerity in his voice makes you falter.

You blink at him, your heart pounding, confusion creeping in through the cracks of your resolve. "What do you mean?"

Seungcheol exhales, running a hand through his hair before stepping closer. This time, you don’t move away.

"I told Director Chun I couldn’t stay," he says, voice steady. "I told him I had a prior commitment, and that I wasn’t going to break it."

Your eyes widen comically. "What?"

His lips twitch into something that’s not quite a smile, but close. "I said no, sweetheart. I told him I had somewhere more important to be."

More important.

Your throat tightens.

"You—" The words catch, and you have to stop yourself from immediately replying, trying to process it. "You said no?"

"I did." His gaze softens, the weight of the moment settling between you. "I told you I wouldn’t let work come between us again."

His voice is quiet, but it carries years’ worth of unspoken apologies.

Of love that had once been misplaced, misdirected, but never truly lost.

Your eyes flicker over his face, searching. And the truth is written in the way he looks at you—open, unwavering, as if he’s willing you to believe him.

And you do.

It’s terrifying how easily you do.

The wall you’d built, the one meant to protect you from this very moment, begins to crumble under the warmth in his gaze.

Your breath shudders. "Cheol…"

His hand lifts, hovering near your cheek, close enough that you can feel the heat of it but not touching. His wide, sparkling eyes look eagerly into yours—giving you the choice, letting you decide.

Your chest tightens at his cute patience, the silent question lingering between you.

The space between you grows smaller.

You don’t know who moves first, but suddenly, you’re impossibly close, the tips of your noses nearly brushing. His breath fans over your lips, and your eyes flutter shut.

He doesn’t move to kiss you, but that’s okay. Because you’re finally ready to cross that line.

Tilting your chin up into him, your lips meet, and the warmth of him grounds you in a way that nothing else ever replaced, or ever could. His lips are so, so, soft, and as he melts into the kiss, he lets out a small content sigh. Everything about him is familiar, and yet, somehow different. It’s charged with a kind of electric buzz, the tension from the past weeks finally coming to a head.

For a moment, the world is still. You only see Seungcheol.

Then, in a voice so soft it almost disappears into the quiet of the stairwell, Seungcheol parts from your lips for just a centimeter, whispering, "I meant what I said. You don’t have to worry anymore. I’m 110% for you, I love you."

You close your eyes, exhaling against his skin, relishing his touch. And you say the next words with a full chest, “I love you so much, Cheol.”

Because for the first time in a long time, you believe him.

Masterlist

Author's Note: did u get the title?? seungcheol's the python bc he makes ur chest constrict and love is hard and hurts us sometimes anywayz happy valentines day <3

Disclaimer: nothing i write is representative of how svt acts off camera, take their names as stand-ins for oc's!!

Taglist: @syluslittlecrows - @junplusone - @fragmentof-indifference - @junniesoleilkth - @woncheecks - @peachypie97 - @viciousdarlings - @11zzyy - @thepoopdokyeomtouched - @dmstoyangyang - @christinewithluv - @snowcake666 - @rjreins - @namk00kie - @homelouisgirl - @slvrstrs - @jimintopiaaaa - @coupshour - @babycaratdeul

1K notes · View notes

geminiwritten · 3 months ago

Text

cold showers ; bradley 'rooster' bradshaw

fandom: top gun

pairing: bradley x reader

summary: you and rooster have been best friends since freshman year of college, and that's all... until you move in together and things get complicated (roommates trope)

notes: Y'ALL!!! please be gentle with me on this one! i was so damn excited and i poured so much into it, but reading it back, it feels kind of choppy and way too internal... i just love this man too so much, i feel like anything i write for him is terrible! but either way, i hope y'all enjoy and i would love some feedback!

warnings: swearing, drinking, italics, text screenshots, kind of super cheesy, and it gets REAL horny in some places (no actual smut) so 18+ ONLY please!!! (let me know if i missed anything)

word count: 9327

You’ve only just realised that this might not be such a good idea, but it’s too late. There are moving boxes scattered throughout the apartment, their tops torn open and contents half unpacked. There are empty pizza boxes and wine bottles from last night’s dinner, when – after a full day of moving heavy furniture – you treated your friends to the customary Floor Dinner that everyone must have on their first night of moving into a new place.

You hadn’t thought about it when you signed the lease and you hadn’t thought about it last night, but right now you’re starting to realise that this could have been a very bad idea. Because Bradley Bradshaw – your best friend, your number one confidant, your ride or die – is now standing at the main door to your shared apartment, and his broad shoulders are taking up way too much of the frame.

You’re not sure how you’ve never noticed it before, but Bradley is big – tall, broad, all lean muscle. Not over the top, but the kind of big that makes your brain short-circuit with images you absolutely should not be having. Lifting you, pinning you, holding you down. And the fact that you’re even thinking that? Yeah. That’s fucking new.

“Are you okay?”

You shake your head, feeling heat crawl up your neck and into your cheeks. You stop staring at your best friend like he’s an alien and return your attention to the box on the kitchen counter. “Yeah, sorry. I’m just a little hazy this morning.”

“Well, lucky for you,” he drops a paper bag on the countertop, “I have just the thing.” He pulls out a four-pack of energy drinks and various packets of snacks, none of which look like suitable breakfast foods.

“How does your body look like that when you eat like this?” The question leaves your lips before your brain has a chance to slap a warning label on it, and it hangs in the air between you and your best friend, humming like an electric current waiting for ground.

You and Bradley have been friends for a long time, but you’ve never really talked about each other’s looks – which is normal. Because friends don’t talk about that kind of thing. Right?

He chuckles awkwardly, keeping his chin tucked into his chest as he finishes unpacking the bag, but you don’t miss the dusting of pink that blooms across his cheekbones. “I eat properly when I have to, but this morning I felt like liquid energy and twinkies.”

You press your lips together and nod, not trusting yourself to say another word. You’ve never been awkward around Bradley, and you sure as hell aren’t going to start now – not just because you’ve suddenly noticed how attractive he is. And on the second day of living together no less.

Fuck.

You continue unpacking the kitchen boxes while Bradley moves into the lounge room. He lays out all the pieces of your disassembled bookshelf and starts fitting them back together like a giant puzzle. You hate yourself for not being able to look away, watching the sun spill through the high windows behind him and cast a warm glow around the shape of his body – which is a nice fucking shape.

You need to get it together. You're gawking at your best friend, for god’s sake. Maybe you just need to get laid – it has been a while, and moving is stressful. You just need to find someone to fuck the tension out of you, and maybe then you’ll stop drooling over your best friend drilling together two pieces of chipboard.

Then a new thought crosses your mind. Another thing you hadn’t even considered before signing the lease.

“Bradley,” you say thoughtfully, tipping your head as you wait for him to respond.

He blows out a breath and stands up straight, holding the power drill in his hand like it’s the beginning of a cheesy porno. “When you say my name like that, I know I’m in trouble.”

“I think we should have some rules for...” You pause and roll your lips, trying to think for once instead of just letting random words tumble out. “We should set some rules for bringing people home.”

He tilts his head, clearly confused. “Like, specific visiting hours, or...?”

You stare back at him blankly. “Bringing people home to have sex.”

“Oh.” His brows shoot up toward his hairline. “Yeah, that’s probably a good idea.”

“Okay.” You lean forward, bending at the hips and resting both forearms on the countertop. “First rule, if you bring someone home while the other roommate is home, you stay in your room.”

He nods. “That’s fair.”

“Second rule.” Your eyes slide away from his stupidly broad shoulders and toward the couch cushions piled in the corner of the lounge room. “No sex on the couch, please.”

He lets out a soft laugh. “Yeah, okay. Can I make a rule?”

You nod, stretching across the counter to grab a piece of junk mail that you’d pulled out of the mailbox earlier this morning.

“Third rule, only one guest at a time.”

You freeze as you reach for the black marker tucked into your back pocket, and you look over at Bradley with wide eyes. “Just how adventurous do you think I am?”

He shrugs his shoulders and turns his attention back to the bookshelf, but you don’t miss the way his lips curl into a little smirk.

“Alright,” you say once you’ve finished scribbling down the first three rules. “Rule number four, no PDA.” You wait a few seconds for him to object, and when he doesn’t, you add the fourth rule to the list in front of you.

“Fifth rule,” he says, “if your guest stays overnight, they need to be out before the other roommate is up.”

You laugh under your breath as you write it down. “If I’m lucky, they’ll be out before I’m even awake.”

When you look back up, Bradley is on his knees, leaning over the bookshelf with the drill aimed down. His bicep flexes against the thin fabric of his shirt, and his tan skin shines with sweat. The air in the room crackles, charged by the strange tension building inside of you, thanks to your dry spell and... your best friend.

Fuck. You need to sort yourself out before you get into trouble.

“Okay, rule six.” You swallow thickly. “Keep it quiet. Whether you’re with someone or on your own, just keep the noise level to a minimum.”

Great. Now you’re thinking about your best friend touching himself alone... in the shower. Naked and wet, fisting his-

“That’s a good one,” he says, before the sound of the drill echoes through the open plan living space once again.

Your mouth is dry but your panties are not. You need to get out of here before you say or do something that you’ll regret.

“Great.” You slip the cap onto the marker and stand up straight. “I’m just going to go- uh, I need to grab something from the pharmacy, so I’ll be back in half an hour. Do you need anything?”

He looks up at you with a quizzical expression. “No, I’m good. Are you alright?”

You force your mouth into a smile and give him a thumbs up. “Never better, roomie.”

After your pretend trip to the pharmacy, you manage to keep your lecherous staring to a minimum. You put your headphones on and bop along to music while you pack the kitchen away. Bradley busies himself with putting together the bigger pieces of furniture, and you can’t decide if you’re more grateful or frustrated by how turned on it makes you. It shouldn’t make you feel this way. He’s your best fucking friend.

You take a few short breaks to flick through Tinder, wondering if you’ll be judged you for inviting someone over on the second night of living here. But then you remember that your bed is just a pile of slats and a mattress on the floor, so once you finish the kitchen you move into your new bedroom.

The sun is well below the horizon by the time you finish laying out the pieces of your bed in the way you’re fairly sure they fit together.

“Hey,” Bradley says, leaning a shoulder against the doorframe. “Do you want some help?”

“Um.” You look around at the panels laid out on the floor, knowing it’ll be a thousand times easier with him giving you a hand. One of two things you can think of that would be better with him giving you a hand. “If you don’t mind.”

He nods and surveys the room, a smirk splitting across his face as he does. “Well, we should probably start by getting some tools.”

You roll your eyes playfully. “Yeah, I was getting there.”

He walks back into the living room before returning a minute later with a fistful of hand tools and an easy smile etched onto his face. You still can’t believe that you’ve never noticed how handsome this man is. You used to wonder why women would fall over themselves for his attention on a night out – but now? Now you get it. Your best friend is fucking hot, and there’s no unseeing it.

He kneels on the carpet beside you and leans forward to prop the headboard panel up against the wall. His shirt stretches across his broad back, sticking to his sweat slick skin and highlighting the way the muscles flex as he moves.

“Do you have the instructions?” he asks, glancing over his shoulder.

A faint smirk tugs at your lips as you shake your head. “No, that would ruin all the fun.”

He chuckles and sits back on his heels, assessing the panels laid out around the two of you. “Alright. How hard can it be?”

Almost an hour later, the bedframe is almost built. The footing is still loose, but after a bit of trial and error, you both realised that the bolts to secure that panel to the side supports should be the last ones tightened. Bradley is on one knee in the middle of the frame, his tongue captured between his lips as he fixes the horizontal support bar to the vertical one.

You’re sitting right in front of him, almost too close, but you don’t want to make it awkward by scooting away when you’re supposed to be helping. Each of your legs are stretched out on either side of him as you hold the cross section of the two bars steady.

“Here,” you say, picking up one of the bolts from the floor beside your thigh and handing it to him. His fingers brush against yours and you both linger there for just a little too long before pulling away.

He glances up at you, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Careful,” his voice a little rougher than usual, but you decide to blame it on the physical demands of building furniture. “Wouldn’t want to screw this up.”

You force a laugh, but it comes out a little breathless. “Yeah, wouldn’t want to screw it.”

He’s still smiling, but now there’s something in his eyes. A hint of challenge, maybe. Or something more. You can’t put your finger on it. You try to return your focus to the task at hand, but now you’re hyper-aware of the space between you – or lack thereof. You feel the heat of his body too close, the rhythm of his breath too in sync with yours.

When he leans over to grab another bolt, his face is suddenly inches from yours. You freeze, your breath hitching as you instinctively back away, but not before his gaze flicks to your lips for a split second.

“What?” His voice is low, almost teasing. “You alright?”

You swallow, praying he doesn’t see how your chest is rising and falling just a little too quickly. “Yeah. Fine,” you say, forcing a casual tone that you definitely don’t feel. “Just focusing.”

But you’re not focusing on the bed. You’re focusing on him – on the way your body reacts to his proximity, the heat between you that shouldn’t be there. The reluctance to admit it lingers, but you can’t shake the thought that this... this was not a good idea.

You spend most of the night tossing and turning in the bed that Bradley helped you build, doing your best not to dwell on the fact that your best friend has somehow become the target of all your pent-up sexual frustration.

You try scrolling through Tinder and replying to a few messages, but none of them are interesting enough to hold your attention, let alone warrant any effort. You can hear Bradley moving around in his room, just one thin wall away, and your mind wanders to what he might be doing. Probably putting his own bed together – something you should’ve offered to help with, but you honestly don’t trust yourself around him right now.

You need sleep and then you need to get laid.

At about 2AM, you’ve tossed and turned so much that you can no longer bear the feeling of your sheets against your skin, so you get out of bed. You pad out into the kitchen to find the list of rules you’d written on a piece of junk mail earlier and start typing them into your phone’s notes app. Then you drink a glass of water and assess the lounge room layout, trying to decide which way you want the couch to face.

When you finally drag yourself back to bed, exhaustion takes over, and your overactive brain has no choice but to let you sleep. But even as you drift off, thoughts of Bradley slip in – thoughts you definitely shouldn’t be having – and soon your dreams are filled with things you never thought you’d be imagining about your best friend.

You wake to the insistent buzzing of your phone that’s tucked half-beneath your pillow, but by the time you find it and hold it up to your face the caller has already hung up. You roll onto your back and rub your bleary eyes, recognising Natasha’s contact name written across the screen. She probably wants an update on how the big move is going, because she’s nosey like that. She also told you that this wasn’t a good idea, but you ignored her warning and assured it would be fine.

Jokes on you.

You decide to call her back later, instead opening Tinder and scrolling through the messages you ignored last night. Yeah, you’re definitely getting laid tonight. You reply to a couple of matches before going into your notes app and copying the list of rules you wrote down to send to Bradley.

You jump out of bed and head straight for a cold shower, letting the icy water shock your system and wash away the remnants of those steamy dreams about your best friend. It’s a new day – and with any luck, tonight your sexual frustration will finally get some relief. You change into a pair of tights and an oversized shirt before exiting your room and- holy fucking shit.

“Sorry.” Bradley smiles sheepishly from the kitchen, his hip leaned casually against the bench beneath the coffee machine as it whirs to life. “I need coffee first, and then we can go get some breakfast.”

He’s wearing nothing but boxers. Little satin ones covered in fluffy white clouds and red airplanes – they look like he’s had them since he was fourteen, judging by the damn size of them. They’re far too tight, leaving way too little to the imagination, and you can’t help but wonder if he’s parading around in them on purpose.

And then there’s his body. The same body you’ve seen a thousand times before. You’ve gone to the beach together, changed in front of each other, you even waxed his butt cheek once on a dare – but you’ve never looked at him like this. You can’t remember when he filled out so well, when he got so muscular, so manly. The lines and dips of his body are making your mouth water, and it feels like the connection between your brain and your mouth has short-circuited entirely.

“Are you okay?” he asks, forcing you to stop ogling his abs and meet his eyes.

You clear your throat and nod, scrambling to find your voice. “Y-Yeah,” you manage, cringing at how weird you sound. “Just… still waking up.”

He nods slowly, but there’s a knowing smirk curling at his lips – teasing, almost smug. And you want to ask him what the hell he’s playing at, but it’s just Bradley. Your best friend Bradley. He’s always been a little shit like this. He’s messing with you, obviously. You just need to pull your head out of the gutter and stop acting like every look he gives you is foreplay.

You force your heavy feet to move toward the lounge where Bradley left it yesterday evening after assembling it. This is something you can use to distract yourself until he gets dressed, focusing on the layout of your new living room is a perfect distraction from the half-naked Adonis in your kitchen.

Seriously, what the fuck?

Once Bradley is appropriately covered and you’ve secured a Tinder date for the evening, the rest of the day passes rather easily. You start to feel more like yourself as you unpack and settle into the new apartment, joking around with your best friend while doing your best to ignore the way his body moves – or the way his mouth curls into that silly little smirk. You never used to care about those pink lips tugging into something coy beneath his stupidly hot moustache… but now, it’s all you can think about when you slide into the Uber on your way to meet your Tinder date.

The next week passes in much the same way. You regret taking time off work because Bradley did too, and now you’re stuck in such close quarters with him, unable to ignore the new way you’re seeing him. Your Tinder date wasn’t a total disaster, the sex was adequate, but it did nothing to ease the suffocating sexual tension that hits you every time you walk back into your apartment. It’s getting so overwhelming that you’ve finally decided to swallow your pride and ask for help. You need backup. A voice of reason. Even if you might regret it.

When you open the door to see Natasha’s smirking face, it takes all your strength not to slam it shut again.

“Hi,” she says, a little too brightly. “How have you been?”

You step back and watch her carefully as she walks into the apartment. “What do you know?”

She glances back over her shoulder. “Oh, absolutely nothing. But I have my theories.”

You shut the door and follow her into the lounge room, grabbing your bottle of water off the kitchen counter on the way. “Theories?”

“Yep.” She makes herself comfortable on the corner seat of the couch. “Want to hear them?”

You sit on the other end where the chaise is and sigh out an exasperated breath. “Shoot.”

“Did you two have a huge fight on your first night and immediately regret moving in together?”

You shake your head. “No.” Although that would have been easier to navigate than whatever the fuck is going on.

“Okay.” She taps a finger against her chin thoughtfully. “You seem a little frustrated, so… is Bradshaw just a terrible roommate? Like, super fucking messy and leaves his shit everywhere?”

You shrug as you glance around the tidy apartment. “He’s actually really clean, and surprisingly considerate.”

She rears back a little, her brows pinching. “Okay, he’s a good roommate, so why are you-” Her eyes go wide, thoughts racing behind them. “Oh, my God. Did you two kiss?”

You flatten your lips and shake your head again.

Her eyes go impossibly wide. “Did you sleep together?”

Heat crawls into your cheeks, and despite your best effort to keep a straight face, Natasha has no trouble reading the embarrassment written all over it. “Oh, my God! You-”

“We didn’t sleep together,” you say quickly. “I just-”

“But you want to!” she exclaims, almost leaping across the couch. “Holy shit, you’re into Rooster?!”

You cover your face with both hands, feeling the heat of your cheeks burning against your palms. “Nat, please be quiet. I don’t know how thin these walls are, and I haven’t met the neighbours yet.”

“Okay, I’m sorry.” She settles back in the couch and takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry, I just- Like, this is so weird. I knew this whole situation was a bad idea, but I thought you’d end up fighting, not falling in-”

“Don’t you dare.”

She presses her lips together like a scolded child, but her eyes are still brimming with amusement.

You take a deep breath and blow it out in a raspberry as you fall against the back of the lounge, mentally sorting through the chaos of the past week to figure out how to explain it as simply as possible. “It got weird on the first morning,” you start.

Nat snorts. “You didn’t even last twenty-four hours?”

You give her a blank, unimpressed stare.

“Sorry, I’ll shut up.”

You nod and continue, giving her your best rundown of the chaotic chain of events that led to your desperate call for some logical advice. To her credit, she doesn’t react nearly as dramatically as you’d expected – aside from that initial moment – and when you finally finish, you peek up at her from beneath your lashes, sheepish. “Am I insane for suddenly being attracted to my best friend?”

She studies you carefully for a minute, but it feels more like a lifetime as you wait anxiously for her response. You don’t expect her to give you life-changing advice – you mostly just needed to rant – but you also don’t want her to chastise you or call you an idiot. You’re already confused enough about these feelings; the last thing you need is for them to be invalidated.

“I mean,” she says, tilting her head thoughtfully, “sure, he’s objectively attractive. I can’t exactly call him ugly, because that would be a lie. But... he’s still Bradshaw.”

You close your eyes and pinch the bridge of your nose. “I know.”

“Are you sure you’re not sleep-deprived and delusional from all the moving?” she asks. “Maybe you’re just wound up and need to get laid.”

“I got laid. Hooked up with some guy from Tinder.” You sigh, glancing back up at her, a beat of hesitation before you ask, “And do you want to know what I did?” You hope she’ll say no – but deep down, you know that there isn’t a universe, parallel or otherwise, where Natasha says no to a question like that.

She nods, and you drop your head into your hands again, mumbling into your palms. “I called out his fucking name.”

She draws a quick, sharp breath – a gasp. “The guy from Tinder?”

“No.”

“Oh… my God.” Her voice is laced with amusement – definitely not mocking, but she’s clearly having the time of her life watching you squirm in your own embarrassment.

You peak up at her from between your fingers. “I know.”

“What did the guy say?”

“Nothing. I’m not even sure if he noticed.” You drop your hands into your lap. “His name was Riley, so it could have sounded similar amongst all the other… noises.”

She laughs, the sound edged with disbelief – like she’s watching some midday soap opera with a plot so ridiculous that you couldn’t possibly imagine it to be real. “Oh, my God.”

“Would you stop saying that and give me some actual advice?”

She shakes her head slowly. “I’m not sure I’m equipped to deal with this.”

“Well, neither am I!” you exclaim, tipping your head back to stare at the ceiling. “I smelled his fucking laundry the other day.”

She chokes on nothing, and you can just imagine the unhinged look in her wide brown eyes. “You what?”

You’re already knee-deep, so you might as well dive right in and spill all your dirty little secrets. “I was moving his clothes out of the dryer,” you say, slowly tilting your head down, “so I could put mine in… and I sniffed one of his damn shirts.”

Her mouth falls open, but no words come out. Her face is bright red, though not the same embarrassed shade of scarlet you're wearing – she looks like a kid in a fucking candy store. Your shameful confessions are making her happier than you’ve seen her in… well, ever.

Then she bursts out laughing – the hand on your stomach, curling over, cackling kind of laughter that rings through the empty apartment. You’re almost positive your neighbours would be able to hear this, but that doesn’t bother you anymore – you just hope that Bradley doesn’t come home any time soon.

When she finally manages to pull herself together, she wipes the moisture from the corners of her eyes and looks at you with complete earnestness. “I know I said this already but… oh, my God. I can’t believe you’re down bad for Bradshaw.”

Your breath catches in your throat, and your brain short-circuits – something it’s been getting disturbingly good at lately. The idea of being in love with your best friend isn’t just terrifying; it’s ridiculous. You’ve been friends for far too long for this to even be a possibility. You’re so deeply entrenched in the friend zone that the thought of climbing out doesn’t even cross your mind. It isn’t a consideration.

“I am not,” you protest.

She raises one, challenging brow. “Then what are you?”

“I’m…” you hesitate, feeling the crack in the floodgates holding back all your inner turmoil. “Confused! I’ve known him since freshman year of college. He’s one of my best friends – we’ve had, like, a thousand sleepovers, and up until a week ago, I would’ve confidently said that I felt more sexual tension in a funeral home than lying in a bed next to him. But now? Now it’s like I’ve been stuck in the Sahara Desert for thirty years and he’s a six-foot-tall glass of ice-cold water – and I’m pretty sure I’ll die if I don’t get a taste.”

The apartment falls eerily silent when you finish talking, breathing like you’ve just run a marathon. Natasha just stares at you, her expression a complicated cocktail of amusement, pity, and the slightest hint of disgust. Exactly how you would’ve looked a week ago if someone had tried to tell you that Bradley Bradshaw – your best fucking friend – was suddenly the new object of your desire. You would’ve laughed in their face, faked a gag, and told them to get their head checked.

Maybe you need to get your head checked.

“What are you going to do?” she asks.

“I have no fucking idea.”

The sound of keys rattling makes you both jump, heads snapping toward the main door of the apartment just as it swings open. Bradley strolls in looking criminally hot in his gym clothes, sweat gleaming across every inch of exposed skin. It’s honestly obscene. He looks like he just walked off the set of a porn film – ‘stache and all – and you have no idea how you’re supposed to act normal when your best friend looks like that.

“Hey,” he nods at Natasha. “I didn’t know you were coming over.”

“We hang out a lot,” Nat says, “so you better get used to having me around.”

Bradley lets out a low, rumbling chuckle, the kind that vibrates in his chest before curling around your spine like smoke. It’s effortless, teasing, and way too attractive for something so casual. You swear you feel it in places a laugh has no business reaching. And he’s all the way across the fucking room.

“Do we need a new set of rules just for Phoenix’s visits?” he asks, looking at you with that familiar smirk. “Because honestly, I’d feel a lot safer if her presence came with some kind of regulation.”

Natasha turns back to you and frowns curiously. “You have rules?”

“Yeah.” You tear your gaze away from Bradley as he downs a bottle of water by the fridge. Even something as simple as hydrating looks sinful when he does it. “For bringing guests home.”

“Adult guests,” Bradley clarifies from the kitchen.

“Oh.” She snorts a laugh. “Hook ups.” She eyes you with mischief, a smirk playing at her lips as she watches you watch Bradley.

He finishes his water and walks toward the lounge, moving past Natasha before opting to sit at the foot of the chaise where you’re perched. If the air in the apartment was warm before, it’s practically on fire now – electrically charged, humming like static before a storm. Even the look on Nat’s face says she feels it too.

“Well.” She smacks her hands against her thighs and pushes off the lounge. “I better get going. I told Fanboy I’d take him to the blood drive.”

“I thought you went last weekend,” Bradley states.

“I did,” she says. “But Fanboy signed up for this weekend and he’s worried he won’t be able to drive himself home.”

Bradley smirks again, his lips playful beneath his moustache – the very one that’s been haunting your dreams with alarming regularity. “I’ll pay you twenty bucks to film him if he passes out.”

“Twenty bucks if he passes out, or twenty bucks regardless?”

“Regardless,” Bradley replies.

Natasha mirrors his smirk and holds her hand out, palm up. “You’ve got yourself a deal, Bradshaw.”

Bradley stands back up and walks toward the kitchen, oblivious to the way your eyes track his ass and to Natasha’s barely contained laughter as she watches you ogle him for the second time today. After finding his wallet and handing her a crisp twenty-dollar bill, she moves toward the door, pausing to flash you a grin that can only be described as pure evil.

“Alright, you crazy kids,” she says. “Don’t have too much fun tonight.”

You fight the overwhelming urge to roll your eyes and shove her out the door, instead settling for your best ‘Fuck You’ scowl as she winks and steps into the hallway. Bradley calls his goodbye from the kitchen, bent over the island with his forearms resting on the countertop while he scrolls through his phone. You close the door behind her, take a deep breath through your nose, and turn to face your best friend – something you’ve been needing to remind yourself of more often lately.

“Want to order takeout tonight?” Bradley asks, twisting his neck to look at you. “I was thinking we could have a movie night – unless you’ve got plans. How’s that guy from Tinder been?”

You tilt your head, brows furrowing as you try to make sense of the two completely unrelated questions. You don’t even remember telling him about your Tinder date, but clearly, you must have. So why does he care how it's going? He’s never asked about your dates or flings before – not unless you brought them up first.

“I’m not sure how he’s going,” you reply honestly. “It was more of a- uh… stress relief kind of thing than a date.”

He chuckles again as he stands up straight, tucking his phone into his pocket. “Wow, didn’t even think to ask me first, huh?”

Your heart leaps up into your throat, stealing all the air from your lungs as heat floods your entire body. Your face is burning, your skin feels too tight, and your pulse is a pounding drumbeat in your ears – and between your legs. The sheer audacity of his words ricochets through your brain, short-circuiting every coherent thought. You don’t know whether to slap him, laugh, or drag him straight to your bedroom…

“I’m kidding,” he says, brows pinching. “It was just a joke. Are you okay?”

You know exactly what you must look like – cheeks blazing, mouth hanging open, and eyes wide as saucers. You scramble for words, for your voice, for anything at all to keep yourself from gawking at your best friend like a complete idiot.

“I-I know that,” you stammer out, before forcing a shrill and completely unconvincing laugh through your lips.

He eyes you with a hint of doubt but doesn’t press any further. “Okay, well, if that guy didn’t do much to relieve your stress, maybe it’s time to explore... other options.”

Then he winks and walks past you, his arm brushing against your shoulder as he does and setting the skin there on fire. You’re frozen again, you can’t breathe, and your feet are seemingly glued to the floor. Your thoughts are racing, but you can’t find the words to ask him what the fuck that was supposed to mean. All you can do is stare blankly at the spot where he just stood, the sound of the bathroom door closing and the water turning on barely registering as you stand there, completely fucking lost.

A few hours later and after yet another cold shower – let’s be honest, you're practically living in them now – you find yourself sprawled out on the couch, aimlessly flicking through streaming channels. Bradley is in the kitchen, cracking open two beers and typing in his credit card details on the Uber Eats app to order some Thai takeout for both of you.

“Food will be here in twenty minutes,” he says as he flops onto the lounge beside you, handing you one of the two bottles of beer.

The silence that settles between you feels surprisingly comfortable, the kind of quiet that doesn’t demand to be filled with awkward small talk. You don’t bother making more room for him on the couch; one leg draped over the armrest as you lazily scroll through the endless options on the screen. Bradley sits beside you, almost close enough to touch but not quite. His beer rests in one hand, fingers tapping absentmindedly against the bottle.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks suddenly, his gaze shifting from the TV screen to you.

You glance over at him, surprised. He’s still holding his beer, his brows furrowed slightly.

“What? You mean because I’ve been acting like a stressed-out wreck all week?” you joke, but it doesn’t quite land like you hoped.

Bradley shrugs, taking a sip of his drink. “Yeah, but also just... I don’t know. You’ve seemed a little off lately. Not like yourself.”

You pause for a second, the air between you feeling heavier than it should. Normally, you’d brush it off with a sarcastic remark, but something about his tone makes you reconsider. Maybe it’s the way he’s looking at you – genuinely concerned, no teasing.

“I just…” you hesitate, wondering how to word your thoughts without giving too much away. “I let Phoenix get in my head about us living together. She said it could end badly and mess up our friendship, but that’s the last thing I want. So, I guess I’ve been a little hyper-aware, kind of walking on eggshells, because I don’t want to mess this up.”

Bradley nods slowly, processing your words. “I get it. But you know that’s not going to happen, right? It’s you and me – us. We are literally unshakeable. Couldn’t get rid of me if you tried.”

You roll your eyes playfully. “Yeah, I know. I’m just overthinking it – being dramatic, as usual.”

He chuckles and nudges you with his elbow. “Without your dramatics, my life would be empty.” He pauses, unspoken thoughts racing behind his eyes. “Especially when it comes to your spectacular Tinder dates. I love hearing about those.”

Your chest tightens – an unfamiliar feeling you’ve never before felt with your best friend. “Yeah?” You force a light laugh past your lips. “I wouldn’t exactly call them dates. And ‘spectacular’ is definitely a stretch.”

He laughs again, and it’s easy, comfortable, like the kind of sound you’ve always known. “You’re too picky, that’s your problem,” he teases, but there’s no judgment in his tone. “Maybe you should just take a break from the whole dating thing for a while.”

You shoot him a sideways glance. “Yeah, maybe... but then you’d be stuck with me forever. No escaping.”

Bradley looks at you, his eyes too wide and too sincere above what should be a playful smile – but it’s more serious than that. “I think I could handle it.”

Warmth rushes into your cheeks and you quickly avert your eyes, turning your attention back to the TV screen where you had apparently just clicked on an old action movie about navy fighter pilots who become prisoners of war. Not only do you love forcing Bradley to watch movies about the navy and insisting he point out every single inaccuracy, but this one also looks perfectly morbid. Hopefully morbid enough to keep your inappropriate thoughts at bay.

You flash him your cheesiest grin as you hit play, then make a dramatic show of sinking comfortably into the couch cushions. He rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue – just gives you that annoyingly pretty little smirk before shifting his gaze to the TV.

It isn’t long before the buzzer for the lobby door rings through the apartment. You’re barely ten minutes into the movie when you hit pause and Bradley springs up from the couch. He heads out the door to meet the delivery driver in the lobby – building rules don’t allow anyone but official USPS personnel through the main door.

Once the door clicks shut behind him, you pull out your phone and type a text to Natasha. You tell her that – thanks to her complete lack of helpful advice – you ended up talking to Bradley, and now you’re feeling a lot better. More normal. Sure, you can objectively acknowledge that he’s attractive, but as long as you don’t blur any lines, you’re confident your friendship will stay exactly where it belongs. You were just being dramatic before. Overwhelmed. Sleep-deprived. All it took was a conversation to clear the air.

Before he’s even back, you push yourself off the lounge and wander into the kitchen. You start pulling open drawers, grabbing cutlery and plates, when the scent of pad Thai hits you like a warm hug. Suddenly, Bradley is beside you – having somehow snuck back into the apartment without a sound – unpacking containers and setting them on the counter with that effortless ease that only makes him more frustratingly attractive.

You tell yourself not to look, not to care – but your eyes have a mind of their own. They watch him as he opens another container, catching the flex of his forearm, the concentration on his face, the way his tongue pokes out slightly at the corner of his mouth. God, you’re hopeless. You turn back to the drawer and focus on pulling out chopsticks, pretending like you’re totally unaffected.

“Napkins?” he asks.

“Top cupboard,” you reply.

Before you can step aside, he’s there – close, impossibly close. His chest brushes against your back as he reaches up, trapping you between his body and the counter. You freeze, breath catching in your throat, hand still in the drawer. The scent of him – clean sweat and something sharp like cedar – wraps around you like a vice.

And then-

Oh, fuck.

His hips shift, and it’s not subtle. He presses against you, slow and deliberate, the hard line of him settling against the curve of your ass. There’s no mistaking it – no accidental contact or innocent mistake. He lingers for a beat too long, the heat of him searing through your thin lounge shorts like a warning – or a promise.

Your fingers curl around the counter edge as a quiet gasp slips past your lips. He still hasn’t moved. You should say something. Step away. Do anything but melt like butter beneath him.

Instead, you stay rooted, your whole body pulsing with heat, electricity zipping down your spine as his breath grazes the shell of your ear. “Just needed the napkins,” he murmurs, voice rough, low, amused.

You want to turn around and call him a liar – or better yet, grab a fistful of his t-shirt and pull his lips down to yours. But you can't. You're too much of a coward to do anything but let out a high-pitched, breathy laugh – the most unconvincing laugh in the history of fake laughs.

The smirk on his lips is anything but innocent as he spoons rice into one of the bowls, the motion slow and deliberate. It makes your pulse stutter, and your mind goes into overdrive, swirling with questions you can’t even begin to articulate. You’re so off-balance, you can’t even bring yourself to fix your own plate, not until he’s across the living room and settled comfortably on the couch – far enough away that you don’t feel like you might spontaneously combust. This is a very dangerous game. One you didn’t even know you were playing… until now.

Every thought you’d had a mere five minutes ago about being in control of this situation has flown right out the window by the time you sink back onto the couch. Bradley looks perfectly content as he spoons mouthfuls of Thai food into his mouth – but you know better. There’s something else going on behind those brown eyes, something unreadable, because he’s pretending to be far too invested in a movie you know he doesn’t give a damn about.

Once you’ve both cleared your plates, Bradley packs the leftovers into the fridge and hands you another beer like it’s no big deal – like he didn’t just grind up on you in the kitchen like you’re in some slow-burn porno. You take it with a tight smile and attempt to sink even further into to the couch, pretending the bottle is far more interesting than the memory seared into your brain. The air crackles between you, heavy with a tension that definitely doesn’t feel platonic. You keep your eyes glued to the screen like it’s your lifeline, pretending you’re totally invested in the movie that you can’t even remember the name of.

Two painstaking hours crawl by, and you barely exchange more than a handful of words. You don’t ask Bradley to clarify any of the movie’s questionable navy facts, and he doesn’t offer up his usual know-it-all commentary – even when it’s painfully obvious that what just happened on screen is pure Hollywood fiction. The tension between you is palpable, and you can both acutely feel the electric aftermath of him pressing his half-hard cock into your ass.

The second the screen fades to black and the credits start to roll, you spring up from the couch. “I’m going to head to bed. I’m super tired.” You don’t even try to make your shrill voice sound more convincing. It’s fucking awkward right now and you both know it.

“Yeah, me too,” Bradley says, keeping his eyes glued to the TV screen.

You drop your empty beer bottle into the recycling bin and head toward your bedroom door. “Goodnight.”

“Night.”

You shut the door behind you and lean against it as if you’re in some angsty teen romcom. You let your head fall back with a soft thud and squeeze your eyes shut, desperately trying to recall a time when Bradley’s warmth, his scent, and that damn smile didn’t make your heart feel like it was doing a full-on marathon. When it was just friendship. You try to laugh it off, but it sounds a lot like a strangled gasp.

You give yourself a few minutes to wallow in self-pity before dragging your phone up in front of your face to check the time. It’s barely 9PM. And it’s Saturday. You doubt that either of you will be falling asleep anytime soon – but there’s no way you can go back out there. Not after that. You’ll just have to find something to do in your room that doesn’t involve thinking about your best friend. Preferably something mind-numbing. Or holy.

You crawl onto your bed and flip open your laptop, browsing through a few streaming apps before landing on an old comedy you’ve watched a thousand times before. You’re not in the mood for any surprises – you want something familiar, something predictable. You’ve had more than enough confusion for one night.

But no matter how many times you toss and turn and fluff your pillows, your mind refuses to cooperate. There’s no escaping the searing memory of what had happened in the kitchen, the way he’d trapped you against the counter. The feel of his breath ghosting over your neck still tingles down your spine. And the way his hips had pressed into you – slow, deliberate, almost like he knew exactly what he was doing. It has your thoughts spiralling into places you shouldn’t be going. Especially not alone. Especially not about your best friend.

There’s only one thing you can think of to ease the ache building between your legs, but it feels wrong. The thought of touching yourself while thinking about your best friend sends a wave of guilt through your body. You've managed to distract yourself every other time this thought has popped up over the last week, pulled yourself away just before it took hold – but not tonight. Tonight, you’re stuck, trapped on your speeding train of thought, headed straight for the flashing neon sign that reads: Masturbate to Your Best Friend – Go Ahead, I Dare You.

“Fine,” you groan out, snapping your laptop shut and rolling over toward your bedside table.

So much for holy.

Your hands are practically trembling as you pull out your vibrator and drop it on the bed. You twist toward your headboard and prop your pillows up before settling back against them – then you pick up your phone and open a new web browser. If you watch porn, then that means you’re not totally thinking about Bradley while doing what you’re about to do. Right?

A knock at the door startles you, and you quickly drop your phone and jump off the bed. Frustration bubbles in your gut, spreading through your whole body and making you more than a little agitated by your best friend who seems to be thoroughly enjoying giving you whiplash.

You yank the door open to see him standing there – fucking shirtless – wearing a hesitant, apologetic little smile.

“I – uh – wanted to talk about earlier…” His voice is a little strained, and you’re suddenly aware of how close he is, filling the doorway with his broad shoulders and deliciously naked upper body.

You raise an eyebrow and cross your arms over your chest. “About what? The part where you decided to get all up in my personal space and make it weird?”

He winces. “Yeah, about that.” His gaze flits to the bed behind you for a second, where your vibrator is sitting in full view. His mouth opens, then shuts, and suddenly he's biting back a very unapologetic grin.

You bite your lip, ignoring the immediate burning in your cheeks. “Something caught your eye?”

Bradley steps forward, forcing you further into your room, before shutting the door behind him. His eyes are glued to the bed, but there’s a heat building in his gaze, and you feel it deep in your stomach.

He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly, clearly trying not to stare at the thing on the bed, but then, with a quick, almost predatory glance at you, he takes another step forward. “Yeah, well, I was going to apologize, but now I’m not so sure what for.” He’s close enough that you can feel his breath against your cheek, but your feet are stuck, you couldn’t move away even if you wanted to.

You smirk and tip your head, faking a bravado that you definitely don’t feel. “Oh? So, you’re not sorry for grinding against me in the kitchen?” Your voice is a lot stronger than you feel, and for that, you’re grateful.

Bradley stiffens, then shrugs, trying – and failing – to appear nonchalant. “Maybe I enjoyed it a little more than I should have,” he mutters, his voice dropping low.

Your heart skips a beat. “What?”

Before you can say another word, Bradley is suddenly right there, his hand gripping your wrist and pulling your body right up against his, making your breath hitch. “What if I’m really sorry?” His voice is playful now, but there’s an edge of something else – something hotter – lingering in his words.

But you don’t get the chance to ask him what the fuck that’s supposed to mean, because his lips crash onto yours without warning. For a heartbeat, you're frozen – shocked and unsure – before instinct takes over and you melt into him. Your hands find his chest, fingers splaying across warm skin, and you swear you can feel his heart racing beneath your palms. He tastes like beer and something dangerously addictive, something that’s always been there, just beneath the surface, waiting. Your hands drift lower before you can stop them, tracing the curve of muscle and heat, before stopping at the waistband of his sweatpants – as if that’s the line. This elastic band of grey material is the physical embodiment of the line the divides friendship from something more.

Then he pulls away just as suddenly as he had kissed you, breathless and wide-eyed. He looks wrecked – like his thoughts are spiralling, torn between a dozen different emotions you can’t quite name.

“Bradley, I-” You start to speak but you’re not actually sure you have anything to say.

Your whole body is on fire, every nerve ending singed as fire laps and dances across your skin. You want him to kiss you again and again – you never want him to stop. You have no idea how you’ve gone this long without tasting his lips, his tongue, but now you know you can’t live without it. You need him more than you need oxygen but... he’s your best friend.

“I-I’m sorry,” you mutter, slowly removing your hands from the waistband of his sweatpants.

He blinks a couple of times and frowns, tilting his head as he regards you with curiosity. “Why?”

You swallow thickly on the emotion building in your throat, determined not to cry about the fact that you’re in love with your best friend. And only just fucking realised it.

“For everything,” you say. “This past week, moving in together, staring at you like you’re my next fucking meal. We’re best friends, and I meant it when I said I don’t want to ruin it. I-I know this isn’t want best friends do, but I’m willing to forget about it if-”

“I’m not,” he interrupts, his expression serious. “I’m never going to forget about the moment when I finally sacked up and kissed you.”

Your breath catches and you can feel the bridge of your nose starting to sting. “Finally?”

He lets out a dry, humourless chuckle, rubbing a hand up the side of his neck. “Yeah. Finally. Because I’ve been in love with you for a long time. I’m not even sure when it started – just that it was long before you started looking at me like that.” He gestures toward your face, where whatever expression you’re wearing must scream hunger.

You both let out breathless little laughs, and then you press your lips together and wait for him to finish his big, dramatic speech.

“I was perfectly happy being your best friend, and I still will be if you decide that that’s all you want from me. I swear, I’m not saying this to mess anything up. But I can’t keep pretending like I don’t feel more.” His eyes are full of earnest, and it makes your chest ache. “Because I wake up every fucking day thinking about you, and I fall asleep wondering if you’re thinking about me too. I know we’ve always had this easy rhythm between us, but lately it’s been… different. And I don’t think that’s just in my head.”

You can feel your pulse thrumming across every inch of your body, and it takes all the self-control you have not to throw your arms around his neck and kiss him senseless.

“What happened in the kitchen – that wasn’t nothing.” A smirk tugs at the corners of his lips. “That was a moment I’ve been trying not to want for way too long. And if there’s even a chance you want this too, then I’m all in. But if not… I’ll still be here. I’d rather be your best friend forever than risk losing you. But I had to be honest – because I’m in love with you. And I think maybe you’re in love with me too.”

His chest rises and falls quickly as he finishes, and all you can do is stare up at the face you know better than any other, wondering how you’ve never truly seen him before. “Bradley, I’m-”

“I mean, come on,” he says, his lips curling into a full-blown smirk beneath that damn moustache, “who goes on that many Tinder dates but never ends up with a boyfriend?”

You frown, attempting to look indignant but deep down, you know you're just gazing at him like a fool in love. “Is this how you ask girls out, by insulting them first?”

He chuckles again, but this time it’s nervous. “Did it work?”

You roll your eyes playfully, trying to ignore the way your heart is rioting within your chest – beating so hard, you’re sure it’s about to break a rib. “Yeah,” you sigh, hooking your fingers in the waistband of his sweatpants to pull him closer again. “It worked.”

The grin that splits across his face is blinding, but you barely have time to appreciate it before his hands are on your face, pulling you toward him. His lips crash against yours with a desperate urgency, and it’s like everything you’ve ever felt about him floods to the surface. Your hands slide up to his neck, pulling him closer as the kiss deepens, fierce and unrestrained. The taste of him is intoxicating, as if you’ve been starved for this connection, for him. Your heart races at a dangerous pace as you lose yourself in the heat, the spark between you crackling louder than any words you could’ve spoken. It’s messy, it’s raw, but it’s everything you’ve been craving and more.

It’s only when your lungs start to burn for air that he pulls back, his breath ragged as he meets your gaze. “Now I’m really sorry I didn’t say anything sooner.”

You giggle, the sound soft and giddy. “You’re going to need to apologize better than that.”

He grins, pulling you closer, and in one swift motion, he’s pressing your back against the wall, his body flush against yours. “Oh, I can do better,” he says, lips ghosting over your neck, leaving a trail of warmth in their wake. “But you’re going to have to be patient.”

You laugh again, breathlessly, but the sound quickly dies in your throat as his lips find yours again – even more demanding this time – his hands sliding down your sides with a confidence that has your heart racing. He’s moving against you, not in a hurry but with an urgency that you can’t help but match.

“Bradley,” you murmur against his lips, the words slipping out before you can stop them. “I am in love with you too.”

His eyes darken, and the playful grin on his lips shifts into something far more dangerous. The teasing is gone – replaced by an intense, smouldering need that matches your own. His gaze locks onto yours, raw and unguarded, and in that moment, every inch of you ignites with desire. He’s all heat and need now, and you’re right there with him, every inch of you aching with want. And love.

END.

#bradley bradshaw #bradley bradshaw x reader #rooster x reader #top gun: maverick #top gun #bradley rooster bradshaw #imagine #imagines #one shot #oneshot #fanfic #fanfiction #miles teller #miles teller x reader #maverick

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antinousletmehit · 6 months ago

Note

Apollo and his lover got into an argument which he regrets deeply but reader is very mad at him and won't forgive him easily.The whole Olympus tries to get them together because they're fed up with Apollo's sad love poets and songs.

୨୧┇Apollo x reader

────୨ৎ──── ────୨ৎ──── ───

The great halls of Olympus were rarely silent. Gods bickered, muses sang, and the sound of nectar filled goblets clinking together echoed endlessly. But this particular week had been… different. It wasn’t the usual chorus of divine rivalry that filled the air. Instead, a melancholic voice, rich and golden, reverberated through the celestial mount, dragging everyone down with its relentless woe.

Apollo was heartbroken.

He sat on the steps of his golden temple, his lyre in hand, his head bowed as he sang yet another mournful ballad about his lover. She had refused to speak to him after a bitter argument, one involving—according to Hermes, who’d gleefully eavesdropped—a misunderstanding about Apollo’s ego and her need for space.

“I burn brighter than the sun itself,

But her light I cannot see.

Oh, cruel fates, to steal her love,

And leave her silence haunting me…”

“By the Styx, someone make him stop!” Hera groaned, massaging her temples as Apollo’s lament drifted into the great hall. “He’s been singing that same verse for three days straight.”

“And it’s getting worse,” Ares grumbled, leaning against his spear. “I’m this close to starting a war just to drown him out.”

Hestia, ever the voice of reason, frowned. “We can’t let him continue like this. He’s hurting.”

“And we’re suffering,” Poseidon interrupted, shaking his trident for emphasis. “Even my sea nymphs are complaining about hearing his sobs through the waves. My ocean, for gods’ sake.”

“Alright, everyone,” Athena said, standing up and raising a hand to silence the growing complaints. “Apollo’s our brother. He needs help. Instead of whining, let’s figure out how to fix this.”

“Fix it?” Hermes snorted, lounging on the armrest of her throne. “Good luck. The only thing that will shut him up is making up with his lover, and she won’t even look at him.”

Zeus, seated at the head of the hall, finally spoke. “Then we’ll have to make her listen.”

All eyes turned to him, surprise flickering across their faces. It wasn’t often that the King of the Gods intervened in romantic squabbles, but it was clear that even Zeus couldn’t endure another hour of Apollo’s sob songs.

“Who agrees?” Zeus asked, raising a commanding brow. One by one, every god and goddess in the room nodded. For once in their immortal lives, Olympus was united.

———-

The plan was set into motion that very evening. Each god took on a task, pooling their talents to create an elaborate display of apology that Apollo could deliver to his lover.

Aphrodite crafted a wreath of the finest roses, their petals shimmering like rubies under the starlight. “No mortal or immortal can resist the charm of my flowers,” she said smugly, twirling one between her fingers. Hephaestus forged a delicate necklace of golden threads, inlaid with tiny opals that shimmered with every color of the sky. Hermes wrote a letter, overflowing with poetic charm, and tucked it into a golden envelope. “This will sweep her off her feet,” he said, grinning. “No offense to Apollo, but I’ve got more flair for words.”

Even Dionysus contributed, brewing a wine so sweet and rich that a single sip could soothe the angriest heart. “Pair it with the necklace, and she’ll be wrapped around his finger,” he joked, handing the flask to Hera. Meanwhile, Athena and Artemis tried to coax Apollo into proper behavior. Artemis, his twin sister, stood before him with her arms crossed. “You’re embarrassing yourself,” she said bluntly. “If you want her back, stop singing about how miserable you are and do something about it.”

Apollo looked up from his lyre, his face streaked with golden tears. “But what if she doesn’t forgive me? What if I’ve lost her forever?” Athena placed a hand on his shoulder. “She loves you, Apollo. That doesn’t vanish overnight. But love requires effort, not just poetry. Show her you’re willing.”

For the first time in days, Apollo nodded, determination flickering in his sun bright eyes.

The following day, Apollo, armed with the gifts and a newfound resolve, approached his lover’s dwelling. The other gods watched from afar, peering through enchanted pools and reflective clouds, each silently praying their efforts would end the wailing. Apollo took a deep breath and knocked on the door. When she opened it, her expression was guarded, her gaze flicking to the bouquet, the necklace, and the letter clutched in his trembling hands.

“What do you want, Apollo?” she asked, her voice cool.

“I want to say I’m sorry,” he began, his voice steady but thick with emotion. “I let my pride get in the way, and I hurt you. I’ve spent days singing about how much I miss you, but Athena reminded me that words mean nothing without action. So I’m here.”

She studied him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, slowly, she stepped aside, gesturing for him to come in. Back in the halls of Olympus, the gods watched as Apollo disappeared inside her home.

“Do you think it worked?” Hermes asked.

Artemis smirked, her arms crossed. “If it didn’t, he’ll be back here wailing in an hour.”

But the hour passed, and there was no wailing. Then another hour. And another.

At last, Zeus leaned back in his throne, a satisfied grin on his face. “Finally.”

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, peace returned to Olympus. And while they’d never admit it, the gods secretly congratulated themselves on the success of their rare, united effort.

#epic the musical #epic the musical x reader #apollo epic the musical #apollo x reader #apollo #greek mythology x reader #greek mythology

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mercvry-glow · 3 months ago

Text

Friendly competition

parings. frank langdon x wife!reader

summary. the langdons believe believe in basic professionalism. but either way a kiss or two behind a set of closed curtains wouldn't hurt anyone, right?

warnings. princess pea brain and dr. dickwad strike again, frank has only been married to reader, they are similar in age though not mentioned, no mentions of drug use (in terms of frank), dog parents, let me know if there's anything else!

notes. local boy dad truther didn't hop on this certified boy dad just yet, but here's a silly/flirty one between frank and his wife who is another doctor! as always please enjoy and any feedback is appropriated!

wc. 1400+

Frank Langdon was a simple man.

Wake up at 5 a.m., shower and brush his teeth, feed Nico your chocolate lab, text you since you were always out the door before sunrise, drink a cup of pre-made coldbrew for breakfast in his car, and roll into the Pitt by 7 a.m.

Routine. Reliable. Not as glamorous as your four-a.m.-scrub-call lifestyle, but it worked for him.

He tapped out a quick text before pulling out of the driveway:

FRANKY

How many brains have you terrorized already?

BABY

Two aneurysms, one awake craniotomy. Stay on your toes today, trauma boy.

He smirked at the screen. God, he loved you.

And God, you were the most competitive human alive.

Frank still remembered your first date, where you questioned his anatomy knowledge over sushi and then challenged him to a game of darts at a bar down the street—one you won, barely, after he’d been too distracted by your smile to aim properly.

Since then, everything had been a game: who could fold laundry faster, who got paged more often, who could make Nico sit the longest with a treat on his nose (Frank held that record at 20 seconds).

You kissed like you argued—passionately and deep.

All teeth and laughter and stubborn pride.

And yet, somehow, you made it work.

He parked in his usual spot and thought about your smug little face telling him, “Don’t forget who finished med school top of her class.”

Frank grinned to himself, he was gonna make today his bitch.

FRANKY

Reminder that I once splinted a femur with duct tape and a clipboard during a blackout, sweetheart.

BABY

Reminder that I once drilled through a man’s skull with no power, on the sidewalk. Try again.

God help him, he’d never loved anyone more.

After walking in and setting his stuff in his locker, he wandered around taking note of everyone who was on shift today.

Frank didn’t expect to see you so early though.

Neurosurgery lived in a whole different stratosphere most days—your floor, your ORs, your rules. You usually lived in scrubs that had been through hell and back and a ponytail that was more “get out of my way” than “good morning.” But today, as he stepped into the trauma lounge for another quick pre-round coffee, there you were. Leaning against the counter, arms crossed over your navy scrub top, sipping from a mug that very clearly had his name on it.

“Hey, babe,” you said, not even bothering to look up. “Nice of you to show up.”

Frank blinked. “Is that… my mug?”

“I earned it,” you replied. “Three surgeries before sunrise. I deserve all the caffeine this hospital has.”

He moved toward the cabinet, pulled out the backup mug—one that said ‘Trust me, I’m a real doctor’ in terrible Comic Sans—and narrowed his eyes at you over the rim.

“Is this your way of declaring war?”

You gave him a sweet, yet tired, unbothered smile. “No, Langdon. I declared war the day you said you could intubate faster than me.”

“That was four years ago.”

“And you were wrong.”

He chuckled, stepping closer, brushing your elbow with his on the way to the sugar. “You know, most people start their day with a kiss, not an insult.”

You leaned over, kissed his cheek quickly. “That was for being cute. Not for being right.”

He watched you walk away—confident, collected, the same sharp fire in your step you had on your first day in residency. You had charts under your arm and blood on your shoe and a smirk that said you’d already won whatever game he didn’t even know you were playing yet.

You were a smug, brilliant menace.

Especially because of that.

Frank took a long sip of coffee and looked at his pager. It was already buzzing with the first trauma of the day—multiple rollovers on the interstate.

He tapped out a message before heading out.

FRANKY

Bet I beat you on the case board today.

Your reply came five seconds later.

BABY

Already signed off on number 5. Better luck next time, husband. 🧠❤️

A bit later in the day a page came through just as you were wrapping up rounds: NEUROSTAT - TRAUMA BAY 1 - HEAD INJURY / MULTISYSTEM TRAUMA

You barely blinked. Tucked your tablet under your arm and turned on your heel. By the time you got down to the trauma floor, the hallway was already buzzing. Nurses shouted vitals, techs wheeled carts past with barely a glance, and a familiar voice cut through the noise like clockwork.

“Get me a line and open up the central tray—let’s move, people!”

You stepped into the trauma bay right as Frank looked up from the gurney, gloved hands bloody to the wrists, and—despite the chaos—his mouth twitched into a grin.

“Took you long enough.”

“I rushed down four flights of stairs and dodge two ortho residents arguing about tibial screws,” you fired back, snapping on your gloves. “Do you want me or not?”

Frank stepped aside just enough to give you a view of the patient—a mid-30s male, unconscious, intubated, with a deep laceration to the scalp and unequal pupils. His GCS was tanking.

“Blunt head trauma. Vitals are tanking. Pupils blew ten minutes ago. I need your magic fingers,” Frank said, handing over the head CT on a tablet.

You scanned it in seconds. “We’ve got a left-sided subdural, midline shift. He’s herniating. I need him rushed to an OR, now.”

He nodded once and spun toward the nurse’s station. “Page the rest of the neurosurg team, get an OR ready—she’s taking him up.”

“You coming with?” you asked without looking at him, already examining the patient’s vitals.

Frank glanced at the blood pooling around the patient's flank, the numbers on the monitor, then at you. “He needs decompression more than he needs a chest tube right now. I’ve got other patients after him too.”

You locked eyes for a second, both of you moving like pieces on a board already set in motion. No need to explain. No ego. Just you, him, and the patient.

“I’ll be with the team that brings him up after I stabilize the bleed,” he said, voice low as he stepped closer.

“Don’t be late,” you replied, almost a challenge.

Frank smirked, brushing his gloved knuckles briefly against your arm before turning back to the trauma team. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

You didn’t even catch how much time had passed since you had entered the OR. The surgery had gone well. As well as emergency cranial decompressions ever went, anyway. You were peeling off your gloves in the scrub room, sweat still clinging to your neck, your shoulders aching like hell from hunching over the table for hours.

The door creaked behind you.

You didn’t even turn around. “Took you long enough, Dr. Dickwad.”

Frank chuckled, slow and low, the sound bouncing off the tile. “Nice to see you too, Princess Pea Brain.”

You glanced at him through the mirror, catching the way he leaned casually against the doorframe—a surgical cap on his head, scrubs spotted with various fluids, that usual post-trauma glint in his eye.

“You missed the best part,” you said, pulling your hair free from its bun. “His brain practically thanked me for relieving the pressure.”

Frank snorted. “Right. I’m sure it whispered ‘thank you, brilliant goddess of neurosurgery,’ as you were drilling into his skull with a jackhammer”

You turned to face him now, arms crossed. “Hey. At least I didn’t almost forget to clamp the bleeder.”

He raised his hands in surrender. “I didn’t forget. I was strategically stalling.”

“Oh, is that what we’re calling panic now?”

Frank was grinning. That easy, post-shift, we-just-saved-a-life kind of grin that only came after the adrenaline settled and the reality hit you: you won.

Not against each other. Against the clock. Against chaos.

“Come here,” he said finally, stepping closer.

You raised a brow. “Why?”

“So I can do this,” he replied, sliding an arm around your waist and tugging you into him with zero warning.

You yelped, half-laughing, half-scolding. “Frank Langdon, we’re in a sterile environment!”

“We’re outside the OR,” he murmured against your hair. “And I haven’t kissed my wife since before the subdural.”

You softened a little at that. Just a little.

“You’re sweaty,” you muttered.

“You smell like iron,” he said fondly.

Still, you leaned into him, forehead against his chest, letting yourself exhale. He held you there, steady and warm, the weight of the shift slowly slipped from your shoulders.

After a few long moments, you mumbled, “You’re still a dickwad.”

“Yeah,” he whispered into your hair, kissing the top of your head. “But I’m your dickwad, princess.”

mercrvy-glow 2025

#the pitt #the pitt max #the pitt x reader #Frank Lagdon x reader #Dr. Frank Langdon x reader #Frank Langdon #Dr. Frank Langdon #the pitt x you #Frank Langdon x you #Dr. Frank Langdon x you #patrick ball #Frank Langdon.<3

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rivalsispunk · 1 month ago

Text

20 Cigarettes (DBF!Joel Miller x reader)

summary: a chance run in with your dad's best friend while visiting home for a wedding leads to something you may never be able to take back.

tags/warning: +18, mdni. Joel is in his 40s, reader is in her 20s. age gap. f!reader. unprotected piv. creampie. SMUTT. angst. slow burn. jealous Joel. drinking, smoking, swearing.(if I've missed anything let me know and I'll amend). no outbreak, non canon, mention of TLOU characters but nothing is in line with the show/game aside from the fact Joel is the dilf to end all dilfs hehe

w/c: 10k

a/n: couldn't get the new Morgan Wallen song out of my head or Joel for that matter, so enjoy this plotty smutty fic.

It’s nearly nine and The Rusty Antler is buzzing, content chatter battling with the speakers blasting a mix of pub classics and country hits. It’s unsurprising for a Friday night. The dive has always been the perfect place for locals to drink away the stresses of the week and get geared up for the weekend, everyone from tradesmen straight off the job to moms gone wild and newly twenty-one-year-olds filling up the high tops and dance floor. There’s smoke filtering in from the front deck where patrons have slipped out for a cigarette, the smog creating a haze through the bar that’s backlit but the neon beer signs hooked up on the walls. The antique Shiner sign hanging above your booth table casts a green hue over Dina, making her white Bride sash appear minty under the light.

You’d flown into Austin barely twenty-four hours ago, ready to celebrate your high school best friend’s bachelorette party, along with a couple other childhood friends and two women from Dina’s job at City Hall. You spent the bulk of the day at the local spa, getting pampered with everything from massages to manis and pedis, blowouts, the works. Dina didn’t want anything fancy for her send-off into married life.

“Just wanna do what I love, with the people I love,” she’d told you when preliminary plans were being discussed a few months back. And what Dina wants, Dina gets, which is how the six of you ended up at The Rusty Antler, the one bar that had always been your favourite since you were old enough to drink — and maybe for a few years beforehand, when you’d been able to distract the bouncer from the dodgy, fifty buck fake IDs Dina had bought from some stoner under the school bleachers. There was nothing like a night out with your girlfriends at a cosy dive with drinks and music — something you’d missed whenever you returned to Charlotte, where you’ve lived the past three years since graduating on scholarship from Duke.

You readjust the pink Bridesmaid sash that’s slung across your body, surveying the crowd.

“You got your eye on anyone special?” Molly, one of your high school friends, asks, jostling your shoulder.

“Nope,” you say, popping the p when you turn back to face the table. “That’s not what tonight’s about. I’m happy hanging with my girls and our bride-to-be.”

Dina flutters her eyelashes while she sips on her margarita. “You know, you hooking up with someone tonight would be the best wedding present you could get me.” “Your wedding’s still not for another two weeks,” you remind her. “Plus, I don’t think I’m ready for that yet.”

Dina rolls her eyes. “Babe, I know what Jesse did was God-awful. I fucking hate him for doing that to you. But you know what they say: the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else.” A chorus of totally and you’re so right rouses from the rest of the group. You shake your head, heart clenching like someone has a fist around it at the mention of Jesse. Sure, it’d been a couple months since he’d confessed to sleeping with a colleague, since you’d kicked him out of your apartment, since you’d broken up, but it wasn’t that easy to just move on. It’d been a four-year relationship. You’d seen each other through your Junior and Senior years at college and into navigating the real world together. You couldn’t just turn that part of your life off.

“Hey,” Dina’s co-worker Reese says, interrupting whatever conversation had taken over from your love life. “Do any of you know that guy? He keeps looking over here.” You follow the manicured finger she’s pointing across the room, to where a man sits at one of the bar stools, attention currently on the bartender who’s pouring him a drink. Dark, wavy hair. Carhartt jacket fighting the wide breadth of his shoulders, green flannel poking out from underneath. Worn boots rest on the foot rail that runs along the length of the rickety bar, living up to its name.

Yeah, you know him.

“Hold this for a minute.”

You palm off your tequila soda to Molly before pushing out of the black vinyl booth, just as Dina asks, “Wait, isn’t that Joel Miller?”

Your dad’s best friend. He moved in across the street the summer you returned sixteen, after his divorce and with a bubbly, curly-haired eleven-year-old daughter in two. He and your father bonded quickly over single fatherhood and sports. They were always at one or the other’s houses, cheering on game days, grilling up regular barbecues for the neighbours, drinking beers. Now that you were well into your twenties and living interstate, you couldn’t visit home as much as you’d liked, but it gave you peace of mind knowing your dad had Joel to keep him company. It’s been a couple years since you’ve seen him, and God — what’s that saying about aging and fine wine? He must be in his early forties now, at least, about a decade younger than your dad. Time has been nothing but kind to the contractor, whose skin glows with a tan from years of working on sites in the sun.

As you cross the bar towards him, you notice the silvery strands in his hair, almost metallic under the low lights, that sprout at his temples and weave their way through the waves he’s running a bearish hand over. The colours match the coarse scruff that hugs his jaw and chin, patchy in places, but not unkempt.

You slip between Joel’s barstool and the next one before saying, “You spying on me, Miller?”

He doesn’t startle, just rolls his eyes up to meet yours like he was expecting you. “Define spyin’,” he responds flatly, but you don’t miss the tilt at the corner of his mouth. “You use a fake ID to get in ‘ere tonight?”

You try to quell a grin by pushing your tongue to your cheek. It was a couple of weeks before your eighteenth birthday, your dad was out of town and you and Dina thought you’d try your luck at The Rusty Antler. The IDs had worked. You just hadn’t factored in the possibility that your dad’s best buddy would be there, too. He hadn’t ratted on you though, not in the time since, and for that you were grateful. “That was one time.”

“Mmhmm,” Joel tuts, unbelieving.

You glance at his glass. “Drinking alone?”

“Just finished up with a couple of guys from the crew. Might stay for one more,” he says as his eyes rake over you, gaze stalling at the sash draped over the swell of your breasts in a low-cut, blank tank. “S’who’s getting married?”

“Dina,” you tell him, chin jutting in the direction of where your friend is using a penis-shaped straw as a microphone while she sings along to Mr Brightside. “From high school. Don’t know if you remember her or—”

“I remember,” he cuts you off. “She babysat Sarah with you a coupl’a times.” Joel shakes his head, a stray curl falling onto his forehead. “God, can’t believe y’all are at the age where you’re getting married.”

“Well, some of us.” Jesse flashes across your mind.

“Your dad mentioned you and your fella broke up. Sorry to hear.”

You shrug. “It is what it is. Wasn’t meant to be.”

“Is anything?” Joel scoffs.

Your dimple dips into your cheek at his cynicism. “You’re telling me.” A few beats pass as you watch Joel take a languid sip of the amber liquid in his glass before he clears his throat, focusing on the scratched timber countertop. You lean backwards, elbows resting on the bar, hoping to appear nonchalant despite the weird shift you immediately felt in his presence. “And what about you?”

He looks at you sidelong. “What about me?”

“You seeing anyone?” It’s none of your business, but you’re not ready to cut the conversation short just yet.

“Don’t have time for that, darlin’.”

Darlin’. Your body tingles at the nickname.

“That’s not what I heard.”

He quirks an eyebrow. “And what did ya hear?” “Dad said you’ve been out a few times with Tess from down the street.”

“Did he now?” Joel chuckles to himself. You feel the rumble of it in your own chest. “It’s nothing serious.” “Nothing serious,” you regurgitate. Then, egged on by the alcohol in your system: “So, you’re just fucking each other, then?”

He splutters over his glass, hissing your name with a reprimanding lilt.

“What?” you ask, voice laced with innocence.

“Just never heard you talk like that. Swearin’ and all.”

“Then you ain’t spent enough time with me. I’m all grown up now, you know.”

“I noticed,” he grits, voice so low you don’t hear what he says over the whump of the music.

“What’s that?”

“Nothin’.” He glances over your shoulder, nodding in the direction of your group. “I think your friends are looking for you.” He’s not wrong. Dina and the other girls are waving you over as Brooks and Dunn’s Neon Moon begins to filter out over the speakers.

You should want to join your friends. You should want to celebrate Dina’s last official night out before she becomes a wife. But your feet are lead, keeping you stationary on the sticky barroom floor next to Joel—your dad’s best friend, you have to remind yourself, though the title feels redundant with the way his molten eyes pour over you when he thinks you’re not paying attention. But you feel it, every lick of his gaze over your bare skin branding you under the neon bleating on the wall.

“Okay, well,” you straighten up, push your chest out proudly in a way that pulls Joel’s attention to your breasts again. “It was nice to see you, Joel. Might see you around at my dad’s. I’m down for a couple of weeks, ‘til after the wedding.”

“Yeah, sure,” Joel nods curtly. “Have fun. Don’t get into too much trouble tonight.”

A light laugh bubbles from you. “Of course,” you tell him, resting a palm on his shoulder. “I always behave myself.” You push away from the bar without a second glance, but Joel’s focus is on you as you fight through the crowd that occupies the dance floor stretching between him and your friends. His eyes remain trained on the way your body swings with each step, your hips straining against your impossibly short leather skirt, the muscles in your legs rippling as your red Tecovas carry you across the room. Joel shifts on his stool. Drains his glass. Tries to ignore the fact that his faded Wranglers feel like they’ve tightened across his crotch, before flagging down the bartender for another drink. God knows he needs it.

Ten minutes later, a server appears and plants a tray of shots on the table. Dina immediately reaches for a glass of the clear liquid while one of the other girls tells the worker that you didn’t order them.

The server shakes his head. “It’s on that guy at the bar. He says congratulations.”

He’s gesturing to where Joel is perched on the peeling leather barstool. He smiles, only just, holding his neat glass of whiskey in the air with a cheers, his eyes locked on yours. You return a tight-lipped smile, holding his gaze as you throw the shot backwards, acidic heat trailing down your throat. Vodka. A shiver wracks your body before fire burns at the pit of your stomach, but whether it’s from the straight alcohol or the feeling of Joel’s eyes on you as you swallow it down is anyone’s guess.

“Thank you, Mr Miller!” Dina screeches over the music, to which he responds with a two-fingered wave. Then she turns to you, head ducked as she says, “God, I haven’t seen him in years. When did he get so hot?”

No shit, you think, then suck down the rest of your lukewarm tequila soda and push Joel Miller to the back of your mind.

***

The night quickly progresses from slamming shots at your table in the corner to dirty dance moves on the tacky floor in the middle of the dive. The bar must be at capacity, with the way that you can barely sway your hips without bumping into another patron and how the line for drinks is four people deep the whole way along the counter. Right now, Dina is at your back, an arm slung around your middle as you jump in tandem to Luke Bryan’s Country Girl (Shake It For Me). Your heart thumps to the beat of the song, cheeks aching from smiling and the joy of spending time with your best friends after so long. You’re not thinking about much aside from making sure Dina has the night she deserves, your whole body feeling featherlight under the haze of alcohol, but there’s a niggling at the back of your mind, and a heat that sears your skin like you’re being watched. A heat that has your eyes darting around the room, searching for dark eyes and a square-set jaw that belongs to a man you have no business worrying about, let alone thinking about.

Joel fucking Miller.

And there he is, on that same barstool��though his back is to the bar now so he has full sight of the room—watching you through the ever-changing gaps in the crowd.

Even from where he’s sitting, Joel notices the way your breathing hitches when you spot him, how sweat prickles just that little bit extra across your chest, his own breath catching when the light hits the bead that slips into the valley between your breasts. He knows he should look away. Hell, he should’ve walked out of here the minute he saw you barrel into the bar with your girlfriends, bridesmaid sash slung across your pert, young body—far more womanly than he remembered, or cared to notice, the previous times you’d visited home. But your dad is his best buddy. Joel owes it to him to keep an eye on his daughter, make sure she doesn’t run into any trouble. At least, that’s what he’s telling himself as your earlier declaration that you always behave toys on his conscience. Still, the angelic look that accompanied that confession is long gone as Joel watches you grind against your best friend in time to the music. A smirk tugs at your glossy, full lips, and the devious undertone of it sends a hot strike through his body, stirring his cock in its already half-hard state. Joel drops his free hand over himself, hoping to hide his arousal while the other fists his whiskey glass. With a quick glance around the room, he quickly realises he’s not the only one enjoying the show. Almost every man in the bar has his attention turned on you and Dina, watching keenly as the pair of you drop your bodies low, asses gyrating to the beat.

The song crossfades into another upbeat country hit that has the crowd hollering in approval and dividing itself into rows for line dancing. The corresponding combination begins facing away from Joel, and you lose yourself in the side steps and heel taps, clapping along to the rhythm when the routine calls for it. When the song hits its second chorus, you swing your body around to face the bar, restarting the combination, but your feet falter when you notice the loss of Joel’s attention. Now, it’s turned on a pair of men a couple of feet away from him, tension thick as the taller of the two puffs his chest. He says something to Joel that’s completely intelligible to you, but whatever it is has Joel straightening up and his eyebrows drawing together until a divot forms between them. He’s pissed—and your stomach knots. It’s no secret that Joel Miller has a short fuse, and you’ve heard the stories of him getting into bar fights back when he and your dad were young. A few when they were older, too. It’s when Joel stands from his stool, knuckles white around his glass, that you break out of your line, maneuvering around people as they hit the moves to the Big & Rich tune. Your palm hits Joel’s chest—more muscular than you were expecting for a man of his age—just as he begins to move towards the men he was talking to. Confusion crosses his dark features as he peers down at you, eyes flickering from your face to the hand on him.

He growls your name. “Move.”

You shake your head, press the butt of your palm into him even harder. “Joel, don’t. They’re not worth it.”

“Ah, so the sexy little bridesmaid belongs to you, hey, old man?” a gruff voice pipes up from behind. The comment fills in the gaps that they’ve been talking about you, and it curls Joel’s lips into a snarl. He fights against you, one of his arms shooting over your shoulder.

“I told you to watch your fuckin’ mouth.” The gravelled edge to his voice shouldn’t make your thighs press together, but it does. Your eyes drop from his face to his other hand, and you can’t stop imagining how it would feel on you instead of clenched at his side. Keeping your palm on him, pressure hard with warning, you shift so you can face the other men.

“I think we’re done here.”

The bald one sluices his eyes down your body and it makes you want to shed your skin. It’s slimy, disgusting—nothing like the way it felt when Joel did the same thing. “Depends. What’s in it for me?” You narrow your gaze. "Not bleeding, if you're smart."

A lax smirk crops up on his pudgy face. “Oh, she’s got a mouth on her. I like that.”

You can feel Joel stiffen against your hand. He’s practically vibrating, like a raging bull waiting to be let out of his pen. You stick a finger in the guy’s face, voice steady when you tell him to fuck off, aware that one of the bar’s security guards is circling close by in case the situation gets out of hand. The bald man’s friend seems to have noticed him too, because he nudges his head in the guard’s direction and suggests they move along. And they do, thankfully, but not without another snide comment under the bald guy’s breath. Whatever.

Joel’s chest heaves, your hand rising and falling with his breath as his eyes stay stuck over your head. His heart thunders through his flannel and pulses against your palm. This is the closest the pair of you have ever been. You’ve never even hugged, in all the years you’ve known each other. Not on birthdays. Not during goodbyes. A cedar scent imbued with cinnamon radiates from Joel, and for a brief second you're compelled to shove your face into his chest and inhale. To commit his smell to memory, maybe feel what it's like for him to wrap his corded arms around you and hold you to him.

Are you good?, you call yourself out, blinking yourself back to reality, the one where Joel is still rattling with anger.

“Earth to Joel.” You take your hand and click twice in front of his face. “You good?”

Eventually, his dark eyes fall to yours, and he wills himself to not let them stray further down your body. You’re all too close. “I’m fine. I had it handled.”

“Did you?” you laugh incredulously. “Because from where I’m standing, you looked about three-quarters of the way to giving that guy a knuckle sandwich.”

Joel raises a thick eyebrow with a chuckle. “Thought you said you were all grown up. Grown ups don’t call it a knuckle sandwich.”

“Grown ups also don’t try to start bar fights.”

“Touché,” Joel mumbles, and you give him a playful shove that dissipates the last of the tension in the air. You spin on a heel to face the shelves full of liquor, just as Joel offers you a drink.

“Tequila soda, right?”

“Someone’s paying attention,” you tease with a wink that goes straight to Joel’s cock. Again. Not to mention what it does to him when you lean forward on the countertop, tits pushed up to the high heavens when your arms cross over your front.

Snap out of it, Miller, he scolds himself.

“But no,” you continue, glancing down at his glass. “I want what you’re having.”

“You want a whiskey?”

“What, you don’t think I can handle it?” Your eyes sparkle with a challenge.

“Go on, then.” Joel tilts his glass towards you, inviting you to a sip of his drink. Goosebumps nip at your skin when your fingers graze when you take the whisky from him, a shock travelling from your fingertips to a heavy place at the pit of your stomach. You could blame the booze, but the way your body reacts to him feels far too real to be just a buzz.

His features are soft while you take a sip and let the whiskey coat your tongue. It’s sharp, smoky. A tinge of sweetness as it sweeps to your throat and burns its way down. The warmth of the liquor seems to flood through your veins, heating your entire body from top to toe, but your face remains unreadable to Joel when you put the glass back on its cardboard coaster. You’re unaffected, like the whiskey had no taste at all. He focuses on the golden sheen of liquid coating your full bottom lip, and he can’t help but imagine what it’d be like to take it into his mouth, to tug it with his teeth. What noise you’d make when he did—would you moan, whine? Hiss his name so he’d be forced to swallow it with a kiss? His breath catches again—fool, he thinks—when your tongue darts out and licks your lip clean, and somehow that tiny gesture is better than any intimate act he’s ever had any part of in his entire life.

“It’s good,” you confirm. Joel gives a barely-there smile and nods. “Best on the shelf.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“So, are you—“ Having fun, was his question, but a wall of orange appears beside you in the form of a younger guy in a Longhorns tee and backwards cap.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he beams down at you, all perfectly straight white teeth and confidence. You return the smile but falter on the response, your eyes quickly flitting to Joel. You’re not sure why. For permission? Maybe. But there’s a dull tug in your chest, willing him to butt in, to tell the stranger that you’re busy and to get gone.

But Joel doesn’t even move. He’s not even looking at you, for Christ’s sake, just rolls his glass around in his palm, checks his watch like he’s got somewhere to be.

Fuck it. Your smile stretches into an inviting grin in spite of the sullen mood that’s taken over the man next to you. “I’m all good for a drink but I’ll take a dance!” you tell the stranger, who introduces himself as Drew when you start leading him back towards the dancefloor. Dina and Molly hoot and holler when they notice your new addition, your best friend patting you on the butt in encouragement as you begin swaying to a half-played out Miranda Lambert track. A couple more songs pass in a blur of casual dancing and half-shouted small talk with Drew, the kind that won’t matter tomorrow when you’re both long gone, a blip on each other’s radar. You’re laughing, swaying, letting his hands find polite places to land—but the whole time, you feel it. Joel. Watching. Seething. And you don’t know why, but it irks you—that scowl he wears like it’s his birthright, the way his eyes darken as they track your every move from across the bar. So you spin around, lips curled into something just shy of a dare, and press closer to your stranger, winding an arm over your head to loop around his neck. You lean in, slow and deliberate, hips swaying in time with the music, letting yourself laugh too easily when he dips to whisper something in your ear. Joel’s jaw ticks. Blood thrums in his ears, a low roar, drowning out everything but the sight of you wrapped around someone who isn’t him—someone who can touch you without consequence. His fingers curl tighter around his glass, the strain in his hand matching the heat rising in his chest.

Are you doing this on purpose? he wonders. Trying to torture him?

Then the kid that stole you away from Joel flips you around, hands bold on your hips, ducking his head like he’s about to claim your mouth right there on the dance floor.

That’s enough.

Joel shoves his stool back and it screeches against the timber flooring. He doesn’t wait to see what happens next—can’t. He’s done, stalking through the crowd and pushing through the front door before he says or does something he can’t take back.

He doesn’t see you pull away. Doesn’t hear you mutter not tonight to Drew as you edge out of his grip, turning back toward your friends, now dancing together in a tight, giggly circle. That’s when you see him—Joel—out of the corner of your eye, disappearing into the night, shoulders drawn tight. The tension in your chest eases, but in its place comes something heavier.

Not relief. Not really. Just the hollow ache of missing the burn of his attention—like standing in the cold after stepping out of the sun.

***

Time slips by in flashes—more drinks, more music, the bass thudding through your chest as you jump and sway with your friends. Laughter comes easier, limbs looser, heat blooming beneath your skin from the mix of liquor and motion. Eventually, it’s too much—the press of bodies, the stifling air, a light dizziness creeping behind your eyes. You slip away from the noise, pushing through the door and out onto The Rusty Antler’s redwood deck, chasing the cool air as your hot breath forms in a cloud in front of your face. You gather your hair at the nape of your neck and hold it away from your skin, letting the cool air pacify the sweat sticking there as you sidestep a drunk couple filtering out of the bar behind you. You watch them cross the parking lot, zigzagging, before they disappear past a beat-up Bronco. The low whine of a heavy weight on wood snaps your head to the right and your heart leaps when you see the shadowed figure looming at the other end of the building.

He’s still here.

Your boots on the timber echo into the night as you cross the deck to where Joel stands by the railing, surveying the lot with a hand deep in the front pocket of his jeans. His other hand busies itself at his mouth, and it’s only when a plume of smoke stretches in front of him that you realise he’s got a cigarette at his lips.

Joel smokes?

"I thought you left," you say, falling into step beside him. The charred smell of burnt paper fills your nose.

"Thought you were busy," Joel bites back on an exhale. A flicker of irritation sparks under your skin at his words, but you brush it off with a shrug.

“Needed some air. I didn’t know you smoked.”

“Don’t so much anymore. Just when I need to take the edge off. Usually try’n hide it from the kids, though.”

You grit your teeth. “Don’t see any kids around here.”

Joel glances sideways at you, eyes darkening for a heartbeat, then quickly clearing as if chasing away a thought. “S’pose not. You’re someone’s kid, though.”

“My dad’s kid, you mean?” You’ve always been proud of being your father’s daughter. Wore it like a badge of honour. But right now, as you watch Joel swallow thickly, you’re not sure you want the title.

“He’s a good man. A real good friend.” The words linger, heavy in the air. You can see the quiet conflict etched across his face—the tug between loyalty and this crackling, unsaid thing between you. Joel takes another drag of his cigarette, then nods toward the parking lot. “You still got that old Jeep you used to peel around town in?”

The tension loosens slightly as you glance into the night. “Only just. I’m probably due for a new one. The thing’s a fucking relic.”

He lets out a humorless chuckle, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Like me, huh?”

You almost smile back, but the moment splinters as loud laughter filters into the night, followed by your friends barrelling onto the deck in a flurry of heels and half-shouted inside jokes. Molly and Reese are struggling to hold up Dina, who’s draped between them like a ragdoll, giggling uncontrollably.

“She needs fries and a bed—now,” Tana, Dina’s other colleague says.

“You coming?” Molly wants to know, attention flicking to where Joel hangs a few feet back, your own gaze following suit before returning to your friend.

"I might hang out here a little longer,” you tell her. “I’ll grab a ride with Joel.”

His heart stalls when he overhears this, logic grinding against the heat crawling up the back of his neck. He should say he’s leaving too, tell you not to wait, to go home with your friends. But the words don’t come. They falter, thick on his tongue, swallowed down with the acrid burn of smoke.

A drunken laugh bubbles out of Dina, lazy eyes sweeping over you and Joel. "You know when I said you need to get over that asshole Jesse by getting under someone else?” she whisper-shouts. “I wasn’t talking about your dad's DILF-y neighbour.”

"Dina!" you hiss, red creeping up your neck. You're not sure what embarrasses you more—Dina calling Joel a DILF right in front of him, or the fact that the thought of getting under him had crossed your mind a few too many times tonight for your sober self’s liking.

“I’m just saying,” she slurs, hiking a thumb over her shoulder, “that cute guy you were dancing with is still in there.”

“Not gonna happen,” you shut her down, before planting a kiss on her cheek. “Call me tomorrow, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” she waves you off before addressing Joel. “I know who you are, Miller, so if my best friend turns up missing tomorrow, I'm telling the cops to come for you, handsome."

Joel barks out a genuine laugh at this, cropping his fingers in the air in salute. "You got it, Dina. See you around, girls."

Girls. It lands like a warning. You hate how it brands you, how it tries to shrink you back into something smaller, younger. But maybe it’s not for you at all—maybe it’s for him. A last-ditch effort to redraw the line he’s toeing in his head.

You watch your friends climb into a taxi at the curb before joining Joel again.

“You don’t mind, do you?” It’s too late to ask, but you do anyway.

“Not at all,” Joel lies on an inhale. He tilts his head back, blowing smoke to the ceiling of the verandah, watching until it fans out in a thin cloud against the tin roof.

“You got another one of those?” You gesture to his cigarette. He looks from you to the burning nub, trying to piece together when the hell you picked up the habit. You expect him to pull another out of the packet that’s sat beside his wallet on the railing. Instead, he doesn’t hesitate to hold out the one he’s already got lit in the small space between you. The air’s already so charged, you’re surprised the burning cigarette doesn’t set the night alight in an explosion of flames, taking you and Joel with it. You pinch it between your thumb and forefinger, conscious not to touch Joel again after the bolt of heat you felt when he handed over his whisky back inside. His eyes track your movements as you bring the cigarette to your mouth and take a long drag. As your pale pink lips fit around it naturally, your cheeks hollowing out just slightly. The thought of putting something else in its place causes Joel to shift from one booted foot to the other. You pull it back to reveal lipstick stained on the foot of the cigarette before handing it back to the man next to you.

“I didn’t know you smoked.” Your question from earlier sounds different in Joel’s gruff drawl. And honestly, you’re not really one for the habit, but after a few drinks, you don’t mind pretending for a while.

You don’t tell Joel this, though, just throwing out: “I’m an adult now, remember? I do a lot of things I didn’t used to.”

“Guy in the Longhorns tee included in that?” Joel throws back. He knows he shouldn’t have said it but fuck, if it didn’t make him see red, that kid’s hands on you, only chasing his own high. He wouldn’t have looked after you. Not like Joel wants to. Not like he could… Like he shouldn’t.

You don’t answer right away. Not when you can see it written all over him—the bite in his voice, the flash across his eyes. He’s jealous. And trying like hell not to be. And God help you, but you like it. The electric charge, the crack in his armor. It’s raw, unguarded, and only fair that you return the candor.

“I’m kind of over the whole dating thing at the moment,” you confess, taking another drag. “Don’t know if Dad mentioned, but Jesse cheated on me. Some woman from work.”

Joel’s hand flexes at his side. “He didn’t tell me that. Sorry you had to go through that, darlin’.”

“It’s… fine,” you settle on, handing the cigarette back to him.

“‘S not fine. You don’t deserve that. He doesn’t deserve you. If he couldn’t see how good he had it, how beautiful you are…” Joel trails off, takes a puff. Meanwhile, your stomach flips at the compliment, and you’re pretty sure your cheeks are blazing as bright as the pink sash still adorning your body.

“Anyway, that whole situation put me off. Made me realise most guys my age are idiots. So, no, I’m not jumping into bed with the guy in the Longhorns tee,” you tell him, a hint of jest in your voice.

Joel lets out a ragged laugh. “All men are idiots. Doesn’t matter how old.”

You glance at him, taking in his side profile—all harsh lines and facial hair you’d kill to feel brush against your skin. “I don’t think you’re an idiot.”

Flicking ash over the railing, Joel turns his head, just slightly, so his eyes meet yours. “Then you don’t know me very well.”

The conversation ends there, and you both fall into a comfortable silence, passing the cigarette back and forth between unhurried drags for several minutes, set to the sound of the wind in the woods at the side of the bar, and the patrons inside singing along to Closing Time, despite The Rusty Antler still being an hour or so off shutting down for the night. The fall breeze picks and it tugs at your bridesmaid sash, lifting it away from your skin like a restless ghost. A shiver ripples through you, the cool night air pulling at the hair on your bare arms. Thunder rumbles in the distance, and Joel swipes his wallet and cigarette pack from the railing and shoves them into his back pocket before shrugging off his jacket, smoke pitched between his teeth.

“Put this on, ‘s cold,” he tells you, holding the Carhartt out for you.

“Joel, I’m fine, really—”

“Not an option. Your dad’ll kill me if I bring you home with pneumonia.” You bristle at the mention of your father again, but still slide into the jacket. The sleeves are far too long, the hem falling to your mid-thigh, but it’s warm and smells of Joel.

“We better get goin’. Don’t wanna get caught in whatever storm’s headed our way,” he says around his cigarette, already leading you into the parking lot towards the old half-ton he’s driven for as long as you’ve known him. He holds the door open for you, stamps the butt out in the gravel while you climb in. Then he reaches into the cab without thinking, giving the seatbelt across your chest a firm tug to make sure it’s latched. It’s automatic, protective, and you’re hit with the memory of him doing the exact same thing to Sarah, back when her feet barely reached the floor mats. You watch Joel’s eyes drop, following the path of his own fingers as they flex slightly, knuckles grazing the soft curve of your breast through you top.

Then his eyes lift—slowly—and land on yours. He freezes.

What the fuck is he doing?

Not just the seatbelt. This. You.

Something raw flickers across his face—guilt, regret, want—all tangled up in one tight breath. “Shit,” he mutters, yanking his hand back like it burns. “Sorry. Force of habit, I just—” He hesitates. “You good? Comfortable?”

You nod, too quickly. “Yeah. I’m good,” you say, but your voice is thinner than you mean it to be. Joel lingers a second longer, Then, without a word, he pulls the door shut with a dull thunk.

***

Any hope of getting home before the storm hits fades fast. Barely five minutes down the road, the sky splits open with a white-hot flash of lightning. Then the rain comes, lashing against the windshield in heavy sheets that blur everything beyond the glass. The wipers on Joel’s truck beat furiously, but it’s like driving underwater. The tail lights ahead of you become smears of red in a pit of black. Joel leans forward with tight knuckles around the wheel, a newly lit cigarette between his lips. “Gotta pull over. Can’t see shit,” he grinds, flinging the wheel to the right until the truck rests in an embankment off the highway. It seems other drivers have had the same idea, because you see the glow of more tail lights a few car-lengths ahead. The radio crackles with John Denver—Take Me Home, Country Roads coming out all staticy no thanks to the signal being interfered with by the weather.

The window’s cracked on Joel’s side, the rain tapping a quiet rhythm against it. He cranes his neck slightly to blow smoke out into the downpour, careful not to let it drift your way. A few rogue droplets slip in anyway, dotting the fabric of his flannelette sleeve. The cab smells like rain and smoke and him, and the clock on the dash blinks 12:06 AM in soft neon, casting faint shadows over the lines of his face. You unclick your seatbelt and shift in your seat, pitching one foot up on the edge of the bench, knee bent, jacket coming away from your body just enough to expose the smooth line of your thigh. It’s nothing—careless, comfortable but Joel sees it. Feels it. That small flash of skin tightens something low in his gut. The Carhartt swallows you whole, your tiny skirt and tank top disappearing underneath, making it look like there’s nothing beneath it at all. Like you’re naked under there, curled up in his passenger seat like you belong.

He turns his head, molars pressed together when he forces his eyes back to the windshield as the cigarette burns down in his hand. The rain’s still coming down in blinding sheets, hammering the hood, masking the way his breath falters. He stares through it, jaw ticking, and starts praying—quiet, fierce—that the storm lets up. Just enough to get you home. Out of his truck. Out of his jacket. Before he does something real fucking stupid.

“Sooo,” you start after a few minutes, when it becomes obvious that the storm isn’t passing over any time soon. “Tess, huh?”

Joel groans. “Can we talk about something else, please?”

You duck your head, trying to meet his gaze as you tease, "Why? The thought of her getting you all hot 'n bothered there, Miller?"

There’s a whine of leather under his single-handed grip on the wheel, then comes the glare.

It’s lethal.

There’s nothing going on with him and Tess. Not really. A couple of lowkey dinners. They fooled around once, only barely, because he struggled to get it up. It’d been a while, and in all honesty, the fling—if you could even call it that—was born out of boredom and a little coaxing from your father. Absolutely nothing to get all hot ‘n bothered about.

You pitch your hands up in mock surrender, sitting back against the seat. “No Tess talk. Got it,” you agree before letting out a contemplative hum. You could ask him about Sarah, but you two keep in touch enough for you to know she’s top of her class at UT, killing it on the first-string soccer team and has a boyfriend Joel isn’t privy to just yet.

"Dad said you caught a nail a few months back," you settle on.

Joel shifts in his seat, taps ash out the cracked window. The truck rocks with the wind.

“Is there anything your old man don’t tell you?” he asks.

You shrug. “Not really. If he’s not talkin’ to you, he’s talkin’ to me.”

He nods, slow. “Yeah. He misses you. Talks about you all the damn time.”

Another gust rattles the truck. You press your knee tighter to your chest for warmth, cheek now resting against it while you egg Joel on. “So, the nail?”

Joel huffs. “You don’t quit, huh?” You don’t dignify it with a response.. “Freak accident. Not as bad as it sounds. Ricocheted off a piece of sheet metal and wedged itself between my bottom two ribs. Just missed my lung."

You sit upright, turning your whole body to face him. “Jesus, Joel. That's what you call not as bad as it sounds?" No wonder your dad hadn’t mentioned the full extent of it. The idea of a nail sticking out of flesh makes your stomach turn over the swell of alcohol still sitting in it.

"It's fine. Had worse injuries."

Your heart thumps once, then—

"Can I see?"

Joel turns the full weight of his attention on you now, flinging the last of his cigarette into the storm, startled. "What?"

"You've got a scar, right? I wanna see it."

He arches a thick brown. "Bit morbid, don't ya think?"

"Please?" you push, dragging the word out with a look that’s all wide eyes and pouts.

Those fucking lips. How could he refuse?

Still, he makes a show of rolling his eyes while he reaches for the hem of his flannel, two fingers crooking under the fabric that he pulls up with the white t-shirt underneath. He moves slowly—intentional. Like he’s giving you time to change your mind.

You don’t.

Inch by inch, Joel reveals skin that’s warm and tan, the flash of abs dusted with a smattering of hair. The muscles there aren't tight like a younger man’s, but sturdy—strong with age and history and years of hard labor. When Joel stops, he’s hovering just above an uneven scar that’s still tinged pink at its edges. While it’s obvious against his bronzed skin, it’s small, so you shift closer for a better view, too honed in on the injury to notice the space closing between you. Joel tenses at your proximity though, every muscle in his body drawing taut like a wire being stretched to its limits.

You reach for him, for the scar, without thinking, your fingers brushing the raised crescent of his skin. It’s ragged and warm beneath your touch—tender in a way that feels too intimate for the cab of an old truck in a thunderstorm.

For a man and his best friend’s daughter.

Joel hisses at the contact, a sharp sound swiped straight from his chest like you’ve just pressed a hot iron to his ribs. His torso spasms under your fingertips and you recoil, eyes immediately searching for reassurance that he’s okay,

“Does that hurt?”

He doesn’t answer right away, jaw clenched so tight the muscle flicks. After a beat, his hand comes up to catch your wrist, to stop you. For purchase, maybe. Whatever it is, he just needs a second to collect himself, to steady the tremble running down his spine.

“No,” Joel finally says, voice rough as gravel. “Doesn’t hurt.”

But his face says otherwise. His gaze stays fixed straight ahead, unseeing. Joel knows if he looks at you, it’ll undo him completely. Whole body still, brow furrowed. You can sense it, feel it, the way he breathes through his nose like he’s barely keeping control. His thumb lingers on the inside of your wrist, heat blooming there. It stretches all the way up your arm and burrows under your collarbone, into your skin, until every bit of blood in your body is pumping fiercely, almost like your pulse is chanting Joel’s name until it falls off your lips in a whisper.

His eyes are turned on you now—dark, torn, hungry. You just stare back at him, held hostage by the way his gaze flicks from your eyes to your mouth and back again, his Adam’s apple jumping with a swallow. The storm still raging outside the truck is nothing compared to what’s building in the silence between you. Still, you can hear your heartbeat louder than the rain, louder than the thoughts telling you this is a bad idea.

“Joel,” you say again, but it’s strangled. Desperate. There’s a second—maybe less—where neither of you move, both of you frozen in the middle of it, on the edge of something irreversible. You know this is a bad idea. The kind of bad idea that doesn’t just unravel nights, but lives.

You don’t know who leans in first.

Maybe it’s both of you. Maybe it doesn’t matter.

Joel’s mouth crashes into yours like it’s the last thing keeping him alive. It’s messy, all teeth and tongues, need and no patience. There’s no slow build, no give, just him take, take, taking. His stubble scrapes against the skin of your top lip, his left hand knotted in the hair at the back of your neck like he’s trying to anchor himself to you. He tastes like the culmination of his vices: smokes and whiskey, together creating a flavour that clings to your tongue and makes you dizzy. And underneath it, something else that you can’t pinpoint. It’s warm and wild and so Joel. Not sweet. Definitely not soft, but it’s addictive in a way that makes you lean in harder, mouth open wider, like if you kiss him deep enough, you might finally figure out what it is. With another thrash of thunder, you push up from the seat, hiking a leg over Joel’s body so you’re straddling him behind the wheel, pressing your rapidly dampening core against his growing bulge. He grunts into your mouth at the movement, his tongue circling yours while your hands find the muscular planes of his jaw. You carry on like this for a few moments, grinding and groaning, ignoring the niggle at the back of your mind that tells you this is reckless—wrong, until Joel rears back, tearing his mouth from yours with a sharp inhale. He clamps his eyes shut, panting and shaking his head, like it might rattle loose the want clawing at his ribs.

“Darlin’,” he grits, and the nickname sends a hot strike of lightning through your veins. “We gotta stop. I can’t—We can’t—Your daddy’ll put me in the ground.”

The words come low, strained—like he’s dragging them out from somewhere deep where he’s still trying to do the right thing. And yet, his palm slides up your thigh like he’s already made peace with the consequences, thick fingers curling into the flesh of your ass.

“Don’t care,” you barely get out, peppering light kisses over the swell of his cheeks, trying to draw him back into the moment.

“You should. It’ll kill him,” he mutters, but doesn’t move away. Doesn’t let go. Doesn’t stop you when you shed his Carhartt jacket and let it slip into the footwell. The air filtering in through the cracked window bites at your bare skin but you don’t flinch, just press the weight of your body into Joel’s lap, your legs stretched wide across his on the bench seat. Joel’s eyes drop, and you feel the burden of his stare like a blowtorch—dragging over the curve of your collarbone, the swell of your chest, the stretch of thigh your skirt doesn’t quite cover.

“Christ,” he whispers, then his mouth is back on you, on your neck this time, licking at the pulse beneath your ear. His wiry facial hair chafes the sensitive skin there, like steel wool, before he bites at the dip behind your earlobe. Hard, yanking a high pitched gasp from you. But before the pain sets in he’s sucking the sting away with a kiss, lapping up the salty but sweet residue left over from the sweat that had wicked your skin earlier in the night.

“Do that again,” you plead, rotating your hips to gain friction where you need it most. Joel chuckles at the request, lolling his head sideways to repeat the process at your other ear.

The storm outside intensifies, rain hammering the roof like a warning neither of you heed. Instead, one of Joel’s hands slides one of your tank straps off your shoulder, dropping a quick kiss there, while the other slides from the outside of your thigh to where your panties are sticking to your throbbing core. He presses a thumb down, feeling your warm arousal seep through the thin material. An involuntary whine slips out of you at the gesture, and another flare of lightning illuminates his face just enough for you to see the self-satisfied smirk yank at Joel’s lips.

“Look at you,” he says, his hot breath summoning goosebumps across your chest. “You’re fucking soaked. How long you been like this?”

The motion of your hips is instinctive, need bleeding into your voice. “Since the bar,” you breathe. “When you tried to fight assholes.”

Joel’s jaw clenches, his fingers still slick and patient between your thighs, circling with maddening control. “That why you went after that kid?” he grits. “Needed to let off some steam, huh?” He leans in, nose brushing your jaw. “You have no idea how bad I wanted to lay into him for puttin’ his fuckin’ hands on you.”

You buck your hips forward, silently begging for more. It’s almost sick—talking about another man while this one has you trembling with every swipe of his fingers over your clothed clit—but it only heightens the need, makes the heat lick up your spine like wildfire.

“He kiss you like I do?” he growls.

Your eyes snap to his, almost black in the dark truck, but still you feel the force of them working over every inch of your face.

“Didn’t kiss him,” you pant. “Don’t want him. Only want you.”

The confession frays Joel’s composure, and he’s yanking your panties to the side and sinking his thick middle finger inside you—fuck, darlin’ barely comprehensible around a growl when he feels you flutter hotly around him.

“Yeah? Show me then,” he seethes, the pad of his finger already gently stroking that spongy wall deep in your core. “Show me how much you want me.” Your forehead drops to meet his, his free hand anchoring your hip. “Think you can come for me right here?”

Your cunt clamps down hard like your body’s answering him before your mouth can. Your breath stutters, thighs already beginning to tremble where they straddle his lap, the tension coiled so tight inside you that it feels like you could snap with just one more word, one more groan, one more look from him. “More,” you plead, eyes half-lidded, fingers finding the mess of curls at the base of his skull. “J-Joel, please.”

He complies by sliding a second finger into you slowly while his thumb meets your bare clit in unhurried circles.

“Like that, baby?”

You nod incessantly, chasing his rhythm with a circle of your hips. Your head rolls backwards, exposing the column of your throat to Joel, and he wastes no time in latching his mouth, licking hot stripes up the length of it while his fingers pick up speed. He can feel your pussy tightening, your breathing becoming ragged and movements frantic. His voice comes low against your throat, lips only just dusting your skin when he tells you, “That’s it, darlin’. You’re right there. I can feel it. Keep goin’.”

“I’m so close,” you whimper, the roll of your hips faltering when Joel tugs down on your earlobe with his teeth.

“Come on, let got for me,” he spurs you on. “Show me how good I make you feel. ‘S okay, baby, I got you.”

Your body winds tighter, trembling—right on the edge, waiting for that last push. Then, Joel jams his fingers into you that tiny bit deeper, and you seize around him with a sharp cry. Pleasure snaps through you like a rubber band on release—sudden, sharp, and overwhelming. And just as you come undone in Joel’s lap, the sky splits open above you, thunder cracking louder than it has all night, lightning flashing so bright you can still see it, even with your eyes screwed shut. It’s as if the storm had been waiting for you to fall apart, building with you, breaking with you.

Loud. Wild. Merciless.

The large hand that was previously as your hip now rests at the small of your back, Joel stroking over your tank top gently while you come down from your high, murmuring something that resembles good girl under his breath. When you finally blink your eyes open, Joel’s looking at you like he’s never seen anything quite like it. There’s a rawness in his expression—like he’s in awe, like you’ve just undone something in him he’ll never be able to put back together.

“You look so fuckin’ pretty when you come,” he tells you reverently as he slips out of you. You immediately miss the pressure of him there, but their absence is quickly forgotten when his fingers, slick with your release, disappear into his mouth with a satisfied hum. “Taste fuckin’ pretty, too.” And that’s when you feel it, him, thick and straining beneath you, his own arousal hot and urgent even through the thick denim of his jeans.

Joel shifts under you like a man possessed, one arm snaking around your waist, the other bracing the back of your head with a tenderness that steals what little air is in your lungs. One swift motion, and he lifts you off his lap and lays you down across the the worn bench seat, your back meeting the cool leather. His burly body follows, covering yours, and you hear the metallic clank of his belt buckle under the rain still pelting hard against the roof. The air inside the truck is thick now—humid with your breath, his breath, the leftover heat of your oragsm. Even with the crack in the driver side window, the glass is completely fogged, streaked with condensation. There’s a beat of hesitation in his eyes as he hovers above you, while your cunt still pulses with need despite your release just moments earlier.

“I need to feel you,” he rasps, followed by your name, voice tattered and needy. “Need to be inside you, darlin’, but—fuck, you gotta tell me. You want this?”

Your hands find his face again so your eyes are locked, and you nod—once, certain—and that’s all it takes. His hand drops between your bodies. You feel the rough scrape of denim, the tension of his zipper giving way, and then the low sound he makes when he finally frees himself. Another hand finds your underwear, dragging them down just enough to bare you to him, just enough for him to slot himself between your upper thighs, skin to skin, his body shaking with restraint as he lines himself up at your entry.

He goes slow, nudging his swollen head inside you, the stretch of him already greater compared to his thick fingers. He must feel you stiffen at the sensation, because he stalls, eyes darting from where you’re connected to your face, searching for any sign you want him to stop.

“Keep going, Joel,” you breath—beg—ghosting your thumb over his bottom lip. I’m okay, the tiny gesture tells him, and Joel continues to press into you, excruciatingly slow, pleasure chasing away the sting of his girth as he edges closer to where you need him most. He bottoms out with a depraved groan that vibrates through your chest, his hips flush against yours, the full weight of him settling deep inside. Your moan tangles with his in another hungry, messy kiss, mouths moving like you’re starved for each other—like this might be the only time you get. Joel stays there for a beat, buried to the hilt, breathing heavy against your lips before dragging his mouth lower, tracing your jaw, your throat, until his lips find your chest. One hand fumbles with your top, dragging it down just enough to free your breast, his tongue immediately swirling hot and wet around your nipple. The sensation makes you arch beneath him, breath catching as he sucks greedily, the other hand braced under your back like he’s trying to memorise the way your body bends for him.

“Joel,” you whine with your fingers knotted at the crown of his head. Another quick lick of your nipple and he’s peering up at you hungrily.

“What is it, baby?”

You rock your hips as much as you can under his weight. “Need you to move,” you say. Then, more definitely: “Need you to fuck me.”

“Jesus, woman.” The words are aggressive, just like the way his hips snap back before driving into you. Hard. Deep enough to punch the air from your lungs. His fingers press bruises into your thigh as he anchors it high around his waist, and it’s then that Joel becomes a savage—his thrusts relentless and rocking the whole damn truck with every grind of his hips.

“God, you feel perfect. Like you were made ‘f’me,” he grits. “Not gonna last long with your pretty pussy squeezin’ me like that.” Your breathy whimpers, your pleas of yes, right there, Joel, fuck puncutate each collision of your bodies, the base of his cock nudging your clit just so when he bottoms out. That familiar pressure is already building again, your second climax clawing its way from the pit of your stomach, and Joel’s lips slide into a lax smile just before your eyes sink shut.

“Yeah, darlin’, you’re gonna come for me again.” It’s not a question—Joel just knows, and pants at your ear, egging you on. “That’s it, come on.”

You seize beneath him and flutter tightly around his cock like a vise as your orgasm washes over you with a shameleslly load moan. Joel buries his face in the crook of your neck with a grunt, his hips faltering as he fucks you through the tightness around him.

“Fuck, that’s it—just like that, baby,” he rasps against your skin, breath hot and uneven. “Stay with me. Not far behind you.” His mouth finds yours again, hungry and open, as he pistons into you faster now, chasing his own edge. “Wanna fill you up. Will y’let me come in you?” Your answer comes in a breathless moan, a frantic nod against his mouth. “Yes—inside. Please.”

It’s all the coaxing Joel needs, burying himself to to the hilt with a strangled groan, movement stuttering as thick heat floods you. You hold him there with your legs, Joel twitching as he empties every last drop of himself inside you. The pair of you freeze there for a beat, panting into each other’s shoulders before he finally pulls out of you with a low, satisfied grunt. You’re sensitive now after your two shell-shock orgasms, the air cool against the mess he’s left behind. Your skirt’s bunched high around your waist, panties stretched to their limits just above your knees until Joel tugs them back into place. The rough drag of denim on your thighs makes you flinch as he redresses, his belt clinking softly in the quiet aftermath. It’s only when you peel yourself up from the bench do you realise that the storm has rolled on. Rain no longer assaults the truck. The windows are fogged but quiet now, aside from the whoosh of passing cars as headlights begin to reappear on the highway in the dead of night. It’s nearly one in the morning, according to the neon clock, and you follow suit after watching Joel click his seatbelt back over his body. He doesn’t look at you, just fishes a fresh cigarette from the crumpled packet abandoned on the dash. It ignites with a flick of a lighter, and he inhales deeply, the glow burning amber across his face.

The truck chugs to life beneath you, engine grumbling as smoke curls into the stale cab air.

“Let’s get you home,” he mutters quickly, like if he says it fast enough, he might outrun the guilt. And then he pulls back onto the highway—into the night, into whatever comes next.

***

pt. II here

a/n: pleeeeease let me know what you think!! like, share, reblog the works. i have a bit of an idea for a follow up fic, so if that's something you'd like to read, make sure you let me know that you want part 2 and whether you want to be added to the tag list for this fic!

#joel #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x reader #dbf joel miller #joel miller #joel tlou #joel the last of us #dbf!joel miller x reader #dbf!joel miller #dbf!joel #dads best friend joel miller smut #dad's best friend joel #joel miller smut #joel miller x you #pedro pascal #dbf joel smut #joel miller imagine

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onlyquinns · 2 months ago

Note

Pt. 3 of Quinn and readers wedding? Maybe the boys make a speech??

you and quinn sit side by side, hands clasped together. the two of you smile at each other, whispering softly over dinner. it’s been hours since the wedding, but the magic of it hasn’t set in yet, even as the reception dinner comes to a slow.

everyone around you eats happily, chattering and the sounds of silverware clinking together. someone whispers excitedly next to you about how gorgeous you and quinn look, and how much they can’t wait to see the two of you dance together after dinner, but you pay no attention to them.

“you look beautiful, mrs. hughes,” quinn whispers, grinning shyly as he squeezes your left hand. he holds your hand just right, the centerpiece stone catching the golden setting sun coming through the giant windows. “you always are.”

you look down at your plate, a silly smile plastered to your face from the compliment. it’s not rare for quinn to say nice things to you—he makes it a point to compliment you at least once a day—but it still makes you fluster.

you’re about to respond when you hear chair legs scrape along the floor, followed by the repetitive clinking of a fork against a crystal wine glass. quinn groans next to you, all half hearted,

“oh, god,” he says, nudging your shoulder with his as if he’s annoyed, but his lips are tugged into a large grin.

you look up as jack and luke stand to your left, nestled amongst the rest of quinn’s groomsmen. the two of them squabble over a microphone and a sheet of paper, muttering and bickering over who gets what. a soft ripple of laughter goes through the room as they finally settle on luke holding the mic and jack holding the slip of paper.

luke opens his mouth to talk, but jack clears his throat dramatically, a silly smirk on his face. “hey, party people!” he starts, and quinn sinks into his seat, a hand coming up to cover his flushed and rosy cheeks and the gorgeous smile on his face. “this goes out to our sister from another mister, the greatest baker of this century, another woman in our lives that knows what it means to sacrifice; this goes out to you, y/n.” jack makes a point to look at you, eyes softer and his smirk more tender. someone in the crowd sniffles, and that’s luke’s cue to take the microphone back.

luke runs a nervous hand through his hair as he looks at you and quinn. “before you,” he starts, “we all thought q was going to marry hockey—“ the crowd laughs, and you turn to quinn with a eye-crinkling smile, “—but you changed that.” luke smiles at you, “i have never—and i mean never—seen quinn so head over heels for anyone. i promised him to secrecy, but i’m the youngest so we all knew that was a bad idea, but the day he met you… it was his second year at umich and he told me that he was going to marry you. he told me—and mom, obviously—that you were the brightest person he’d ever seen.” you let out a watery laugh at luke’s words. “i didn’t know what that meant. i asked him, ‘bright as in smart?’ and he went off. he said that you were the smartest, kindest, most caring person he’d met—and when he got drafted, he told me he was going to propose to you then and i had to convince him not to because he hadn’t even asked you out yet.”

quinn groans in his spot, hiding his face behind his hands. you laugh at him and squeeze his thigh.

“so you knew you had a crush on me since college? i thought you started liking me after we ran into each other in canada,” you tease, reminiscing on the day you’d moved to vancouver for a job offering and had literally run into quinn, who’d offered to tour you around the city.

quinn sinks even lower in his seat, “i mightve lied,” he mumbles, and you giggle to yourself.

jack lets out an obnoxious ‘ahem,’ “we aren’t done yet,” he says sassily, rolling his eyes.

you snort, “i’m the bride!”

“uh, who cares? lukey—back to you,” jack says, dramatically turning to luke and displaying his hand out to him as a little flair.

luke laughs, the sound gentle and somewhat awkward. “uhm… after i met you, i knew quinn hadn’t lied about a single thing. you really are smart, pretty, and super kind. i’m so glad quinn found you and that you found quinn. i hope your guys’ marriage is filled with laughter, love, and a lot of baked goods—because, fuck, you make a mean lemon loaf.”

you laugh, bringing a hand up to wipe away stray tears. you sniffle and quinn tucks you against his side, wary of accidentally crushing your hairdo.

“you better treat her right, q,” jack says. “because that’s our sister, and even though we’re biologically related to you, mom taught us to always treat a lady right. i’m not afraid to call you out.” jack narrows his eyes and points at quinn, making sure he gets his point across.

quinn laughs, cheeks still red from embarrassment. “i promise to cherish her for my entire life, and the next.”

jack nods and sits down, finally satisfied, and pulls luke down with him. the other attendants burst into applaud, sharp whistles coming from some of quinn’s friends. you laugh and tuck your face into quinn’s neck, not caring about how your makeup might look after.

“i love you,” you say into his skin, breathing in the intoxicating aroma of his cologne.

quinn smiles, eyes soft as he tilts his head atop yours. “i love you more,” he says.

and you believe him, because he’s never given you a reason not to.

#val’s reqs 🧃#nhl x reader #nhl imagine #quinn hughes x reader #nhl blurb #nhl fanfiction #nhl fic #quinn hughes x y/n #quinn hughes fic #quinn hughes fluff #quinn hughes blurb #quinn hughes imagine #qh43 #quinn hughes x you #quinn hughes #nhl players

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joelsrose · 6 months ago

Text

Tangled in Paradise

my masterlist here!

Ahhhh here is chapter 1 of my new mini-series!! I am so freakin excited for you guys to read it, i've had so much fun writing it - to everyone waiting for my other stories thanks so much for being patient and i promise i will get to them! enjoy and let me know if you'd liked to be tagged in the next chapters xx

The marble counter was cool against under your skin, a welcome relief from the lingering heat of the day. You perched on the edge, scrolling through your phone with one hand, the other holding a burrito that was rapidly becoming your favorite part of the evening. Mimi, your cat, stretched luxuriously beside you, her fluffy tail flicking in idle disinterest as she basked in the low glow of the kitchen light.

Your thumb idly swiped up, Instagram reels flitting past like a mindless parade. A stupid AI-generated meme caught your attention—something ridiculous but hilarious enough to make you snort, burrito in hand.

The sound of a FaceTime notification cut through your laugh, your phone vibrating in your palm. The screen flashed with Maria’s name, her photo—a sunny candid of her grinning at a picnic—lighting up the display.

You swiped to answer.

Her face appeared, as vibrant and glowing as ever, framed by the golden light of her apartment. “Hey, girl!” she chirped, her voice carrying the kind of energy that made you suspicious.

“Hey, you,” you replied, taking a bite of your burrito mid-sentence. “Shouldn’t you be packing for your honeymoon in Hawaii or something?”

“It’s not a honeymoon,” Maria groaned, her eyes rolling so dramatically they could’ve done a full lap.

“Sure,” you drawled, giving her a knowing look. Maria and Tommy had been dating for a year and a half, and if anyone was going to get engaged in an annoyingly picture-perfect way, it was them. “But seriously,” you added, “don’t you leave in, like, two days?”

“Yeah, about that…” Her voice trailed off, her expression shifting to something between sheepish and conspiratorial.

You froze mid-chew. “Oh no. Are you guys okay? Don’t tell me you—”

“No!” she interrupted, waving her hands at the camera as if to swat the idea away. “God, you’re such a cynic.”

“Cynicism comes with being single,” you shot back, gesturing vaguely to your burrito.

She laughed, the sound warm and familiar. “Okay, so here’s the thing,” she said, leaning closer to her screen. “I have… a situation.”

“Go on,” you said, intrigued now.

Her sigh was long and theatrical. “For some reason, I let Tommy book our trip.”

“And?” you prompted, taking another bite.

“And the idiot accidentally booked a couples package,” she said, dragging out the words like they physically pained her.

You blinked, unfazed. “I don’t get it. You guys are a couple.”

“No, no,” she said, shaking her head so fast her hair whipped around her face. “He booked it for two couples. Four people.”

You nearly choked on your burrito, a laugh bursting from your chest. “Classic Tommy,” you said, grinning. “So? What’s the big deal? You’ve got a million couple friends. Pick one.”

“I’ve been asking around!” she huffed. “But everyone already has New Year’s plans, and the package is non-refundable.” She gave you a pointed look, her lips curling into a mischievous smile.

“Oh no,” you said immediately, holding up a hand. “If this is going where I think it’s going—”

“Would you want to come?” she asked, her tone overly sweet. “You’re my best friend. You’re legally obligated to say yes.”

You stared at her, incredulous. “Maria, in case it wasn’t painfully obvious, I’m single.”

“I know,” she said, rolling her eyes. “That’s why Tommy was going to ask his brother Joel to come along. That makes four people. Problem solved.”

You paused, brow furrowing. “Joel, huh?”

Maria nodded eagerly.

You thought about it for a moment. Joel. You didn’t know much about him—just snippets from Maria here and there. He worked with Tommy in construction, lived in Texas. You didn't even know what he looked like.

“I don’t know…” you hedged.

“Oh, come on,” Maria whined. “You’re not doing anything for New Year’s, and you know it. You’re just gonna sit at home, watch Bridget Jones’s Diary, and drink cheap wine with Mimi like you do every year.”

You glanced at Mimi, who stretched lazily, her tail flicking as if to agree. Maria wasn’t wrong.

“Plus,” she continued, her grin widening, “once we get there, you guys can do whatever you want. Hawaii! Beaches, cocktails, hot guys—live your best life.”

You sighed, the temptation starting to outweigh your resistance. A free trip to Hawaii with your best friend? Sand, sun, and maybe a chance to flirt your way into a memorable New Year’s Eve?

“Prettyyyyy please?” Maria hummed, drawing out the word in a way that made you laugh despite yourself.

“Okay,” you said finally, shaking your head. “I’m in.”

Maria let out a squeal of victory, throwing her hands in the air. “You’re the best! I’ll text you the details. Pack something cute!”

As the call ended, you set your phone down and looked at Mimi, who yawned lazily in response.

“Well,” you said, leaning back on the counter. “Looks like we’re skipping Bridget Jones this year.”

Hawaii, you thought. The idea felt distant, unreal. But as you glanced at the empty corner of your apartment where your suitcase sat gathering dust, you had a feeling this trip might just change more than your New Year’s plans.

⋆🌺˚.⋆ꪆৎ.🐚⋆❀˖°

Hawaii was breathtaking. The kind of beauty that made you forget how much your neck hurt from the long flight or how unreasonably sweaty you felt in the tropical heat.

You leaned your head against the open window of the taxi, letting the warm wind tangle through your hair as you gazed out at the scenery. Endless shades of green blanketed the mountains in the distance, framed by the electric blue of the ocean stretching out to the horizon. Palm trees lined the road like an army of dancers frozen mid-sway, their fronds whispering in the breeze.

Maria sat beside you, her voice animated as she gave Tommy a play-by-play update on your whereabouts. “Yep, we’re just pulling in now,” she said, twisting her body slightly to look at the approaching hotel. “Alright, bye, love you!”

You turned to her, sticking a finger down your throat in mock disgust.

“Shut up,” she said, rolling her eyes but smiling anyway.

The taxi turned into a long driveway lined with torch-lit paths and vibrant hibiscus flowers in full bloom. As the hotel came into view, you couldn’t stop yourself from leaning closer to the window.

It was like something out of a movie—a sprawling, open-air building with white stucco walls, wooden beams, and a terracotta-tiled roof. The entrance was framed by a massive archway, beyond which you could see a lush courtyard with fountains trickling water that sparkled in the sunlight.

A uniformed staff member waved the taxi forward, and your jaw nearly dropped as you took in the full view. The lobby was entirely open, its vaulted ceilings soaring toward the sky. Just beyond it, you could glimpse the infinity pool that seemed to spill directly into the ocean. The smell hit you next—salt air mixed with plumeria and something faintly sweet, like coconut.

“This is insane,” you said under your breath.

Maria beamed. “Right? This is so much better than the photos.”

The taxi slowed to a stop, and the driver hopped out to help you with your luggage. You tipped him generously and offered a polite “Mahalo,” feeling strangely self-conscious about whether you pronounced it right.

“Tommy already checked us in, so we can go straight to our room!” Maria practically bounced on her toes as she grabbed her carry-on. “Eeeeek, I’m so excited!”

“Me too,” you said with a grin, taking it all in. “And to think, you’ll be leaving here engaged.”

“Hey,” she said, giving you a mock glare. “Don’t jinx it.”

As you approached the entrance, a small group of staff members greeted you with warm smiles. A woman wearing a flowy dress in bright tropical prints stepped forward, holding a pair of leis made of fresh flowers. She draped one around Maria’s neck first, then yours, the cool petals brushing your collarbone as she said, “Aloha, and welcome.”

“Aloha,” you replied awkwardly, still feeling like an outsider in this slice of paradise.

Another staff member offered you both chilled glasses of pineapple juice, the condensation slicking your fingers. You took a sip and practically melted. It was fresh and sweet, with just the right amount of tartness.

“This is heaven,” Maria whispered as you followed the bellhop toward the elevator.

You couldn’t argue with her.

Everything about this place felt surreal—the golden light filtering through the palms, the faint hum of ukulele music from somewhere in the distance, and the soft roar of waves crashing against the shore. It was the kind of place where time seemed to slow down, urging you to forget the rest of the world existed.

⋆🌺˚.⋆ꪆৎ.🐚⋆❀˖°

“So,” Maria began, standing beside you in the elevator, glancing down at her phone. “Since it’s already…” she trailed off, squinting at the screen. “Five o’clock, how about we settle in, freshen up, and then have dinner around 6:30?”

“Sounds good,” you agreed, leaning back against the elevator wall, the faint scent of hibiscus and sea salt lingering in the air.

The elevator chimed softly, announcing your arrival at the designated floor.

You followed her as she led the way down the long, carpeted corridor, passing room numbers etched into sleek gold plaques.

“Aha!” she exclaimed, stopping in front of Room 712. “This is us.”

Us? you thought, a flicker of confusion crossing your face. But you let it slide, figuring she meant she and Tommy.

Maria slipped the key card into the slot with a practiced flourish, and the door opened with a soft click. You stepped in behind her, expecting a hotel room. Maybe a nice one—Maria had said Tommy splurged—but this wasn’t a room.

It was a suite.

No, not just a suite—a goddamn palace disguised as a hotel suite.

Your breath hitched as you took it all in. The entryway alone was larger than your living room back home, its polished marble floors gleaming under warm recessed lighting. Beyond it, the suite opened into an expansive living space with floor-to-ceiling windows that framed an unbroken view of the turquoise ocean. Sheer white curtains swayed gently in the breeze from the open balcony doors, where plush loungers and a private hot tub overlooked the horizon.

To your left, an oversized sectional couch sat in front of a sleek flat-screen TV, its armrest stacked with neatly folded, resort-branded towels. To your right, a dining table made of dark, glossy wood was set for four, complete with fresh flowers and an ice bucket chilling a bottle of champagne.

“Shit, Maria,” you breathed, turning to her with wide eyes. “This is insane.”

“I know!” she squealed, grabbing your hands and bouncing up and down like a kid at Christmas. “We’re gonna have the best time!”

You were about to ask where you’d be staying when a familiar voice cut through the moment.

“Hey, baby,” Tommy called, appearing from one of the adjacent rooms. He grinned as he walked over, pulling Maria into a hug and kissing her lightly on the lips. “I thought I heard you. How was the flight?”

“Good,” she replied, resting her head briefly against his shoulder before pulling back to gesture around the suite. “This is incredible, Tommy.”

“Yeah, guess I didn’t fuck up too bad, huh?” he said with a grin.

She rolled her eyes, but her smile softened.

Tommy’s gaze shifted to you, his grin widening. “Hey, darlin’. How’ve you been?”

You returned his smile as he pulled you into a friendly hug, the scent of sunscreen and a hint of aftershave clinging to him.

“Good, Tommy. You?”

“Better now that I’m in fucking Hawaii,” he said with a laugh, gesturing around dramatically.

You laughed, too, feeling some of the tension from the long day begin to melt away. Tommy had always been easy to like—funny, respectful, and completely devoted to Maria. He had that older brother vibe with you, always quick to check in and make you laugh when you needed it.

“So,” you said, glancing around. “Do I have a room key or something?”

Maria and Tommy exchanged a quick glance, his arm still draped casually around her shoulders.

“Oh,” Tommy said, scratching the back of his neck as he turned to Maria. “You didn’t tell her?”

“Tell me what?” Your eyebrows knit together in confusion, the first twinges of unease creeping in.

Tommy gestured around the suite. “This is it. The suite. We’re all staying here. There are two big rooms—come on, I’ll show you!”

Before you could even react, Tommy had slipped his arm around yours, steering you further into the space like an overenthusiastic tour guide.

“Maria—” you started, but he was already pointing things out.

“Look at this place!” Tommy exclaimed, his voice brimming with the kind of excitement that made it hard to stay mad at him. He pointed at the sprawling living room like a proud real estate agent. “Big-ass TV, private balcony, minibar—it’s nuts. And wait ‘til you see the bedrooms. King-sized beds, the works.”

You shot a quick glance over your shoulder, catching Maria hovering by the door. She met your glare with a sheepish shrug, mouthing a silent sorry, her lips curving into an awkward half-smile.

Sorry? That was all she had to say?

Tommy was already leading you deeper into the suite, his arm draped comfortably around yours, blissfully unaware of the rising irritation simmering beneath your polite nods.

“Over here’s the kitchen,” Tommy said, gesturing to a sleek, open-concept area with dark wood cabinets, marble countertops, and stainless steel appliances that gleamed like they’d never been touched. “I mean, not that we’re cooking or anything, but still—pretty sweet, huh?”

You nodded absently, still reeling from the revelation that this wasn’t just their setup—it was your setup, too.

“And here,” Tommy said, stopping in front of a door, “is one of the bedrooms.” He swung it open with a flourish.

The room was absurdly gorgeous. A king-sized bed dominated the space, dressed in crisp white linens with a soft, seafoam-green throw draped across the foot. The headboard was made of rich, dark wood, its edges carved with delicate floral patterns that gave the room an understated elegance. Floor-to-ceiling windows opened to a private balcony, where you could already hear the gentle crash of waves in the distance.

“Not bad, huh?” Tommy grinned, leaning against the doorframe.

“Not bad?” you echoed, unable to hide the hint of sarcasm in your tone. “Tommy, this is ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously awesome,” he corrected, winking.

You let out a breath, forcing a smile as you turned back toward the living room. Maria was still hovering by the door, clearly trying to avoid eye contact.

“Maria,” you hissed, your voice low but sharp as you made your way over to her.

She plastered on an innocent smile. “What?”

“What do you mean what?” you whispered, glancing back to make sure Tommy wasn’t listening. “You didn’t think to mention we’re all staying in the same suite?”

She shrugged again, this time with exaggerated nonchalance. “I didn’t think it was a big deal! The place is huge. You’ll hardly even notice.”

“Hardly notice?” you repeated, your voice rising slightly before you caught yourself. You took a calming breath, lowering your tone again. “Maria, I thought I’d have my own room. My own space.”

“You do have your own space!” she insisted, gesturing toward the suite with a grin. “Look around—it’s basically a mansion. And Tommy said the other bedroom is just as nice as this one.”

“Maria,” you started, pinching the bridge of your nose.

She cut you off with a dramatic sigh, stepping closer to loop her arm through yours. “Look, I know this isn’t what you were expecting, but come on. It’s Hawaii. The suite is incredible. We’re gonna have an amazing time.”

“I didn’t realize me and Joel would be sharing a fucking room together!” you hissed, keeping your voice low but sharp.

Maria waved a dismissive hand, her expression almost too breezy. “It’s fine. Joel’s a gentleman. He’ll sleep on the couch or something.”

“Oh, so I’ll just be the bitch who forced a man to sleep on a couch during his vacation?” you shot back, your voice dripping with sarcasm.

Maria winced, but only slightly. “You’re being dramatic.”

You raised an incredulous eyebrow. “Am I?”

She stepped forward, placing her hands on your shoulders, her expression softening into the kind of pout that had gotten her out of trouble since you were in college. “Please,” she murmured, drawing out your name like a plea. “It’ll be fine. Joel’s easygoing. And think about it—how much time are you really gonna spend in the room? You’ll barely even notice.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but she cut you off again. “Plus,” she added, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper, “I’m getting engaged this week. You can deal with this, right? For meee?”

Her eyes were wide and imploring, and despite every bone in your body wanting to say no, the guilt crept in like an uninvited guest. You sighed heavily, running a hand through your hair.

She was right. You could deal with it. Worst-case scenario, you’d take the damn couch yourself. It was a minor inconvenience in the grand scheme of things… right?

“Okay,” you said finally, the word coming out like a reluctant exhale. “Okay. Yeah. Fine.”

Maria’s face lit up like the Fourth of July. “You’re the best! I owe you one,” she said, pulling you into a quick, triumphant hug.

“Oh, you owe me big,” you muttered, your voice muffled against her shoulder.

She pulled back, grinning. “I promise, this is gonna be the best trip ever. You’ll see.”

⋆🌺˚.⋆ꪆৎ.🐚⋆❀˖°

You stepped into the room you’d be sharing with Joel and let out a long sigh. It was gorgeous, of course, just like the rest of the suite—spacious, luxurious, and dripping with the kind of elegance that made you feel like an imposter just by being there.

The centerpiece was a king-sized bed that dominated the room, its crisp white linens layered with soft, seafoam-green pillows that practically begged you to sink into them.

A pair of matching nightstands flanked the bed, each topped with sleek glass lamps that cast a warm, inviting glow. Across from the bed, a low, polished dresser supported a large flat-screen TV, and the far wall was made entirely of glass, leading out to a private balcony. Through the sliding doors, you could see the ocean stretching endlessly, the sound of waves crashing faintly in the distance.

It was beautiful. It was serene. And it was yours… and Joel’s.

Sharing a room with a stranger wasn’t exactly how you imagined this trip starting, but it wasn’t like you could back out now.

You smoothed down your clothes and stepped out into the suite’s living room. The evening light poured through the massive windows, painting the space in shades of gold and orange. Maria and Tommy were curled up on the couch together, her head resting on his chest as they laughed softly at something he’d said.

“Hey, lovebirds,” you called, leaning against the arm of the couch.

“Hey!” Maria greeted you with a bright smile, sitting up slightly while Tommy offered you a quick nod.

“So, uh…” you began, shifting awkwardly. “Is Joel—?”

“Oh, yeah,” Tommy said, interrupting you as he sat up straighter. “The idiot missed his flight.” He shook his head, though there was no real malice in his voice, only amusement. “But he’ll be here soon.”

“Ah,” you said, nodding. “Okay. I think I’m gonna take a shower in the meantime.”

“Alright,” Maria replied, stretching her legs out across Tommy’s lap.

But just as you turned to head back to your room, Tommy’s voice stopped you.

“Oh, hey,” he said, his tone softening as you glanced back. “I think you two will really get along.”

You tilted your head, raising an eyebrow. “Do you?”

“Yeah,” he continued, a knowing smile tugging at his lips. “I know it’s a weird situation—sharing a room and all—but Joel’s… he’s a good guy.”

You nodded slowly, unsure of how to respond but unable to stop the flicker of curiosity sparking in your chest.

“Well,” you said finally, “I guess we’ll see.”

Tommy grinned, leaning back into the couch as Maria nestled closer to him.

You turned and headed for your room, the sound of waves and the low murmur of their voices fading behind you. As you closed the door, you couldn’t help but glance at the bed again. Sharing a room might be awkward, sure—but it might also be the most interesting part of this trip.

And something told you that Joel Miller wasn’t the kind of man you could easily forget.

⋆🌺˚.⋆ꪆৎ.🐚⋆❀˖°

The shower was as luxurious as the rest of the suite, a spa-like haven of sleek stone tiles in earthy tones that stretched from floor to ceiling. The water cascaded from a wide, rain-style showerhead above, warm and steady, like a soothing tropical downpour.

Built-in shelves held miniature bottles of fragrant shampoo, conditioner, and body wash, each scented faintly of coconut and vanilla. Soft recessed lighting bathed the space in a warm glow, and a small, fog-free mirror was cleverly positioned above a polished stainless-steel bench.

You hummed softly, the sound mingling with the rhythmic patter of water as you worked shampoo through your hair. The gentle steam wrapped around you like a cocoon, loosening the knots in your muscles and leaving your skin dewy and warm.

This was paradise, you thought, your hands scrubbing at your scalp. For the first time in months—years, maybe—you felt truly relaxed. No deadlines, no responsibilities, just the soothing rush of water and the faint scent of the ocean wafting through the cracked bathroom window.

“Hey!” Maria’s voice rang out from the living room, muffled by the sound of the shower.

You turned the water pressure down just enough to hear her better. “Yeah?”

“Tommy and I are gonna head out and grab a coffee. Do you want anything?”

“Ooh! An iced vanilla latte please!” you shouted back, your voice echoing slightly off the tiled walls.

“Got it!” she called. “We’ll lock up behind us.”

“Okay!” you yelled, adjusting the temperature slightly.

A soft click of the door signaled their departure, the quiet settling over the suite like a warm blanket. You were alone now, the world outside reduced to the distant hum of waves and the steady rhythm of water hitting the tiles.

You sighed, working conditioner through the ends of your hair, letting the tension in your shoulders melt away. This was perfect. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d felt this kind of peace—a moment entirely yours, untouched by worry or distraction.

⋆🌺˚.⋆ꪆৎ.🐚⋆❀˖°

The bathroom was warm and hazy with steam, the scent of coconut and vanilla lingering in the air as you wrapped a fluffy white towel around yourself. Your hair dripped in lazy rivulets down your back, and you ran a hand through it, reveling in the feeling of complete relaxation. This was bliss.

You barely registered the muffled sound of the suite door opening, or the faint, low rumble of a man’s voice calling, “Tommy?” from the living room. Even if you had, it would have been drowned out by your impassioned rendition of Smooth Operator, your voice echoing off the bathroom tiles as you gave yourself over to the moment.

Joel Miller—unknowingly your temporary roommate—entered the shared room with his eyes glued to his phone, his brow furrowed in mild annoyance. His thumb scrolled idly as he typed out a text to Tommy, Where the hell are you? He muttered something to himself under his breath, the deep, low timbre of his voice carrying a faint Texas drawl.

Completely oblivious, he walked toward the bed, not noticing the neatly folded pile of your clothes sitting on top of it, or your travel bag perched on the dresser. His focus was laser-sharp on the glowing screen in his hand, his frustration apparent in the slight clench of his jaw and the furrow of his dark brows.

You didn’t hear him.

He didn’t see you.

Not until you pushed the bathroom door open, a plume of steam rolling out ahead of you as you stepped into the main room.

And there he was.

Standing by the bed, his broad shoulders filling the space as effortlessly as the sunlight spilling in from the balcony. His dark hair was slightly tousled, and his scruff-lined jaw shifted as he frowned down at his phone. He was gorgeous.

You froze, your breath catching in your throat.

Joel, still engrossed in whatever was on his screen, didn’t notice you at first. Then, slowly, his head lifted—like he sensed your presence—and his eyes landed on you.

The moment stretched, silent and charged.

And then you screamed.

Like, actually screamed.

Joel jumped, his phone nearly slipping from his hand as his wide eyes shot up to meet yours. “Jesus Christ!” he barked, his voice rough and sharp, like gravel. “What the hell—”

“What the hell?” you shrieked back, clutching your towel tighter as your heart threatened to beat out of your chest.

Joel held up his hands, palms out in a gesture of surrender, his phone dangling precariously between his fingers. “Hey, easy! I—” His words faltered as his gaze flickered—briefly, too briefly—to the towel clinging to your body before snapping back to your face. His cheeks flushed slightly, though his tone remained gruff. “I didn’t know you were… here.”

“You didn’t know?” you sputtered, taking a defensive step back toward the bathroom door. “What are you even doing in my room?”

Joel frowned, gesturing vaguely at the space around him. “Your room? Pretty sure this is my room too.”

Your jaw dropped, words failing you for a moment as your mind scrambled to process the situation. “You—you’re Joel?”

His brow lifted slightly, his mouth twitching into what might have been a smirk if the situation weren’t so absurd. “That’d be me,” he said, his voice dipping lower.

You groaned, dragging a hand down your damp face. “Of course. Of course this is how I meet you.”

Joel crossed his arms, leaning slightly against the edge of the bed as he regarded you with a mix of amusement and exasperation. “Look, didn’t mean to scare you, alright? Figured this room was empty when I didn’t see Tommy’s stuff.”

“Well, it’s not empty,” you shot back, your cheeks burning. “Clearly.”

“Yeah, I got that now,” he said dryly, his lips quirking into something dangerously close to a smile. His gaze flickered briefly to the bathroom door, then back to you, his brown eyes glinting with amusement. “You, uh… wanna put on some clothes before we keep yellin’ at each other?”

Your face burned, heat flooding your cheeks as the reality of the situation hit you. You were still standing there, dripping wet and wrapped in nothing but a towel, completely exposed in every possible way.

“Fuck,” you muttered under your breath, tightening your grip on the towel.

His eyebrows shot up, and damn it, he looked smug about it. That stupid little smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, his arms crossing over his chest in a way that only made him seem more amused.

Before you could say anything else—or throw something at him—Tommy burst into the room, Maria trailing close behind, both of them wide-eyed and holding coffee cups.

“Hey!” Tommy shouted, his voice loud and panicked. “Are you alright? We heard screaming—”

He froze mid-sentence, his gaze bouncing between you, half-naked and flushed, and Joel, standing entirely too casually by the bed.

Maria’s hand flew to her mouth, barely stifling a laugh as she took in the scene, her eyes dancing with poorly concealed amusement.

“Maria!” you snapped, your voice a sharp plea as you clutched the towel tighter around you.

Tommy, meanwhile, didn’t miss a beat. He grinned, his worry evaporating in an instant as he stepped toward Joel. “Hey, big bro,” he said, pulling Joel into a quick hug, completely unfazed by the tension in the room.

“Hey,” Joel replied, his voice smooth and easy, like this whole situation wasn’t absolutely mortifying.

“How was your flight?” Tommy asked, stepping back as if this were the most normal reunion in the world.

“Good,” Joel said, shrugging as he turned to Maria. He leaned down to kiss her cheek, his tone softening just slightly. “Hey, Maria.”

You stood there, utterly stunned, your mouth slightly open as the three of them exchanged greetings like you weren’t standing there, soaking wet and humiliated in the middle of the room. It was laughable. It was absurd.

Maria caught your desperate look and cleared her throat, nudging Tommy. “We should, uh…”

“Right,” Tommy agreed, glancing at the coffees in his hands. “We should get outta your hair.”

Joel, however, didn’t move right away. His gaze flicked back to you, slow and deliberate, his dark eyes dragging over you in a way that felt both infuriating and electric. He tilted his head slightly, his smirk deepening.

“See you soon, roomie,” he drawled, the emphasis on the word sending a jolt of annoyance through you. He finished with a wink that made your stomach twist in ways you didn’t care to analyze.

You barely managed to hold back a growl as he turned and followed Tommy and Maria out of the room, their laughter trailing behind them. The door clicked shut, leaving you standing there, still clutching your towel and feeling like the universe’s favorite punchline.

“Great,” you muttered to yourself, glaring at the door. “This is just great.”

⋆🌺˚.⋆ꪆৎ.🐚⋆❀˖°

You sat cross-legged on the edge of the bed, staring at the crisp white linens like they might hold the answer to your predicament. For thirty long minutes, you debated your options, none of which seemed remotely appealing.

Option one: walk out there and pretend like nothing happened, even though Joel’s smug face was now burned into your memory. Option two: stay in this room for the rest of the vacation, surviving on room service and spite. Option three: book a flight home and disappear into the dead of night, leaving Maria to deal with the fallout of her matchmaking debacle.

You groaned, dropping your head into your hands.

Your phone buzzed, the soft ding breaking the silence. You picked it up, already bracing yourself.

Maria: You gonna come out or stay in there forever?

You sighed heavily, typing back a quick response. You: Maria, this is so embarrassing.

Her reply came almost immediately. Maria: It’s not. Can Joel come and get settled? The poor guy.

Poor guy? Was she kidding? Poor you!

You sighed again, the sound loud and dramatic even to your own ears. Fine. If Joel needed to get into the room so badly, you weren’t going to be the one standing in his way. You: Yes. He can.

Maria’s response came with an infuriating kissy-face emoji that made you want to hurl your phone across the room.

A sharp knock on the door startled you out of your spiraling thoughts.

And then the knock came again. And again. And again.

You rolled your eyes, standing up and calling out, “Yes?”

“Hey, it’s Joel,” his voice came from the other side of the door, deep and slightly muffled. He kept knocking.

Still knocking.

“Can I come in?”

“Yes,” you shouted, exasperated.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes!”

“Are you clothed?”

You threw your hands in the air, your irritation bubbling over. “Jesus Christ!”

He laughed softly through the door, the sound aggravatingly charming.

You stormed to the door and yanked it open, ready to let him have it—but the words caught in your throat when you saw him. Joel stood there, hand still raised mid-knock, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He was leaning slightly against the doorframe, his broad shoulders filling the space effortlessly, and the playful glint in his eyes told you he was thoroughly enjoying himself.

“Just makin’ sure,” Joel said, his tone easy as his gaze flicked over you, his eyes pausing briefly on your flushed cheeks before settling on yours. There was a teasing glint in his expression, the kind that made your pulse do a little stumble.

You stood there, arms crossed, doing your best to meet his gaze without faltering.

He tilted his head slightly, his brow lifting as he watched you.

“What?” you asked, your voice sharp, defensive.

“You’re, uh…” he gestured toward the doorframe with a small tilt of his chin, “kinda in the way.”

“Oh.” You blinked, flustered, before stepping aside. “Come in.”

Joel stepped past you, his eyes scanning the room with a low whistle. “This place is insane,” he said, his voice warm with genuine awe. “Fuckin’ worlds away from Texas.”

You almost smiled, thankful he didn’t make the whole towel incident more awkward than it already was.

He turned to you then, leaning casually against the edge of the dresser, his arms crossing over his chest. “So,” he began, his voice dipping into something dangerously close to playful. “I see you claimed the right side of the bed.”

“Is that a problem?” you shot back, mirroring his crossed arms with your own.

“Nah.” Joel shook his head, his lips quirking into that same infuriating smirk. “I should be closest to the door anyway.”

You frowned. “Why?”

“In case a murderer comes in,” he said simply, shrugging like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“What the hell?” you asked, staring at him.

“What?” He gave you a look, like you were the one being unreasonable. “Us men gotta think about these things.”

You were about to reply—maybe point out how absurd he sounded—but the words died on your tongue as Joel casually reached behind his neck, grabbed a fistful of his shirt, and shrugged it off in one smooth motion.

Your breath caught.

He stood there, completely unbothered, the golden light from the balcony casting shadows across the toned muscles of his chest. His skin was sun-kissed, his shoulders broad and strong, with a faint trail of dark hair running down his stomach. It was like something out of a magazine—effortless, masculine, and almost unbearably unfair.

You gulped, suddenly forgetting how words worked.

Joel caught your stare, his mouth twitching into that damn smirk again. “What’re you doin’?” you managed, your voice higher than you intended.

“What does it look like?” he replied, tossing his shirt onto the back of a chair like he owned the place. “Seriously, if you’re gonna freak out every time I take my shirt off, we’re gonna have a problem.”

You blinked at him, floundering for a response.

“We’re in Hawaii,” he added, gesturing vaguely toward the balcony as if to drive his point home.

“I know that,” you snapped, crossing your arms tighter, though the heat rushing to your face wasn’t helping your case.

Joel grinned, shaking his head as he grabbed a towel from the dresser. “I’m gonna go take a shower,” he said, his tone light, teasing, like this was all some game he was enjoying far too much.

You stood there for a moment after Joel disappeared into the bathroom, the faint click of the door echoing through the room. It was ridiculous how your heart was racing, how the heat lingering in your cheeks wouldn’t budge no matter how many deep breaths you took.

You shook your head, muttering to yourself as you crossed the room. “Unbelievable. Insufferable.” You tossed a glance at the bathroom door, half-expecting Joel to stick his head out and throw another one of those infuriating comments your way. But all you could hear was the sound of the shower turning on, the steady stream of water muffling whatever he might be saying to himself in there.

You tried to focus on something else, anything else. You unpacked a few things, neatly folding your clothes into the dresser drawers, your movements quick and sharp. But your mind refused to stay on task, wandering back to the way Joel had just… shrugged off his shirt like it was nothing. Like he didn’t notice—or care—how good he looked doing it.

Your lips pressed into a thin line as you shoved the last of your shirts into the drawer. You’d met plenty of flirty guys before, but there was something about Joel—something about the way he seemed so at ease, so himself, that made him impossible to ignore.

The bathroom door opened, and Joel stepped out, a cloud of steam following him like it was part of his aura. He was shirtless, of course, a white towel slung casually around his waist, droplets of water still clinging to his skin. His damp hair curled slightly at the ends, darker now that it was wet, and he was rubbing the back of his neck as though he hadn’t just walked out looking like a whole damn Calvin Klein ad.

You froze, your hand still on the drawer handle, and for the briefest second, you considered looking away. But Joel caught your gaze before you could, his lips curving into that easy, teasing grin.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt your unpacking,” he said, his tone warm and playful. “Figured you’d need the bathroom soon.”

“I—uh—yeah,” you stammered, mentally kicking yourself for how pathetic that sounded.

Joel’s grin widened, and he leaned casually against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest. “Y’know,” he drawled, “you don’t have to look so nervous. I don’t bite.” He paused, tilting his head slightly, his eyes glinting with amusement. “Unless you’re into that.”

Your mouth fell open, and you snapped it shut again almost immediately. “You’re impossible,” you muttered, pushing past him toward the bathroom.

⋆🌺˚.⋆ꪆৎ.🐚⋆❀˖°

The sun dipped lower, painting the sky in hues of amber and crimson, its golden light filtering into your room through the slightly ajar door leading to the suite’s main balcony. From outside, you could hear Maria, Tommy, and Joel’s voices carrying on the ocean breeze—easy laughter and teasing banter.

You sat cross-legged on the floor, your back resting against the edge of the bed. The large mirror propped in front of you reflected your half-done makeup, the bronzer brush in your hand hovering mid-air as you muttered a curse under your breath. You were running late—distracted by the events of the afternoon.

Behind you, the bed was a mess of organized chaos: two dresses—one slinky and black, the other vibrant red—lay sprawled across the sheets, along with a carefully chosen collection of jewelry. Your music played softly from your phone on the floor, and you hummed along absentmindedly between swipes of blush.

What you didn’t notice was the sound of the balcony door sliding open, or the way Joel sauntered into the room like he had all the time in the world.

He wore a pale linen shirt, unbuttoned at the collar and rolled up at the sleeves, paired with beige shorts that hung low on his hips. The soft golden light of the setting sun kissed his skin, highlighting the faint sheen of the humid evening air. His hair was perfectly tousled, like he’d just run his fingers through it, and he carried two beers in hand, the bottles clinking softly as he moved.

“Hey,” he said casually, his deep drawl breaking through your concentration as he lowered himself onto the edge of the bed behind you, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight.

You jumped slightly, your eyes darting to the mirror where you caught his reflection. Your gaze locked with his, and for a moment, the air in the room felt heavier, smaller. “Hey,” you replied, suddenly hyper-aware of the blush brush in your hand and the faint flush already spreading across your cheeks.

Joel leaned back slightly, one elbow propped on the mattress, his expression easy but his eyes sharp as he studied you. “Didn’t mean to scare ya,” he said with a faint grin, holding out one of the beers. “Beer?”

You shook your head quickly, turning back to the mirror and dabbing more blush onto your cheeks, as if that could somehow cool the warmth rising to your face. “Oh, no thank you. Can’t stand the taste of beer.”

Joel raised an eyebrow, twisting the cap off one of the bottles with practiced ease. “Can’t stand it?”

You laughed softly, glancing at him through the mirror. “Nope. I don’t get how anyone likes it.”

He chuckled, taking a swig before setting the untouched bottle on the nightstand. “Guess that means more for me.”

The silence between you settled, not awkward but charged, the kind of silence that felt heavy with words unspoken. Joel’s gaze drifted to the bed beside him, his fingers brushing over the fabric of the red dress before he glanced back at you.

“So,” he began, his tone teasing but gentle. “Which one are you plannin’ on?”

Your hand froze mid-swipe, and you turned to face him fully, your lips parting slightly. “I, uh…” You looked between him and the dresses, suddenly feeling shy under his steady gaze.

Joel tilted his head, his grin shifting into something softer, more crooked. “C’mon, roomie. You gotta pick. Red or black?”

You hesitated, biting your lip. “I was leaning toward the black one,” you admitted, though you weren’t entirely sure why you felt the need to explain.

Joel nodded thoughtfully, his fingers brushing the fabric of the red dress again before he picked it up, holding it out as though inspecting it more closely. “Black’s classy. Safe,” he said slowly, his voice quieting. “But…” He paused, swallowing hard enough that you noticed. “I think red.” His usual confidence faltered for a fleeting moment, his gaze flickering to you briefly before returning to the dress. “Red would look, uh… really good.”

Something in his voice—almost awkward, but sincere—made your chest tighten. “Okay,” you said softly, turning back to the mirror before the moment stretched too long. “I’ll think about it.”

Joel nodded, setting the dress back down just as your timer went off on your phone. You swore softly, rushing to finish your blush. “Shit, I swear I’m almost done,” you said, glancing at Joel apologetically.

Joel stayed exactly where he was, his gaze still on you in the mirror, his voice warm and easy. “Hey,” he said. “Take your time. We’re not in a hurry.”

You hesitated, meeting his eyes through the reflection. “You sure? I don’t want to hold everyone up.”

Joel shook his head, his grin softening. “We’re in Hawaii. Ain’t no rules about bein’ late here. Besides, worth the wait.”

Your chest tightened again, and this time, you couldn’t quite hide the faint smile pulling at your lips. “Thanks,” you murmured.

“No problem,” Joel replied, leaning back on his hands. “I’ll, uh, let you get ready.”

His gaze caught on something on the bed, and he reached out, picking up the delicate necklace you’d set aside. “Oh. Did you need help with this?”

“Oh, you don’t have to,” you said quickly, shaking your head.

“It’s really no problem,” Joel said, already standing and crouching down behind you.

The warmth of him was immediate, his presence so close that you swore you could feel the faint brush of his breath against your neck. “Here,” he murmured, his voice lower now. “Hold still.”

Your hands trembled slightly as you lifted your hair, exposing the back of your neck. Joel’s fingers were surprisingly gentle as he fastened the clasp, his touch lingering for just a second longer than necessary.

“There,” he said, his voice soft as his hands dropped back to his sides.

You turned slightly, catching his gaze in the mirror. His eyes lingered on yours, and for a moment, neither of you said a word.

“Perfect,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding in your chest. “Thanks.”

⋆🌺˚.⋆ꪆৎ.🐚⋆❀˖°

The hotel grounds were even more breathtaking at night. The warm glow of lanterns lined the stone pathways, their soft light spilling onto lush tropical plants and casting flickering shadows on the ground. The air was thick with the mingling scents of saltwater and frangipani, and somewhere in the distance, the faint sound of waves crashing against the shore carried through the warm breeze.

Maria and Tommy walked ahead of you, their hands interlocked, their laughter soft and easy. Maria wore a flowing emerald-green dress that seemed to shimmer as she moved, her hair styled in loose waves that framed her glowing face. Tommy leaned toward her as she said something, his smile wide and unrestrained as he brushed a kiss against her temple. They looked like something out of a postcard—effortlessly in love and perfectly matched.

You and Joel followed behind, your steps falling into an unspoken rhythm. His hands were tucked casually into the pockets of his shorts, the rolled sleeves of his linen shirt revealing the golden tan of his forearms. The easy sway of his stride gave him an air of confidence that felt completely natural, like he didn’t even realize the effect he had on people—or maybe he did, and just didn’t care.

As you passed beneath an arch of twinkling string lights, Joel glanced over at you, his dark eyes catching the light for a brief moment before his lips curved into a small, knowing smile.

“So,” he drawled, his voice low enough that only you could hear. “You listened to me, huh?”

You glanced up at him, your brows furrowing in confusion. “What?”

He nodded subtly toward your dress, the red fabric clinging to your figure in all the right ways. “The red,” he said, his grin turning slightly crooked. “Told you it’d look good.”

You felt your cheeks warm under his gaze, the heat crawling up your neck despite the cool evening breeze. You glanced down at the dress, brushing invisible lint off the fabric as you tried to steady your voice. “Thanks,” you said lightly, tilting your head just enough to give him a sidelong glance. “Guess you’ll be my fashion advisor for the trip.”

Joel chuckled, the sound low and rich, like a melody you didn’t realize you wanted to hear on repeat.

“Careful now,” he said, leaning closer as his voice dropped just a fraction. “You let me make too many decisions, and next thing you know, I’ll have you in cowboy boots and denim shorts.”

You snorted, shaking your head. “Not a chance.”

“Never say never, roomie,” he teased, his grin widening as his arm brushed yours for a fleeting moment.

The two of you fell into a comfortable silence for a few beats, your steps in sync as you followed the soft glow of lanterns illuminating the path. Maria and Tommy’s laughter floated back to you from up ahead, their silhouettes framed by the soft flicker of string lights.

“So,” Joel said after a moment, leaning slightly toward you as though he were sharing some grand secret. “Tommy thinks Maria has no clue he’s gonna propose.”

You glanced up at him, your brow furrowing. “Seriously?”

Joel nodded, his grin growing more playful. “Yep. Poor guy’s convinced she hasn’t pieced it together.”

“She’s got a hunch,” you said knowingly, the corners of your mouth quirking into a small smile.

Joel let out a warm laugh, the sound easy and genuine. He leaned a little closer, his voice dipping just enough to feel more personal. “So,” he began casually, though the teasing edge in his tone gave him away, “you, uh… got a boyfriend or something?”

Your steps faltered slightly, and you turned to look at him fully, raising an eyebrow. “Joel,” you said, your voice dry but amused. “If I had a boyfriend, do you think I’d be here on a couples trip, with someone who is not my boyfriend?”

Joel blinked, his lips parting as he realized how ridiculous the question was. “Oh,” he said quickly, his grin softening into something sheepish. “Right. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” you replied, brushing it off with a wave of your hand.

Joel’s smile returned, his gaze flicking over you with an almost curious warmth. “Just find it hard to believe,” he said after a moment, his voice quieter now, more sincere.

You blinked, caught slightly off guard by the shift in his tone. “Oh, come on,” you said, rolling your eyes to cover the sudden flutter in your chest. “Does that line usually work for you?”

Joel’s brow furrowed, his expression turning playfully indignant. “What line?”

“The cheesy pickup lines,” you shot back, your lips curving into a smirk.

“I’m being serious,” he said, his tone dipping into something earnest, though the teasing glint in his eyes remained.

“Mhm,” you replied, your voice laced with mock skepticism as you tilted your head at him.

Joel let out a dramatic sigh, shaking his head as though genuinely disappointed. “Wow. So cynical,” he said, his grin returning as he leaned slightly closer, the heat of his gaze brushing over you. “Bet you’re a real hit at parties.”

Before you could fire back a retort, Maria’s voice called out from ahead, cutting through the night air. “Guys, hurry up! We’re gonna miss the live music!”

Joel turned toward her voice, then glanced back at you with a grin that was all charm and mischief. “Better pick up the pace,” he said, his drawl warm and teasing. “Wouldn’t wanna get left behind and have to serenade you myself. Though, fair warnin’—my singin’ ain’t free.”

You snorted, shaking your head as you quickened your step. “Lucky for you, Joel, I’m not paying to hear whatever cowboy karaoke you’ve got up your sleeve.”

Joel chuckled, falling into stride beside you. “Careful,” he said, his voice low and playful. “Talk like that, and you’re gonna hurt my feelin’s.”

“Somehow, I think you’ll survive,” you replied with a grin, your heart skipping as his gaze lingered on you just a moment too long.

As the two of you caught up with Maria and Tommy, the warm glow of the hotel lights and the faint hum of music ahead set the perfect stage for the night—and for whatever this thing between you and Joel was slowly becoming.

⋆🌺˚.⋆ꪆৎ.🐚⋆❀˖°

“Holy shit,” Tommy murmured as you all stepped into the restaurant.

And honestly, he wasn’t wrong.

The place was stunning, a picture of understated luxury that somehow felt warm and inviting rather than intimidating. The open-air design let in the salty breeze, while woven lanterns hung from high wooden beams, casting soft, flickering light across the room. The walls were draped with lush greenery, accented by vibrant tropical flowers that seemed too perfect to be real. Somewhere in the background, the faint hum of live music blended seamlessly with the rhythmic crash of waves.

“This place is insane,” Joel murmured beside you, his deep drawl laced with quiet awe as his gaze swept across the space.

You glanced at him, catching the way the soft lighting brushed over the angles of his face, highlighting the faint scruff along his jaw and the warm brown of his eyes. “Not bad, huh?” you said with a small smile, your voice teasing.

He nodded, his lips curving into a slight grin. “Guess Tommy finally got somethin’ right.”

A waiter appeared, all effortless poise as he greeted you with a warm smile. “Right this way,” he said, motioning for you to follow.

The four of you trailed him through the restaurant, past tables filled with couples leaning into quiet conversations and groups laughing over cocktails. The soft glow of candlelight flickered across polished wood and crisp white tablecloths, giving the whole place a dreamy, golden hue.

The waiter led you outside to a terrace overlooking the ocean, where more lanterns were strung across the open space, their warm light mingling with the silver glow of the moon reflecting off the water. The sound of the waves was louder here, blending with the distant strum of a ukulele from the live band.

Maria and Tommy slid into one side of the table, their fingers already interlocking as they settled in. Joel, without hesitation, pulled out a chair next to yours and gestured for you to sit.

“Ladies first,” he said, his grin softening into something almost gentlemanly.

You gave him a small nod, sinking into the seat. He followed, sitting beside you with the kind of ease that made it seem like he’d been doing this for years.

“Here are the menus,” the waiter said, placing them delicately in front of you. “And the drink menus.” He offered a quick, practiced smile. “I’ll be with you shortly.”

As soon as he disappeared, Tommy leaned forward, flipping open the drink menu with wide eyes. “This place has everything,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

Maria laughed, resting her chin on her hand as she glanced at her boyfriend. “Don’t get too excited. You still have to pay for it.”

“Worth it,” Tommy replied, already scanning the cocktails.

Beside you, Joel leaned back in his chair, his arm resting casually along the back of yours. He opened his menu with one hand, but his attention wasn’t on it—it was on you.

“See anything you like?” he asked, his voice low, teasing.

You glanced at him, your brows furrowing slightly. “The menu just got here.”

“Not talkin’ about the menu,” he replied smoothly, his grin widening just enough to make your pulse skip.

“Jesus,” you murmured under your breath, shaking your head and focusing hard on the menu in front of you.

Joel laughed, the sound warm and rich, as he grabbed a menu for himself. “Relax,” he said, flipping lazily to the drinks page, his eyes scanning the options with a faint smirk.

After a moment, he leaned closer, angling the menu so you could see it too. His shoulder brushed yours, the warmth of his presence impossibly distracting. “Hey, look,” he said, pointing to a section of colorful, overly elaborate cocktails. “These all sound fancy. Perfect for you.”

You arched an eyebrow, glancing at the names—everything from Tropical Temptation to Hibiscus Bliss. “You think I’m a ‘fancy cocktail’ kind of person?”

Joel’s grin grew wider. “I dunno. Thought you might enjoy somethin’ a little sweeter. Balance out all that sass.”

You rolled your eyes, but before you could fire back, Joel straightened in his seat, his gaze lighting up with a spark of mischief. “Hey, let’s play a game,” he said, turning to face you more fully.

You frowned, your curiosity piqued despite yourself. “What kind of game?”

He leaned in closer, his voice dipping low as though sharing a secret. “Simple. I choose your drink, you choose mine.”

You tilted your head, narrowing your eyes suspiciously. “How is that a game?”

Joel chuckled, resting his elbow on the back of your chair as he met your gaze head-on. “Because,” he said, his tone slow and deliberate, “it’s a test of trust.”

“Trust?” you repeated, raising an eyebrow.

He nodded, completely unfazed by your skepticism. “Yep. You trust me not to order you somethin’ ridiculous, and I trust you not to screw me over with, I dunno…” He gestured toward the menu. “A Pink Flamingo Paradise or somethin’.”

You couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled out of you, shaking your head. “You don’t strike me as a Pink Flamingo Paradise kind of guy.”

Joel smirked, leaning back in his chair with an air of casual confidence. “I’d rock it, though.”

You snorted, your fingers tapping lightly against the edge of the menu as you debated. “Alright, fine,” you said, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye. “But if you pick something gross, I’m holding it against you for the rest of the trip.”

“Fair,” he replied easily, his grin never wavering. “Same rules apply.”

You both turned back to your menus, scanning the options with newfound purpose.

Joel glanced at you, his tone teasing. “What’re you thinkin’? Something with an umbrella in it?”

“Maybe,” you shot back, smirking. “What about you? Something boring like beer?”

“Boring?” Joel placed a hand over his heart, feigning offense as he leaned back in his chair. “You wound me.”

You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of you, shaking your head as you glanced back at the menu. After a moment, you settled on a drink, pointing it out to the waiter with a confident nod. Joel followed suit, his choice quick and deliberate, though the glint in his eyes told you he wasn’t about to let the game end there.

“All right,” Tommy said, leaning forward and slapping the table lightly. “We gotta get serious about this food situation. There’s too many damn things on this menu. What’s everyone thinkin’?”

Maria laughed, nudging his arm. “You’re acting like we’re solving world hunger, babe. Just pick something.”

Joel glanced at his brother with a faint smirk before turning his attention back to you. But this time, his playful demeanor softened, his gaze shifting to something quieter, more thoughtful.

“You got any dietary stuff I should know about?” Joel asked, his voice lower now, almost tender.

You blinked, momentarily caught off guard. His tone was so different from the usual teasing lilt you’d come to expect—gentle, sincere, like he genuinely cared about the answer.

“Uh, no,” you said after a beat, shaking your head. “Nothing like that.”

Joel nodded, his expression relaxed but still warm. “Good to know,” he murmured, his eyes lingering on yours for just a moment longer than necessary before he turned back to the menu.

You swallowed hard, the faint warmth of his attention leaving a subtle flutter in your chest.

“Okay,” Tommy said, clearly oblivious to the moment as he squinted at the menu. “What the hell is a coconut lime mahi-mahi? Am I supposed to know what mahi-mahi is?”

“It’s fish, Tommy,” Maria said with a dramatic sigh, rolling her eyes fondly. “You’ve had it before. Remember that time we went to the seafood place in Austin?”

“Oh,” Tommy said, nodding. “Right. That was good.”

Joel chuckled, his voice breaking the small bubble of tension that had lingered between you. “Y’know, Maria,” he drawled, leaning back in his chair, “you’re gonna have your hands full with him.”

Maria grinned, clearly unfazed. “Already do.”

⋆🌺˚.⋆ꪆৎ.🐚⋆❀˖°

This was fun, you thought, glancing around the table as laughter spilled into the warm night air. The conversation flowed effortlessly, Maria and Tommy trading playful jabs while Joel chimed in with his dry, easy humor. For the first time in a while, you felt completely at ease, the tension of earlier moments melting into the atmosphere of good company and golden light.

The food arrived before you even realized how much time had passed, the waiter placing each dish with practiced elegance.

Tommy, true to form, had ordered something hearty—a perfectly seared steak topped with garlic butter, its aroma rich and mouthwatering. He leaned back in his chair, eyeing it like it was the centerpiece of a grand feast. “Now this,” he declared, picking up his knife and fork, “is what I’m talkin’ about.”

Maria, ever the balance to his bold choices, had gone for a delicate seafood linguine, the pasta glistening with olive oil and white wine, studded with shrimp and fresh herbs. “You’d better share,” Tommy teased, eyeing her plate, but Maria only swatted his hand away with a laugh.

You had chosen a grilled snapper, its crispy skin drizzled with a tangy mango salsa and paired with a vibrant side of coconut rice. The bright colors and tropical flavors made your plate look like something straight out of a magazine.

Joel’s choice was classic and unfussy—a plate of barbecued ribs slathered in smoky sauce, with a side of roasted potatoes and charred corn on the cob.

He caught your gaze as he picked up a rib, a mischievous glint in his eye. “What?” he asked innocently, though his smirk betrayed him. “You were gonna judge me no matter what I got.”

You shook your head, laughing softly. “I wasn’t judging. Just… admiring your commitment to the messiest thing on the menu.”

“Gotta live a little,” Joel replied, his tone light but his gaze lingering just long enough to make your heart skip.

The laughter continued as everyone dug in, the clinking of silverware and the hum of the nearby live music weaving seamlessly into the scene. Soon after, the waiter returned, a tray balanced expertly in his hands.

“For the lady,” he said with a polite smile, setting a vibrant, colorful cocktail in front of you. It was topped with a slice of fresh pineapple and a tiny pink umbrella, the drink itself a swirl of coral and gold hues.

Your jaw dropped slightly as you stared at it. “Oh my god,” you said, biting back a laugh. “What is this?”

Joel leaned in, his grin widening as he inspected the drink. “That,” he said, his voice full of mock-seriousness, “is a Sunset Paradise.”

You shot him a look, your lips twitching as you tried to hold back your laughter. “Are you kidding me? You picked this?”

“Hey, I thought it suited you,” he said, his tone casual but his eyes dancing with mischief. “Sweet, colorful… a little over the top.”

You shook your head, picking up the glass and taking a small sip. The flavors burst on your tongue—pineapple, passionfruit, a hint of coconut rum. Damn it. It was actually good.

“Alright,” you admitted reluctantly. “Not bad, Miller. Not bad.”

Joel’s grin only widened.

“And for the gentleman,” the waiter continued, placing Joel’s drink in front of him with a subtle flourish.

You couldn’t stop the laugh that escaped you as you stared at the delicate martini glass, filled with a pale pink liquid and garnished with a single orchid flower floating on top. “Oh, this is perfect,” you said, barely able to contain yourself. “Joel Miller, enjoying a Hibiscus Bliss.”

Joel narrowed his eyes at you, his lips twitching as though he was fighting a laugh of his own. “You’re enjoyin’ this way too much,” he muttered, picking up the glass with exaggerated care.

“Go on,” you teased, leaning forward on your elbows. “Take a sip. Let me see you savor that hibiscus.”

Joel held your gaze, his grin slowly breaking through as he raised the glass to his lips. He took a slow, deliberate sip, setting the glass down with a satisfied sigh. “Not bad,” he said, his tone deadpan. “Real sophisticated.”

You burst out laughing, shaking your head as you leaned back in your chair. “I can’t believe you’re pulling this off.”

“Darlin’,” Joel said, his grin turning cocky as he leaned slightly closer, his voice low enough that only you could hear, “I could pull off anything.”

⋆🌺˚.⋆ꪆৎ.🐚⋆❀˖°

The four of you sat back in your chairs, the plates cleared and glasses now reduced to condensation-rimmed remnants of colorful cocktails and beer. The warm buzz of good food and drinks settled over the group, and you realized with a start just how comfortable you felt.

Somehow, throughout the course of dinner, you and Joel had drifted closer. His arm rested casually along the back of your chair, and though he wasn’t quite touching you, you could feel the faint pull of his presence—the warmth radiating from him like he was the sun itself.

“Alright,” Joel said, his voice soft and low as he turned to you, his grin creeping in at the edges. “Now you gotta rate the drink I picked for you. Outta ten.”

You tilted your head, pretending to think, though the teasing glint in your eye gave you away. “Hmmm…” you hummed, dragging it out just to watch his brow twitch in anticipation. “I’ll give you a… seven.”

Joel leaned back, letting out a low hum of approval. “Seven, huh? Above average. I’ll take it.”

You smirked, leaning slightly toward him. “And now you?”

He glanced at the remnants of his Hibiscus Bliss, the delicate pink drink looking comically out of place in his hand, then back at you with an exaggerated frown. “Five.”

Your jaw dropped, and you straightened in mock offense. “A five?”

Joel nodded, his lips curving into a crooked smile as he took another sip. “Yeah, and that’s me bein’ generous.”

“You’re impossible,” you muttered, shaking your head, but you couldn’t stop the laugh that slipped out.

In front of you, Maria and Tommy were leaning into each other, their voices softer now, heads close as they shared a quick peck. Maria’s laughter was light and sweet, blending with the faint strum of live music in the distance. The two of them were completely in their own world, whispering and exchanging smiles like the honeymoon phase had never ended.

Joel’s voice cut through the moment, low and warm as he leaned closer to you, his breath brushing your ear. “Let’s make a bet.”

You turned to him, your brows arching in curiosity. “I’m listening.”

He angled himself toward you, his grin widening just enough to make your heart do an annoying little flip. “Whoever’s right about when Tommy proposes gets to make the other person do whatever they want.”

Your brows furrowed as you studied him, skeptical. “That’s not fair,” you said, shaking your head. “He’s your brother. He’s probably told you everything he’s planned.”

Joel raised a hand, his expression softening into something almost boyish. “Swear to God, he hasn’t said a thing. I got no clue when he’s gonna do it.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, searching for any hint of deception, but Joel just held your gaze steadily, his grin turning a little smug, like he knew you were about to give in.

“So?” he prompted, his voice a touch lower now, coaxing. “You in?”

You hesitated, glancing back at Maria and Tommy. The way they were leaning into each other, so completely at ease, made you think it had to be soon. And honestly, the thought of beating Joel at his own game was too tempting to pass up.

“Alright,” you said finally, turning back to him. “I’m in.”

Joel’s grin widened, and he leaned back in his chair, his arm brushing yours ever so slightly as he settled into the space between you. “Good,” he said, his tone laced with satisfaction. “Don’t worry, roomie. I’ll go easy on you when I win.”

“You mean if you win,” you corrected, your voice sharp but playful.

Joel chuckled, his eyes glinting with amusement as he raised his glass in a mock toast. “To fair play,” he said, his drawl warm and teasing.

You clinked your glass lightly against his, shaking your head but smiling despite yourself. Whatever this was—this slow, teasing back-and-forth—it was addictive, pulling you in like a tide you didn’t want to fight.

⋆🌺˚.⋆ꪆৎ.🐚⋆❀˖°

When you arrived back at the suite, the quiet hum of the evening enveloped the four of you. The buzz of laughter and conversation from dinner had given way to the heavy weight of exhaustion. Maria and Tommy murmured their goodnights as they veered off to their side of the suite, their soft laughter fading behind the sound of their door closing.

You and Joel walked to your side in silence, the tension between you as palpable as the warmth of the tropical night. You could feel his presence behind you, his steps slow and deliberate, and you swore you could feel his gaze burning into your back. You tried to ignore it, focusing on the cool tiles beneath your bare feet as you reached the bedroom door.

Inside, Joel moved toward the bed, dropping his phone onto his side with a casual thud before sprawling back against the pillows. His arm rested lazily above his head, the glow from his screen illuminating the sharp cut of his jaw and the faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You grabbed your pajamas and headed toward the bathroom. The cool splash of water on your face was grounding as you scrubbed off your makeup, brushed your teeth, and slipped into something more comfortable. But even as you tried to settle your thoughts, you couldn’t shake the image of Joel, relaxed and at ease, sprawled out on the bed like he owned it.

When you emerged, Joel’s eyes flicked up from his phone immediately, locking on you like you’d just stepped into a spotlight. His gaze traveled over you briefly—too brief to feel invasive but long enough to send heat rushing up your neck.

“What?” you asked, your voice sharper than you intended as you set your things on the dresser.

“Nothing,” he said easily, his lips curving into a faint smile as he stood, grabbing his own bundle of clothes. “Just didn’t realize bedtime was a fashion show.”

You shot him a glare, though the warmth in your cheeks betrayed you. “Go brush your teeth, Joel.”

He chuckled softly, shaking his head as he walked past you, the faint scent of his cologne lingering in the air. “Yes, ma’am,” he drawled, disappearing into the bathroom.

The door clicked shut behind him, and you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. “Christ,” you muttered under your breath, grabbing the glass of water from your nightstand and taking a long sip.

You settled into bed, plugging your phone into the charger and pulling the covers up to your chest. The clock on the nightstand blinked 11:03, and the suite was quiet except for the faint sound of the ocean outside.

Just as you were starting to relax, the bathroom door swung open, and Joel strolled back into the room like it was nothing—barefoot, shirtless, and in a pair of low-slung pajama pants. His hair was damp, his skin still warm and golden from the day, and he was entirely, maddeningly unbothered as he crossed to his side of the bed.

Without a word, he threw himself onto the mattress, the springs creaking slightly under his weight as he flopped down with an exaggerated sigh.

“Jesus, Joel,” you muttered, your voice sharp as you stared at him.

“What?” he asked innocently, propping himself up on one elbow to meet your gaze. “I live here too, roomie.”

You gestured vaguely toward him, your eyebrows lifting. “Could you maybe warn someone before… doing that?”

Joel tilted his head, clearly biting back a grin. “Doin’ what?”

You waved your hand in his direction, exasperated. “Showing up half-naked like some—some—”

“Some what?” he interrupted, his voice low and teasing as his grin finally broke free. “Greek god? Movie star? Go on, I’m listenin’.”

You groaned, throwing your head back against the pillows. “You’re insufferable.”

Joel chuckled, the sound low and warm as he turned his head to look at you, his grin teasing but his gaze soft. “And you,” he emphasized, his drawl stretching the words as though savoring them, “are too wound up.” He rested one arm behind his head, the picture of lazy confidence as he continued. “Good thing you’re on vacation, or you might just explode.”

You turned your head to glare at him, though the twitch of your lips betrayed you. “Gee, thanks, Joel.”

“Just statin’ facts,” he said easily, his smirk widening as he stretched out across the bed like he owned it. “Bet you’re one of those people who makes to-do lists for their time off.”

You scoffed, crossing your arms over your chest. “I do not.”

Joel raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Right. So you didn’t already plan out tomorrow?”

You hesitated, pressing your lips together, and Joel laughed, the sound rumbling and warm.

“Knew it,” he said, his voice laced with triumph. “C’mon, roomie, you’re supposed to be relaxin’. Let me guess—early morning hike? Sunrise yoga?”

You rolled your eyes, grabbing the corner of the blanket and pulling it higher up your chest. “For your information, I was thinking about hitting the beach. Maybe snorkeling. Normal vacation stuff.”

He tilted his head, his gaze flicking over you briefly before meeting your eyes again. “So, what time we headin’ out?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“Tomorrow,” Joel said, his voice casual but his grin edging toward mischievous. “You’re plannin’ it, right? Guess that makes me your plus one.”

You stared at him, your mouth opening slightly before you caught yourself. “You want to come with me?”

Joel raised an eyebrow, his tone turning mock-serious. “You expect me to leave you unsupervised in Hawaii? What if you trip over a rock or somethin’?”

You sighed, shaking your head but smiling despite yourself. “Fine. But only if you promise not to complain the whole time.”

“Me? Complain?” Joel said, his brows lifting in mock offense. “Never.”

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head at him, but before you could retort, his gaze shifted, softening as it settled on you.

“Serious question,” he said, his voice dipping just enough to make your heart falter for a beat.

Your eyes snapped to his, the teasing grin on your face fading as your breath hitched slightly. “What?” you asked, wary of his tone.

Joel tilted his head, his expression unreadable for a moment before he said, deadpan, “Do you snore?”

Your heart stopped, then restarted with a kick of disbelief. “Joel.”

“I’m serious,” he continued, his brow furrowing like this was some grand existential question. “I can’t do snorin’. It’s a dealbreaker.”

You glared at him, though the faint blush creeping up your neck betrayed you. “I do not snore.”

“Good,” Joel said, nodding like he was checking something off a list. “Because sometimes… pretty girls do weird things in their sleep.”

“Stop,” you said, your voice sharp but your cheeks betraying you as they burned.

Joel grinned, his gaze lingering on your face a moment too long as your blush deepened. “Just sayin’,” he added with a soft chuckle, clearly enjoying himself.

You shook your head, trying to ignore the warmth pooling in your chest, but before you could respond, Joel’s expression shifted again—his grin fading into something gentler, more serious.

“Also,” he began, his voice quieter now, “if you want, I can, uh, sleep outside. On the couch.” He gestured vaguely toward the suite’s living area, his tone so casual it almost masked the sincerity in his words. “It’s no big deal. I know you weren’t expectin’ this whole… shared bed thing.”

The offer caught you off guard, the sweetness of it pulling you up short. Joel—so cheeky, so infuriatingly confident—was looking at you now with an openness that you hadn’t expected.

You breathed in slowly, your gaze dropping for a moment before meeting his. “No,” you said softly, shaking your head. “It’s fine.”

Joel raised a brow, his lips curving faintly. “You sure?”

You nodded, a small smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “As long as you stay on your side of the bed.”

His grin widened, that playful spark returning to his eyes. “Good,” he said, his tone lighter now. “Because, truth is, I really didn’t wanna sleep on the couch. It looked lumpy.”

You laughed softly, your chest loosening as the tension faded. “Wow, such a gentleman.”

Joel leaned back against the pillows, his grin turning smug but somehow still boyish. “Told you. I’m full of surprises.”

You shook your head, a quiet laugh escaping you, though the warmth in your chest betrayed your amusement. Settling back onto your side of the bed, you pulled the blanket up to your shoulders, the faint scent of clean linen and something distinctly Joel filling the air.

The room was quiet now, the low hum of the ocean outside mingling with the soft creaks of the suite as it settled around you. Despite the space between you, the warmth of Joel’s presence lingered, stretching into the silence like something unspoken but understood.

“Night, Joel,” you murmured, your voice soft and a little shy as you closed your eyes.

There was a pause—a small, almost imperceptible beat—and then his voice came, low and warm, carrying the faintest trace of a smile. “Night, roomie’.”

CHAPTER 2 IS OUT HERE

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starsjulia · 4 months ago

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Best Birthday Ever // Leah Williamson

a/n : someone requested this but i can’t find it for the life of me… sorry!

warnings : leah and reader are caught in the act…

It was a beautiful, peaceful morning, birds chirping, the sun shining, the perfect day for your birthday celebrations.

Unfortunately, no one had informed Beth Mead that she was about to experience a horror worse than any she had faced on a football pitch.

Beth had arrived early, eager to surprise you for your birthday, thinking herself thoughtful and considerate. The plan was simple: let herself in (Leah never locked the door anyway), set up some decorations, and bask in the glory of being the best friend ever.

However, what she walked into was not a scene of domestic bliss.

No, what Beth Mead walked into was a nightmare.

A full-blown, trauma-inducing, therapy-requiring nightmare.

Because there, in the middle of the living room sofa, where guests would soon be expected to sit, was Leah Williamson. And she was on top of you.

In the act.

Beth’s entire body seized up. Her soul attempted to evacuate her body. Her mouth opened, but her brain refused to form words.

Meanwhile, you screamed like you were being set on fire.

Leah, on the other hand, simply turned her head, grinned, and greeted Beth as if she hadn’t just been caught mid-thrust.

“Oh, morning, Beth! You’re early.”

Beth finally found the ability to move and immediately hurled her house keys at Leah’s head.

“WHAT THE ACTUAL—LEAH?! WHAT THE BLOODY HELL IS THIS?!”

Leah dodged them effortlessly, still looking far too amused for someone in her position.

“I mean, I’d have thought that was pretty obvious, mate.”

You, meanwhile, were in hell.

“Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God,” you whispered, slamming your hands over your face as if that would somehow make you disappear.

Beth was now backing out of the room, as if she had walked into the den of Satan himself. “I NEED A PRIEST. I NEED HOLY WATER. I NEED TO UNSEE EVERYTHING. OH MY GOD—YOU TWO ARE VILE.”

Leah, completely unashamed, simply shrugged, still finding the whole thing absolutely hilarious.

“Oh, come off it, Mead. Bit dramatic, isn’t it?”

Beth pointed an accusing finger. “Dramatic?! DRAMATIC?! I JUST WALKED INTO LIVE ACTION PORN IN ME BEST MATE’S HOUSE! YOU THINK I’M BEING DRAMATIC?!”

Leah burst out laughing again.

You were seconds away from physically dragging Leah into another dimension where you could live in peace, away from the shame of this moment.

“Leah, for the love of God, shut up.”

Beth was now full-body shaking. “I came here to decorate. For the birthday party. I WAS TRYING TO BE NICE.” She let out a breath. “AND YOU TWO—YOU TWO WERE DOING GOD KNOWS WHAT AT TEN IN THE BLOODY MORNING.”

Leah smirked. “Well, actually, it was more like half-nine, wasn’t it, babe?”

You threw a cushion at her face.

Beth, still vibrating with horror, took a deep breath and slowly backed toward the door.

“I’m leaving,” she announced.

Leah pouted. “You just got here.”

“I AM LEAVING. I AM GOING TO GO HOME, I AM GOING TO PRETEND THIS NEVER HAPPENED, AND I AM NEVER COMING TO THIS HOUSE WITHOUT KNOCKING EVER AGAIN.”

She pointed one last, trembling finger. “And you two? You are sick, perverted freaks, and I hope you know that.”

Then, without another word, she turned and walked out the door.

Leah?

Leah was howling with laughter.

You?

You were seconds away from death via sheer embarrassment.

“I am never looking her in the eyes again,” you mumbled into your hands.

⸻

A Few Hours Later

The trauma had not subsided.

Beth had returned (hesitantly, after triple-checking that the house was safe), and the rest of the team had arrived for the party.

Unfortunately, Beth Mead was not one to suffer in silence.

The second everyone was gathered around, drinks in hand, music playing, she stood up, cleared her throat, and raised her voice so everyone could hear.

“Right, I’d just like to take a moment to formally announce that I will no longer be accepting invitations to Leah and Y/N’s house unless I have legal documentation stating that they are both fully clothed at all times.”

The room erupted in confused laughter.

You froze.

Leah smirked, immediately knowing what was coming.

“Beth, don’t you—”

“Oh, I fucking will.” Beth turned to the crowd. “Do you lot know what I had the absolute displeasure of walking into this morning?”

You slammed your face into your hands.

“BETHANY, PLEASE.”

Beth ignored you, taking a dramatic pause before announcing, loudly and proudly:

“LEAH WILLIAMSON RAW-DOGGING ONE OF MY BEST MATES ON THE LIVING ROOM SOFA.”

Silence.

Absolute, stunned silence.

Then…

Chaos.

Viv fell off her chair.

Lotte screamed.

Katie had to physically hold onto the table to keep herself upright.

You?

You were considering moving to another country.

Meanwhile, Leah?

Leah was laughing her head off.

Beth took a triumphant sip of her beer.

“Happy birthday, Y/N. Hope it was worth scarring me for life.”

#woso #leah williamson #leah williamson x reader #woso imagine #leah williamson imagines #leah williamson x you #leah williamson one shot #leah williamson fluff

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huyaoxiaozi · 4 months ago

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what kind of herb are you?

Your Result:

Dandelion

You grew up too fast and all you know is the calluses on your fists and the thousand invisible scars that you pretend don't ache. Your anger burns so bright, so hot or maybe not at all, so deep you could never tell it was there. You are yours and you will defend that to the death after so many years of being ripped apart and denied your own agency and maybe you are still facing the bastards who stole your innocence but you will survive because that's the only thing you know how to do without breaking, the only thing you know besides protect, protect, protect, protect, yourself or sometimes those few others you claim as yours.

You are a thousand sharp edges but impenetrable, a traumatized child so covered by thorny armor that you promised yourself you're grown now, you're stronger than anyone who has ever hurt you. You're safe. Nothing will ever hurt you again. You're so alone though sometimes, in a world that sees you as too much or too broken or too angry or too hurt, and you want to scream with the too-much of it, prove that you're okay, that you're self-reliant, that you are strong enough to stake your claim on your body, on your mind, on your heart, on your people, and protect it from any who dare take it away from you.

You are the sea in tempest, a howling sky, a tsunami in motion, a force of nature, no matter how much you sometimes yearn to be still, to be safe, to be small. You are a dandelion, stubborn and determined to grow in the rockiest of soil, and bloom again in spring.

TAGGED BY: @tamedgod ❤️

TAGGING: @feilien, @jikoushi / @threebreaths ( since you got one for Yuki 😌 ) and anyone else who wants to!!

#I take my secrets down to the water‚ ‘cause I can't keep them down any longer. ( CHARACTER STUDY. )#the gods have let me live another day and I’m about to make it everyone’s problem. ( DASH GAMES. )#DUDE this one fucked me RIGHT UP 😭#cool cool cool this is fine I'm fine #thank you for tagging me!! 🥹#pardon my delay‚ I’m navigating‚ I’m navigating my head. ( QUEUE. )

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straylightdream · 3 months ago

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I like you, maybe - teaser

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: jeon wonwoo x afb.reader

𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐬: coming May 2025

𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞(𝐬): friends to lovers, mutual pining, romance, hurt, comfort, angst, smut, fake dating

𝐚𝐮(𝐬): nonidol au

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 10k

𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: daddy issues, family issues, fake dating, alcohol consumption, crying, lots of emotions

𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: protected p in v, vanilla sweet smut, breast/nipple play, fingering, clit play, hand job

𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠: 18+ nsfw

𝐚𝐧: if you would like to be tagged please fill out this form. I’m reworking and fully rewriting something I wrote in 2021

-PREVEIW-

You always felt as if you were never good enough for your father. No one saw you truly upset over your relationship with your father other than Mingyu and Wonwoo.

“I don’t think I have a choice, if I don’t go, my grandma, and dad won’t let me live it down.” You sighed. You’ve contemplated going no contact but you knew it would be hard. There is this part of you that thinks if you try hard enough maybe one day your relationship could be fixed. “Oh my god I don’t want to go to this alone.” You knew that this wedding was going to be a lot of people asking you why you’re single, and if you’re going to have kids. All your cousins were married and had kids, and you’re the only single one. Every Christmas one of the few times you would see that side of the family. Everyone would always harp on you and ask a million questions about your life.

“You should have someone go with you,” Mingyu said, pulling his phone out of his pocket.

“Do you want to go with me?” you asked, praying maybe Mingyu could save you from going to this alone. You knew that Mingyu could play the part as the perfect boyfriend. Your mother already loved him and constantly told you that you should date someone like Mingyu. You knew her father would love him too. He’s a parent’s dream partner for their daughter.

“I can’t because it’s my mom’s birthday that weekend so I’m going to be at a family event out of town,” he said. You can tell he feels bad he can’t help you. You could tell that he didn’t want you going alone, but he wasn’t able to go to help you out.

“Literally everyone is going to be in my business about not having a boyfriend. I need to get a boyfriend within the next two weeks,” you said with a sarcastic laugh knowing damn well that was going to be nearly impossible.

“What are you talking about?” Wonwoo asked, walking into the kitchen. He sat down next to Mingyu and looked over at you. He pushes up his glasses. You completely forgot Wonwoo was home. He’s been locked away in his room playing video games.

“My dad is getting married in two weeks and I don’t want to go alone. I’m not looking forward to being asked the same questions about my dating life over and over again.” You can’t help but sigh dramatically. Leaning forward resting your face in your hands.

“So- do you want someone to be your fake date?” Wonwoo asked, leaning back in his chair.

“Yes, she wants a fake date,” Mingyu said before taking another drink of his beer. He gave up on working on his own work project about an hour ago.

Wonwoo shrugged his shoulders and said, “I mean I can go with you if you want. I think I would make a pretty good fake boyfriend.”

You looked up at Wonwoo and knit your eyebrows together and stared at him wondering if he was serious.“Are you being serious about offering to be my fake date?” You don’t think you can actually handle it if he's just messing with you.

He shrugged his shoulders again oh so casually. “Yeah why not? Weddings are great, there is free food, and normally there are free drinks.”

Shutting your laptop, you looked over at Wonwoo who was smiling. “Jeon Wonwoo, you’re a lifesaver.”

#svthub #thediamondlifenetwork #keopihausnet #mansaenetwork #seventeen smut #wonwoo smut #jeon wonwoo smut #wonwoo x reader #jeon wonwoo x reader #seventeen x reader #wonwoo fanfiction #wonwoo imagine #wonwoo angst

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moonlit-imagines · 19 days ago

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Preferences for going clubbing with the Thunderbolts

Thunderbolts x reader

warnings: drug mention, alcohol, throwing up. there are not really spoilers i dont think? nothing disney hasn’t already spoiled?

a/n: silly shit lol

prompt:

Alexei is drinking a lot. Like, people are chanting for him to “chug, chug, chug!” an entire bottle of vodka. You are watching in pure horror as he asks for another bottle. He assures you he is fine and loves the attention, asking you to record the next one. His dancing skills are okay, he keeps doing the “Rasputin” dance, his record was 15 seconds before he fell on his ass—everyone loved him anyways. He was trending on Twitter the next day. #RedPartyingGuardian?

Ava was a little uncomfortable at first, but once she got enough drinks in her (you ordered her fruity drinks because she was too embarrassed to order them herself), she was on the dance floor with you. The suit she was wearing to keep her in one piece felt awkward, but you made an effort to accessorize her and hype her up. “You know, I could get used to this!” Ava told you while swaying to the song playing. “I told you!” You yelled back over the music, “I’ve been trying to get you to come out with me forever! We’re killing it!” You guys danced together all night and walked home giggling messes, planning your next outing now that she felt she could be close to “normal.” Karaoke was next on the roster.

Bob is a recovering addict, so he stuck to a glass of coca-cola and then proceeded to lie to everyone around him telling them he was drinking rum and coke. “It’s just coke—the drink kind, I didn’t snort anything.” He admitted to you aside. “Hey—I didn’t snort anything!” Bob cheered for himself and you quickly joined him in support. “That’s great! Are you ‘coked’ out enough to dance with me?” He snorted at your joke, obviously having a sense of humor about it and took your hand so you two could “feel the music” together.

Bucky was agonizing over the fact that everyone was so young. “Y/N, I do not fit in here.” He grumbled, not budging from his seat at the bar when you started yanking on his arm. “Oh, for God’s sake, Bucky! Will you cut the ‘old man’ routine and live a little?” You pleaded with him and he waved at the bartender to get him another whiskey. After a quick shot he grunted out of his seat and let you lead him away—and after a few minutes of urging him to—and I quote—“shake some ass,” he started to crack a smile and move a little. It didn’t remind him of old times in the slightest, but it did make him miss them. You promised you’d take him somewhere a little more “old fashioned” next time.

John was trying to get attention, you turned it into a drinking game. Every time he talked about how “badass” he was, or his time as Captain America, or embellished his role as a New Avenger, he bought you a shot. Between shots, you and him got into it on the dance floor. John knew how to party and knew how to dance with a friend. Regardless of your efforts to distract him from vanity, you were shitfaced by the end of the night. He carried you home. You threw up. He spent the rest of the night cleaning up puke, feeding you bread and water, and apologizing for “being so interesting.”

Yelena is a party girl! She loved hanging out with you at the club and knew how to make any night fun. Drinks were on her (on the “company” credit card) and she was the one to initiate dancing. Genuinely her favorite part of getting shitfaced. It was nothing like drowning her sorrows with a bottle of vodka in her empty apartment—this was genuine human connection with a friend and actually enjoying life, making memories she couldn’t dream of in the Red Room. “Y/N, you are my favorite.” Yelena slurred. “You’re just saying that because you’re drunk.” You giggled, poking her nose as you were drunk, too. Yelena gasped. “Y/N! Do you think I would still have good aim when I’m this drunk?!” She asked, and as you started giggling, she pulled out her gun. “OH! Oh, my God, Yels—put that away!!” Her eyes widened and you both broke into a fit of giggles. “Oops, no guns at the bar! Oh, shit, the safety was off.”

taglist: @locke-writes // @captainshazamerica // @summersimmerus // @prettysbliss // @simp-legend // @wild-rose-35 // @nekoannie-chan // @beth-gallagher22 // @sk1bidi-n1k0-e4ts-people // @deanzboyfriend // @mr-mxyzptlk-1940 // @lenaelleu //

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mochacoda · 5 months ago

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[teaser] python | csc

Pairing: Choi Seungcheol x GN!Reader

Content: Angst, Fluff, Comfort | Exes to Lovers | Office AU

Word Count: 8K (est. full)

Release Date: February 14 -> RELEASED HERE

Masterlist

“I hate him,” you seethe, your fists balled up, crumpling your rejected proposal. “God, I hate him.”

Your coworker, Joshua Hong, looks up from his cubicle with raised eyebrows. “Who?”

You breathe in deeply, willing your rage to dissipate at the sight of his confusion. Poor Joshua doesn’t deserve your anger. “No one,” you say, clenching your jaw.

“I’m fine,” you insist, hands uncrumpling the document you had just attacked.

“Uh, okay?” he says with a healthy dose of doubt, elongating the “o” in “okay.”

“I just—” you begin, then immediately shut your mouth. “Ugh, forget it.”

It’s one thing to crumple a proposal up, and another thing to start bad-mouthing your boss out in the open. You throw the tattered outline onto your desk, then plop yourself into your chair. You rub your temples, and then mutter under your breath, “How did I get here?”

“Good question,” Joshua laughs. “Company synergy?”

You groan, “Don’t ever say that word again in my presence.”

“Mmh,” he says, walking over to your cubicle. “You won’t have to worry about my presence in a few months.”

“Don’t remind me,” you sigh, dropping your head in your hands.

Joshua would be leaving the Seoul branch and transferring to the New York branch in a few weeks.

You want to rip out your own hair, at this point.

How did it even get to this? You shut your eyes, thinking back to simpler times.

It’d be better for Seungcheol if you just let him go, freeing him to focus on what mattered more to him. Like work.

He loved you too much to break things off with you himself, so it was better that you did it. For his own good.

That’s what you told him, at least.

────୨ৎ──── Four Years Ago

“Cheol,” you said, teary-eyed. “Cheol, look at me.”

Seungcheol stared blankly at the ground, face frozen.

“Please?” your voice cracked.

“Who are you to tell me what I can and can’t handle?” he suddenly choked out, eyes flashing with hurt. His hands clenched, like he was holding himself back from saying more.

You swallowed thickly, reaching for his arm. “Cheol, I—”

“Don’t call me that,” he said, snatching his hand away from you.

────୨ৎ────

But you had swallowed the real reasons for the breakup.

Something about his actions just felt like he did them to claim that he loved you, rather than because he actually loved you. His actions were laced with a kind of surface level, superficial quality.

You’d been dating a ghost of a man. While you loved him, he tolerated you.

If the two of you stayed together when you went abroad, he’d probably double down on texts, but he wouldn’t really remember anything you’d said if you mentioned details about them in calls.

The pain of watching the love of your life push down his repulsion just to be with you was decidedly more horrifying than the pain of breaking up with him altogether.

Because he only ever cared out of a superficial need to prove to himself that he made the right decision in asking you out all those years ago. Not because he really loved you.

Yes, he probably never loved you, and he would never know the real reason why you ended things.

────୨ৎ──── Four Years Ago

“You give up so easily,” he spat out. “Was I nothing to you?”

Tears were running down your face. “Don’t. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”

Seungcheol laughed, then buried his head in his hands. “God, to think I almost—”

He stopped, jaw tightening, then shook his head like he couldn’t believe it.

────୨ৎ────

A hand comes down sharply on your desk, jolting you awake.

“Sleeping while on duty?”

Wide-eyed, with tear-stained cheeks, you look up to face your ex-boyfriend. “부장님! [Department Head!]”

Upon seeing your red-rimmed eyes, Seungcheol falters.

Swiping at your under eyes quickly, you bow your head to him slightly. “I’m sorry, it won’t happen again.”

He swallows roughly, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. He opens his mouth, like he’s about to ask you why you were crying, and your heart drops.

You will crumble if you hear the tone of voice he had used when you broke up with him.

“Excuse me,” you blurt with choked words.

You don’t dare to look at his eyes. Instead, you get up from your seat, then immediately flee to the bathroom.

────୨ৎ──── Four Years Ago

“You can focus on work, now,” you squeaked out.

Seungcheol scoffed again, a cruel sound of disbelief. “What makes you think I give a damn about work right now?”

“Don’t you? Always?” you sniffled.

Masterlist

Author’s Note: get ready for a rollercoaster RELEASED HERE

Disclaimer: nothing i write is representative of how svt acts off camera, take their names as stand-ins for oc’s!!

Taglist: @syluslittlecrows - @junplusone - @fragmentof-indifference - @junniesoleilkth - @woncheecks - @peachypie97 - @viciousdarlings - @11zzyy

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robinminustherichard · 4 months ago

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Sorry, I can't actually take Hen queen of being given second chances NOT pushing Tommy and Buck back together. Enjoy a little fix it fic.

"Just Want to Let It Be This Easy"

BuckTommy | Gen | Fix it Fic

In the end, it's Hen that gets them back together. Which is kind of a surprise for Buck because Hen was definitely just as adamant that Buck not try to talk to Tommy after they broke up. Despite that though, when Tommy shows up at his door, clear that he's been crying, it's Hen's name that he curses the second he sees Buck.

“Wait, what?” Buck says, still blinking awake from sleep, honestly not convinced that this isn't a dream, “Tommy? What are you doing here?”

“Evan, you're here! At Eddie's house! You...aren't kidnapped?”

“No, that was Maddie.”

“That was--wait, so someone was kidnapped? Oh my god.”

“Yeah, and I live here now. It's kind of been an intense week.”

“A week?!”

“I know, right?” Buck says, leaning against the door and yawning. Maddie had been released from the hospital a day and a half ago, she and the baby okay, and Buck had gone right into a full shift after that. He was exhausted.

“But you're--you're okay, Evan? Hen told me that you were kidnapped.” Tommy asks, breathing slowing down and eyes roving over Buck's body, catching on his tight sleep shirt.

“Yeah, she definitely lied to you,” Buck tells him through another yawn, eyes closing. “I’m like, really tired though. Do you want to come in?”

Tommy looks unsure, hands wringing in front of his stomach nervously. “Do you want me to come in?”

“Well,” Buck says, rubbing a hand across his face, “I'm pretty mad at you, but also my life is kind of insane, and you're like...really good at cuddling. So maybe you could come in and cuddle me for s-say seven and a half hours? Then in the morning you can make me avocado toast because you're also really good at that, and then we can fight it out then?”

Tommy looks a little awestruck, but his body sways forward into the door.

“Yeah,” Tommy breathes out, “yeah I can do that.”

Buck hums, grabs Tommy's hand to pull him into the house, and shuts and locks it behind him.

“Where's Eddie?” Tommy asks as Buck waits for him to kick off his shoes, pulling him again towards the bedroom.

“Texas.” Buck says, laying back down on the bed.

“Texas? What's he--”

“Tomorrow, Tommy.”

“Right, sorry Evan.”

“That's okay, I get it...what are you waiting for?” Evan is looking up at Tommy, who's paused on the other side of the bed, staring down at Buck in wonder.

“I wasn't...I didn't think I'd get this far honestly.”

“Yeah,” Buck says, “I’m not convinced this isn't a dream.”

“Not a dream.”

“Then take your pants off and get in the bed, Tommy.”

“Yes, sir,” Tommy says, with a tone.

“Don’t get sassy you're still in trouble!”

“Sorry, Evan,” Tommy says, finally getting into the bed. Evan rolls over, puts his back to Tommy and throws his hips back just to hear Tommy huff, “right, cuddling then avocado toast.”

Buck thinks he says something back, but Tommy throws an arm around his waist and wiggles the other underneath Buck's head, and suddenly the weight of the week (all the weeks since their break up) rush up to meet him and he can't stay awake any longer.

In the morning, he'll be amazed at how it's the smoothest make up he's ever heard of.

And when they show up to Maddie's baby shower a week later, not having told anyone they were back together, they walk into a smug look from Hen and confusion from everyone else.

“Don't look smug, Hen; you almost killed a man with a heart attack. And by a man I mean me. I'm forty, how could you do that?!”

Hen smirks and leans back in her chair. Karen has the decency to look guilty next to her.

“Wait, what?” Maddie says, “what did I miss?”

“Maddie, I am so sorry to hear about what happened,” Tommy says, handing her the gift Buck had let him add his name to, “Hen however told me the wrong Buckley got kidnapped, and uh, I panicked.”

Chim's head whips between Tommy and Hen, eyebrows drawing together as he opens his mouth to shout, “What? Hen! You stole my move!”

Hen's laugh rings out, and Buck can't help the grin that stretches across his face.

#bucktommy #bucktommy fic #911 #911 fic #rob fics #rob writes

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forzalando · 1 year ago

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take my hand

another 3k celebration blurb! this time, best friends to lovers with lando for my dear friend lee @scuderiahoney 💛 i hope you all love this one, it's an apology for unrequited love!lando lol no heartbreak this time, folks!!! i'm being nice!!!! set at the 2024 spanish gp but definitely some inaccuracies with the post race timeline and also please pretend max fewtrell was there pairing: lando norris x fem best friend!reader word count: 3.2k (this was supposed to be a blurb wtf is wrong with me) summary: it can be so easy to fall in love with your best friend, and it can also be incredibly hard to imagine a world where they love you back. in this world, you're one of the lucky ones. tw: short but steamy makeout scene, mild cursing

Loving Lando Norris was so astonishingly easy. It came as naturally as breathing for you and has for over half of your life.

You met so many years ago but it still feels like yesterday that he reached out to you and said, “take my hand”, pulling you gently off the ground while the other children laughed at your clumsiness. He told you that they laughed at him too – he was short, shorter than you even at that age, and he struggled to read and write. You vowed that day to always pick each other up when you fell or faltered, always stand by each other’s side even when everyone else was laughing, and although it was a promise made between two children, neither of you had ever broken it.

Smiling at the memory, you were off in your own little world – thinking about the days when he would pick you “flowers” at recess (you didn’t have the heart to tell him they were weeds) and you would always share half of your cookie at lunch.

A voice pulled you from your trance, making you jump slightly at the sudden interruption.

“What are you thinking about? Or should I say who are you thinking about with that dopey smile on your face?”

You turned to face Max Fewtrell, a staple in both yours and Lando’s lives for just as long as you’d known each other.

“I was just thinking about where we’ll go for a celebratory dinner after the race. I’ve been craving gourmet pasta and a fruity cocktail.”

“Right, and my name is Willy Wonka. You don’t have to tell me the truth, it’s fine! Just thought I’d let you know he’s looking for you, he wants you in the garage for the race.”

Your heart swelled – even though Lando asked you to be there for every race you could attend, it never failed to make you giddy. You nodded your head at Max, he smirked back at you, and you walked as quickly as possible to the McLaren garage without calling attention to yourself.

As soon as you stepped into the garage, you ran straight into Oscar and the force almost knocked you to the floor.

“Oh thank god you’re here,” he groaned. “Lando’s insufferable, asking where you are every five minutes.”

“Where is he? In his driver’s room?”

“Yeah, that’s where I last saw him headed,” Oscar yelled over his shoulder, walking towards his car. “Go work your magic on him!”

You rolled your eyes as you walked the familiar route to Lando’s driver’s room, your heart rate picking up a bit the closer you got to it. As soon as you were in front of the door, you knocked once and paused, then twice in quick succession, and once more after another brief pause – the secret knock you’d been using for years to let each other know you were there.

The door swung open almost immediately after your last knock and a frantic Lando yanked you inside. He flopped down on the couch behind him and covered his face with his hands – even though you couldn’t see his face, you knew he had a frown and furrowed brow.

“Thank god you’re here now, I’ve been going insane. I need you to tell me that I’m going to win this race – now that I’ve won once, it’s fucking brutal being so close yet so far. Canada was a nightmare and today I’m starting on pole. They’ll eat me alive if I don’t convert it into a win and I don’t know if I can handle that.”

You sat next to him and gently peeled his hands from his face, glassy green eyes, flushed cheeks, and, just as you predicted, a frown and furrowed brow.

“I can’t tell you that you’re going to win, Lando,” you started to say until he interrupted you with a groan, pushing your hands away.

“Hey,” you whispered. “I can’t tell you that you’re going to win, but what I can tell you is that no matter what, I’m proud of you. Max is proud of you. Your family is proud of you. Your fans are proud of you. So many people love you and see what you’re capable of – winning a race, not winning a race, it doesn’t define you. You’re the hardest worker I know, you’re kind, you are the most wonderful friend. I’ll celebrate you even if you come plum last pushing a burning, front wing-less car across the line and so will everyone else who knows and loves you.”

By the time you’d finished rambling, Lando’s shoulders had visibly relaxed and he was smiling. Not the goofy smile with his teeth on full display but a smile was a smile, you would take what you could get.

“Thank you for always being there for me. I can’t promise I won’t be pissed if I lose today but at least I feel better now, thanks to you.”

You punched his arm lightly, jokingly, and rolled your eyes. “We made a promise, didn’t we? I’ll always be there for you, always there to pick you up, even if your inability to see how wonderful you are makes me want to scream.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m perfect, you love me, I’m the greatest thing that’s ever happened to you, your days are miserable without me, tell me something I don’t know,” he jested, nudging your shoulder before standing and holding out his hand to help you up.

“In your dreams, Norris,” you scoffed. “Make sure that big head of yours still fits in your helmet before you get in the car.”

He laughed loudly as he led you out of his driver’s room, finally smiling the goofy smile you loved so dearly. The moment was short-lived – someone from his team called his name and he hugged you briefly before jogging towards them, yelling over his shoulder that he wanted you waiting for him in Parc Ferme after the race.

You shouted your agreement, hoping and praying he hadn’t noticed the rapid beating of your heart or how warm your cheeks were when he pulled you into that brief embrace. Although he had said it all to rile you up, you truly did think the world of him. He was the greatest thing that had ever happened to you. In your eyes, he was as perfect as a person could be, and oh, did you love him. You loved him far more than a friend should and it was getting increasingly more difficult to keep that to yourself.

As Lando pulled his car in front of the P2 sign, you felt the familiar burning of guilt running through your veins.

Maybe you should have told him he would win. Insisted on it, actually. You should have been adamant that he would rise to the occasion and to the top step of the podium once again.

He wouldn’t want to see you, you were quite sure of that, and despite your promise to be waiting for him with his team, you tried to sneak away unnoticed. You’d slowly made it far back enough to be swallowed by the sea of people until an arm blocked you from getting any further.

You looked up to see Lando’s race engineer with a disapproving look on his face and instantly felt like your father had just caught you trying to sneak out after curfew.

“He wants you here and he’s going to need you here,” Will shouted over the noise of the crowd.

“I think I’m the last person he wants to see right now, I wouldn’t promise him that he would win. I basically jinxed his whole race trying to keep him from being so hard on himself. What if he thinks I don’t believe in him?”

“I’m not even going to dignify that with a response,” Will snorted. “Now please get back up there quickly so you’re the first person he sees when he gets out of that car.”

With the help of Will, you were pushed gently back to the front just in time to see Lando haul himself out of his McLaren. His body language was obvious – disappointment, sorrow, embarrassment, and your heart ached as you listened to the roaring cheers from the Red Bull team as Max launched himself into their arms.

You knew Lando would be running every possible scenario through his mind – what if he had gotten a better start, what if he’d managed tires just a bit better, what if George hadn’t been able to sail through at the start and he hadn’t had to back off of fighting Max. All of those thoughts a natural, valid response, but if he voiced any of them out loud he’d get torn to pieces by both journalists and fans of other drivers.

When he peeled his balaclava from his face your stomach twisted and you silently begged him to look your way – for him to find a face in the crowd that was so unwaveringly proud of him through everything, but he kept his eyes trained anywhere but you or his team.

Finally, you saw his eyes flicker to you, and he walked briskly toward where you and the few members of his team were waiting. Wordlessly, he pulled you into his arms and exhaled so deeply it felt as if he’d been holding his breath since the end of the race.

“You drove beautifully,” you whispered, combing your fingers through the sweat-dampened curls on his head. “I love you, you know that, right?”

Lando’s arms immediately loosened around you and his head was turned away from you, he wouldn’t, or couldn’t, look you in the eye.

“We’ll talk later, I have to go do my interview,” he mumbled. “Wait for me in my driver’s room, okay?”

You nodded your head even though he was already walking away from you, shoulders slumped and jaw clenched. Honestly, you weren’t sure what hurt worse – the fact that you could physically see his disappointment or that he didn’t say he loved you back.

It felt like hours before you heard an all too familiar knock on the door to Lando’s room – the door gently swinging open to reveal the tired face and frame of your best friend. He must have showered in Oscar’s room before coming to find you – the smell of champagne nowhere to be found yet his curls stuck slightly to his forehead. The sight was endearing, and it took everything in you to not pull him into you and bury yourself against his chest.

“You didn’t have to knock, it’s your room,” you spoke softly, adjusting your position on the couch.

“Force of habit, I guess.” The corner of his lip turned up when he answered you – a good sign, a sign that maybe he wasn’t angry with you at all about your earlier conversation.

Although it was Lando who asked to talk, you couldn’t help yourself from blurting out an apology as soon as he took a seat next to you.

“I’m so sorry about earlier,” you pleaded. “I should’ve said something different, I should’ve just said what you wanted me to say. I meant all of it, every word, but you asked me to reassure you in a specific way and I didn’t.”

Lando blinked a few times as he stared at you, his mouth falling open in shock? Amusement? You couldn’t tell, but at least he didn’t appear to be mad.

“Do you think I’m angry with you?”

“Well, yes,” you mumbled. “I probably jinxed your race.”

“Jinxed it? If anything, you’re the reason I finished second. I kept thinking about what you told me instead of focusing on how I screwed up – it kept my head in the race.”

“But, but,” you stammered, “you didn’t say you loved me back. In Parc Ferme, when you were hugging me. You always say it back, I thought you were furious with me.”

“Would I have walked over only to hug you if I was furious with you?”

You felt a little embarrassed at your panic – “I suppose not, you probably would’ve stayed as far away from me as possible.”

“Exactly, you silly muppet,” he teased, a ghost of a smile gracing his lips. “I didn’t say it back because I realized that it means something different for both of us and I, believe it or not, got scared.”

Your eyes widened and you felt like you were going to be sick. He knew. You shouldn’t have been surprised, everyone had figured it out – his pit crew, Will, Zak, Oscar, Oscar’s girlfriend the literal first time you met her, all of your friends and family, even drivers on different teams had made comments to you in passing over the years.

“Lando, I,” you tried to get ahead of it, ahead of the rejection and the awkwardness, but he cut you off with a raised hand and a pleading look.

“Please, just let me get this out or I never will,” he begged. “I think I’ve always known, or at least everyone around me has just always told me that it’s painfully obvious, but I didn’t fully realize it until earlier today. You care about me so much, more than anyone, and I’m almost positive I could be the lousiest driver, lawyer, engineer, teacher, architect, whatever, and you’d still always be proud of me. You’d be there for me regardless with a giant smile on your face, an “I love you”, and a hug that would heal any self-doubt or negative thoughts. You mean everything to me and I don’t know what I would do without you but – ”

You waited with bated breath, your leg bouncing uncontrollably and heart hammering in your chest. Waiting for the “but I don’t feel the same”, “but I see you as a friend”, for the inevitable heartbreak.

“But I can’t keep my feelings a secret anymore, even if it might ruin everything, but I have to believe it won’t because we can get through anything together. I love you, Y/N, more than anyone in this world, more than a friend, more than I ever thought it would be possible to love someone. I’m saying it back now, hoping that you feel the same because it’ll be incredibly awkward if you don’t, but that’s what I had to tell you first. I love you. I think I always have.”

It felt like the earth had stopped moving, time frozen and only you and Lando existed in this moment, only you existed in the entire universe. Your thoughts raced with what to say back – something romantic? Should you just jump into his arms and kiss him senseless like you’d dreamed about for years? Unfortunately, you landed on something far less eloquent.

“You what?” Your shout echoed in his driver’s room, if anyone was within a ten-foot radius they surely would have heard you.

“Well, I guess that’s not the worst reaction,” Lando pondered, looking away from you bashfully. “Nora Powell stomped on my foot when I told her I liked her. Do you remember that? I think it was Year 10?”

You did remember – it was quite a horrendous memory for you, actually, as that’s the year you realized you had a crush on your best friend.

“Oh, I was so jealous of her,” you blurted. “I cornered her at lunch the next day and told her she was the luckiest girl in the world and a certified idiot for turning you down.”

His head snapped back to look at you, a hopeful glint in his eye.

You smiled at Lando, tentatively cupping his cheek. “I suppose I’m the luckiest girl in the world now, to love and be loved by the most incredible man I’ve ever known.”

“Oh no,” he insisted, “I promise you, I’m the lucky one.”

He kissed you once gently, tentatively, his lips barely brushing yours before he pulled you into his lap and slid his hands to rest on your neck, his thumbs caressing your cheeks. In an instant, he was kissing you breathless, licking into your mouth as you whined and pressed yourself against him.

One roll of your hips had him panting, a hand leaving your face to slide under your shirt, leaving a trail of fire until he stopped and squeezed just under your breast. You were dizzy with desire and full of so much love for the man underneath you – he was intoxicating, you never wanted to stop kissing him, you never wanted to know the feeling of his hands not wandering your body.

You tugged his hair lightly, just enough to disconnect his lips from yours even though it pained you to do so.

“I love you so much,” you muttered, a tear escaping from your eye. “I never thought – ”, you couldn’t even get the words out, choosing to bury your head into Lando’s neck as he gently rubbed your back.

“I know,” he whispered, lifting your head to kiss you senseless once again.

The two of you were so wrapped up in one another that neither of you heard a knock at the door or the turning of the knob. You did, however, hear the blood-curdling scream.

“Oh my god, my eyes,” Max groaned, slapping a hand over his face while he dramatically dry-heaved. “Get a room, you deviants!”

“Mate, we are literally in a room!” Lando shouted back, lifting you gently off his lap before he leapt to his feet and pushed Max backward. “We will see you back at the hotel.”

“Great, I’ll be bleaching my eyes out when you get there. For the record, I’ve always wanted this to happen, but I never wanted to see it.”

“Well, that’s your own fault,” you scolded. “Next time wait for a response before barging in somewhere.”

“Oh, believe me,” he stressed, “I’ll never be walking into any room you two are in ever again. Not even if there’s another fire and I’m the only one who can warn you to get out.”

“The dramatics are unnecessary but you do need to leave,” Lando insisted, pointing out the door.

“Yes, absolutely, but before I go, who confessed first?”

“Lando did,” you said proudly. “I’m just irresistible, I guess.” Lando winked back at you, which you took to be an agreement.

“Damn it, I owe Piastri, Sainz, and Verstappen $100 each,” Max groaned. “Like they need my money. See you two lovebirds later!”

He shut the door so quickly that neither you nor Lando had time to react to the fact that your friends had been betting on you. It took a few rounds of looking back and forth at each other and then the closed door before you burst into giggles and fell back into the couch, clinging onto each other. You laughed a bit too hard, your hands leaving Lando to clutch at your ribs. Almost instantly, you felt yourself sliding off your seat, your bum hitting the floor with a thud.

You looked up to see Lando with his arm outstretched, a cheesy smile on his face as he repeated the same words he said to you so many years ago.

“Take my hand.”

And just like you did that fateful day, you grabbed on, let him pull you up, and fell in love all over again.

----------------------

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